; 
 
 */
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HUMORISTS. 
 
 BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 
 
 Under this cloud I walk, gentlemen ; pardon my rude assault. I 
 am a traveller, who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of 
 this globe, am hither arrived to peruse this little spot. 
 
 CHRISTMAS ORDINARY. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED RY THOMAS DAVI8ON, WHITEFU1ARS.
 
 
 PS 
 
 2051 
 
 Ai 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 IX. / 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Page 
 THE AUTHOR . ..... . . 3 
 
 THE HALL . . ,v,y (, ..:.> .j . . .15 
 
 THE BUSY MAN 21 
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS . . / . , . . 31 
 
 THE WIDOW 43 
 
 THE LOVERS . t .. M . . . .50 
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES . . . . .57 
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER . . . .66 
 
 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE .... 73 
 READY-MONEY JACK . . . . 80 
 
 BACHELORS . . ' . . . . 91 
 
 
 
 WIVES . . . ... . 98 
 
 STORY TELLING . . . f 109 
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN . . . 112 
 
 FOREST TREES . . . ,. . 134 
 
 LITERARY ANTIQUARY ^ . . . 145 
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE . . . . , * 156 
 
 HORSEMANSHIP .... 165 
 
 1074266
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 LOVE-SYMPTOMS . ... . 173 
 
 FALCONRY . . . *' . 179 
 
 HAWKING . . . ' . . , 187 
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE . . . . . 199 
 
 GENTILITY . . 'V . . . 216 
 
 FORTUNE TELLING . . . .' . 224 
 
 LOVE-CHARMS . . . . . 233 
 
 THE LIBRARY . . - . - ^o; i ;. J 241 
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 246
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE AUTHOK. 
 
 . 
 
 WORTHY READER! 
 
 ON again taking pen in hand, I 
 would fain make a few observations at the 
 outset, by way of bespeaking a right under 
 standing. The volumes which I have already 
 published have met with a reception far 
 beyond my most sanguine expectations. I 
 would willingly attribute this to their intrinsic 
 merits ; but, in spite of the vanity of author 
 ship, I cannot but be sensible that their suc 
 cess has, in a great measure, been owing to a 
 less flattering cause. It has been a matter of 
 marvel, that a man from the wilds of America 
 should express himself in tolerable English. 
 I was looked upon as something new and 
 strange in literature ; a kind of demi-savage, 
 with a feather in his hand, instead of on his 
 
 B 2
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 head ; and there was a curiosity to hear what 
 such a being had to say about civilized society. 
 
 This novelty is now at an end, and of course 
 the feeling of indulgence which it produced. 
 I must now expect to bear the scrutiny of 
 sterner criticism, and to be measured by the 
 same standard with contemporary writers ; 
 and the very favour which has been shown to 
 my previous writings, will cause these to be 
 treated with the greater rigour ; as there is 
 nothing for which the world is apt to punish 
 a man more severely, than for having been 
 over-praised. On this head, therefore, I wish 
 to forestall the censoriousness of the reader ; 
 and I entreat he will not think the worse of 
 me for the many injudicious things that may 
 have been said in my commendation. 
 
 I am aware that I often travel over beaten 
 ground, and treat of subjects that have already 
 been discussed by abler pens. Indeed, various 
 authors have been mentioned as my models, to 
 whom I should feel flattered if I thought I 
 bore the slightest resemblance ; but in truth
 
 THE AUTHOR. 5 
 
 I write after no model that I am conscious of, 
 and I write with no idea of imitation or com 
 petition. In venturing occasionally on topics 
 that have already been almost exhausted by 
 English authors, I do it, not with the pre 
 sumption of challenging a comparison, but 
 with the hope that some new interest may be 
 given to such topics, when discussed by the 
 pen of a stranger. 
 
 If, therefore, I should sometimes be found 
 dwelling with fondness on subjects that are 
 trite and common-placed with the reader, I 
 beg the circumstances under which I write 
 may be kept in recollection. Having been 
 born and brought up in a new country, yet 
 educated from infancy in the literature of an 
 old one, my mind was early filled with historical 
 and poetical associations, connected with places, 
 and manners, and customs of Europe; but 
 which could rarely be applied to those of my 
 own country. To a mind thus peculiarly pre 
 pared, the most ordinary objects and scenes, 
 on arriving in Europe, are full of strange
 
 6 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 matter and interesting novelty. England is 
 as classic ground to an American as Italy is 
 to an Englishman; and old London teems 
 with as much historical association as mighty 
 Rome. 
 
 Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical 
 medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on 
 landing among English scenes. He for the 
 first time sees a world about which he has 
 been reading and thinking in every stage of 
 his existence. The recollected ideas of in 
 fancy, youth, and manhood; of the nursery, 
 the school, and the study, come swarming at 
 once upon him ; and his attention is distracted 
 between great and little objects ; each of which, 
 perhaps, awakens an equally delightful train 
 of remembrances. 
 
 But what more especially attracts his notice 
 are those peculiarities which distinguish an 
 old country and an old state of society from a 
 new one. I have never yet grown familiar 
 enough with the crumbling monuments of 
 past ages, to blunt the intense interest with
 
 THE AUTHOR. 7 
 
 which I at first beheld them. Accustomed 
 always to scenes where history was, in a man 
 ner, in anticipation ; where every thing in art 
 was new and progressive, and pointed to the 
 future rather than to the past ; where, in short, 
 the works of man gave no ideas but those of 
 young existence, and prospective improvement ; 
 there was something inexpressibly touching in 
 the sight of enormous piles of architecture, 
 gray with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I 
 cannot describe the mute but deep-felt en 
 thusiasm with which I have contemplated a 
 vast monastic ruin, like Tintern abbey, buried 
 in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up 
 from the world, as though it had existed merely 
 for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway 
 castle, standing in stern loneliness, on its rocky 
 height, a mere hollow yet threatening phantom 
 of departed power. They spread a grand, 
 and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm 
 over the landscape ; I for the first time beheld 
 signs of national old age, and empire's decay, 
 and proofs of the transient and perishing glories
 
 8 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 of art, amidst the ever-springing and reviving 
 fertility of nature. 
 
 But, in fact, to me every thing was full of 
 matter; the footsteps of history were every 
 where to be traced ; and poetry had breathed 
 over and sanctified the land. I experienced 
 the delightful freshness of feeling of a child, 
 to whom every thing is new. I pictured to 
 myself a set of inhabitants and a mode of life 
 for every habitation that I saw, from the 
 aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly repose 
 of stately groves and solitary parks, to the 
 straw-thatched cottage, with its scanty garden 
 and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never 
 could be sated with the sweetness and fresh 
 ness of a country so completely carpeted with 
 verdure ; where every air breathed of the 
 balmy pasture, and the honeysuckled hedge. 
 I was continually coming upon some little 
 document of poetry in the blossomed hawthorn, 
 the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some 
 other simple object that has received a super 
 natural value from the muse. The first time
 
 THE AUTHOR. 9 
 
 that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was 
 intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of 
 remembered associations than by the melody 
 of its notes ; and I shall never forget the thrill 
 of ecstasy with which I first saw the lark rise, 
 
 almost from beneath my feet, and wing its 
 
 ^ 
 
 musical flight up into the morning sky. 
 
 In this way I traversed England, a grown 
 up child, delighted by every object great and 
 small ; and betraying a wondering ignorance, 
 and simple enjoyment, that provoked many a 
 stare and a smile from my wiser and more ex 
 perienced fellow-travellers. Such too was the 
 odd confusion of associations that kept break 
 ing upon me as I first approached London. 
 One of my earliest wishes had been to see this 
 great metropolis. I had read so much about it 
 in the earliest books that had been put into 
 my infant hands ; and I had heard so much 
 about it from those around me who had come 
 from the " old countries." I was familiar with 
 the names of its streets and squares, and public 
 places, before I knew those of my native city.
 
 10 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It was, to me, the great centre of the world, 
 round which every thing seemed to revolve. I 
 recollect contemplating so wistfully when a 
 boy, a paltry little print of the Thames, and 
 London Bridge, and St. Paul's, that was in 
 front of an old magazine ; and a picture of 
 Kensington Gardens, with gentlemen in three- 
 cornered hats and broad skirts, and ladies in 
 hoops and lappets, that hung up in my bed 
 room ; even the venerable cut of St. John's 
 Gate, that has stood, time out of mind, in front 
 of the Gentleman's Magazine, was not without 
 its charms to me ; and I envied the odd looking 
 little men that appeared to be loitering about 
 its arches. 
 
 How then did my heart warm when the towers 
 of Westminster Abbey were pointed out to me, 
 rising above the rich groves of St. James's 
 Park, with a thin blue haze about their gray 
 pinnacles ! I could not behold this great mau 
 soleum of what is most illustrious in our pater 
 nal history, without feeling my enthusiasm in a 
 glow. With what eagerness did I explore every
 
 THE AUTHOR. 11 
 
 part of the metropolis ! I was not content with 
 those matters which occupy the dignified re 
 search of the learned traveller ; I delighted to 
 call up all the feelings of childhood, and to 
 seek after those objects which had been the 
 wonders of my infancy. London Bridge, so 
 famous in nursery song ; the far-famed Monu 
 ment ; Gog and Magog, and the Lions in the 
 Tower, all brought back many a recollection 
 of infantine delight, and of good old beings, 
 now no more, who had gossiped about them 
 to my wondering ear. Nor was it without 
 a recurrence of childish interest that I first 
 peeped into Mr. Newberry's shop, in St. Paul's 
 Church-yard, that fountain-head of literature. 
 Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my 
 infant mind with the idea of a great and good 
 man. He published all the picture books of 
 the day; and, out of his abundant love for 
 children, he charged " nothing for either 
 paper or print, and only a penny-halfpenny 
 for the binding!" 
 
 I have mentioned these circumstances, worthy
 
 12 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 reader, to show you the whimsical crowd of 
 associations that are apt to beset my mind on 
 mingling among English scenes. I hope they 
 may, in some measure, plead my apology, 
 should I be found harping upon stale and 
 trivial themes, or indulging an over-fondness 
 for any thing antique and obsolete. I know 
 it is the humour, not to say cant of the day, 
 to run riot about old times, old books, old 
 customs, and old buildings ; with myself, how 
 ever, as far as I have caught the contagion, the 
 feeling is genuine. To a man from a young 
 country all old things are in a manner new ; 
 and he may surely be excused in being a little 
 curious about antiquities, whose native land, 
 unfortunately, cannot boast of a single ruin. 
 
 Having been brought up, also, in the com 
 parative simplicity of a republic, I am apt to 
 be struck with even the ordinary circumstances 
 incident to an aristocratical state of society. If, 
 however, I should at any time amuse myself 
 by pointing out some of the eccentricities, and 
 some of the poetical characteristics of the
 
 THE AUTHOR. IS 
 
 latter, I would not be understood as pretend 
 ing to decide upon its political merits. My 
 only aim is to paint characters and manners. 
 I am no politician. The more I have con 
 sidered the study of politics, the more I have 
 found it full of perplexity ; and I have con 
 tented myself, as I have in my religion, with 
 the faith in which I was brought up, regulating 
 my own conduct by its precepts ; but leaving 
 to abler heads the task of making converts. 
 
 I shall continue on, therefore, in the course 
 I have hitherto pursued ; looking at things 
 poetically, rather than politically; describing 
 them as they are, rather than pretending to 
 point out how they should be ; and endeavour 
 ing to see the world in as pleasant a light as 
 circumstances will permit. 
 
 I have always had an opinion that much 
 good might be done by keeping mankind in 
 good humour with one another. I may be 
 wrong in my philosophy, but I shall continue 
 to practise it until convinced of its fallacy. 
 When I discover the world to be all that it
 
 14 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 has been represented by sneering cynics and 
 whining poets, I will turn to and abuse it also ; 
 in the mean while, worthy reader, I hope you 
 will not think lightly of me, because I cannot 
 believe this to be so very bad a world as it is 
 represented. 
 
 Thine truly, 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON. 
 
 
 '
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 The ancient house, and the best for housekeeping in this county 
 or the next ; and though the master of it write but squire, I 
 know no lord like him. MEBRY BEGGARS. 
 
 THE reader, if he has perused the volumes 
 of the Sketch Book, will probably recollect 
 something of the Bracebridge family, with 
 which I once passed a Christmas. I am now 
 on another visit at the Hall, having been invited 
 to a wedding which is shortly to take place. 
 The squire's second son, Guy, a fine, spirited 
 young captain in the army, is about to be 
 married to his father's ward, the fair Julia 
 Templeton. A gathering of relations and 
 friends has already commenced, to celebrate 
 the joyful occasion; for the old gentleman is 
 an enemy to quiet, private weddings. " There
 
 16 THE HALL. 
 
 is nothing," he says, " like launching a young 
 couple gaily, and cheering them from the 
 shore; a good outset is half the voyage." 
 
 Before proceeding any further, I would beg 
 that the squire might not be confounded with 
 that class of hard-riding, fox-hunting gentle 
 men so often described, and, in fact, so nearly 
 extinct in England. I use this rural title partly 
 because it is his universal appellation through 
 out the neighbourhood, and partly because it 
 saves me the frequent repetition of his name, 
 which is one of those rough old English names 
 at which Frenchmen exclaim in despair. 
 
 The squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen 
 of the old English country gentleman ; rusti 
 cated a little by living almost entirely on his 
 estate, and something of a humorist, as En 
 glishmen are apt to become when they have 
 an opportunity of living in their own way. I 
 like his hobby passing well, however, which is, 
 a bigoted devotion to old English manners 
 and customs; it jumps a little with my own 
 humour, having as yet a lively and unsated
 
 TttE HALL! 17 
 
 curiosity about the ancient and genuine cha 
 racteristics of my " father land." 
 
 There are some traits about the squire's 
 family also, which appear to me to be national. 
 It is one of those old aristocratical families, 
 which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and 
 scarcely understood in other countries ; that 
 is to say, families of the ancient gentry, who, 
 though destitute of titled rank, maintain a 
 high ancestral pride : who look down upon all 
 nobility of recent creation, and would consider 
 it a sacrifice of dignity to merge the venerable 
 name of their house in a modern title. 
 
 This feeling is very much fostered by the 
 importance which they enjoy on their here 
 ditary domains. The family mansion is an 
 old manor-house, standing in a retired and 
 beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants 
 have been always regarded through the sur 
 rounding country, as " the great ones of the 
 earth ; " and the little village near the hall looks 
 up to the squire with almost feudal homage. 
 An old manor-house, and an old family of this 
 
 VOL. i. c
 
 18 THE HALL. 
 
 kind, are rarely to be met with at the present 
 clay; and it is probably the peculiar humour 
 of the squire that has retained this secluded 
 specimen of English housekeeping in some 
 thing like the genuine old style. 
 
 I am again quartered in the panelled 
 
 chamber, in the antique wing of the house. 
 
 The prospect from my window, however, has 
 
 quite a different aspect from that which it wore 
 
 on my winter visit. Though early in the month 
 
 of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have 
 
 drawn forth the beauties of the spring, which, 
 
 I think, are always most captivating on their 
 
 first opening. The parterres of the old fashioned 
 
 garden are gay with flowers ; and the gardener 
 
 has brought out his exotics, and placed them 
 
 along the stone balustrades. The trees are 
 
 clothed with green buds and tender leaves; 
 
 when I throw open my jingling casement, I 
 
 smell the odour of mignionette, and hear the hum 
 
 of the bees from the flowers against the sunny 
 
 wall, with the varied song of the throstle, and 
 
 the cheerful notes of the tuneful little wren.
 
 THE HALL. 19 
 
 While sojourning in this strong hold of old 
 fashions, it is my intention to make occasional 
 sketches of the scenes and characters before 
 me. I would have it understood, however, that 
 I am not writing a novel, and have nothing of 
 intricate plot, or marvellous adventure, to pro 
 mise the reader. The Hall of which I treat, 
 has, for aught I know, neither trap-door, nor 
 sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep; and indeed 
 appears to have no mystery about it. The 
 family is a worthy well-meaning family, that, 
 in all probability, will eat and drink, and go 
 to bed, and get up regularly, from one end of 
 my work to the other ; and the squire is so 
 kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see no 
 likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress 
 in the way of the approaching nuptials. In a 
 word, I cannot foresee a single extraordinary 
 event that is likely to occur in the whole term 
 of my sojourn at the Hall. 
 
 I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when 
 he finds me dallying along, through every-day 
 English scenes, he may hurry ahead, in hopes of 
 
 Cfl 
 jv 
 
 -
 
 20 THE HALL. 
 
 meeting with some marvellous adventure fur 
 ther on. I invite him, on the contrary, to ramble 
 gently on with me, as he would saunter out 
 into the fields, stopping occasionally to gather 
 a flower, or listen to a bird, or admire a pro 
 spect, without any anxiety to arrive at the 
 end of his career. Should I, however, in the 
 course of my loiterings about this old mansion, 
 see or hear any thing curious, that might 
 serve to vary the monotony of this every-day 
 life, I shall not fail to report it for the reader's 
 entertainment : 
 
 For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie, 
 Of any book, how grave so e'er it be, 
 Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie, 
 Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee*. 
 
 * Mirror for Magistrates. 
 

 
 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and 
 my master's means, and much good do him with it. He does 
 hold my master up with his stories, and songs, and catches, 
 
 and such tricks and jigs, you would admire he is with 
 
 him now. JOVIAL CREW. 
 
 BY no one has my return to the Hall been 
 more heartily greeted than by Mr. Simon 
 Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as the squire 
 most commonly calls him. I encountered him 
 just as I entered the park, where he was 
 breaking a pointer, and he received [me with 
 all the hospitable cordiality with which a man 
 welcomes a friend to another one's house. I 
 have already introduced him to the reader as 
 a brisk old bachelor-looking little man; the wit 
 and superannuated beau of a large family con 
 nexion, and the squire's factotum. I found
 
 22 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 him, as usual, full of bustle ; with a thousand 
 petty things to do, and persons to attend to, 
 and in chirping good-humour; for there are 
 few happier beings than a busy idler ; that is 
 to say, a man who is eternally busy about 
 nothing. 
 
 I visited him, the morning after my arrival, 
 in his chamber, which is in a remote corner of 
 the mansion, as he says he likes to be to him 
 self, and out of the way. He has fitted it up 
 in his own taste, so that it is a perfect epitome 
 of an old bachelor's notions of convenience and 
 arrangement. The furniture is made up of 
 odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen 
 on account of their suiting his notions, or fitting 
 some corner of his apartment ; and he is very 
 eloquent in praise of an ancient elbow chair, 
 from which he takes occasion to digress into 
 a censure on modern chairs, as having de 
 generated from the dignity and comfort of 
 high-backed antiquity. 
 
 Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, 
 which he calls his study. Here are some
 
 THE BUSY MAN. <23 
 
 hanging shelves, of his own construction, on 
 which are several old works on hawking, hunt 
 ing, and farriery, and a collection or two of 
 poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth, 
 which he studies out of compliment to the 
 squire ; together with the Novelists' Magazine, 
 the Sporting Magazine, the Racing Calendar, 
 a volume or two of the Newgate Calendar, a 
 book of peerage, and another of heraldry. 
 
 His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small 
 closet ; and about the walls of his apartment 
 are hooks to hold his fishing-tackle, whips, 
 spurs, and a favourite fowling-piece, curiously 
 wrought and inlaid, which he inherits from his 
 grandfather. He has also a couple of old 
 single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle, which he has 
 repeatedly patched and mended himself, affirm 
 ing it to be a veritable Cremona; though I 
 have never heard him extract a single note 
 from it that was not enough to make one's 
 blood run cold. 
 
 From this little nest his fiddle will often be 
 heard, in the stillness of midday, drowsily saw-
 
 24 THE BUSY MAJS. 
 
 ing some long-forgotten tune; for he prides 
 himself on having a choice collection of good 
 old English music, and will ^arcely have any 
 thing to do with modern composers. The 
 time, however, at which his musical powers 
 are of most use, is now and then of an even 
 ing, when he plays for the children to dance 
 in the hall, and he passes among them and the 
 servants for a perfect Orpheus. 
 
 His chamber also bears evidence of his 
 various avocations : there are half-copied sheets 
 of music ; designs for needlework ; sketches 
 of landscapes, very indifferently executed; a 
 camera lucida; a magic lantern, for which 
 he is endeavouring to paint glasses ; in a 
 word, it is the cabinet of a man of many ac 
 complishments, who knows a little of every 
 thing, and does nothing well. 
 
 After I had spent some time in his apart 
 ment, admiring the ingenuity of his small in 
 ventions, he took me about the establishment, 
 to visit the stables, dog-kennel, and other de 
 pendencies, in which he appeared like a ge-
 
 THE BUSY MAN. 25 
 
 neral visiting the different quarters of'his camp; 
 as the squire leaves the control of all these 
 matters to him, when he is at the Hall. He 
 inquired into the state of the horses ; examined 
 their feet; prescribed a drench for one, and 
 bleeding for another; and then took me to 
 look at his own horse, on the merits of which 
 he dwelt with great prolixity, and which, I 
 noticed, had the best stall in the stable. 
 
 After this I was taken to a new toy of his 
 and the squire's, which he termed the falconry, 
 where there were several unhappy birds in 
 durance, completing their education. Among 
 the number was a fine falcon, which Master 
 Simon had in especial training, and he told 
 me that he would show me, in a few days, 
 some rare sport of the good old-fashioned 
 kind. In the course of our round, I noticed 
 that the grooms, game-keeper, whippers-in, 
 and other retainers, seemed all to be on some 
 what of a familiar footing with Master Simon, 
 and fond of having a joke with him, though
 
 26 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 it was evident they had great deference for his 
 opinion in matters relating to their functions. 
 There was one exception, however, in a 
 testy old huntsman, as hot as a pepper-corn ; 
 a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a thread-bare 
 velvet jockey-cap, and a pair of leather breeches, 
 that, from much wear, shone as though they 
 had been japanned. He was very contra 
 dictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, 
 to differ from Master Simon now and then, 
 out of mere captiousness. This was par 
 ticularly the case with respect to the treat 
 ment of the hawk, which the old man seemed 
 to have under his peculiar care, and, accord 
 ing to Master Simon, was in a fair way to 
 ruin : the latter had a vast deal to say about 
 casting, and imping, and gleaming, and enseam- 
 ing, and giving the hawk the rangle, which I 
 saw was all heathen Greek to old Christy; 
 but he maintained his point notwithstanding, 
 and seemed to hold all this technical lore in 
 utter disrespect.
 
 THE BUSY MAN. 27 
 
 I was surprised at the good humour with 
 which Master Simon bore his contradictions 
 till he explained the matter to me afterwards. 
 Old Christy is the most ancient servant in the 
 place, having lived among dogs and horses the 
 greater part of a century, and been in the ser 
 vice of Mr. Bracebridge's father. He knows 
 the pedigree of every horse on the place, and 
 has bestrode the great great grandsires of most 
 of them. He can give a circumstantial detail 
 of every fox-hunt for the last sixty or seventy 
 years, and has a history for every stag's head 
 about the house, and every hunting trophy 
 nailed to the door of the dog-kennel. 
 
 All the present race have grown up under 
 his eye, and humour him in his old age. He 
 once attended the squire to Oxford when he 
 was a student there, and enlightened the whole 
 university with his hunting lore. All this is 
 enough to make the old man opinionated, since 
 he finds on all these matters of first-rate im 
 portance, he knows more than the rest of the 
 world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his
 
 28 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 pupil, and acknowledges that he derived his 
 first knowledge in hunting from the instruc 
 tions of Christy ; and I much question whether 
 the old man does not still look upon him as 
 rather a greenhorn. 
 
 On our return homewards, as we were cross 
 ing the lawn in front of the house, we heard 
 the porter's bell ring at the lodge, and shortly 
 afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly 
 up the avenue. At sight of it my companion 
 paused, considered it for a moment, and then, 
 making a sudden exclamation, hurried away 
 to meet it. As it approached I discovered a 
 fair fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an 
 old-fashioned riding-habit, with a broad-brim 
 med white beaver hat, such as may be seen in 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds' paintings. She rode a 
 sleek white pony, and was followed by a foot 
 man in rich livery, mounted on an over-fed 
 hunter. At a little distance in the rear came 
 an ancient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two 
 very corpulent horses, driven by as corpulent 
 a coachman, beside whom sat a page dressed
 
 THE BUSY MAN. 29 
 
 in a fanciful green livery. Inside of the cha 
 riot was a starched prim personage, with a 
 look somewhat between a lady's companion 
 and a lady's maid, and two pampered curs, 
 that showed their ugly faces and harked out 
 of each window. 
 
 There was a general turning out of the gar 
 rison to receive this new comer. The squire 
 assisted her to alight, and saluted her affec 
 tionately; the fair Julia flew into her arms, 
 and they embraced with the romantic fervour 
 of boarding-school friends : she was escorted 
 into the house by Julia's lover, towards whom 
 she showed distinguished favour ; and a line of 
 the old servants, who had collected in the Hall, 
 bowed most profoundly as she passed. 
 
 I observed that Master Simon was most 
 assiduous and devout in his attentions upon 
 this old lady. He walked by the side of her 
 pony up the avenue ; and, while she was re 
 ceiving the salutations of the rest of the family, 
 he took occasion to notice the fat coachman ; 
 to pat the sleek carriage horses, and, above all,
 
 50 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 to say a civil word to my lady's gentlewoman, 
 the prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot. 
 
 I had no more of his company for the rest of 
 the morning. He was swept off in the vortex 
 that followed in the wake of this lady. Once 
 indeed he paused for a moment, as he was hur 
 rying on some errand of the good lady's, to let 
 me know that this was Lady Lillycraft, a sister 
 of the squire's, of large fortune, which the 
 captain would inherit, and that her estate lay 
 in one of the best sporting countries in all 
 England.
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. 
 They are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeak 
 ing the antiquity and fatness of their abode. 
 
 IN my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may 
 often be tempted to dwell on circumstances of a 
 trite and ordinary nature, from their appearing 
 to me illustrative of genuine national cha 
 racter. It seems to be the study of the squire 
 to adhere, as much as possible, to what he 
 considers the old landmarks of English man 
 ners. His servants all understand his ways, 
 and for the most part Jiave been accustomed 
 to them from infancy ; so that, upon the whole, 
 his household presents one of the few tolerable 
 specimens that can now be met with, of the 
 establishment of an English country gentle 
 man of the old school.
 
 32 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 By the by, the servants are not the least 
 characteristic part of the household : the house 
 keeper, for instance, has been born and brought 
 up at the Hall, and has never been twenty 
 miles from it ; yet she has a stately air that 
 would not disgrace a lady that had figured at 
 the court of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 I am half inclined to think that she has 
 caught it from living so much among the old 
 family pictures. It may, however, be owing 
 to a consciousness of her importance in the 
 sphere in which she has always moved ; for she 
 is greatly respected in the neighbouring vil 
 lage, and among the farmers' wives, and has 
 high authority in the household, ruling over 
 the servants with quiet, but undisputed sway. 
 
 She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes and 
 pointed nose and chin. Her dress is always 
 the same as to fashion. She wears a small, 
 well-starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full pet 
 ticoats, and a gown festooned and open in 
 front, which, on particular occasions, is of an 
 cient silk, the legacy of some former dame of
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 33 
 
 the family, or an inheritance from her mother, 
 who was housekeeper before her. I have a 
 reverence for these old garments, as I make 
 no doubt they have figured about these apart 
 ments in days long past, when they have set 
 off the charms of some peerless family beauty ; 
 and I have sometimes looked from the old 
 housekeeper to the neighbouring portraits, to 
 see whether I could not recognize her anti 
 quated brocade in the dress of some one of 
 those long-waisted dames that smile on me 
 from the walls. 
 
 Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out 
 in front, and she wears over it a small cap, 
 nicely plaited, and brought down under the 
 chin. Her manners are simple and primitive, 
 heightened a little by a proper dignity of 
 station. 
 
 The Hall is her world, and the history of 
 the family the only history she knows, except 
 ing that which she has read in the Bible. She 
 can give a biography of every portrait in the 
 
 VOL. r. D
 
 34 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 picture gallery, and is a complete family chro 
 nicle. 
 
 She is treated with great consideration by 
 the squire. Indeed, Master Simon tells me 
 that there is a traditional anecdote current 
 among the servants, of the squire's having 
 been seen kissing her in the picture gallery, 
 when they were both young. As, however, 
 nothing further was ever noticed between 
 them, the circumstance caused no great scan 
 dal; only she was observed to take to reading 
 Pamela shortly afterwards, and refused the 
 hand of the village innkeeper, whom she had 
 previously smiled on. 
 
 The old butler, who was formerly footman, 
 and a rejected admirer of hers, used to tell the 
 anecdote now and then, at those little cabals 
 that will occasionally take place among the 
 most orderly servants, arising from the com 
 mon propensity of the governed to talk against 
 administration; but he has left it off, of late 
 years, since he has risen into place, and 

 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 35 
 
 shakes his head rebukingly when it is -men 
 tioned. 
 
 It is certain that the old lady will, to this 
 day, dwell on the looks of the squire when he 
 was a young man at college; and she main 
 tains that none of his sons can compare with 
 their father when he was of their age, and was 
 dressed out in his full suit of scarlet, with his 
 hair craped and powdered, and his three-cor 
 nered hat. 
 
 She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft 
 hearted baggage, named Phoebe Wilkins, who 
 has been transplanted to the Hall within a 
 year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any 
 condition of life. She is a kind of attendant 
 and companion of the fair Julia's; and from 
 loitering about the young lady's apartments, 
 reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second 
 hand finery, has become something between a 
 waiting-maid and a slip-shod fine lady. 
 
 She is considered a kind of heiress among 
 the servants, as she will inherit all her aunt's 
 property; which, if report be true, must be a 
 
 D 2
 
 36 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 round sum of good golden guineas, the accu 
 mulated wealth of two housekeepers' savings ; 
 not to . mention the hereditary wardrobe, and 
 the many little valuables and knick-knacks 
 treasured up in the housekeeper's room. In 
 deed, the old housekeeper has the reputation 
 among the servants and the villagers of being 
 passing rich ; and there is a japanned chest of 
 drawers and a large iron-bound coffer in her 
 room, which are supposed, by the housemaids, 
 to hold treasures of wealth. 
 
 The old lady is a great friend of Master 
 Simon, who, indeed, pays a little court to 
 her, as to a person high in authority ; and they 
 have many discussions on points of family hi 
 story, in which, notwithstanding his extensive 
 information, and pride of knowledge, he com 
 monly admits her superior accuracy. He sel 
 dom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits 
 to the other branches of the family, without 
 bringing Mrs. Wilkins some remembrance from 
 the ladies of the house where he has been 
 staying.
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 37 
 
 Indeed, all the children of the house look up 
 to the old lady with habitual respect and at 
 tachment, and she seems almost to consider 
 them as her own, from their having grown up 
 under her eye. The Oxonian, however, is her 
 favourite, probably from being the youngest, 
 though he is the most mischievous, and has 
 been apt to play tricks upon her from boy 
 hood. 
 
 I cannot help mentioning one little cere 
 mony, which, I believe, is peculiar to the Hall. 
 After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old 
 housekeeper sails into the room and stands be 
 hind the squire's chair, when he fills her a glass 
 of wine with his own hands, in which she drinks 
 the health of the company in a truly respect 
 ful yet dignified manner, and then retires. The 
 squire received the custom from his father, and 
 has always continued it. 
 
 There is a peculiar character about the ser 
 vants of old English families that reside prin 
 cipally in the country. They have a quiet, 
 orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties.
 
 38 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 They are always neat in their persons, and ap 
 propriately, and, if I may use the phrase, tech 
 nically dressed ; they move about the house 
 without hurry or noise ; there is nothing of the 
 bustle of employment, or the voice of com 
 mand ; nothing of that obtrusive housewifery 
 that amounts to a torment. You are not per 
 secuted by the process of making you comfort 
 able ; yet every thing is done, and is done well. 
 The work of the house is performed as if by 
 magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing 
 is done by fits and starts, nor at awkward sea 
 sons ; the whole goes on like well-oiled clock 
 work, where there is no noise nor jarring in 
 its operations. 
 
 English servants, in general, are not treated 
 with great indulgence, nor rewarded by many 
 commendations ; for the English are laconic 
 and reserved towards their domestics ; but an 
 approving nod and a kind word from master 
 or mistress, goes as far here, as an excess of 
 praise or indulgence elsewhere. Neither do 
 servants often exhibit any animated marks of
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 39 
 
 affection to their employers ; yet, though quiet, 
 they are strong in their attachments ; and the 
 reciprocal regard of masters and servants, 
 though not ardently expressed, is powerful 
 and lasting in old English families. 
 
 The title of " an old family servant" carries 
 with it a thousand kind associations in all parts 
 of the world ; and there is no claim upon the 
 home-bred charities of the heart more irre 
 sistible than that of having been " born in the 
 house." It is common to see gray-headed do 
 mestics of this kind attached to an English 
 family of the " old school," who continue in it 
 to the day of their death, in the enjoyment of 
 steady unaffected kindness, and the perform 
 ance of faithful, unofficious duty. I think such 
 instances of attachment speak well for both 
 master and servant, and the frequency of them 
 speaks well for national character. 
 
 These observations, however, hold good only 
 with families of the description I have men 
 tioned ; and with such as are somewhat retired,, 
 and pass the greater part of their time in the.
 
 40 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 country. As to the powdered menials that 
 throng the halls of fashionable town residences, 
 they equally reflect the character of the esta 
 blishments to which they belong ; and I know 
 no more complete epitomes of dissolute heart- 
 lessness, and pampered inutility. 
 
 But the good " old family servant ! " The 
 one who has always been linked, in idea, with 
 the home of our heart; who has led us to 
 school in the days of prattling childhood ; who 
 has been the confidant of our boyish cares, and 
 schemes, and enterprises ; who has hailed us as 
 we came home at vacations, and been the pro 
 moter of all our holiday sports ; who, when we, 
 in wandering manhood, have left the paternal 
 roof, and only return thither at intervals, will 
 welcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our 
 parents ; who, now grown gray and infirm with 
 age, still totters about the house of our fathers 
 in fond and faithful servitude ; who claims us, 
 in a manner, as his own ; and hastens with 
 querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow- 
 domestics in waiting upon us at table ; and
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 41 
 
 who, when we retire at night to the chamber 
 that still goes by our name, will linger about 
 the room to have one more kind look, and one 
 more pleasant word about times that are past 
 who does not experience towards such a 
 being a feeling of almost filial affection ? 
 
 I have met with several instances of epitaphs 
 on the gravestones of such valuable domestics, 
 recorded with the simple truth of natural feel 
 ing. I have two before me at this moment ; 
 one copied from a tombstone of a churchyard 
 in Warwickshire : 
 
 " Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, con 
 fidential servant to George Birch, Esq. of Ham- 
 stead Hall. His grateful friend and master 
 caused this inscription to be written in me 
 mory of his discretion, fidelity, diligence, and 
 continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, 
 having lived 44 years in the same family." 
 
 The other was taken from a tombstone in 
 Eltham churchyard : 
 
 <( Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, 
 who departed this life on the 8th of September, 
 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60
 
 12 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 years in one family ; by each individual of which 
 he lived respected, and died lamented by the 
 sole survivor." 
 
 Few monuments, even of the illustrious,, have 
 given me the glow about the heart that I felt 
 while copying this honest epitaph in the church 
 yard of Eltham. I sympathised with this " sole 
 survivor" of a family mourning over the grave 
 of the faithful follower of his race, who had 
 been, no doubt, a living memento of times and 
 friends that had passed away; and in con 
 sidering this record of long and devoted ser 
 vice, I called to mind the touching speech of 
 Old Adam in "As You Like It," when tottering 
 after the youthful son of his ancient master : 
 
 " Master, go on, and I will follow thee 
 To the last gasp, with love and loyalty !" 
 
 NOTE. I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen 
 somewhere in the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the late 
 king to the memory of a family servant, who had been a faithful 
 attendant of his lamented daughter, the Princess Amelia. 
 George III. possessed much of the strong, domestic feeling of 
 the old English country gentleman ; and it is an incident curious 
 in monumental history, and creditable to the human heart, a 
 monarch erecting a monument in honour of the humble virtues 
 of a menial. 

 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 She was so charitable and pitious 
 She would weep if that she saw a raous 
 Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled : 
 Of small hounds had she, that she fed 
 With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread, 
 But sore wept she if any of them were dead, 
 Or if man smote them with a yard smart. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the whimsical parade 
 made by Lady Lillycraft on her arrival, she 
 has none of the petty stateliness that I had 
 imagined ; but, on the contrary, she has a 
 degree of nature, and simple-heartedness, if I 
 may use the phrase, that mingles well with 
 her old-fashioned manners and harmless osten 
 tation. She dresses in rich, silks, with long 
 waist ; she rouges considerably, and her hair, 
 which is nearly white, is frizzed out, and put
 
 44 THE WIDOW. 
 
 up with pins. Her face is pitted with the 
 small-pox, but the delicacy of her features 
 shows that she may once have been beautiful ; 
 and she has a very fair and well-shaped hand 
 and arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good 
 lady is still a little vain. 
 
 I have had the curiosity to gather a few 
 particulars concerning her. She was a great 
 belle in town between thirty and forty years 
 since, and reigned for two seasons with all the 
 insolence of beauty, refusing several excellent 
 offers ; when, unfortunately, she was robbed of 
 her charms and her lovers by an attack of the 
 small-pox. She retired immediately into the 
 country, where she sometime after inherited 
 an estate, and married a baronet, a former 
 admirer, whose passion had suddenly revived ; 
 " having," as he said, " always loved her mind 
 rather than her person." 
 
 S. 
 
 The baronet did not enjoy her mind and 
 fortune above six months, and had scarcely 
 grown very tired of her, when he broke his 
 neck in a fox-chase, and left her free, rich, and 

 
 THE WIDOW. 45 
 
 disconsolate. She has remained on her estate 
 in the country ever since, and has never shown 
 any desire to return to town, and revisit the 
 scene of her early triumphs and fatal malady. 
 All her favourite recollections, however, revert 
 to that short period of her youthful beauty. 
 She has no idea of town but as it was at that 
 time ; and continually forgets that the place 
 and people must have changed materially in 
 the course of nearly half a century. She will 
 often speak of the toasts of those days as if 
 still reigning ; and, until very recently, used 
 to talk with delight of the royal family, and the 
 beauty of the young princes and princesses. 
 She cannot be brought to think of the present 
 king otherwise than as an elegant young man, 
 rather wild, but who danced a minuet divinely ; 
 and before he came to the crown, would often 
 mention him as the " sweet young prince." 
 
 She talks also of the walks in Kensington 
 Garden, where the gentlemen appeared in gold- 
 laced coats and cocked hats, and the ladies in 
 hoops, and swept so proudly along the grassy 
 avenues ; and she thinks the ladies let them-
 
 46 THK WIDOW. 
 
 selves sadly down in their dignity, when they 
 gave up cushioned head-dresses, and high-heeled 
 shoes. She has much to say too of the officers 
 who were in the train of her admirers ; and 
 speaks familiarly of many wild young blades, 
 that are now, perhaps, hobbling about water 
 ing-places with crutches and gouty shoes. 
 
 Whether the taste the good lady had of 
 matrimony discouraged her or not, I cannot 
 say ; but, though her merits and her riches have 
 attracted many suitors, she has never been 
 tempted to venture again into the happy state. 
 This is singular too, for she seems of a most 
 soft and susceptible heart ; is always talking 
 of love and connubial felicity ; and is a great 
 stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devoted 
 attentions, and eternal constancy, on the part 
 of the gentlemen. She lives, however, after 
 her own taste. Her house, I am told, must 
 have been built and furnished about the time 
 of Sir Charles Grandison : every thing about 
 it is somewhat formal and stately; but has been 
 softened down into a degree of voluptuousness, 
 characteristic of an old lady very tender-
 
 THE WIDOW. 47 
 
 hearted and romantic, and that loves her ease. 
 The cushions of the great arm-chairs, and wide 
 sofas, almost bury you when you sit down on 
 them. Flowers of the most rare and delicate 
 kind are placed about the rooms and on little 
 japanned stands ; and sweet bags lie about the 
 tables and mantel-pieces. The house is full of 
 pet dogs, Angola cats, and singing-birds, who 
 are as carefully waited upon as she is herself. 
 
 She is dainty in her living, and a little of an 
 epicure, living on white meats, and little lady 
 like dishes, though her servants have substantial 
 old English fare, as their looks bear witness, 
 Indeed, they are so indulged, that they are 
 all spoiled ; and when they lose their present 
 place, they will be fit for no other. Her lady 
 ship is one of those easy-tempered beings that 
 are always doomed to be much liked, but ill 
 served by their domestics, and cheated by all 
 the world. 
 
 Much of her time is past in reading novels, 
 of which she has a most extensive library, and 
 has a constant supply from the publishers in
 
 48 THE WIDOW.. 
 
 town. Her erudition in this line of literature 
 is immense ; she has kept pace with the press 
 for half a century. Her mind is stuffed with 
 love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours 
 of the old books of chivalry, down to the last 
 blue-covered romance, reeking from the press ; 
 though she evidently gives the preference to 
 those that came out in the days of her youth, 
 and when she was first in love. She maintains 
 that there are no novels written now-a-days 
 equal to Pamela and Sir Charles Grandison ; 
 and she places the Castle of Otranto at the 
 head of all romances. 
 
 She does a vast deal of good in her neigh 
 bourhood, and is imposed upon by every beggar 
 in the county. She is the benefactress of a 
 village adjoining to her estate, and takes an 
 especial interest in all its love-affairs. She 
 knows of every courtship that is going on ; 
 every love-lorn damsel is sure to find a patient 
 listener and a sage adviser in her ladyship. 
 She takes great pains to reconcile all love- 
 quarrels, and should any faithless swain persist
 
 THE WIDOW. 49 
 
 in his inconstancy, he is sure to draw on him 
 self the good lady's violent indignation. 
 
 I have learned these particulars partly from 
 Frank Bracebridge, and partly from Master 
 Simon. I am now able to account for the 
 assiduous attention of the latter to her lady 
 ship. Her house is one of his favourite resorts, 
 where he is a very important personage. He 
 makes her a visit of business once a year, 
 when he looks into all her affairs; which, as 
 she is no manager, are apt to get into con 
 fusion. He examines the books of the overseer, 
 and shoots about the estate, which, he says, is 
 well stocked with game, notwithstanding that 
 it is poached by all the vagabonds in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 It is thought, as I before hinted, that the 
 captain will inherit the greater part of her 
 property, having always been her chief fa 
 vourite ; for, in fact, she is partial to a red 
 coat. She has now come to the Hall to be 
 present at his nuptials, having a great disposi 
 tion to interest herself in all matters of love 
 and matrimony. 
 
 VOL. r. E
 
 THE LOVEES. 
 
 Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away : for lo the win 
 ter is past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on 
 the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the 
 voice of the turtle is heard in the land. 
 
 SONG OF SOLOMON. 
 
 To a man who is a little of a philosopher, 
 and a bachelor to boot; and who, by dint of 
 some experience in the follies of life, begins to 
 look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, 
 and eke of woman; to such a man, I say, there 
 is something very entertaining in noticing the 
 conduct of a pair of young lovers. It may 
 not be as grave and scientific a study as the 
 loves of the plants, but it is certainly as in 
 teresting. 
 
 I have therefore derived much pleasure, 
 since my arrival at the Hall, from observing 
 the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the
 
 THE LOVERS. 51 
 
 delightful, blushing consciousness of an artless 
 girl, inexperienced in coquetry, who has made 
 her first conquest; while the captain regards 
 her with that mixture of fondness and exulta 
 tion, with which a youthful lover is apt to 
 contemplate so beauteous a prize. 
 
 I observed them yesterday in the garden, 
 advancing along one of the retired walks. 
 The sun was shining with delicious warmth, 
 making great masses of bright verdure, and 
 deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that " har 
 binger of spring," was faintly heard from a 
 distance ; the thrush piped from the hawthorn, 
 and the yellow butterflies sported, and toyed, 
 and coquetted in the air. 
 
 The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's 
 arm, listening to his conversation, with her 
 eyes cast down, a soft blush on her cheek, and 
 a quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand 
 that hung negligently by her side was a bunch 
 of flowers. In this way they were sauntering 
 slowly along, and when I considered them, 
 and the scene in which they were moving, I 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE LOVERS. 
 
 could not but think it a thousand pities that 
 the season should ever change, or that young 
 people should ever grow older, or that blossoms 
 should give way to fruit, or that lovers should 
 ever get married. 
 
 From what I have gathered of family anec 
 dote, I understand that the fair Julia is the 
 daughter of a favourite college friend of the 
 squire ; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered 
 the army, and served for many years in India, 
 where he was mortally wounded in a skirmish 
 with the natives. In his last moments he had, 
 with a faltering pen, recommended his wife 
 and daughter to the kindness of his early 
 friend. 
 
 The widow and her child returned to Eng 
 land helpless, and almost hopeless. When Mr. 
 Bracebridge received accounts of their situa 
 tion, he hastened to their relief. He reached 
 them just in time to soothe the last moments 
 of the mother, who was dying of a consump 
 tion, and to make her happy in the assurance 
 that her child should never want a protector.
 
 THE LOVERS. 53 
 
 The good squire returned with his prattling 
 charge to his strong hold, where he had brought 
 her up with a tenderness truly paternal. As 
 he has taken some pains to superintend her 
 education, and form her taste, she has grown 
 up with many of his notions, and considers 
 him the wisest, as well as the best of men. 
 Much ef her time, too, has been passed with 
 Lady Lillycraft, who has instructed her in the 
 manners of the old school, and enriched her 
 mind with all kinds of novels and romances. 
 Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in 
 promoting the match between Julia and the 
 captain, having had them together at her 
 country seat, the moment she found there was 
 an attachment growing up between them ; the 
 good lady being never so happy as when she 
 has a pair of turtles cooing about her. 
 
 I have been pleased to see the fondness with 
 which the fair Julia is regarded by the old 
 servants at the Hall. She has been a pet with 
 them from childhood, and every one seems to 
 lay some claim to her education ; so that it is
 
 54 THE LOVERS. 
 
 no wonder that she should be extremely ac 
 complished. The gardener taught her to rear 
 flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old 
 Christy, the pragmatical huntsman, softens 
 when she approaches ; and as she sits lightly 
 and gracefully in her saddle, claims the merit 
 of having taught her to ride ; while the house 
 keeper, who almost looks upon her as a daugh 
 ter, intimates that she first gave her an insight 
 into the mysteries of the toilet, having been 
 dressing-maid in her young days to the late 
 Mrs. Bracebridge. I am inclined to credit this 
 last claim, as I have noticed that the dress of 
 the young lady had an air of the old school, 
 though managed with native taste, and that 
 her hair was put up very much in the style 
 of Sir Peter Lely's portraits in the picture- 
 gallery. 
 
 Her very musical attainments partake of 
 this old fashioned character, and most of her 
 songs are such as are not at the present day to 
 be found on the piano of a modern performer. I 
 have, however, seen so much of modern fashions,
 
 THE LOVERS. 55 
 
 modern accomplishments, and modern fine la 
 dies, that I relish this tinge of antiquated style 
 in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have had 
 as much pleasure in hearing her warble one of 
 the old songs of Herrick, or Carew, or Suck 
 ling, adapted to some simple old melody, as I 
 have had from listening to a lady amateur sky 
 lark it up and down through the finest bravura 
 of Rossini or Mozart. 
 
 We have very pretty music in the evenings, 
 occasionally, between her and the captain, 
 assisted sometimes by Master Simon, who 
 scrapes, dubiously, on his violin; being very 
 apt to get out, and to halt a note or two in 
 the rear. Sometimes he even thrums a little 
 on the piano, and takes a part in a trio, in 
 which his voice can generally be distinguished 
 by a certain quavering tone, and an occasional 
 false note. 
 
 I was praising the fair Julia's performance 
 to him after one of her songs, when I found 
 he took to himself the whole credit of having 

 
 50 THE LOVERS. 
 
 formed her musical taste, assuring me that she 
 was very apt ; and, indeed, summing up her 
 whole character in his knowing way, by adding, 
 that " she was a very nice girl, and had no 
 nonsense about her."
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye, 
 
 The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill 
 
 Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown, 
 
 These lips look fresh and lively as her own. 
 
 False colours last after the true be dead. 
 
 Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, 
 
 Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, 
 
 Of all the music set upon her tongue, 
 
 Of all that was past woman's excellence 
 
 In her white bosom ; look, a painted board 
 
 Circumscribes all ! * DEKKER. 
 
 AN old English family mansion is a fertile 
 subject for study. It abounds with illustra 
 tions of former times, and traces of the tastes, 
 and humours, and manners, of successive ge 
 nerations. The alterations and additions, in 
 different styles of architecture ; the furniture, 
 plate, pictures, hangings ; the warlike and 
 sporting implements of different ages and
 
 58 FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 fancies ; all furnish food for curious and 
 amusing speculation. As the squire is very 
 careful in collecting and preserving all family 
 reliques, the Hall is full of remembrances of 
 the kind. In looking about the establishment, 
 I can picture to myself the characters and 
 habits that have prevailed at different eras of 
 the family history. I have mentioned on a 
 former occasion the armour of the crusader 
 which hangs up in the Hall. There are also 
 several jack-boots, with enormously thick soles 
 and high heels, that belonged to a set of cava 
 liers, who filled the Hall with the din and stir 
 of arms during the time of the Covenanters. 
 A number of enormous drinking vessels of 
 antique fashion, with huge Venice glasses, and 
 green hock-glasses, with the apostles in relief 
 on them, remain as monuments of a generation 
 or two of hard-livers, that led a life of roaring 
 revelry, and first introduced the gout into the 
 family. 
 
 I shall pass over several more such indica 
 tions of temporary tastes of the squire's pre-
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 59 
 
 decessors ; but I cannot forbear to notice a 
 pair of antlers in the great hall, which is one 
 of the trophies of a hard-riding squire of former 
 times, who was the Nimrod of these parts. 
 There are many traditions of his wonderful 
 feats in hunting still existing, which are re 
 lated by old Christy, the huntsman, who gets 
 exceedingly nettled if they are in the least 
 doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm, 
 a few miles from the Hall, which goes by the 
 name of the Squire's Leap, from his having 
 cleared it in the ardour of the chase ; there can 
 be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows 
 the very dints of the horse's hoofs on the rocks 
 on each side of the chasm. 
 
 Master Simon holds the memory of this 
 squire in great veneration, and has a number 
 of extraordinary stories to tell concerning him, 
 which he repeats at all hunting dinners ; and 
 I am told that they wax more and more mar 
 vellous the older they grow. He has also a 
 pair of Rippon spurs which belonged to this 
 mighty hunter of yore, and which he only 
 wears on particular occasions.
 
 60 FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 The place, however, which abounds most 
 with mementos of past times, is the picture gal 
 lery ; and there is something strangely pleasing, 
 though melancholy, in considering the long 
 rows of portraits which compose the greater 
 part of the collection. They furnish a kind of 
 narrative of the lives of the family worthies, 
 which I am enabled to read with the assistance 
 of the venerable housekeeper, who is the family 
 chronicler, prompted occasionally by Master 
 Simon. There is the progress of a fine lady, 
 for instance, through a variety of portraits. 
 One represents her as a little girl, with a long 
 waist and hoop, holding a kitten in her arms, 
 and ogling the spectator out of the corners of 
 her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In 
 another we find her in the freshness of youth 
 ful beauty, when she was a celebrated belle, 
 and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfor 
 tunate gentlemen to run desperate and write 
 bad poetry. In another she is depicted as a 
 stately dame, in the maturity of her charms ; 
 next to the portrait of her husband, a gallant 
 colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 01 
 
 hat, who was killed abroad ; and, finally, her 
 monument is in the church, the spire of which 
 may be seen from the window, where her effigy 
 is carved in marble, and represents her as a 
 venerable dame of seventy-six. 
 
 In like manner I have followed some of the 
 family great men through a series of pictures, 
 from early boyhood to the robe of dignity, or 
 truncheon of command, and so on by degrees, 
 until they were garnered up in the common 
 repository, the neighbouring church. 
 
 There is one group that particularly inte 
 rested me. It consisted of four sisters of nearly 
 the same age, who flourished about a century 
 since, and, if I may judge from their portraits, 
 were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what 
 a scene of gaiety and romance this old mansion 
 must have been, when they were in the hey-day 
 of their charms ; when they passed like beau 
 tiful visions through its halls, or stepped dain 
 tily to music in the revels and dances of the 
 cedar gallery ; or printed, with delicate feet, the 
 velvet verdure of these lawns. How must they
 
 62 FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 have been looked up to with mingled love, and 
 pride, and reverence, by the old family ser 
 vants ; and followed with almost painful ad 
 miration by the aching eyes of rival admirers ! 
 How must melody, and song, and tender sere 
 nade, have breathed about these courts, and 
 their echoes whispered to the loitering tread of 
 lovers! How must these very turrets have made 
 the hearts of the young galliards thrill, as they 
 first discerned them from afar, rising from 
 among the trees, and pictured to themselves 
 the beauties casketed like gems within these 
 walls! Indeed I have discovered about the 
 place several faint records of this reign of love 
 and romance, when the Hall was a kind of 
 Court of Beauty. Several of the old romances 
 in the library have marginal notes expressing 
 sympathy and approbation, where there are 
 long speeches extolling ladies' charms, or pro 
 testing eternal fidelity, or bewailing the cruelty 
 of some tyrannical fair one. The interviews, and 
 declarations, and parting scenes of tender lovers, 
 also bear the marks of having been frequently
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 63 
 
 read, and are scored, and marked with notes of 
 admiration, and have initials written on the 
 margins ; most of which annotations have the 
 day of the month and year annexed to them. 
 Several of the windows, too, have scraps of 
 poetry engraved on them with diamonds, taken 
 from the writings of the fair Mrs. Philips, the 
 once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem 
 to have been inscribed by lovers ; and others, 
 in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a little 
 inaccurate in the spelling, have evidently been 
 written by the young ladies themselves, or by 
 female friends, who have been on visits to the 
 Hall. Mrs. Philips seems to have been their 
 favourite author, and they have distributed the 
 names of her heroes and heroines among their 
 circle of intimacy. Sometimes, in a male hand, 
 the verse bewails the cruelty of beauty, and the 
 sufferings of constant love ; while in a female 
 hand it prudishly confines itself to lamenting 
 the parting of female friends. The bow-window 
 of my bed-room, which has, doubtless, been in 
 habited by one of these beauties, has several of
 
 C4 .FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 these inscriptions. I have one at this moment 
 before my eyes, called Camilla parting with 
 Leonora :" 
 
 " How perished is the joy that's past, 
 
 The present how unsteady ! 
 What comfort can be great and last, 
 When this is gone already ? " 
 
 And close by it is another, written, perhaps, by 
 some adventurous lover, who had stolen into 
 the lady's chamber during her absence : 
 
 " THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA. 
 
 I'd rather in your favour live, 
 
 Than in a lasting name ; 
 And much a greater rate would give 
 
 For happiness than fame. 
 
 THEODOSIUS. 1700."" 
 
 When I look at these faint records of gal 
 lantry and tenderness ; when I contemplate the 
 fading portraits of these beautiful girls, and 
 think too that they have long since bloomed, 
 reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and 
 with them all their graces, their triumphs, their 
 rivalries, their admirers ; the whole empire of 
 love and pleasure in which they ruled " all 
 dead, all buried, all forgotten," I find a cloud
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 65 
 
 of melancholy stealing over the present gaieties 
 around me. I was gazing, in a musing mood, 
 this very morning, at the portrait of the lady, 
 whose husband was killed abroad, when the 
 fair Julia entered the gallery, leaning on the 
 arm of the captain. The sun shone through 
 the row of windows on her as she passed along, 
 and she seemed to beam out each time into 
 brightness, and relapse into shade, until the 
 door at the bottom of the gallery closed after 
 her. I felt a sadness of heart at the idea, that 
 this was an emblem of her lot : a few more 
 years of sunshine and shade, and all this life, 
 and loveliness, and enjoyment, will have ceased, 
 and nothing be left to commemorate this beauti 
 ful being but one more perishable portrait ; to 
 awaken, perhaps, the trite speculations of some 
 future loiterer, like myself, when I and my 
 scribblings shall have lived through our brief 
 existence and been forgotten. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 I 've worn some leather out abroad ; let out a heathen soul or 
 two; fed this good sword with the black blood of pagan 
 Christians; converted a few infidels with it But let that 
 pass. THE ORDINARY. 
 
 THE Hall was thrown into some little agita 
 tion, a few days since, by the arrival of General 
 Harbottle. He had been expected for several 
 days, and had been looked for, rather impa 
 tiently, by several of the family. Master Simon 
 assured me that I would like the General 
 hugely, for he was a blade of the old school, 
 and an excellent table companion. Lady Lilly- 
 craft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered, 
 on the morning of the General's arrival, for he 
 had been one of her early admirers; and she 
 recollected him only as a dashing young ensign, 
 just come upon the town. She actually spent 
 an hour longer at her toilette, and made her
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. by 
 
 appearance with her hair uncommonly frizzed 
 and powdered, and an additional quantity of 
 rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and 
 shocked, therefore, at finding the lithe dashing 
 ensign transformed into a corpulent old ge 
 neral, with a double chin; though it was a 
 perfect picture to witness their salutations; the 
 graciousness of her profound curtsy, and the 
 air of the old school with which the general 
 took off his hat, swayed it gently in his hand, 
 and bowed his powdered head. 
 
 All this bustle and anticipation has caused 
 me to study the general with a little more at 
 tention than, perhaps, I should otherwise have 
 done; and the few days that he has already 
 passed at the Hall have enabled me, I think, 
 to furnish a tolerable likeness of him to the 
 reader. 
 
 He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier 
 of the old school, with powdered head, side 
 locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped like the 
 stern of a Dutch man of war, narrow at top, 
 and wide at bottom, with full rosy cheeks and 
 
 F 2
 
 68 AN OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 a double chin ; so that, to use the cant of the 
 day, his organs of eating may be said to be 
 powerfully developed. 
 
 The general, though a veteran, has seen very 
 little active service, except the taking of Se- 
 ringapatam, which forms an era in his history. 
 He wears a large emerald in his bosom, and a 
 diamond on his finger, which he got on that 
 occasion, and whoever is unlucky enough to 
 notice either, is sure to involve himself in the 
 whole history of the siege. To judge from the 
 general's conversation, the taking of Seringa- 
 patam is the most important affair that has 
 occurred for the last century. 
 
 On the approach of warlike times on the con 
 tinent, he was rapidly promoted to get him out 
 of the way of younger officers of merit ; until, 
 having been hoisted to the rank of general, he 
 was quietly laid on the shelf. Since that time 
 his campaigns have been principally confined 
 to watering places; where he drinks the waters 
 for a slight touch of the liver which he got in 
 India ; and plays whist with old dowagers, with
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. 69 
 
 whom he has flirted in his younger days. In 
 deed he talks of all the fine women of the last 
 half century, and, according to hints which he 
 now and then drops, has enjoyed the particular 
 smiles of many of them. 
 
 He has seen considerable garrison duty, and 
 can speak of almost every place famous for 
 good quarters, and where the inhabitants give 
 good dinners. He is a diner out of first-rate 
 currency, when in town; being invited to one 
 place, because he has been seen at another. In 
 the same way he is invited about the country 
 seats, and can describe half the seats in the 
 kingdom, from actual observation ; nor is any 
 one better versed in court gossip, and the pedi 
 grees and intermarriages of the nobility. 
 
 As the general is an old bachelor, and an 
 old beau, and there are several ladies at the 
 Hall, especially his quondam flame Lady Joce- 
 lyne, he is put rather upon his gallantry. He 
 commonly passes some time, therefore, at his 
 toilette, and takes the field at a late hour every 
 morning, with his hair dressed out and pow-
 
 70 AN OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 dered, and a rose in his button-hole. After he 
 has breakfasted, he walks up and down the 
 terrace in the sunshine, humming an air, and 
 hemming between every stave, carrying one 
 hand behind his back, and with the other 
 touching his cane to the ground, and then 
 raising it up to his shoulder. Should he, in 
 these morning promenades, meet any of the 
 elder ladies of the family, as he frequently does 
 Lady Lillycraft, his hat is immediately in his 
 hand, and it is enough to remind one of those 
 courtly groups of ladies and gentlemen, in 
 old prints of Windsor-terrace, or Kensington- 
 garden. 
 
 He talks frequently about " the service," 
 and is fond of humming the old song, 
 
 Why, soldiers, why, 
 
 Should we be melancholy, boys? 
 
 Why, soldiers, why, 
 
 Whose business 'tis to die ! 
 
 I cannot discover, however, that the general 
 has ever run any great risk of dying, excepting 
 from an apoplexy, or an indigestion. He cri 
 ticises all the battles on the continent, and
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. 71 
 
 discusses the merits of the commanders, but 
 never fails to bring the conversation, ultimately, 
 to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I am told 
 that the general was a perfect champion at 
 drawing-rooms, parades, and watering-places, 
 during the late war, and was looked to with 
 hope and confidence by many an old lady, 
 when labouring under the terror of Bonaparte's 
 invasion. 
 
 He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punc 
 tually on levees when in town. He has treasured 
 up many remarkable sayings of the late king, 
 particularly one which the king made to him 
 on a field-day, complimenting him on the ex 
 cellence of his horse. He extols the whole 
 royal family, but especially the present king, 
 whom he pronounces the most perfect gentle 
 man and best whist-player in Europe. The 
 general swears rather more than is the fashion 
 of the present day; but it was the mode in the 
 old school. He is, however, very strict in re 
 ligious matters, and a stanch churchman. He 
 repeats the responses very loudly in church,
 
 72 AN OLD SOLD1EH. 
 
 and is emphatical in praying for the king and 
 royal family. 
 
 At table his loyalty waxes very fervent with 
 his second bottle, and the song of " God save 
 the King" puts him into a perfect ecstacy. He 
 is amazingly well contented with the present 
 state of things, and apt to get a little impatient 
 at any talk about national ruin and agricultural 
 distress. He says he has travelled about the 
 country as much as any man, and has met with 
 nothing but prosperity ; and to confess the 
 truth, a great part of his time is spent in vi 
 siting from one country seat to another, and 
 riding about the parks of his friends. " They 
 talk of public distress," said the general this 
 day to me, at dinner, as he smacked a glass of 
 rich burgundy, and cast his eyes about the 
 ample board ; " they talk of public distress, 
 but where do we find it, sir ? I see none. -I see 
 no reason any one has to complain. Take rny 
 word for it, sir, this talk about public distress 
 is all humbug!"
 
 THE WIDOW'S KET1NUE. 
 
 Little dogs and all ! 
 
 LEAR. 
 
 IN giving an account of the arrival of Lady 
 Lillycraft at the Hall, I ought to have men 
 tioned the entertainment which I derived from 
 witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and 
 the disposing of her retinue. There is some 
 thing extremely amusing to me in the number 
 of factitious wants, the loads of imaginary con 
 veniences, but real incumbrances, with which 
 the luxurious are apt to burthen themselves. 
 I like to watch the whimsical stir and display 
 about one of these petty progresses. The 
 number of robustious footmen and retainers of 
 all kinds bustling about, with looks of infinite 
 gravity and importance, to do almost nothing.
 
 74 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 
 
 The number of heavy trunks, and parcels, and 
 bandboxes belonging to my lady; and the 
 solicitude exhibited about some humble, odd- 
 looking box, by my lady's maid ; the cushions 
 piled in the carriage to make a soft seat still 
 softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility 
 of a jolt; the smelling-bottles, the cordials, 
 the baskets of biscuit and fruit ; the new pub 
 lications ; all provided to guard against hunger, 
 fatigue, or ennui ; the led horses to vary the 
 mode of travelling; and all this preparation 
 and parade to move, perhaps, some very good- 
 for-nothing personage about a little space of 
 earth ! 
 
 I do not mean to apply the latter part of 
 these observations to Lady Lillycraft, for whose 
 simple kindheartedness I have a very great 
 respect, and who is really a most amiable and 
 worthy being. I cannot refrain, however, from 
 mentioning some of the motley retinue she has 
 brought with her ; and which, indeed, bespeak 
 the overflowing kindness of her nature, which 
 requires her to be surrounded with objects on 
 which to lavish it.
 
 THE WIDOWS RETINUE. J5 
 
 In the first place, her ladyship has a pam 
 pered coachman, with a red face, and cheeks 
 that hang down like dew-laps. He evidently 
 domineers over her a little with respect to the 
 fat horses ; and only drives out when he thinks 
 proper, and when he thinks it will be " good 
 for the cattle." ; 
 
 She has a favourite page to attend upon her 
 person : a handsome boy of about twelve years 
 of age, but a mischievous varlet, very much 
 spoiled, and in a fair way to be good for nothing. 
 He is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold 
 cord and gilt buttons about his clothes. She 
 always has one or two attendants of the kind, 
 who are replaced by others as soon as they 
 grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought 
 two dogs with her also, out of a number of pets 
 which she maintains at home. One is a fat 
 spaniel, called Zephyr though heaven defend 
 me from such a zephyr ! He is fed out of all 
 shape and comfort ; his eyes are nearly strained 
 out of his head ; he wheezes with corpulency, 
 and cannot walk without great difficulty. The
 
 76 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 
 
 other is a little, old, gray-muzzled curmudgeon, 
 with an unhappy eye, that kindles like a coal 
 if you only look at him ; his nose turns up ; 
 his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show 
 his teeth ; in short, he has altogether the look 
 of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally 
 sick of the world. When he walks, he has his 
 tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his 
 feet from the ground ; and he seldom makes 
 use of more than three legs at a time, keeping 
 the other drawn up as a reserve. This last 
 wretch is called Beauty. 
 
 These dogs are full of elegant ailments un 
 known to vulgar dogs ; and are petted and 
 nursed by Lady Lillycraft with the tenderest 
 kindness. They are pampered and fed with 
 delicacies by their fellow-minion, the page ; but 
 their stomachs are often weak and out of order, 
 so that they cannot eat; though I have now 
 and then seen the page give them a mischievous 
 pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mis 
 tress was not by. They have cushions for their 
 express use, on which they lie before the fire,
 
 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 77 
 
 and yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is 
 the least draught of air. When any one enters 
 the room, they make a most tyrannical barking 
 that is absolutely deafening. They are insolent 
 to all the other dogs of the establishment. 
 There is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite 
 of the squire's, who is a privileged visitor to 
 the parlour ; but the moment he makes his ap 
 pearance, these intruders fly at him with furious 
 rage ; and I have admired the sovereign in 
 difference and contempt with which he seems 
 to look down upon his puny assailants. When 
 her ladyship drives out, these dogs are generally 
 carried with her to take the air; when they 
 look out of each window of the carriage, and 
 bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs. These 
 dogs are a continual source of misery to the 
 household : as they are always in the way, they 
 every now and then get their toes trod on, and 
 then there is a yelping on their part, and a 
 loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, 
 that fills the room with clamour and confusion. 
 Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting-gentle-
 
 78 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 
 
 woman, Mrs. Hannah, a prim> pragmatical 
 old maid; one of the most intolerable and 
 intolerant virgins that ever lived. She has 
 kept her virtue by her until it has turned sour, 
 and now every word and look smacks of ver 
 juice. She is the very opposite to her mistress, 
 for one hates, and the other loves, all mankind. 
 How they first came together I cannot imagine ; 
 but they have lived together for many years ; and 
 the abigail's temper being tart and encroach 
 ing, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the 
 former has got the complete upper hand, and 
 tyrannises over the good lady in secret. 
 
 Lady Lilly craft now and then complains of it, 
 in great confidence, to her friends, but hushes 
 up the subject immediately, if Mrs. Hannah 
 makes her appearance. Indeed, she has been 
 so accustomed to be attended by her, that she 
 thinks she could not do without her ; though 
 one great study of her life is to keep Mrs. 
 Hannah in good humour, by little presents 
 and kindnesses. 
 
 Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence,
 
 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 79 
 
 mingled with awe, for this ancient spinster. 
 He told me the other day, in a whisper, that 
 she was a cursed brimstone in fact, he added 
 another epithet, which I would not repeat for 
 the world. I have remarked, however, that 
 he is always extremely civil to her when they 
 meet.
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 My purse, it is my privy wyfe, 
 This song I dare both syng and say, 
 It keepeth men from grievous stryfe 
 When every man for hymself shall pay. 
 As I ryde in ryche array 
 For gold and sylver men wyll me floryshe ; 
 By thys matter I dare well saye, 
 Ever gramercy myne owne purse. 
 
 BOOK OF HUNTING. 
 
 ON the skirts of the neighbouring village 
 there lives a kind of small potentate, who, for 
 aught I know, is a representative of one of the 
 most ancient legitimate lines of the present 
 day ; for the empire over which he reigns has 
 belonged to his family time out of mind. His 
 territories comprise a considerable number of 
 good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an 
 old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested,
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 81 
 
 the stout oaken chair of his ancestors. The 
 personage to whom I allude is a sturdy old 
 yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather 
 Ready Money Jack Tibbets, as he is called 
 throughout the neighbourhood. 
 
 The first place where he attracted my atten 
 tion was in the churchyard on Sunday; where 
 he sat on a tombstone after the service, with 
 his hat a little on one side, holding forth to a 
 small circle of auditors ; and, as I presumed, 
 expounding the law and the prophets ; until, 
 on drawing a little nearer, I found he was 
 only expatiating on the merits of a brown 
 horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a 
 substantial English yeoman, such as he is often 
 described in books, heightened,indeed, by some 
 little finery, peculiar to himself, that I could 
 not but take note of his whole appearance. 
 
 He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong, 
 muscular frame, and at least six feet high, 
 with a physiognomy as grave as a lion's, and 
 set off with short, curling, iron-gray locks. 
 His shirt-collar was turned down, and dis- 
 VOL. i.
 
 82 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 played a neck covered with the same short, 
 curling, gray hair; and he wore a coloured 
 silk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in 
 at the bosom, with a green paste brooch on 
 the knot. His coat was of dark green cloth, 
 with silver buttons, on each of which was en 
 graved a stag, with his own name, John Tibbets, 
 underneath. He had an inner waistcoat of 
 figured chintz, between which and his coat 
 was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His 
 breeches were also left unbuttoned at the 
 knees, not from any slovenliness, but to show 
 a broad pair of scarlet garters. His stockings 
 were blue, with white clocks ; he wore large 
 silver shoe-buckles ; a broad paste buckle in 
 his hatband; his sleeve-buttons were gold 
 seven shilling pieces ; and he had two or three 
 guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch- 
 chain. 
 
 On making some inquiries about him, I 
 gathered, that he was descended from a line 
 of farmers that had always lived on the same 
 spot, and owned the same property; and that
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 83 
 
 half of the churchyard was taken up with the 
 tombstones of his race. He has all his life 
 been an important character in the place. 
 WJien a youngster, he was one of the most 
 roaring blades of the neighbourhood. No one 
 could match him at wrestling, pitching the 
 bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. 
 Like the renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he 
 was the village champion ; carried off the prize 
 at all the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at the 
 country round. Even to this day the old people 
 talk of his prowess, and undervalue, in com 
 parison, all heroes of the green that have suc 
 ceeded him; nay, they say, that if ready money 
 Jack were to take the field even now, there is 
 no one could stand before him. 
 
 When Jack's father died, the neighbours 
 shook their heads, and predicted that young 
 hopeful would soon make way with the old 
 homestead ; but Jack falsified all their pre 
 dictions. The moment he succeeded to the 
 paternal farm he assumed a new character : 
 took a wife ; attended resolutely to his affairs, 
 
 G C 2
 
 84 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 and became an industrious, thrifty farmer. 
 With the family property he inherited a set 
 of old family maxims, to which he steadily 
 adhered. He saw to every thing himself; put 
 his own hand to the plough; worked hard; 
 ate heartily; slept soundly; paid for every 
 thing in cash down ; and never danced except 
 he could do it to the music of his own money 
 in both pockets. He has never been with 
 out a hundred or two pounds in gold by him, 
 and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. 
 ; This has gained him his current name,'] of 
 which, by the by, he is a little proud ; and 
 has caused him to be looked upon as a very 
 wealthy man by all the village. 
 
 Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he 
 has never denied himself the amusements of 
 life, but has taken a share in every passing 
 pleasure. It is his maxim, that " he that 
 works hard can afford to play." He is, there 
 fore, an attendant at all the country fairs and 
 wakes, and has signalized himself by feats of 
 strength and prowess on every village green
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 85 
 
 in the shire. He often makes his appearance 
 at horse races, and sports his half guinea, and 
 even his guinea at a time ; keeps a good horse 
 for his own riding, and to this day is fond of 
 following the hounds, and is generally in at the 
 death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and 
 hospitalities too, for which his paternal farm 
 house has always been noted ; has plenty of 
 good cheer and dancing at harvest-home, and, 
 above all, keeps the " merry night*," as it is 
 termed, at Christmas. 
 
 With all his love of amusement, however, Jack 
 is by no means a boisterous jovial companion. 
 He is seldom known to laugh even in the midst 
 of his gaiety; but maintains the same grave, 
 lion-like demeanour. He is very slow at com 
 prehending a joke ; and is apt to sit puzzling 
 at it, with a perplexed look, while the rest of 
 
 * MERRY NIGHT. A rustic merry-making in a farm-house 
 about Christmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. There 
 is abundance of homely fare, tea, cakes, fruit, and ale ; various 
 feats of agility, amusing games, romping, dancing, and kissing 
 withal. They commonly break up at midnight.
 
 86 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 the company is in a roar. This gravity has, 
 perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight 
 of his character ; for he is gradually rising 
 into patriarchal dignity in his native place. 
 Though he no longer takes an active part in 
 athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, 
 and is appealed to on all occasions as umpire. 
 He maintains the peace on the village-green at 
 holyday games, and quells all brawls and quar 
 rels by collaring the parties and shaking them 
 heartily, if refractory. No one ever pretends 
 to raise a hand against him, or to contend 
 against his decisions ; the young men having 
 grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and 
 in implicit deference to him as the champion 
 and lord of the green. 
 
 He is a regular frequenter of the village 
 inn, the landlady having been a sweetheart of 
 his in early life, and he having always continued 
 on kind terms with her. He seldom, however, 
 drinks any thing but a draught of ale ; smokes 
 his pipe, and pays his reckoning before leaving 
 the tap-room. Here he " gives his little senate
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 87 
 
 laws;" decides bets, which are very generally re 
 ferred to him ; determines upon the characters 
 and qualities of horses ; and indeed plays now 
 and then the part of a judge, in settling petty 
 disputes between neighbours, which otherwise 
 might have been nursed by country attornies 
 into tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid 
 and impartial in his decisions, but he has not a 
 head to carry a long argument, and is very apt 
 to get perplexed and out of patience if there is 
 much pleading. He generally breaks through 
 the argument with a strong voice, and brings 
 matters to a summary conclusion, by pro 
 nouncing what he calls the " upshot of the 
 business," or, in other words, " the long and 
 the short of the matter." 
 
 Jack once made a journey to London a great 
 many years since, which has furnished him with 
 topics of conversation ever since. He saw the 
 old king on the terrace at Windsor, who stop 
 ped, and pointed him out to one of the prin 
 cesses, being probably struck with Jack's truly 
 yeoman-like appearance. This is a favourite
 
 88 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 anecdote with him, and has no doubt had a 
 great effect in making him a most loyal subject 
 ever since, in spite of taxes and poors' rates. 
 He was also at Bartholomew-fair, where he had 
 half the buttons cut off his coat ; and a gang of 
 pickpockets, attracted by his external show of 
 gold and silver, made a regular attempt to 
 hustle him as he was gazing at a show ; but for 
 once they found that they had caught a tartar ; 
 for Jack enacted as great wonders among the 
 gang as Samson did among the Philistines. 
 One of his neighbours, who had accompanied 
 him to town, and was with him at the fair, 
 brought back an account of his exploits, which 
 raised the pride of the whole village ; who con 
 sidered their champion as having subdued all 
 London, and eclipsed the achievements of 
 Friar Tuck, or even the renowned Robin Hood 
 himself. 
 
 Of late years the old fellow has begun to 
 take the world easily ; he works less, and in 
 dulges in greater leisure, his son having grown 
 up, and succeeded to him both in the labours
 
 READY MONEY JACK. 89 
 
 of the farm, and the exploits of the green. Like 
 all sons of distinguished men, however, his 
 father's renown is a disadvantage to him, for 
 he can never come up to public expectation. 
 Though a fine active fellow of three and 
 twenty, and quite the " cock of the walk," yet 
 the old people declare he is nothing like what 
 Ready-money Jack was at his time of life. The 
 youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, 
 and has a wonderful opinion of the old man, 
 who indeed taught him all his athletic accom 
 plishments, and holds such a sway over him, 
 that I am told, even to this day, he would have 
 no hesitation to take him in hands, if he re 
 belled against paternal government. 
 
 The squire holds Jack in very high esteem, 
 and shows him to all his visitors as a specimen 
 of old English " heart of oak." He frequently 
 calls at his house, and tastes some of his home 
 brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a 
 present of old Tusser's " Hundred Points of 
 good Husbandrie," which has furnished him 
 with reading ever since, and is his text book 

 
 90 READY MONEY JACK. 
 
 and manual in all agricultural and domestic 
 concerns. He has made dog's ears at the most 
 favourite passages, and knows many of the 
 poetical maxims by heart. 
 
 Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or 
 fluttered by high acquaintances ; and, though 
 he cherishes a sturdy independence of mind 
 and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the 
 attentions of the squire, whom he has known 
 from boyhood, and pronounces " a true gentle 
 man every inch of him." He is also on excel 
 lent terms with Master Simon, who is a kind 
 of privy counsellor to the family ; but his great 
 favourite is the Oxonian, whom he taught to 
 wrestle and play at quarter-staff when a boy, 
 and considers the most promising young gen 
 tleman in the whole county.
 
 BACHELORS. 
 
 The Bachelor most joyfully 
 
 In pleasant plight doth pass his daies, 
 Goodfellowship and companie 
 
 He doth maintain and kepe alwaie*. 
 
 EVAN'S OLD BALLADS. 
 
 THERE is no character in the comedy of 
 human life that is more difficult to play well, 
 than that of an old Bachelor. When a single 
 gentleman, therefore, arrives at that critical 
 period, when he begins to consider it an im 
 pertinent question to be asked his age, I would 
 advise him to look well to his ways. This 
 period, it is true, is much later with some men 
 than with others ; I have witnessed more than 
 once the meeting of two wrinkled old lads of 
 this kind, who had not seen each other for 
 several years, and have been amused by the 
 amicable exchange of compliments on each
 
 92 BACHELORS. 
 
 others' appearance that takes place on such 
 occasions. There is always one invariable ob 
 servation ; " Why, bless my soul ! you look 
 younger than when last I saw you ! " When 
 ever a man's friends begin to compliment him 
 about looking young, he may be sure that they 
 think he is growing old. 
 
 I am led to make these remarks by the con 
 duct of Master Simon and the general, who 
 have become great cronies. As the former is 
 the youngest by many years, he is regarded as 
 quite a youthful blade by the general, who 
 moreover looks upon him as a man of great 
 wit and prodigious acquirements. I have al 
 ready hinted that master Simon is a family 
 . beau, and considered rather a young fellow by 
 all the elderly ladies of the connexion ; for an 
 old bachelor, in an old family connexion, is 
 something like an actor in a regular dramatic 
 corps, who seems " to flourish in immortal 
 youth," and will continue to play the Romeos 
 and Rangers for half a century together. 
 Master Simon, too, is a little of the camelion,
 
 BACHELORS. 93 
 
 and takes a different hue with every different 
 companion : he is very attentive and officious, 
 and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lilly- 
 craft; copies out little namby-pamby ditties 
 and love-songs for her, and draws quivers, and 
 doves, and darts, and Cupids to be worked on 
 the corners of her pocket handkerchiefs. He 
 indulges, however, in very considerable latitude 
 with the other married ladies of the family ; 
 and has many sly pleasantries to whisper to 
 them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and a 
 tap of the fan. But when he gets among young 
 company, such as Frank Bracebridge, the 
 Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to put on 
 the mad wag, and to talk in a very bachelor- 
 like strain about the sex. 
 
 In this he has been encouraged by the ex 
 ample of the general, whom he looks up to as 
 a man that has seen, the world. The general, 
 in fact, tells shocking stories after dinner, when 
 the ladies have retired, which he gives as some 
 of the choice things that are served up at the 
 Mulligatawneyclub : a knot of boon companions
 
 94 BACHELORS. 
 
 in London. He also repeats the fat jokes of 
 old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and 
 which, though the general can hardly repeat 
 them for laughing, always make Mr. Brace- 
 bridge look grave, he having a great antipathy 
 to an indecent jest. In a word, the general is 
 a complete instance of the declension in gay 
 life, by which a young man of pleasure is apt 
 to cool down into an obscene old gentleman. 
 
 I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or 
 two since, conversing with a buxom milkmaid 
 in a meadow ; and from their elbowing each 
 other now and then, and the general's shaking 
 his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks, and 
 breaking out into a short fit of irrepressible 
 laughter, I had no doubt they were playing 
 the mischief with the girl. 
 
 As I looked at them through a hedge, I 
 could not but think they would have made a 
 tolerable group for a modern picture of Su 
 sannah and the two elders. It is true, the girl 
 seemed in no wise alarmed at the force of the 
 enemy; and I question, had either of them
 
 BACHELORS. 95 
 
 been alone, whether she would not have been 
 more than they would have ventured to en 
 counter. Such veteran roysters are daring 
 wags when together, and will put any female 
 to the blush with their jokes ; but they are as 
 quiet as lambs when they fall singly into the 
 clutches of a fine woman. 
 
 (In spite of the general's years, he evidently 
 is a little vain of his person, and ambitious of 
 conquests. I have observed him on Sunday 
 in church, eying the country girls most sus 
 piciously ; and have seen him leer upon them 
 with a downright amorous look, even when 
 he has been gallanting Lady Lillycraft, with 
 great ceremony, through the churchyard. The 
 general, in fact, is a veteran in the service of 
 Cupid rather than of Mars, having signalised 
 himself in all the garrison towns and country 
 quarters, and seen service in every ball-room 
 of England. Not a celebrated beauty but he 
 has laid siege to; and, if his word may be 
 taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be 
 over veracious, it is incredible the success he
 
 96 BACHELORS. 
 
 has had with the fair. At present he is like a 
 worn-out warrior, retired from service ; but 
 who still cocks his beaver with a military air, 
 and talks stoutly of fighting whenever he comes 
 within the smell of gunpowder. 
 
 I have heard him speak his mind very freely 
 over his bottle, about the folly of the captain 
 in taking a wife ; as he thinks a young soldier 
 should care for nothing but his " bottle and 
 kind landlady." But, in fact, he says, the service 
 on the continent has had a sad effect upon the 
 young men; they have been ruined by light 
 wines and French quadrilles. " They've no 
 thing," he says, " of the spirit of the old service. 
 There are none of your six-bottle men left, that 
 were the souls of a mess-dinner, and used to 
 play the very deuce among the women." 
 
 As to a bachelor, the general affirms, that he 
 is a free and easy man, with no baggage to take 
 care of but his portmanteau ; but a married 
 man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always 
 puts him in mind of a chamber candlestick, 
 with its extinguisher hitched to it. I should
 
 BACHELORS. 97 
 
 not mind all this if it were merely confined to 
 the general ; but I fear he will be the ruin of 
 my friend, Master Simon, who already begins 
 to echo his heresies, and to talk in the style of 
 a gentleman that has seen life, and lived upon 
 the town. Indeed, the general seems to have 
 taken Master Simon in hand, and talks of 
 showing him the lions when he comes to town, 
 and of introducing him to a knot of choice 
 spirits at the Mulligatawney club ; which, I 
 understand, is composed of old nabobs, officers 
 in the company's employ, and other " men of 
 Ind," that have seen service in the East, and 
 returned home burnt out with curry, and 
 touched with the liver complaint. They have 
 their regular club, where they eat Mulliga 
 tawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk about 
 Tippoo Saib, Seringapatam, and tiger-hunting; 
 and are tediously agreeable in each other's 
 company. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 WIVES. 
 
 Believe me, man, there is no greater blisse 
 Than is the quiet joy of loving wife ; 
 Which whoso wants, half of himselfe doth misse ; 
 Friend without change, play-fellow without strife, 
 Food without fulnesse, counsaile without pride, 
 Is this sweet doubling of our single life. 
 
 SIR P. SIDNEY. 
 
 THERE is so much talk about matrimony 
 going on round me, in consequence of the 
 approaching event for which we are assembled 
 at the Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts 
 singularly exercised on the subject. Indeed, 
 all the bachelors of the establishment seem to 
 be passing through a kind of fiery ordeal ; for 
 Lady Lilly craft is one of those tender, romance- 
 read dames of the old school, whose mind is 
 filled with flames and darts, and who breathe 
 nothing but constancy and wedlock. She is 
 for ever immersed in the concerns of the heart;
 
 WIVES. 99 
 
 and, to use a poetical phrase, is perfectly sur 
 rounded by " the purple light of love." The 
 very general seems to feel the influence of 
 this sentimental atmosphere ; to melt as he 
 approaches her ladyship, and, for the time, to 
 forget all his heresies about matrimony and 
 the sex. 
 
 The good lady is generally surrounded by 
 little documents of her prevalent taste ; novels 
 of a tender nature ; richly bound little books 
 of poetry, that are filled with sonnets and love 
 tales, and perfumed with rose-leaves ; and she 
 has always an album at hand, for which she 
 claims the contributions of all her friends. 
 On looking over this last repository the other 
 day, I found a series of poetical extracts, in 
 the squire's handwriting, which might have 
 been intended as matrimonial hints to his 
 ward. I was so much struck with several of 
 them, that I took the liberty of copying them 
 out. They are from the old play of Thomas 
 Davenport, published in 1661, intitled " The 
 City Night-cap;" in which is drawn out and 
 
 H 2
 
 100 WIVES. 
 
 y 
 
 exemplified, in the part of Abstemia, the cha 
 racter of a patient and faithful wife, which, I 
 think, might vie with that of the renowned 
 Griselda. 
 
 I have often thought it a pity that plays 
 and novels should always end at the wedding, 
 and should not give us another act, and another 
 volume, to let us know how the hero and heroine 
 conducted themselves when married. Their 
 main object seems to be merely to instruct 
 young ladies how to get husbands, but not how 
 to keep them : now this last, I speak it with 
 all due diffidence, appears to me to be a de- 
 ilideratum in modern married life. It is ap 
 palling to those who have not yet adventured 
 into the holy state, to see how soon the flame 
 of romantic love burns out, or rather is 
 quenched in matrimony ; and how deplorably 
 the passionate, poetic lover declines into the 
 phlegmatic, prosaic husband. I am inclined 
 to attribute this very much to the defect just 
 mentioned in the plays and novels, which form 
 so important a branch of study of our young
 
 WIVES. 101 
 
 ladies ; and which teach them how to be 
 heroines, but leave them totally at a loss when 
 they come to be wives. The play from which 
 the quotations before me were made, however, 
 is an exception to this remark ; and I cannot 
 refuse myself the pleasure of adducing some 
 of them for the benefit of the reader, and for 
 the honour of an old writer, who has bravely 
 attempted to awaken dramatic interest in fa 
 vour of a woman, even after she was married ! 
 
 The following is a commendation of Abstemia 
 to her husband Lorenzo : 
 
 She's modest, but not sullen, and loves silence ; 
 
 Not that she wants apt words (for when she speaks, 
 
 She inflames love with wonder), but because 
 
 She calls wise silence the soul's harmony. 
 
 She 's truly chaste ; yet such a foe to coyness, 
 
 The poorest call her courteous ; and, which is excellent, 
 
 (Though fair and young) she shuns to expose herself 
 
 To the opinion of strange eyes. She either seldom 
 
 Or never walks abroad but in your company; 
 
 And then with such sweet bashfulness, as if 
 
 She were venturing on crack'd ice, and takes delight 
 
 To step into the print your foot hath made, 
 
 And will follow you whole fields ; so she will drive 
 
 Tediousness out of time with her sweet character.
 
 WIVES- 
 
 Notwithstanding all this excellence, Ab- 
 stemia has the misfortune to incur the un 
 merited jealousy of her husband. Instead, 
 however, of resenting his harsh treatment with 
 clamorous upbraidings, and with the stormy 
 violence of high, windy virtue, by which the 
 sparks of anger are so often blown into a 
 flame ; she endures it with the meekness of 
 conscious, but patient, virtue ; and makes the 
 following beautiful appeal to a friend who has 
 witnessed her long suffering : 
 
 Hast thou not seen me 
 Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers 
 The angry bark to plough thorough her bosom, 
 And yet is presently so smooth, the eye 
 Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made ? 
 
 Lorenzo, being wrought on by false repre 
 sentations, at length repudiates her. To the 
 last, however, she maintains her patient sweet 
 ness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty. 
 She deplores his error, even more than his 
 unkindness ; and laments the delusion which 
 has turned his very affection into a source of
 
 WIVES. 103 
 
 bitterness. There is a moving pathos in her 
 parting address to Lorenzo after their divorce : 
 
 Farewell, Lorenzo, 
 
 Whom my soul doth love : if you e'er marry, 
 May you meet a good wife ; so good, that you 
 May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy 
 Of your suspicion : and if you hear hereafter 
 That I am dead, inquire but my last words, 
 And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you. 
 And when you walk forth with your second choice, 
 Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me, 
 Imagine that you see me, lean and pale, 
 
 Strewing your path with flowers. 
 
 But may she never live to pay my debts : (weeps) 
 
 If but in thought she wrong you, may she die 
 
 In the conception of the injury. 
 
 Pray make me wealthy with one kiss: farewell, sir: 
 
 Let it not grieve you when you shall remember 
 
 That I was innocent : nor this forget, 
 
 Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan, 
 
 She walks but thorow thorns to find a throne. 
 
 In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, 
 and the innocence of his injured wife. In the 
 transports of his repentance, he calls to mind 
 all her feminine excellence ; her gentle, un 
 complaining, womanly fortitude under wrongs 
 and sorrows :
 
 104 WIVES. 
 
 Oh, Abstemia ! 
 
 How lovely thou lookest now ! now thou appearest 
 Chaster than is the morning's modesty, 
 That rises with a blush, over whose bosom 
 The western wind creeps softly ; now I remember 
 How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye 
 Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well, 
 Unless it look'd where I look'd : oh how proud 
 She was, when she could cross herself to please me ! 
 But where now is this fair soul ? Like a silver cloud 
 She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea, 
 And will be found no more. 
 
 It is but doing light by the reader, if in 
 terested in the fate of Abstemia by the pre 
 ceding extracts, to say, that she was restored 
 to the arms and affections of her husband, ren 
 dered fonder than ever, by that disposition in 
 every good heart, to atone for past unjustice, 
 by an overflowing measure of returning kind 
 ness : 
 
 Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms ; I am now 
 
 Confirmed past all suspicion ; thou art far 
 
 Sweeter in thy sincere truth than a sacrifice 
 
 Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds 
 
 That blow from off the coast, and cheer the sailor 
 
 With the sweet savour of their spices, want 
 
 The delight flows in thee.
 
 WIVES. 105 
 
 I have been more affected and interested by 
 this little dramatic picture than by many a 
 popular love tale ; though, as I said before, I 
 do not think it likely either Abstemia or 
 patient Grizzle stand much chance of being 
 taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry 
 now and then extending its views beyond the 
 wedding-day, and teaching a lady how to 
 make herself attractive even after marriage. 
 There is no great need of enforcing on an un 
 married lady the necessity of being agreeable ; 
 nor is there any great art requisite in a youth 
 ful beauty to enable her to please. Nature 
 has multiplied attractions round her. Youth 
 is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding 
 beauty needs no foreign aid to set it off; it 
 pleases merely because it is fresh, and budding, 
 and beautiful. But it is for the married state 
 that a woman needs the most instruction, and 
 in which she should be most on her guard to 
 maintain her powers of pleasing. No woman 
 can expect to be to her husband all that he 
 fancied her when he was a lover. Men are
 
 10() WIVES. 
 
 always doomed to be duped, not so much by the 
 arts of the sex, as by their own imaginations. 
 They are always wooing goddesses, and marry 
 ing mere mortals. A woman should therefore 
 ascertain what was the charm that rendered 
 her so fascinating when a girl, and endeavour 
 to keep it up when she has become a wife. 
 One great thing undoubtedly was, the chari 
 ness of herself and her conduct, which an un 
 married female always observes. She should 
 maintain the same niceness and reserve in her 
 person and habits, and endeavour still to pre 
 serve a freshness and virgin delicacy in the 
 eye of her husband. She should remember 
 that the province of woman is to be wooed, 
 not to woo; to be caressed, not to caress. 
 Man is an ungrateful being in love ; bounty 
 loses instead of winning him. The secret of 
 a woman's power does not consist so much in 
 giving, as in withholding. A woman may give 
 up too much even to her husband. It is to a 
 thousand little delicacies of conduct that she 
 must trust to keep alive passion, and to protect
 
 WIVES. 107 
 
 herself from that dangerous familiarity, that 
 thorough acquaintance with every weakness 
 and imperfection incident to matrimony. By 
 these means she may still maintain her power, 
 though she has surrendered her person, and 
 may continue the romance of love even beyond 
 the honey-moon. 
 
 " She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy 
 Taylor, " must entice him to an eternal dear- 
 nesse by the veil of modesty, and the grave 
 robes of chastity, the ornament of meeknesse, 
 and the jewels of faith and charity. She must 
 have no painting but blushings ; her bright- 
 ness'must be purity, and she must shine round 
 about with sweetnesses and friendship; and 
 she shall be pleasant while she lives, and de 
 sired when she dies." 
 
 I have wandered into a rambling series of 
 remarks on a trite subject, and a dangerous 
 one for a bachelor to meddle with. That I 
 may not, however, appear to confine my ob 
 servations entirely to the wife, I will conclude 
 with another quotation from Jeremy Taylor,
 
 108 WIVES. 
 
 in which the duties of both parties are men 
 tioned ; while I would recommend his sermon 
 on the marriage ring to all those who, wiser 
 than myself, are about entering the happy 
 state of wedlock. 
 
 " There is scarce any matter of duty but it 
 concerns them both alike, and is only distin 
 guished by names, and hath its variety by cir 
 cumstances and little accidents : and what in 
 one is called love, in the other is called re 
 verence ; and what in the wife is obedience, 
 the same in the man is duty. He provides, and 
 she dispenses ; he gives commandments, and 
 she rules by them ; he rules her by authority, 
 and she rules him by love ; she ought by all 
 means to please him, and he must by no means 
 displease her."
 
 STOKY TELLING. 
 
 A FAVOURITE evening pastime at the Hall, 
 and one which the worthy squire is fond of pro 
 moting-, is story telling, " a good old-fashioned 
 fire-side amusement," as he terms it. Indeed, I 
 believe he promotes it chiefly, because it was 
 one of the choice recreations in those days of 
 yore, when ladies and gentlemen were not much 
 in the habit of reading. Be this as it may, he 
 will often, at supper table, when conversation 
 flags, call on some one or other of the com 
 pany for a story, as it was formerly the custom 
 to call for a song ; and it is edifying to see the 
 exemplary patience, and even satisfaction, with 
 which the good old gentleman will sit and 
 listen to some hackneyed tale that he has 
 heard for at least a hundred times. 
 
 In this way one evening the current of anec-
 
 110 STORY TELLING. 
 
 dotes and stories ran upon mysterious person 
 ages that have figured at different times, and 
 filled the world with doubt and conjecture; 
 such as the Wandering Jew, the Man with the 
 Iron Mask, who tormented the curiosity of all 
 Europe; the Invisible Girl, and last, though 
 not least, the Pigfaced Lady. 
 
 At length one of the company was called 
 upon that had the most unpromising physiog 
 nomy for a story teller that ever I had seen. 
 He was a thin, pale, weazen-faced man, ex 
 tremely nervous, that had sat at one corner of 
 the table, shrunk up, as it were, into himself, 
 and almost swallowed up in the cape of his 
 coat, as a turtle in its shell. 
 
 The very demand seemed to throw him into 
 a nervous agitation, yet he did not refuse. He 
 emerged his head out of his shell, made a few 
 odd grimaces and gesticulations, before he 
 could get his muscles into order, or his voice 
 under command, and then offered to give some 
 account of a mysterious personage that he had 
 
 recently encountered in the course of his 
 

 
 STORY TELLING. Ill 
 
 travels, and one whom he thought fully enti 
 tled of being classed with the Man with the 
 Iron Mask. 
 
 I was so much struck with his extraordinary 
 narrative, that I have written it out to the best 
 of my recollection, for the amusement of the 
 reader. I think it has in it all the elements 
 of that mysterious and romantic narrative, so 
 greedily sought after at the present day.
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN 
 
 A STAGE COACH ROMANCE. 
 
 I'll cross it, though it blast me !" 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 IT was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month 
 of November. I had been detained, in the 
 course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, 
 from which I was recovering ; but I was still 
 feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors 
 all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. 
 A wet Sunday in a country inn ! whoever has 
 had the luck to experience one can alone judge 
 of my situation. The rain pattered against 
 the casements ; the bells tolled for church with 
 a melancholy sound. I went to the windows 
 in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but 
 it seemed as if I had been placed completely 
 1
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 1 I X 
 
 out of the reach of all amusement. The win 
 dows of my bed-room looked out among tiled 
 roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of 
 my sitting-room commanded a full view of the 
 stable-yard. I know of nothing more calcu 
 lated to make a man sick of this world than a 
 stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was lit 
 tered with wet straw that had been kicked about 
 by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner 
 was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding 
 an island of muck ; there were several half- 
 drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, 
 among which was a miserable, crest-fallen 
 cock, drenched out of all life and spirit ; his 
 drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single 
 feather, along which the water trickled from 
 his back ; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, 
 chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be 
 rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from 
 her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse, tired of 
 the loneliness of the stable, was poking his 
 spectral head out of a window, with the rain 
 dripping on it from the eaves ; an unhappy 
 VOL. i. i
 
 114- THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 cur, chained to a doghouse hard by, uttered 
 something every now and then, between a bark 
 and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped 
 backwards and forwards through the yard in 
 pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; 
 every thing, in short, was comfortless and for 
 lorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, 
 assembled like boon companions round a 
 puddle, and making a riotous noise over their 
 liquor. 
 
 I was lonely and listless, and wanted amuse 
 ment. My room soon became insupportable. 
 I abandoned it, and sought what is technically 
 called the travellers'-room. This is a public 
 room set apart at most inns for the accommo 
 dation of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, 
 or riders ; a kind of commercial knights er 
 rant, who are incessantly scouring the king 
 dom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They 
 are the only successors that I know of at the 
 present day, to the knights errant of yore. 
 They lead the same kind of roving adventurous 
 life, only changing the lance for a driving-
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 115 
 
 whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the 
 coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead 
 of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, 
 they rove about, spreading the fame and stand 
 ing of some substantial tradesman, or manu 
 facturer, and are ready at any time to bargain 
 in his name ; it being the fashion now-a-days 
 to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As 
 the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting 
 times, would be hung round at night with the 
 armour of way-worn warriors, such as coats 
 of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets ; so the 
 travellers'-room is garnished with the harness 
 ing of their successors, with box coats, whips 
 of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth co 
 vered hats. 
 
 I was in hopes of finding some of these 
 worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. 
 There were, indeed, two or three in the room ; 
 but I could make nothing of them. One was 
 just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with 
 his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter ; 
 another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with 
 
 i 2
 
 116 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 many execrations at Boots for not having 
 cleaned his shoes well ; a third sat drumming 
 on the table with his fingers and looking at the 
 rain as it streamed down the window-glass ; 
 they all appeared infected by the weather, and 
 disappeared, one after the other, without ex 
 changing a word. 
 
 I sauntered to the window and stood gazing 
 at the people, picking their way to church, 
 with petticoats hoisted midleg high, and drip 
 ping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and 
 the streets became silent. I then amused my 
 self with watching the daughters of a trades 
 man opposite ; who, being confined to the house 
 for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played 
 off their charms at the front windows, to fasci 
 nate the chance tenants of the inn. They at 
 length were summoned away by a vigilant 
 vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing fur 
 ther from without to amuse me. 
 
 What was I to do to pass away the long- 
 lived day ? I was sadly nervous and lonely ; 
 and every thing about an inn seems calculated
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 117 
 
 to make a dull day ten times duller. Old 
 newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco 
 smoke, and which I had already read half a 
 dozen times. Good for nothing books, that were 
 worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to 
 death with an old volume of the Lady's Maga 
 zine. I read all the common-place names of 
 ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of 
 glass; the eternal families of the Smiths and 
 the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the John 
 sons, and all the other sons ; and I decyphered 
 several scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry 
 which I have met with in all parts of the 
 world. 
 
 The day continued lowering and gloomy ; 
 the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted 
 heavily along; there was no variety even in 
 the rain; it was one dull, continued, mono 
 tonous patter patter patter, excepting that 
 now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a 
 brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops 
 upon a passing umbrella. 
 
 It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed
 
 118 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the 
 course of the morning, a horn blew, and a 
 stage coach whirled through the street, with 
 outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering 
 under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, 
 and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats 
 and upper Benjamins. 
 
 The sound brought out from their lurking- 
 places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond 
 dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that 
 non-descript animal ycleped Boots, and all the 
 other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of 
 an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach 
 again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, 
 and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to 
 their holes ; the street again became silent, and 
 the rain continued to rain on. In fact, there 
 was no hope of its clearing up ; the barometer 
 pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess's tor 
 toise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, 
 and rubbing her paws over her ears ; and, on 
 referring to the Almanack, I found a direful 
 prediction stretching from the top of the page
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 119 
 
 to the bottom through the whole month, " ex 
 pect much rain about this time!" 
 
 I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed 
 as if they would never creep by. The very 
 ticking of the clock became irksome. At 
 length the stillness of the house was inter 
 rupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after 
 I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar : " The 
 stout gentleman in No. 13, wants his break 
 fast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham 
 and eggs ; the eggs not to be too much done." 
 
 In such a situation as mine every incident is 
 of importance. Here was a subject of specu 
 lation presented to my mind, and ample exer 
 cise for my imagination. I am prone to paint 
 pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had 
 some materials to work upon. Had the guest 
 up stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. 
 Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or 
 merely as " the gentleman in No. 13," it would 
 have been a perfect blank to me. I should have 
 thought nothing of it; but " The Stout Gentle 
 man !" the very name had something in it of
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the picturesque. It at once gave the size ; it 
 embodied the personage to my mind's eye, and 
 my fancy did the rest. 
 
 He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty ; in 
 all probability, therefore, he was advanced in 
 life, some people expanding as they grow old. 
 By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own 
 room, he must be a man accustomed to live at 
 his ease, and above the necessity of early rising; 
 no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman. 
 
 There was another violent ringing. The 
 stout gentleman was impatient for his break 
 fast. He was evidently a man of importance ; 
 " well to do in the world ;" accustomed to be 
 promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and 
 a little cross when hungry ; " perhaps," thought 
 I, " he may be some London Alderman ; or who 
 knows but he may be a Member of Parlia 
 ment ?" 
 
 The breakfast was sent up, and there was a 
 short interval of silence ; he was, doubtless, 
 making the tea. Presently there was a violent 
 ringing; and before it could be answered.
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 121 
 
 another ringing still more violent. " Bless 
 me ! what a choleric old gentleman !" The 
 waiter came down in a huff. The butter was 
 rancid, the eggs were over-done, the ham was 
 too salt : the stout gentleman was evidently 
 nice in his eating ; one of those who eat and 
 growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and 
 live in a state militant with the household. 
 
 The hostess got into a fume. I should ob 
 serve that she was a brisk, coquettish woman; a 
 little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin, 
 but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop for 
 a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She 
 rated the servants roundly for their negligence 
 in sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not 
 a word against the stout gentleman ; by which 
 I clearly perceived that he must be a man of 
 consequence, intitled to make a noise and to 
 give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and 
 ham, and bread and butter were sent up. They 
 appeared to be more graciously received ; at 
 least there was no further complaint. 
 
 I had not made many turns about the tra-
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 vellers'-room, when there was another ringing. 
 Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an 
 inquest about the house. The stout gentle 
 man wanted the Times or the Chronicle news 
 paper. I set him down, therefore, for a whig ; 
 or rather, from his being so absolute and lordly 
 where he had a chance,! suspected him of being 
 a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large 
 man; "who knows," thought I, "but it is 
 Hunt himself?" 
 
 My curiosity began to be awakened. I in 
 quired of the waiter who was this stout gentle 
 man that was making all this stir ; but I could 
 get no information : nobody seemed to know 
 his name. The landlords of bustling inns 
 seldom trouble their heads about the names 
 or occupations of their transient guests. The 
 colour of a coat, the shape or size of the person, 
 is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is 
 either the tall gentleman, or the short gentle 
 man, or the gentleman in black, or the gentle 
 man in snuff-colour ; or, as in the present in 
 stance, the stout gentleman. A designation of
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 123 
 
 the kind once hit on answers every purpose, 
 and saves all further inquiry. 
 
 Rain rain rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! 
 No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, 
 and no occupation nor amusement within. By 
 and by I heard some one walking over head. 
 It was in the stout gentleman's room. He 
 evidently was a large man by the heaviness of 
 his tread ; and an old man from his wearing 
 such creaking soles. " He is doubtless," 
 thought I, " some rich old square-toes of 
 regular habits, and is now taking exercise 
 after breakfast." 
 
 I now read all the advertisements of coaches 
 and hotels that were stuck about the mantel 
 piece. The Lady's Magazine had become an 
 abomination to me ; it was as tedious as the 
 day itself. I wandered out, not knowing what 
 to do, and ascended again to my room. I had 
 not been there long, when there was a squall 
 from a neighbouring bed-room. A door opened 
 and slammed violently; a chambermaid, that 
 I had remarked for having a ruddy, good-hu-
 
 124 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 moured face, went down stairs in a violent flurry. 
 
 The stout gentleman had been rude to her! 
 
 /L^ 
 This sent a whole host of my deductions to 
 
 the deuce in a moment. This unknown per 
 sonage could not be an old gentleman ; for old 
 gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous 
 to chambermaids. He could not be a young 
 gentleman ; for young gentlemen are not apt 
 to inspire such indignation. He must be a 
 middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into 
 the bargain, or the girl would not have taken 
 the matter in such terrible dudgeon. I confess 
 I was sorely puzzled. 
 
 In a few minutes I heard the voice of my land 
 lady. I caught a glance of her as she came tramp 
 ing up stairs ; her face glowing, her cap flaring, 
 her tongue wagging the whole way. " She'd 
 have no such doings in her house, she'd war 
 rant ! If gentlemen did spend money freely, it 
 was no rule. She'd have no servant maids of 
 hers treated in that way, when they were 
 about their work, that's what she wouldn't!" 
 
 As I hate squabbles, particularly with women,
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and above all with pretty women, I slunk back 
 into my room, and partly closed the door ; but 
 my curiosity was too much excited not to 
 listen. The landlady marched intrepidly to 
 the enemy's citadel, and entered it with a 
 storm : "the door closed after her. I heard her 
 voice in high, windy clamour for a moment or 
 two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust 
 of wind in a garret ; then there was a laugh ; 
 then I heard nothing more. 
 
 After a little while my landlady came out with 
 an odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, 
 which was a little on one side. As she went down 
 stairs I heard the landlord ask her what was 
 the matter ; she said, " Nothing at all, only the 
 girl's a fool." I was more than ever perplexed 
 what to make of this unaccountable personage, 
 who could put a good-natured chambermaid 
 in a passion, and send away a termagant land 
 lady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor 
 cross, nor ugly either. 
 
 I had to go to work at his picture again,
 
 126 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and to paint him entirely different. I now set 
 him down for one of those stout gentlemen that 
 are frequently met with swaggering about the 
 doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, 
 in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little 
 assisted by malt-liquors. Men who have seen 
 the world, and been sworn at Highgate ; who 
 are used to tavern life ; up to all the tricks of 
 tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful 
 publicans. Free-livers on a small scale ; who 
 are prodigal within the compass of a guinea ; 
 who call all the waiters by name, touzle the 
 maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, and 
 prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus, 
 after dinner. 
 
 The morning wore away in forming of these 
 and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one 
 system of belief, some movement of the un 
 known would completely overturn it, and throw 
 all my thoughts again into confusion. Such 
 are the solitary operations of a feverish mind. 
 I was, as I have* said, extremely nervous ; and
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the continual meditation on the concerns of 
 this invisible personage began to have its 
 effect : I was getting a fit of the fidgets. 
 
 Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout gentle 
 man might dine in the travellers'-room, and 
 that I might at length get a view of his per 
 son ; but no he had dinner served in his own 
 room. What could be the meaning of this 
 solitude and mystery ? He could not be a 
 radical; there was something too aristocratical 
 in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of 
 the world, and condemning himself to his own 
 dull company throughout a rainy day. And 
 then, too, he lived too well for a discontented 
 politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety 
 of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly 
 friend of good-living. Indeed, my doubts on 
 this head w T ere soon at an end ; for he could 
 not have finished his first bottle before I could 
 faintly hear him humming a tune ; and on 
 listening, I found it to be " God save the King." 
 'Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a 
 faithful subject ; one that grew loyal over his
 
 128 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 bottle, and was ready to stand by king and 
 constitution, when he could stand by nothing 
 else. But who could he be ! My conjectures 
 began to run wild. Was he not some person 
 age of distinction travelling incog. ? " God 
 knows !" said I, at my wit's end ; " it may be 
 one of the royal family, for aught I know, for 
 they are all stout gentlemen !" 
 
 The weather continued rainy. The myste 
 rious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I 
 could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him 
 move. In the mean time, as the day advanced, 
 the travellers'-room began to be frequented. 
 Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned 
 up in box-coats ; others came home who had 
 been dispersed about the town. Some took 
 their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been 
 in a different mood, I should have found enter 
 tainment in studying this peculiar class of men. 
 There were two especially, who were regular 
 wags of the road, and up to all the standing 
 jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly 
 things to say to the waiting-maid, whom they
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 129 
 
 called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen 
 other fine names, changing the name every 
 time, and chuckling amazingly at their own 
 waggery. My mind, however, had become 
 completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. 
 He had kept my fancy in chase during a long 
 day, and it was not now to be diverted from 
 the scent. 
 
 The evening gradually wore away. The 
 travellers read the papers two or three times 
 over. Some drew round the fire and told long 
 stories about their horses, about their adventures, 
 their overturns, and breakings-down. They 
 discussed the credits of different merchants and 
 different inns ; and the two wags told several 
 choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids, and 
 kind landladies. All this passed as they were 
 quietly taking what they called their night 
 caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy 
 and water and sugar, or some other mixture 
 of the kind ; after which they one after another 
 rang for " Boots" and the chambermaid, and 
 VOL. i. K
 
 130 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into 
 marvellously uncomfortable slippers. 
 
 There was only one man left ; a short-legged, 
 long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, 
 sandy head. He sat by himself, with a glass 
 of port wine negus, and a spoon ; sipping and 
 stirring, and meditating and sipping, until 
 nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually 
 fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the 
 empty glass standing before him ; and the 
 candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick 
 grew long, and black, and cabbaged at the 
 end, and dimmed the little light that remained 
 in the chamber. The gloom that now pre 
 vailed was contagious. Around hung the 
 shapeless, and almost spectral, box-coats of 
 departed travellers, long since buried in deep 
 sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, 
 with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping 
 toper, and the drippings of the rain, drop 
 drop drop, from the eaves of the house. The 
 church bells chimed midnight. All at once
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 131 
 
 the stout gentleman began to walk over head, 
 pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There 
 was something extremely awful in all this, 
 especially to one in my state of nerves. These 
 ghastly great coats, these guttural breathings, 
 and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious 
 being. His steps grew fainter and fainter, 
 and at length died away. I could bear it no 
 longer. I was wound up to the desperation 
 of a hero of romance. " Be he who or what 
 he may," said I to myself, " I'll have a sight of 
 him !" I seized a chamber candle, and hurried 
 up to number 13. The door stood ajar. I 
 hesitated I entered : the room was deserted. 
 There stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow- 
 chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, 
 and a " Times" newspaper, and the room smelt 
 powerfully of Stilton cheese. 
 
 The mysterious stranger had evidently but 
 just retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, 
 to my room, which had been changed to the 
 front of the house. As I went along the corridor, 
 I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed 
 
 K 2
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. 
 They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but 
 it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a per 
 sonage in his den ; he might discharge a pistol, 
 or something worse, at my head. I went to 
 bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in 
 a terribly nervous state ; and even when I fell 
 asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by 
 the idea of the stout gentleman and his wax- 
 topped boots. 
 
 I slept rather late the next morning, and 
 was awakened by some stir and bustle in the 
 house, which I could not at first comprehend ; 
 until getting more awake, I found there was 
 a mail-coach starting from the door. Suddenly 
 there was a cry from below, " The gentleman 
 has forgot his umbrella! look for the gentle 
 man's umbrella in No. 13!" I heard an im 
 mediate scampering of a chambermaid along 
 the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " here 
 it is! here's the gentleman's umbrella!" 
 
 The mysterious stranger then was on the 
 point of setting off. This was the only chance
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 133 
 
 I should ever have of knowing him. I sprang 
 out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched 
 aside the curtains, and just caught a glimpse 
 of the rear of a person getting in at the coach- 
 door. The skirts of a brown coat parted be 
 hind, and gave me a full view of the broad 
 disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door 
 closed " all right!" was the word the coach 
 whirled off: and that was all I ever saw of 
 the stout gentleman !
 
 FOKEST TEEES. 
 
 " A living gallery of aged trees." 
 
 ONE of the favourite themes of boasting with 
 the squire is the noble trees on his estate, 
 which, in truth, has some of the finest that I 
 have seen in England. There is something 
 august and solemn in the great avenues of 
 stately oaks that gather their branches together 
 high in air, and seem to reduce the pedestrians 
 beneath them to mere pigmies. " An avenue of 
 oaks or elms," the squire observes, " is the true 
 colonnade that should lead to a gentleman's 
 house. As to stone and marble, any one can 
 rear them at once, they are the work of the 
 day; but commend me to the colonnades that 
 have grown old and great with the family, and
 
 FOREST TREES. 135 
 
 tell by their grandeur how long the family has 
 endured." 
 
 The squire has great reverence for certain 
 venerable trees, gray with moss, which he con 
 siders as the ancient nobility of his domain. 
 There is the ruin of an enormous oak, which 
 has been so much battered by time and tem 
 pest, that scarce any thing is left ; though he 
 says Christy recollects when, in his boyhood, it 
 was healthy and flourishing, until it was struck 
 by lightning. It is now a mere trunk, with 
 one twisted bough stretching up into the air, 
 leaving a green branch at the end of it. This 
 sturdy wreck is much valued by the squire ; 
 he calls it his standard-bearer, and compares 
 it to a veteran warrior beaten down in battle, 
 but bearing up his banner to the last. He has 
 actually had a fence built round it, to protect 
 it as much as possible from further injury. 
 
 It is with great difficulty that the squire can 
 ever be brought to have any tree cut down on 
 his estate. To some he looks with reverence, 
 as having been planted by his ancestors ; to
 
 136 FOREST TREES. 
 
 others with a kind of paternal affection, as 
 having been planted by himself; and he feels 
 a degree of awe in bringing down with a few 
 strokes of the axe, what it has cost centuries 
 to build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, 
 in some degree, with the good squire on the 
 subject. Though brought up in a country 
 overrun with forests, where trees are apt to be 
 considered mere incumbrances, and to be laid 
 low without hesitation or remorse, yet I could 
 never see a fine tree hewn down without con 
 cern. The poets, who are naturally lovers of 
 trees, as they are of every thing that is beauti 
 ful, have artfully awakened great interest in 
 their favour, by representing them as the 
 habitations of sylvan deities ; insomuch that 
 every great tree had its tutelar genius, or a 
 nymph, whose existence was limited to its 
 duration. Evelyn, in his Sylva, makes several 
 pleasing and fanciful allusions to this supersti 
 tion. " As the fall," says he, " of a very aged 
 oak, giving a crack like thunder, has often 
 been heard at many miles distance; constrained
 
 FOREST TREES. 137 
 
 though I often am to fell them with reluctancy, 
 I do not at any time remember to have heard 
 the groans of those nymphs (grieving to he 
 dispossessed of their ancient habitations) with 
 out some emotion and pity." And again, in 
 alluding to a violent storm that had devastated 
 the woodlands, he says : " Methinks I still 
 hear, sure I am that I still feel, the dismal 
 groans of our forests ; the late dreadful hurri 
 cane having subverted so many thousands of 
 goodly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them 
 in ghastly postures, like whole regiments fallen 
 in battle by the sword of the conqueror, and 
 crushing all that grew beneath them. The 
 public accounts," he adds, " reckon no less 
 than three thousand brave oaks in one part 
 only of the forest of Dean blown down." 
 
 I have paused more than once in the wilder 
 ness of America, to contemplate the traces of 
 some blast of wind, which seemed to have 
 rushed down from the clouds, and ripped its 
 way through the bosom of the woodlands ; 
 rooting up, shivering and splintering the
 
 138 FOREST TREES. 
 
 stoutest trees, and leaving a long track of 
 desolation. There was something awful in the 
 vast havoc made among these gigantic plants ; 
 and in considering their magnificent remains, 
 so rudely torn and mangled, and hurled down 
 to perish prematurely on their native soil, I 
 was conscious of a strong movement of the 
 sympathy so feelingly expressed by Evelyn. I 
 recollect, also, hearing a traveller, of poetical 
 temperament, expressing the kind of horror 
 which he felt on beholding, on the banks of 
 the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which 
 had been, in a manner, overpowered by an 
 enormous wild grape-vine. The vine had 
 clasped its huge folds round the trunk, and 
 from thence had wound about every branch 
 and twig, until the mighty tree had withered 
 in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon 
 struggling ineffectually in the hideous coils of 
 the monster Python. It was the lion of trees 
 perishing in the embraces of a vegetable boa. 
 I am fond of listening to the conversation of 
 English gentlemen on rural concerns, and of
 
 FOREST TREES. 139 
 
 noticing with what taste and discrimination, 
 and what strong, unaffected interest they will 
 discuss topics, which in other countries are 
 abandoned to mere woodmen, or rustic culti 
 vators. I have heard a noble earl descant on 
 park and forest scenery with the science and 
 feeling of a painter. He dwelt on the shape 
 and beauty of particular trees on his estate, 
 with as much pride and technical precision as 
 though he had been discussing the merits of 
 statues in his collection. I found that he had 
 even gone considerable distances to examine 
 trees which were celebrated among rural ama 
 teurs ; for it seems that trees, like horses, have 
 their established points of excellence ; and 
 that there are some in England which enjoy 
 very extensive celebrity among tree-fanciers 
 from being perfect in their kind. 
 
 There is something nobly simple and pure 
 in such a taste : it argues, I think, a sweet and 
 generous nature, to have this strong relish for 
 the beauties of vegetation, and this friendship 
 for the hardy and glorious sons of the forest.
 
 140 FOREST TREES. 
 
 There is a grandeur of thought connected with 
 this part of rural economy. It is, if I may be 
 allowed the figure, the heroic line of hus 
 bandry. It is worthy of liberal, and freeborn, 
 and aspiring men. He who plants an oak 
 looks forward to future ages, and plants for 
 posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than 
 this. He cannot expect to sit in its shade, nor 
 enjoy its shelter; but he exults in the idea, 
 that the acorn which he has buried in the 
 earth shall grow up into a lofty pile, and shall 
 keep on flourishing, and increasing, and bene 
 fiting mankind, long after he shall have ceased 
 to tread his paternal fields. Indeed, it is the 
 nature of such occupations to lift the thoughts 
 above mere worldliness. As the leaves of trees 
 are said to absorb all noxious qualities of the 
 air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, 
 so it seems to me as if they drew from us all 
 sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth 
 peace and philanthropy. There is a serene 
 and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that 
 enters into the soul, and dilates and elevates
 
 FOREST TREES. 141 
 
 it, and fills it with -noble inclinations. The 
 ancient and hereditary groves, too, that em 
 bower this island, are most of them full of 
 story. They are haunted by the recollections 
 of great spirits of past ages, who have sought 
 for relaxation among them from the tumult of 
 arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the 
 muse beneath their shade. Who can walk, with 
 soul unmoved, among the stately groves of 
 Penshurst, where the gallant, the amiable, the 
 elegant Sir Philip Sidney passed his boyhood ; 
 or can look without fondness upon the tree 
 that is said to have been planted on his birth 
 day ; or can ramble among the classic bowers 
 of Hagley; or can pause among the soli 
 tudes of Windsor Forest, and look at the oaks 
 around, huge, gray, and time-worn, like the 
 old castle towers, and not feel as if he were 
 surrounded by so many monuments of long- 
 enduring glory ? It is, when viewed in this 
 light, that planted groves, and stately avenues, 
 and cultivated parks, have an advantage over 
 the more luxuriant beauties of unassisted na-
 
 FOREST TREES. 
 
 ture. It is that they teem with moral asso 
 ciations, and keep up the ever-interesting story 
 of human existence. 
 
 It is incumbent, then, on the high and ge 
 nerous spirits of an ancient nation, to cherish 
 these sacred groves that surround their an 
 cestral mansions, and to perpetuate them to 
 their descendants. Republican as I am by 
 birth, and brought up as I have been in re 
 publican principles and habits, I can feel no 
 thing of the servile reverence for titled rank, 
 merely because it is titled ; but I trust that I 
 am neither churl nor bigot in my creed. I 
 can both see and feel how hereditary distinc 
 tion, when it falls to the lot of a generous 
 mind, may elevate that mind into true nobility. 
 It is one of the effects of hereditary rank, when 
 it falls thus happily, that it multiplies the 
 duties, and, as it were, extends the existence 
 of the possessor. He does not feel himself a 
 mere individual link in creation, responsible 
 only for his own brief term of being. He 
 carries back his existence in proud recollection,
 
 FOREST TREES. 14>S 
 
 and he extends it forward in honourable an 
 ticipation. He lives with his ancestry, and he 
 lives with his posterity. To both does he con 
 sider himself involved in deep responsibilities. 
 As he has received much from those that have 
 gone before, so he feels bound to transmit 
 much to those who are to come after him. 
 His domestic undertakings seem to imply a 
 longer existence than those of ordinary men; 
 none are so apt to build and plant for future 
 centuries, as noble-spirited men, who have re 
 ceived their heritages from foregone ages. 
 
 I cannot but applaud, therefore, the fondness 
 and pride with which T have noticed English 
 gentlemen, of generous temperaments, and 
 high aristocratic feelings, contemplating those 
 magnificent trees, which rise like towers and 
 pyramids, from the midst of their paternal 
 lands. There is an affinity between all nature, 
 animate and inanimate : the oak, in the pride 
 and lustihood of its growth, seems to me to 
 take its range with the lion and the eagle, and 
 to assimilate, in the grandeur of its attributes,
 
 144 FOREST TREES. 
 
 to heroic and intellectual man. With its mighty 
 pillar rising straight and direct towards heaven, 
 bearing up its leafy honours from the impurities 
 of earth, and supporting them aloft in free air 
 and glorious sunshine, it is an emblem of what 
 a true nobleman should be ; a refuge for the 
 weak, a shelter for the oppressed, a defence 
 for the defenceless ; warding off from them the 
 peltings of the storm, or the scorching rays of 
 arbitrary power. He who is this, is an orna 
 ment and a blessing to his native land. He 
 who is otherwise, abuses his eminent advan 
 tages ; abuses the grandeur and prosperity 
 which he has drawn from the bosom of his 
 country. Should tempests arise, and he be 
 laid prostrate by the storm, who would mourn 
 over his fall? Should he be borne down by 
 the oppressive hand of power, who would 
 murmur at his fate? " why cumbereth he 
 the ground ?"
 
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 Printed bookes he contemnes, as a novelty of this latter age; 
 but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly; especially if the 
 cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis be- 
 tweene every syllable. 
 
 MlCO-CoSMOGRAPHIE, 1628. 
 
 THE squire receives great sympathy and 
 support, in his antiquated humours, from the 
 parson, of whom I made some mention on 
 my former visit to the Hall, and who acts as a 
 kind of family chaplain. He has been che 
 rished by the squire almost constantly since the 
 time that they were fellow students at Ox 
 ford ; for it is one of the peculiar advantages 
 of these great universities, that they often link 
 the poor scholar to the rich patron, by early 
 and heart-felt ties, that last through life, with- 
 . out the usual humiliations of dependence and 
 
 VOL. i. L
 
 146 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 patronage. Under the fostering protection of 
 the squire, therefore, the little parson has pur 
 sued his studies in peace. Having lived almost 
 entirely among books, and those, too, old books, 
 he is quite ignorant of the world, and his mind 
 is as antiquated as the garden at the Hall, 
 where the flowers are all arranged in formal 
 beds, and the yew-trees clipped into urns and 
 peacocks. 
 
 His taste for literary antiquities was first 
 imbibed in the Bodleian Library at Oxford ; 
 where, when a student, he past many an hour 
 foraging among the old manuscripts. He 
 has since, at different times, visited most of 
 the curious libraries in England, and has ran 
 sacked many of the cathedrals. With all his 
 quaint and curious learning, he has nothing of 
 arrogance or pedantry; but that unaffected 
 earnestness and guileless simplicity which seem 
 to belong to the literary antiquary. 
 
 He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather 
 dry in his manner ; yet, on his favourite theme, 
 he kindles up, and at times is even eloquent.
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 147 
 
 No fox-hunter, recounting his last day's sport, 
 could be more animated than I have seen the 
 worthy parson, when relating his search after 
 a curious document, which he had traced from 
 library to library, until he fairly unearthed 
 it in the dusty chapter-house of a cathedral. 
 When, too, he describes some venerable manu 
 script, with its rich illuminations, its thick 
 creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odour of 
 the cloisters that seemed to exhale from it, he 
 rivals the enthusiasm of a Parisian epicure, 
 expatiating on the merits of a Perigord pie, 
 or a Pate de Strasbourg. 
 
 His brain seems absolutely haunted with 
 love-sick dreams about gorgeous old works in 
 " silk linings, triple gold bands, and tinted 
 leather, locked up in wire cases, and secured 
 from the vulgar hands of the mere reader;" 
 and, to continue the happy expressions of an 
 ingenious writer, " dazzling one's eyes like 
 eastern beauties, peering through their jea 
 lousies *." 
 
 * D' Israeli. Curiosities of Literature. 
 
 Lf
 
 148 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 He has a great desire, however, to read such 
 works in the old libraries and chapter-houses 
 to which they belong ; for he thinks a black- 
 letter volume reads best in one of those ve 
 nerable chambers where the light struggles 
 through dusty lancet windows and painted 
 glass ; and that it loses half its zest if taken 
 away from the neighbourhood of the quaintly- 
 carved oaken book-case and Gothic reading- 
 desk. At his suggestion the squire has had 
 the library furnished in this antique taste, and 
 several of the windows glazed with painted 
 glass, that they may throw a properly tem 
 pered light upon the pages of their favourite 
 old authors. 
 
 The parson, I am told, has been for some time 
 meditating a commentary on Strutt, Brand, 
 and Douce, in which he means to detect them 
 in sundry dangerous errors in respect to po 
 pular games and superstitions; a work to 
 which the squire looks forward with great 
 interest. He is, also, a casual contributor to 
 that long-established repository of national
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 149 
 
 customs and antiquities, the Gentleman's Ma 
 gazine, and is one of those that every now and 
 then make an inquiry concerning some obso 
 lete custom or rare legend ; nay, it is said that 
 several of his communications have been at 
 least six inches in length. He frequently re 
 ceives parcels by coach from different parts of 
 the kingdom, containing mouldy volumes and 
 almost illegible manuscripts ; for it is singular 
 what an active correspondence is kept up , 
 among literary antiquaries, and how soon the 
 fame of any rare volume, or unique copy, just 
 discovered among the rubbish of a library, is 
 circulated among them. The parson is more 
 busy than common just now, being a little 
 flurried by an advertisement of a work, said 
 to be preparing for the press, on the mythology 
 of the middle ages. The little man has long 
 been gathering together all the hobgoblin tales 
 he could collect, illustrative of the superstitions 
 of former times ; and he is in a complete fever, 
 lest this formidable rival should take the field 
 before him.
 
 150 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 Shortly after my arrival at the Hall, I called 
 at the parsonage, in company with Mr. Brace- 
 bridge and the general. The parson had not 
 been seen for several days, which was a matter 
 of some surprise, as he was an almost daily 
 visitor at the Hall. We found him in his 
 study ; a small dusky chamber, lighted by a 
 lattice window that looked into the church 
 yard, and was overshadowed by a yew-tree. 
 His chair was surrounded by folios and quartos, 
 piled upon the floor, and his table was covered 
 with books and manuscripts. The cause of his 
 seclusion was a work which he had recently 
 received, and with which he had retired in rap 
 ture from the world, and shut himself up to en 
 joy a literary honeymoon undisturbed. Never 
 did boarding-school girl devour the pages of a 
 sentimental novel, or Don Quixote a chivalrous 
 romance, with more intense delight than did 
 the little man banquet on the pages of this 
 delicious work. It was Dibdin's Bibliographical 
 Tour ; a work calculated to have as intoxicating 
 an effect on the imaginations of literary an-
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 151 
 
 tiquaries, as the adventures of the heroes of 
 the round table, on all true knights ; or the 
 tales of the early American voyagers on the 
 ardent spirits of the age, filling them with 
 dreams of Mexican and Peruvian mines, and of 
 the golden realm of El Dorado. 
 
 The good parson had looked forward to this 
 Bibliographical expedition as of far greater 
 importance than those to Africa, or the North 
 Pole. With what eagerness had he seized 
 upon the history of the enterprise ! with what 
 interest had he followed the redoubtable biblio 
 grapher and his graphical squire in their ad 
 venturous roamings among Norman castles 
 and cathedrals, and French libraries, and Ger 
 man convents and universities ; penetrating 
 into the prison houses of vellum manuscripts, 
 and exquisitely illuminated missals, and re 
 vealing their beauties to the world ! 
 
 When the parson had finished a rapturous 
 eulogy on this most curious and entertaining 
 work, he drew forth from a little drawer a 
 manuscript, lately received from a correspond-
 
 152 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 ent, which had perplexed him sadly. It was 
 written in Norman French, in very ancient cha 
 racters, and so faded and mouldered away as 
 to be almost illegible. It was apparently an 
 old Norman drinking song, that might have 
 been brought over by one of William the Con 
 queror's carousing followers. The writing was 
 just legible enough to keep a keen antiquity 
 hunter on a doubtful chase ; here and there he 
 would be completely thrown out, and then 
 there' would be a few words so plainly written 
 as to put him on the scent again. In this way 
 he had been led on for a whole day, until he 
 had found himself completely at fault. 
 
 The squire endeavoured to assist him, but 
 was equally baffled. The old general listened 
 for some time to the discussion, and then asked 
 the parson, if he had read Captain Morris's, or 
 George Stevens', or Anacreon Moore's baccha 
 nalian songs ; on the other replying in the ne 
 gative, Oh, then," said the general, with 
 a sagacious nod, " if you want a drinking 
 song, I can furnish you with the latest collec-
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY, 153 
 
 tion I did not know you had a turn for those 
 kind of things ; and I can lend you the Ency 
 clopedia of Wit into the bargain. I never 
 travel without them ; they're excellent reading 
 at an inn." 
 
 It would not be easy to describe the odd 
 look of surprise and perplexity of the parson, 
 at this proposal ; or the difficulty the squire 
 had in making the general comprehend, that 
 though a jovial song of the present day was 
 but a foolish sound in the ears of wisdom, 
 and beneath the notice of a learned man, yet 
 a trowl, written by a tosspot several hundred 
 years since, was a matter worthy of the gravest 
 research, and enough to set whole colleges by 
 the ears. 
 
 I have since pondered much on this matter, 
 and have figured to myself what may be the fate 
 of our current literature, when retrieved, piece 
 meal, by future antiquaries, from among the 
 rubbish of ages. What a Magnus Apollo, for 
 instance, will Moore become, among sober di 
 vines and dusty schoolmen ! Even his festive and
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 
 
 amatory songs, which are now the mere quick- 
 eners of our social moments, or the delights of 
 our drawing-rooms, will then become matters 
 of laborious research and painful collation. 
 How many a grave professor will then waste 
 his midnight oil, or worry his brain through a 
 long morning, endeavouring to restore the 
 pure text, or illustrate the biographical hints 
 of " Come, tell me, says Rosa, as kissing and 
 kissed ;" and how many an arid old book-worm, 
 like the worthy little parson, will give up in 
 despair, after vainly striving to fill up some 
 fatal hiatus in " Fanny of Timmol !" 
 
 Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as 
 Moore that are doomed to consume the oil of 
 future antiquaries. Many a poor scribbler, 
 who is now, apparently, sent to oblivion by 
 pastry-cooks and cheesemongers, will then rise 
 again in fragments, and flourish in learned 
 immortality. 
 
 After all, thought I, time is not such an in 
 variable destroyer as he is represented. If he 
 pulls down, he likewise builds up ; if he im-
 
 A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 155 
 
 poverishes one, he enriches another ; his very 
 dilapidations furnish matter for new works of 
 controversy, and his rust is more precious than 
 the most costly gilding. Under his plastic 
 hand trifles rise into importance ; the nonsense 
 of one age becomes the wisdom of another ; 
 the levity of the wit gravitates into the learn 
 ing of the pedant, and an ancient farthing 
 moulders into infinitely more value than a mo 
 dern guinea.
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 " " Love and hay 
 Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 I WAS so much pleased with the anecdotes 
 which were told me of Ready money Jack 
 Tibbets, that I got Master Simon, a day or 
 two since, to take me to his house. It was an 
 old-fashioned farm-house, built of brick, with 
 curiously twisted chimneys. It stood at a little 
 distance from the road, with a southern ex 
 posure, looking upon a soft, green slope of 
 meadow. There was a small garden in front, 
 with a row of beehives humming among beds 
 of sweet herbs and flowers. Well-scowered 
 milking-tubs, with bright, copper hoops, hung 
 on the garden pailing. Fruit-trees were trained 
 up against the cottage, and pots of flowers
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 157 
 
 stood in the windows. A fat, superannuated 
 mastiff lay in the sunshine at the door ; with a 
 sleek cat sleeping peacefully across him. 
 
 Mr. Tibbets was from home at the time of 
 our calling, but we were received with hearty 
 and homely welcome by his wife ; a notable, 
 motherly woman, and a complete pattern for 
 wives ; since, according to Master Simon's 
 account, she never contradicts honest Jack, and 
 yet manages to have her own way, and to con 
 trol him in every thing. 
 
 She received us in the main room of the 
 house, a kind of parlour and hall, with great 
 brown beams of timber across it, which Mr. 
 Tibbets is apt to point out with some exulta 
 tion, observing, that they don't put such timber 
 in houses now-a-days. The furniture was old- 
 fashioned, strong, and highly polished; the walls 
 were hung with coloured prints of the story of 
 the Prodigal Son, who was represented in a red 
 coat and leather breeches. Over the fire-place 
 was a blunderbuss, and a hard-favoured like 
 ness of Ready money Jack, taken, when he was
 
 158 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 a young man,, by the same artist that painted 
 the tavern sign ; his mother having taken a 
 notion that the Tibbets had as much right to 
 have a gallery of family portraits as the folks 
 at the Hall. 
 
 The good dame pressed us very much to 
 take some refreshment, and tempted us with a 
 variety of household dainties, so that we were 
 glad to compound by tasting some of her 
 home-made wines. While we were there, the 
 son and heir-apparent came home ; a good- 
 looking young fellow, and something of a 
 rustic beau. He took us over the premises, 
 and showed us the whole establishment. An 
 air of homely but substantial plenty prevailed 
 throughout ; every thing was of the best ma 
 terials, and in the best condition. Nothing 
 was out of place, or ill-made ; and you saw 
 every where the signs of a man that took care 
 to have the worth of his money, and that paid 
 as he went. 
 
 The farm-yard was well stocked; under a 
 shed was a taxed cart, in trim order, in which
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 159 
 
 Ready money Jack took his wife about the 
 country. His well-fed horse neighed from the 
 stable, and when led out into the yard, to use 
 the words of young Jack, " he shone like a 
 bottle ;" for he said the old man made it a rule 
 that every thing about him should fare as well 
 as he did himself. 
 
 I was pleased to see the pride which the 
 young fellow seemed to have of his father. 
 He gave us several particulars concerning his 
 habits, which were pretty much to the effect 
 of those I have already mentioned. He had 
 never suffered an account to stand in his life, 
 always providing the money before he pur 
 chased any thing ; and, if possible, paying in 
 gold and silver. He had a great dislike to 
 paper-money, and seldom went without a con 
 siderable sum in gold about him. On my ob 
 serving that it was a wonder he had never been 
 waylaid and robbed, the young fellow smiled 
 at the idea of any one venturing upon such an 
 exploit, for I believe he thinks the old man 

 
 160 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 would be a match for Robin Hood and all his 
 
 gang. 
 
 I hare noticed that Master Simon seldom 
 goes into any house without having a world of 
 private talk with some one or other of the 
 family,being a kind of universal counsellor and 
 confidant. We had not been long at the farm, 
 before the old dame got him into a corner of 
 her parlour, where they had a long, whisper 
 ing conference together ; in which I saw by his 
 shrugs that there were some dubious matters 
 discussed, and by his nods that he agreed with 
 every thing she said. 
 
 After we had come out, the young man ac 
 companied us a little distance, and then, draw 
 ing Master Simon aside into a green lane, they 
 walked and talked together for nearly half an 
 hour. Master Simon, who has the usual pro 
 pensity of confidants to blab every thing to 
 the next friend they meet with, let me know 
 that there was a love affair in question ; the 
 young fellow having been smitten with the
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. l6l 
 
 charms of Phoebe Wilkins, the pretty niece of 
 the housekeeper at the Hall. Like most other 
 love concerns, it had brought its troubles and 
 perplexities. Dame Tibbets had long been 
 on intimate, gossiping terms with the house 
 keeper, who often visited the farm-house ; but 
 when the neighbours spoke to her of the like 
 lihood of a match between her son and Phoebe 
 Wilkins, " Marry come up !" she scouted the 
 very idea. The girl had acted as lady's maid, 
 and it was beneath the blood of the Tibbets, 
 who had lived on their own lands time out 
 of mind, and owed reverence and thanks to 
 nobody, to have the heir-apparent marry a 
 servant ! 
 
 These vapourings had faithfully been carried 
 to the housekeeper's ear, by one of their mutual 
 go-between friends. The old housekeeper's 
 blood, if not as ancient, was as quick as that 
 of Dame Tibbets. She had been accustomed 
 to carry a high head at the Hall, and among 
 the villagers ; and her faded brocade rustled 
 with indignation at the slight cast upon her 
 
 VOL. i. M
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 alliance by the wife of a petty farmer. She 
 maintained that her niece had been a com 
 panion rather than a waiting-maid to the young 
 ladies. " Thank heavens, she was not obliged 
 to work for her living, and was as idle as any 
 young lady in the land ; and when somebody 
 died, would receive something that would be 
 worth the notice of some folks, with all their 
 ready money ." 
 
 A bitter feud had thus taken place between 
 the two worthy dames, and the young people 
 were forbidden to think of one another. As 
 to young Jack, he was too much in love to 
 reason upon the matter; and being* a little 
 heady, and not standing in much awe of his 
 mother, was ready to sacrifice the whole dignity 
 of the Tibbets to his passion. He had lately, 
 however, had a violent quarrel with his mis 
 tress, in consequence of some coquetry on her 
 part, and at present stood aloof. The politic 
 mother was exerting all her ingenuity to widen 
 this accidental breach; but, as is most com 
 monly the case, the more she meddled with this
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 163 
 
 perverse inclination of her son, 'the stronger it 
 grew. In the mean time Old Ready-money 
 was kept completely in the dark ; both parties 
 were in awe and uncertainty as to what might 
 be his way of taking the matter, and dreaded 
 to awaken the sleeping lion. Between father 
 and son, therefore, the worthy Mrs. Tibbets 
 was full of business, and at her wit's end. It 
 is true there was no great danger of honest 
 Ready-money's finding the thing out, if left to 
 himself; for he was of a most unsuspicious 
 temper, and by no means quick of appre 
 hension ; but there was daily risk of his atten 
 tion being aroused by those cobwebs which his 
 indefatigable wife was continually spinning 
 about his nose. 
 
 Such is the distracted state of politics in the 
 domestic empire of Ready-money Jack; which 
 only shows the intrigues and internal dangers 
 to which the best regulated governments are 
 liable. In this* perplexed situation of their 
 affairs, both mother and son have applied to 
 Master Simon for counsel ; and, with all his 
 
 M 2 
 
 -
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 experience in meddling with other people's 
 concerns, he finds it an exceedingly difficult 
 part to play, to agree with both parties, seeing 
 that their opinions and wishes are so diame 
 trically opposite. 

 
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight of 
 one put both horse and man into amazement. Some said it 
 was a great crabshell brought out of China, and some imagined 
 it to be one of the pagan temples, in which the canibals adored 
 the divell. TAYLOR, THE WATER POET. 
 
 I HAVE made casual mention, more than once, 
 of one of the squire's antiquated retainers, old 
 Christy the huntsman. I find that his crabbed 
 humour is a source of much entertainment 
 among the young men of the family; the 
 Oxonian, particularly, takes a mischievous 
 pleasure now and then in slyly rubbing the 
 old man against the grain, and then smoothing 
 him down again ; for the old fellow is as ready 
 to bristle up his back as a porcupine. He 
 rides a venerable hunter called Pepper, which 
 is a counterpart of himself, a heady, cross-
 
 166 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 grained animal, that frets the flesh off its bones ; 
 bites, kicks, and plays all manner of villanous 
 tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old as 
 his rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, 
 and is, indeed, the only one that can do any 
 thing with him. Sometimes, however, they 
 have a complete quarrel, and a dispute for 
 mastery, and then, I am told, it is as good as 
 a farce to see the heat they both get into, and 
 the wrongheaded contest that ensues ; for they 
 are quite knowing in each other's ways, and in 
 the art of teasing and fretting each other. 
 Notwithstanding these doughty brawls, how 
 ever, there is nothing that nettles old Christy 
 sooner than to question the merits of his horse ; 
 which he upholds as tenaciously as a faithful 
 husband will vindicate the virtues of the ter 
 magant spouse, that gives him a curtain lecture 
 every night of his life, 
 
 The young men call old Christy their " pro 
 fessor of equitation," and in accounting for the 
 appellation, they let me into some particulars 
 of the squire's mode of bringing up his children.
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 167 
 
 There is an odd mixture of eccentricity and 
 good sense in all the opinions of my worthy host. 
 His mind is like modern Gothic, where plain 
 brick-work is set off with pointed arches and 
 quaint tracery. Though the main ground 
 work of his opinions is correct, yet he has a 
 thousand little notions, picked up from old 
 books, which stand out whimsically on the 
 surface of his mind. 
 
 Thus, in educating his boys, he chose Peachem, 
 Markam, and such like old English writers, for 
 his manuals. At an early age he took the lads 
 out of their mother's hands, who was disposed, 
 as mothers are apt to be, to make fine, orderly 
 children of them, that should keep out of sun 
 and rain, and never soil their hands, nor tear 
 their clothes. 
 
 In place of this, the squire turned them loose 
 to run free and wild about the park, without 
 heeding wind or weather. He was also par 
 ticularly attentive in making them bold and 
 expert horsemen; and these were the days 
 when old Christy, the huntsman, enjoyed great
 
 168 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 importance, as the lads were put under his 
 care to practise them at the leaping-bars, and 
 to keep an eye upon them in the chase. 
 
 The squire always objected to their riding 
 in carriages of any kind, and is still a little 
 tenacious on this point. He often rails against 
 the universal use of carriages, and quotes the 
 words of honest Nashe to that effect. " It was 
 thought," says Nashe, in his Quaternio, " a 
 kind of solecism, and to savour of effeminacy, 
 for a young gentleman in the flourishing time 
 of his age to creep into a coach, and to shrowd 
 himself from wind and weather : our great 
 delight was to out-brave the blustering Boreas 
 upon a great horse ; to arm and prepare our 
 selves to go with Mars and Bellona into the 
 field was our sport and pastime ; coaches and 
 caroches we left unto them for whom they 
 were first invented, for ladies and gentlemen, 
 and decrepit age and impotent people." 
 
 The squire insists that the English gentle 
 men have lost much of their hardiness and 
 manhood since the introduction of carnages.
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 169 
 
 u Compare," he will say, " the fine gentleman 
 of former times, ever on horseback, booted 
 and spurred, and travel-stained, but open, 
 frank, manly, and chivalrous, with the fine 
 gentleman of the present day, full of affectation 
 and effeminacy, rolling along a turnpike in his 
 voluptuous vehicle. The young men of those 
 days were rendered brave, and lofty, and ge 
 nerous in their notions, by almost living in 
 their saddles, and having their foaming steeds 
 ' like proud seas under them.' There is some 
 thing," he adds, "in bestriding a fine horse 
 that makes a man feel more than mortal. He 
 seems to have doubled his nature, and to have 
 added to his own courage and sagacity the 
 power, the speed, and stateliness of the superb 
 animal on which he is mounted." 
 
 " It is a great delight," says old Nashe, 
 " to see a young gentleman with his skill and 
 cunning, by his voice, rod and spur, better to 
 manage and to command the great Bucephalus, 
 than the strongest Milo, with all his strength ; 
 one while to see him make him tread, trot and
 
 170 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 gallop the ring; and one after to see him 
 make him gather up roundly ; to bear his head 
 steadily ; to run a full career swiftly ; to stop 
 a sudden lightly ; anon after to see him make 
 him advance, to yorke, to go back and side 
 long, to turn on either hand ; to gallop the 
 gallop galliard ; to do the capriole, the cham- 
 betta, and dance the curvetty." 
 
 In conformity to these ideas, the squire had 
 them all on horseback at an early age, and 
 made them ride, slap dash, about the country, 
 without flinching at hedge, or ditch, or stone 
 wall, to the imminent danger of their necks. 
 
 Even the fair Julia was partially included 
 in this system ; and, under the instructions of 
 old Christy, has become one of the best horse 
 women in the county. The squire says it is 
 better than all the cosmetics and sweeteners 
 of the breath that ever were invented. He 
 extols the horsemanship of the ladies in former 
 times, when Queen Elizabeth would scarcely 
 suffer the rain to stop her accustomed ride. 
 " And then think," he will say, " what nobler
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 171 
 
 and sweeter beings it made them. What a 
 difference must there be, both in mind and 
 body, between a joyous high-spirited dame of 
 those days, glowing with health and exercise, 
 freshened by every breeze that blows, seated 
 loftily and gracefully on her saddle, with 
 plume on head, and hawk on hand, and her 
 descendant of the present day, the pale victim 
 of routs and ball-rooms, sunk languidly in one 
 corner of an enervating carriage." 
 
 The squire's equestrian system has been at 
 tended with great success, for his sons, having 
 passed through the whole course of instruc 
 tion without breaking neck or limb, are now 
 healthful, spirited, and active, and have the 
 true Englishman's love for a horse. If their 
 manliness and frankness are praised in their 
 father's hearing, he quotes the old Persian 
 maxim, and says, they have been taught " to 
 ride, to shoot, and to speak the truth." 
 
 It is true the Oxonian has now and then 
 practised the old gentleman's doctrines a little 
 in the extreme. He is a gay youngster, rather
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 fonder of his horse than his book, with a little 
 dash of the dandy ; though the ladies all de 
 clare that he is " the flower of the flock." The 
 first year that he was sent to Oxford, he had a 
 tutor appointed to overlook him, a dry chip of 
 the university. When he returned home in 
 the vacation, the squire made many inquiries 
 about how he liked his college, his studies, and 
 his tutor. 
 
 " Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I've parted with 
 him some time since." 
 
 " You have ; and, pray, why so ?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, hunting was all the go at our 
 college, and I was a little short of funds ; so I 
 discharged my tutor, and took a horse, you 
 know." 
 
 " Ah, I was not aware of that, Tom," said 
 the squire, mildly. 
 
 When Tom returned to college his allow 
 ance was doubled, that he might be enabled to 
 keep both horse and tutor.
 
 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 
 
 I will now begin to sigh, read poets, look pale, go neatly, and 
 be most apparently in love. MARSTON. 
 
 I SHOULD not be surprised if we should have 
 another pair of turtles at the Hall, for Master 
 Simon has informed me, in great confidence, 
 that he suspects the general of some design 
 upon the susceptible heart of Lady Lillycraft. 
 I have, indeed, noticed a growing attention 
 and courtesy in the veteran towards her lady 
 ship ; he softens very much in her company, 
 sits by her at table, and entertains her with 
 long stories about Seringapatam, and pleasant 
 anecdotes of the Mulligatawney club. I have 
 even seen him present her with a full blown 
 rose from the hot-house, in a style of the most 
 captivating gallantry, and it was accepted with
 
 174 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 
 
 great suavity and graciousness ; for her lady 
 ship delights in receiving the homage and at 
 tention of the sex. 
 
 Indeed, the general was one of the earliest 
 admirers that dangled in her train during her 
 short reign of beauty ; and they flirted together 
 for half a season in London, some thirty or 
 forty years since. She reminded him lately, in 
 the course of a conversation about former days, 
 of the time when he used to ride a white horse, 
 and to canter so gallantly by the side of her 
 carriage in Hyde Park ; whereupon I have re 
 marked that the veteran has regularly escorted 
 her since, when she rides out on horseback ; 
 and, I suspect, he almost persuades himself 
 that he makes as captivating an appearance as 
 in his youthful days. 
 
 It would be an interesting and memorable 
 circumstance in the chronicles of Cupid, if this 
 spark of the tender passion, after lying dormant 
 for such a length of time, should again be 
 fanned into a flame, from amidst the ashes of 
 two burnt out hearts. It would be an instance
 
 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 175 
 
 of perdurable fidelity, worthy of being placed 
 beside those recorded in one of the squire's 
 favourite tomes, commemorating the constancy 
 of the olden times ; in which times, we are 
 told, " Men and wymmen coulde love togyders 
 seven yeres, and no licours lustes were be- 
 twene them, and thenne was love, trouthe and 
 feythfulnes ; and lo in lyke wyse was used love 
 in Kyng Arthurs dayes*." 
 
 Still, however, this may be nothing but a 
 little venerable flirtation, the general being a 
 veteran dangler, and the good lady habituated 
 to these kind of attentions. Master Simon, on 
 the other hand, thinks the general is looking 
 about him with the wary eye of an old cam 
 paigner ; and now that he is on the wane, is 
 desirous of getting into warm winter quarters. 
 Much allowance, however, must be made for 
 Master Simon's uneasiness on the subject, for 
 he looks on Lady Lillycraft's house as one 
 of his strong holds, where he is lord of the 
 ascendant ; and, with all his admiration of the 
 
 * Morte d' Arthur.
 
 176 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 
 
 general, I much doubt whether he would like 
 to see him lord of the lady and the establish 
 ment. 
 
 There are certain other symptoms, notwith 
 standing, that give an air of probability to 
 Master Simon's intimations. Thus for instance, 
 I have observed that the general has been very 
 assiduous in his attentions to her ladyship's 
 dogs, and has several times exposed his fingers 
 to imminent jeopardy, in attempting to pat 
 Beauty on the head. It is to be hoped his 
 advances to the mistress will be more favourably 
 received, as all his overtures towards a caress 
 are greeted by the pestilent little cur with a 
 wary kindling of the eye, and a most venomous 
 growl. 
 
 He has, moreover, been very complaisant 
 towards my lady's gentlewoman, the immacu 
 late Mrs. Hannah, whom he used to speak of 
 in a way that I do not choose to mention. 
 Whether she has the same suspicions with 
 Master Simon or not, I cannot say; but she 
 receives his civilities with no better grace than
 
 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 177 
 
 the implacable Beauty ; unscrewing her mouth 
 into a most acid smile, and looking as though 
 she could bite a piece out of him. In short, 
 the poor general seems to have as formidable 
 foes to contend with as a hero of ancient fairy 
 tale ; who had to fight his way to his enchanted 
 princess through ferocious monsters of every 
 kind, and to encounter the brimstone terrors 
 of some fiery dragon. 
 
 There is still another circumstance which 
 inclines me to give very considerable credit to 
 Masjter Simon's suspicions. Lady Lillycraft is 
 very fond of quoting poetry, and the conversa 
 tion often turns upon it, on which occasions 
 the general is thrown completely out. It hap 
 pened the other day that Spenser's Fairy Queen 
 was the theme for the great part of the morn 
 ing, and the poor general sat perfectly silent. 
 I found him not long after in the. library, with 
 spectacles on nose, a book in his hand, and fast 
 asleep. On my approach he -awoke, slipt the 
 spectacles into his pocket, and began to read 
 very attentively. After a little while he put a 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 LOVE-SYMPTOMS. 
 
 paper in the place, and laid the volume aside, 
 which I perceived was the Fairy Queen. I 
 have had the curiosity to watch how he got 
 on in his poetical studies ; but, though I have 
 repeatedly seen him with the book in his hand, 
 yet I find the paper has not advanced above 
 three or four pages ; the general being ex 
 tremely apt to fall asleep when he reads. 
 
 .
 
 FALCONRY. 
 
 Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, 
 Whether high tpw'ring or accousting low, 
 
 But I the measure of her flight doe search, 
 And all her prey and all her diet know. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 THERE are several grand sources of lamenta 
 tion furnished to the worthy squire, by the 
 improvement of society, and the grievous ad 
 vancement of knowledge ; among which there 
 is none, I believe, that causes him more fre 
 quent regret than the unfortunate invention of 
 gunpowder. To this he continually traces the 
 decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed, 
 the general downfall of all chivalrous and 
 romantic usages. " English soldiers," he says, 
 " have never been the men they were in the 
 days of the cross-bow and the long-bow ; when 
 they depended upon the strength of the arm, 
 
 N 2
 
 180 FALCONRY. 
 
 and the English archer could draw a cloth- 
 yard shaft to the head. These were the times 
 when at the battles of Cressy, Poictiers, and 
 Agincourt, the French chivalry was completely 
 destroyed by the bowmen of England. The 
 yeomanry, too, have never been what they were, 
 when, in times of peace, they were constantly 
 exercised with the bow, and archery was a 
 favorite holiday pastime." 
 
 Among the other evils which have followed 
 in the train of this fatal invention of gun 
 powder, the squire classes the total decline of 
 the noble art of falconry. " Shooting," he says, 
 " is a skulking, treacherous, solitary sport in 
 comparison ; but hawking was a gallant, open, 
 sunshiny recreation ; it was the generous sport 
 of hunting carried into the skies." 
 
 " It was, moreover," he says, " according to 
 Braithwate, the stately amusement of ' high 
 and mounting spirits ;' for, as the old Welsh 
 proverb affirms, in those times ' You might know 
 a gentleman by his hawk, horse, and gray hound/ 
 Indeed, a cavalier was seldom seen abroad
 
 FALCONRY. 181 
 
 without his hawk on his fist ; and even a lady 
 of rank did not think herself completely 
 equipped, in riding forth, unless she had her 
 tassel-gentel held by jesses on her delicate 
 hand. It was thought in those excellent days, 
 according to an old writer, ' quite sufficient 
 for noblemen to winde their horn, and to carry 
 their hawke fair ; and leave study and learn 
 ing to the children of mean people.' " 
 
 Knowing the good squire's hobby, therefore, 
 I have not been surprised at finding that, 
 among the various recreations of former times 
 which he has endeavoured to revive in the 
 little world in which he rules, he has bestowed 
 great attention on the noble art of falconry. 
 In this he, of course, has been seconded by his 
 indefatigable coadjutor, Master Simon; and 
 even the parson has thrown considerable light 
 on their labours, by various hints on the sub 
 ject, which he has met with in old English 
 works. As to the precious work of that fa 
 mous dame Juliana Barnes ; the Gentleman's 
 Academic, by Markham; and the other well-
 
 182 FALCONRY. 
 
 known treatises that were the manuals of an 
 cient sportsmen, they have them at their fingers' 
 ends ; but they have more especially studied 
 some old tapestry in the house, whereon is 
 represented a party of cavaliers and stately 
 dames, with doublets, caps, and flaunting 
 feathers, mounted on horse, with attendants 
 on foot, all in animated pursuit of the game. 
 
 The squire has discountenanced the killing 
 of any hawks in his neighbourhood, but gives 
 a liberal bounty for all that are brought him 
 alive ; so that the Hall is well stocked with all 
 kinds of birds of prey. On these he and Master 
 Simon have exhausted their patience and in 
 genuity, endeavouring to " reclaim" them, as 
 it is termed, and to train them up for the sport ; 
 but they have met with continual checks and 
 disappointments. Their feathered school has 
 turned out the most untractable and graceless 
 scholars ; nor is it the least of their trouble to 
 drill the retainers who were to act as ushers 
 under them, and to take immediate charge of 
 these refractory birds. Old Christy and the
 
 FALCONRY. 183 
 
 gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces 
 against the whole plan of education ; Christy 
 having been nettled at hearing what he terms 
 a wild-goose chase put on a par with a fox 
 hunt ; and the gamekeeper having always been 
 accustomed to look upon hawks' as arrant 
 poachers, which it was his duty to shoot down, 
 and nail, in terrorem, against the out-houses. 
 
 Christy has at length taken the matter in 
 hand, but has done still more mischief by his 
 intermeddling. He is as positive and wrong- 
 headed about this, as he is about hunting. 
 Master Simon has continual disputes with him 
 as to feeding and training the hawks. He 
 reads to him long passages from the old authors 
 I have mentioned ; but Christy, who cannot 
 read, has a sovereign contempt for all book- 
 knowledge, and persists in treating the hawks 
 according to his own notions, which are drawn 
 from his experience, iii younger days, in the 
 rearing of game-cocks. 
 
 The consequence is, that, between these 
 jarring systems, the poor birds have had a
 
 184< FALCONRY. 
 
 most trying and unhappy time of it. Many 
 have fallen victims to Christy's feeding and 
 Master Simon's physicking ; for the latter has 
 gone to work secundem artem, and has given 
 them all the vomitings and scourings laid down 
 in the books; never were poor hawks so fed 
 and physicked before. Others have been lost 
 by being but half " reclaimed," or tamed : for 
 on being taken into the field, they have " raked" 
 after the game quite out of hearing of the call, 
 and never returned to school. 
 
 All these disappointments had been petty, 
 yet sore grievances to the squire, and had made 
 him to despond about success. He has lately, 
 however, been made happy by the receipt of a 
 fine Welsh falcon, which Master Simon terms 
 a stately highflyer. It is a present from the 
 squire's friend, Sir Watkyn Williams Wynne ; 
 and is, no doubt, a descendant of some ancient 
 line of Welsh princes of the air, that have 
 long lorded it over their kingdom of clouds, 
 from Wynnstay to the very summit of Snow- 
 den, on the brow of Penmanmawr.
 
 FALCONRY. 185 
 
 Ever since the squire received this invaluable 
 present, he has been as impatient to sally forth 
 and make proof of it, as was Don Quixote to 
 assay his suit of armour. There have been 
 some demurs as to whether the bird was in 
 proper health and training; but these have 
 been overruled by the vehement desire to play 
 with a new toy ; and it has been determined, 
 right or wrong, in season or out of season, to 
 have a day's sport in hawking to-morrow. 
 
 The Hall, as usual, whenever the squire is 
 about to make some new sally on his hobby, 
 is all agog with the thing. Miss Templeton, 
 who is brought up in reverence for all her 
 guardian's humours, has proposed to be of the 
 party, and Lady Lillycraft has talked also of 
 riding out to the scene of action and looking on. 
 This has gratified the old gentleman extremely ; 
 he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival 
 of falconry, and does not despair but the time 
 will come when it will be again the pride of a 
 fine lady to carry about a noble falcon in pre 
 ference to a parrot or a lap-dog.
 
 186 FALCONRY. 
 
 I have amused myself with the bustling 
 preparations of that busy spirit, Master Simon, 
 and the continual thwartings he receives from 
 that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. 
 They have had half a dozen consultations about 
 how the hawk is to be prepared for the morn 
 ing's sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has always 
 got in a pet, upon which Master Simon has 
 invariably given up the point, observing, in a 
 good-humoured tone, " Well, well, have it 
 your own way, Christy ; only don't put your 
 self in a passion ;" a reply which always nettles 
 the old man ten times more than ever.
 
 HAWKING. 
 
 The soaring hawk, from fist that flies, 
 
 Her falconer doth constrain 
 Sometimes to range the ground about 
 
 To find her out again; 
 And if by sight, or sound of bell, 
 
 His falcon he may see, 
 Wo ho ! he cries, with cheerful voice 
 
 The gladdest man is he. 
 
 HANDEFULL OF PLEASANT DELITES. 
 
 AT an early hour this morning the Hall was 
 in a bustle, preparing for the sport of the day. 
 I heard Master Simon whistling and singing 
 under my window at sunrise, as he was pre 
 paring the jesses for the hawk's legs, and could 
 distinguish now and then a stanza of one of 
 his favourite old ditties : 
 
 " In peascod time, when hound to horn 
 
 Gives note that buck be kilTd ; 
 And little boy with pipe of corn 
 Is tending sheep a-field," &c.
 
 188 HAWKING. 
 
 A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold 
 meats, was served up in the great hall. The 
 whole garrison of retainers and hangers-on 
 were in motion, reinforced by volunteer idlers 
 from the village. The horses were led up and 
 down before the door ; every body had some 
 thing to say, and something to do, and hurried 
 hither and thither ; there was a direful yelp 
 ing of dogs ; some that were to accompany us 
 being eager to set off, and others that were to 
 stay at home being whipped back to their kennels. 
 In short, for once, the good squire's mansion 
 might have been taken as a good specimen of 
 one of the rantipole establishments of the good 
 old feudal times. 
 
 Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the 
 Hall prepared to take the field. The fair 
 Julia was of the party, in a hunting dress, 
 with a light plume of feathers in her riding- 
 hat. As she mounted her favourite galloway, 
 I remarked, with pleasure, that old Christy 
 forgot his usual crustiness, and hastened to 
 adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched
 
 HAWKING. 189 
 
 his cap as she smiled on him and thanked him ; 
 and then, looking round at the other attend 
 ants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which 
 I read pride and exultation at the charming 
 appearance of his pupil. 
 
 Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to 
 witness the sport. She was dressed in her 
 broad white beaver, tied under the chin, and a 
 riding-habit of the last century. She rode her 
 sleek, ambling pony, whose motion was as easy 
 as a rocking-chair ; and was gallantly escorted 
 by the general, who looked not unlike one of 
 the doughty heroes in the old prints of the 
 battle of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, 
 accompanied her on the other side ; for this 
 was a learned amusement in which he took 
 great interest; and, indeed, had given much 
 council, from his knowledge of old customs. 
 
 At length every thing was arranged, and off 
 we set from the Hall. The exercise on horse 
 back puts one in fine spirits ; and the scene 
 was gay and animating. The young men of 
 the family accompanied Miss Templeton. She
 
 190 HAWKING. 
 
 sat lightly and gracefully in her saddle, her 
 plumes dancing and waving in the air ; and the 
 group had a charming effect as they appeared 
 and disappeared among the trees, cantering 
 along, with the bounding animation of youth. 
 The squire and Master Simon rode together, 
 accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pep 
 per. The latter bore the hawk on his fist, as he 
 insisted the bird was most accustomed to him. 
 There was a rabble rout on foot, composed of 
 retainers from the Hall, and some idlers from 
 the village, with two or three spaniels, for the 
 purpose of starting the game. 
 
 A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly 
 in the rear, composed of Lady Lillycraft, 
 General Harbottle, the parson, and a fat foot 
 man. Her ladyship ambled gently along on 
 her pony, while the general, mounted on a tall 
 hunter, looked down upon her with an air of 
 the most protecting gallantry. 
 
 For my part, being .no sportsman, I kept 
 with this last party, or rather lagged behind, 
 that I might take in the whole picture ; and
 
 HAWKING. 191 
 
 the parson occasionally slackened his pace and 
 jogged on in company with me. 
 
 The sport led us at some distance from the 
 Hall, in a soft meadow, reeking with the moist 
 verdure of spring. A little river ran through 
 it, bordered by willows, which had put forth 
 their tender early foliage. The sportsmen 
 were in quest of herons, which were said to 
 keep about this stream. 
 
 There was some disputing, already, among 
 the leaders of the sport. The squire, Master 
 Simon, and old Christy, came every now and 
 then to a pause, to consult together, like the 
 field officers in an army ; and I saw, by certain 
 motions of the head, that Christy was as po 
 sitive as any old wrong-headed German com 
 mander. 
 
 As we were prancing up this quiet meadow 
 every sound we made was answered by a di 
 stinct echo, from the sunny wall of an old 
 building, that lay on the opposite margin of 
 the stream; and I paused to listen to this 
 " Spirit of a sound," which seems to love such
 
 192 HAWKING. 
 
 quiet and beautiful places. The parson in 
 formed me that this was the ruin of an ancient 
 grange, and was supposed, by the country 
 people, to be haunted by a dobbie, a kind of 
 rural sprite, something like Robin-go'od-fellow. 
 They often fancied the echo to be the voice of 
 the dobbie answering them, and were rather 
 shy of disturbing it after dark. He added, 
 that the squire was very careful of this ruin, 
 on account of the superstition connected with 
 it. As I considered this local habitation of an 
 " airy nothing," I called to mind the fine de 
 scription of an echo in Webster's Duchess of 
 * 
 
 Malfy: 
 
 . 
 
 " 'Yond side o' th' river lies a wall, 
 
 Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion 
 Gives the best echo that you ever heard : 
 So plain in the distinction of our words, 
 That many have supposed it a spirit 
 That answers." 
 
 The parson went on to comment on a pleasing 
 and fanciful appellation which the Jews of old 
 gave to the echo, which they called Bath-kool, 
 that is to say, " the daughter of the voice ;" they
 
 HAWKING. 193 
 
 considered it an oracle, supplying in the second 
 temple the want of the urim and thummim, 
 with which the first was honoured*. The 
 little man was just entering very largely and 
 learnedly upon the subject, when we were 
 startled by a prodigious bawling, shouting, 
 and yelping. A flight of crows, alarmed by 
 the approach of our forces, had suddenly rose 
 from a meadow ; a cry was put up by the 
 rabble rout on foot. " Now, Christy ! now is 
 your time, Christy !" The squire and Master 
 Simon, who were beating up the river banks 
 in quest of a heron, called out eagerly to 
 Christy to keep quiet ; the old man, vexed and 
 bewildered by the confusion of voices, com 
 pletely lost his head ; in his flurry he slipped 
 off the hood, cast off the falcon, and away flew 
 the crows, and away soared the hawk. 
 
 I had paused on a rising ground, close to 
 Lady Lillycraft and her escort, from whence 
 I had a good view of the sport. I was pleased 
 with the appearance of the party in the meadow, 
 
 * Bekker's Monde enchante. 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 HAWKING. 
 
 riding along in the direction that the bird flew ; 
 their bright beaming faces turned up to the 
 bright skies as they watched the game; the 
 attendants on foot scampering along, looking 
 up, and calling out, and the dogs bounding and 
 yelping with clamorous sympathy. 
 
 The hawk had singled out a quarry from 
 among the carrion crew. It was curious to 
 see the efforts of the two birds to get above 
 each other ; one to make the fatal swoop, the 
 other to avoid it. Now they crossed athwart 
 a bright feathery cloud, and now they were 
 against the clear blue sky. I confess, being 
 no sportsman, I was more interested for the 
 poor bird that was striving for its life, than 
 for the hawk that was playing the part of a 
 mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the 
 upper hand, and made a rushing stoop at her 
 quarry, but the latter made as sudden a surge 
 downwards, and slanting up again evaded the 
 blow, screaming and making the best of his 
 way for a dry tree on the brow of a neighbour 
 ing hill ; while the hawk, disappointed of her
 
 HAWKING. 195 
 
 blow, soared up again into the air, and ap 
 peared to be " raking" off. It was in vain old 
 Christy called, and whistled, and endeavoured 
 to lure her down ; she paid no regard to him : 
 and, indeed, his calls were drowned in the 
 shouts and yelps of the army of militia that 
 had followed him into the field. 
 
 Just then an exclamation from Lady Lilly- 
 craft made me turn my head. T beheld a 
 complete confusion among the sportsmen in 
 the little vale below us. They were gallop 
 ing and running towards the edge of a bank ; 
 and I was shocked to see Miss Templeton's 
 horse galloping at large without his rider. I 
 rode to the place to which the others were 
 hurrying, and when I reached the bank, which 
 almost overhung the stream, I saw at the foot 
 of it, the fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and ap 
 parently lifeless, supported in the arms of her 
 frantic lover. 
 
 In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes 
 Burned upward, she had unwarily approached 
 too near the bank ; it had given way with her, 
 
 o 2
 
 190 HAWKING. 
 
 and she and her horse had been precipitated 
 to the pebbled margin of the river. 
 
 I never saw greater consternation. The 
 captain was distracted ; Lady Lillycraft faint 
 ing ; the squire in dismay, and Master Simon 
 at his wits' ends. The beautiful creature at 
 length showed signs of returning life ; she 
 opened her eyes ; looked around her upon the 
 anxious group, and comprehending in a moment 
 the nature of the scene, gave a sweet smile, 
 and putting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed, 
 feebly, " I am not much hurt, Guy !" I could 
 have taken her to my heart for that single 
 exclamation. 
 
 It was found, indeed, that she had escaped 
 almost miraculously, with a contusion of the 
 head, a sprained ankle, and some slight bruises. 
 After her wound was stanched, she was taken 
 to a neighbouring cottage, until a carriage 
 could be summoned to convey her home ; and 
 when this had arrived, the cavalcade, which 
 had issued forth so gaily on this enterprise, 
 returned slowly and pensively to the Hall. 

 
 HAWKING. 197 
 
 I had been charmed by the generous spirit 
 shown by this young creature, who, amidst 
 pain and danger, had been anxious only to 
 relieve the distress of those around her. I 
 was gratified, therefore, by the universal con 
 cern displayed by the domestics on our return. 
 They came crowding down the avenue, each 
 eager to render assistance. The butler stood 
 ready with some curiously delicate cordial; 
 the old housekeeper was provided with half a 
 dozen nostrums, prepared by her own hands, 
 according to the family receipt book ; while 
 her niece, the melting -Phoebe, having no other 
 way of assisting, stood wringing her hands, 
 and weeping aloud. 
 
 The most material effect that is likely to 
 follow this accident is a postponement of the 
 nuptials, which were close at hand. Though 
 I commiserate the impatience of the captain 
 on that account, yet I shall not otherwise be 
 sorry at the delay, as it will give me a better 
 opportunity of studying the characters here 
 assembled, with which I grow more and more 
 entertained.
 
 198 HAWKING. 
 
 I cannot but perceive that the worthy squire 
 is quite -disboiicerted at the unlucky result of 
 
 -4 
 
 his hawking experiment, and this unfortunate 
 illustration of his eulogy on female equitation. 
 Old Christy too is very waspish, having been 
 sorely twitted by Master Simon for having let 
 his hawk fly at carrion. As to the falcon, in 
 the confusion occasioned by the fair Julia's 
 disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I 
 make no doubt she has made the best of her 
 way back to . the hospitable. Hall of Sir Wat- 
 kyn Williams Wynne ; .and ma^/very possibly, 
 at this present writing, be plusiing her wings 
 among the breezy bowers of Wynnstay.
 
 -, 
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 O 'tis a fearful thing to be no more, 
 
 Or if to be, to wander after death ! 
 
 To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day, 
 
 And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths 
 
 That lead to graves ; and in the silent vault, 
 
 Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, 
 
 Striving 'to enter your forbidden corp.se. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 THE conversation this evening at supper- 
 table took a curious turn on the subject of a 
 superstition, formerly very prevalent in this 
 part of the country, relative to the present 
 night of the year, which is the Eve of St. 
 Mark. It was believed, the parson informed 
 us, that if any one would watch in the church 
 porch on t this eve, for three successive years, 
 from eleven to one o'clock at night, he would 
 see, on the third year, the shades of those of
 
 200 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 the parish who were to die in the course of 
 the year, pass by him into church, clad in their 
 usual apparel. 
 
 Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured 
 us that it was formerly a frequent thing for 
 persons to make the necessary vigils. He had 
 known more than one instance in his time. One 
 old woman, who pretended to have seen this 
 phantom procession, was an object of great 
 awe for the whole year afterwards, and caused 
 much uneasiness and mischief. If she shook 
 her head mysteriously at a person, it was like 
 a death warrant ; and she had nearly caused 
 the death of a sick person by looking ruefully 
 in at the window. 
 
 There was also an old man, not many years 
 since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament, 
 who had kept two vigils, and began to excite 
 some talk in the village, when, fortunately for 
 the public comfort, he died shortly after his 
 third watching ; very probably from a cold that 
 he had taken, as the night was tempestuous. 
 It was reported about the village, however,
 
 ST. MARK S EVE. 
 
 that he had seen his own phantom pass by him 
 into the church. 
 
 This led to the mention of another super 
 stition of an equally strange and melancholy 
 kind, which, however, is chiefly confined to 
 Wales. It is respecting what are called corpse 
 candles, little wandering fires, of a pale bluish 
 light, that move about like tapers in the open 
 air, and are supposed to designate the way 
 some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanylar, 
 late at night, hovering up and down, along 
 the bank of the Istwith, and was watched by 
 the neighbours until they were tired, and went 
 to bed. Not long afterwards there came a 
 comely country lass, from Montgomeryshire, 
 to see her friends, who dwelt on the opposite 
 side of the river. She thought to ford the 
 stream at the very place where the light had 
 been first seen, but was dissuaded on account 
 of the height of the flood. She walked to and 
 fro along the bank, just where the candle had 
 moved, waiting for the subsiding of the water.
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 She at length endeavoured to cross, but the 
 poor girl was drowned in the attempt*. 
 
 There was something mournful in this little 
 anecdote of rural superstition, that seemed to 
 affect all the listeners. Indeed, it is curious 
 to remark how completely a conversation of 
 the kind will absorb the attention of a circle, 
 and sober down its gaiety, however boister 
 ous. By degrees I noticed that every one 
 was leaning forward over the table, with eyes 
 earnestly fixed upon the parson, and at the 
 mention of corpse candles which had been seen 
 about the chamber of a young lady who died 
 on the eve of her wedding-day, Lady Lilly- 
 craft turned pale. 
 
 I have witnessed the introduction of stories 
 of the kind into various evening circles ; they 
 were often commenced in jest, and listened to 
 with smiles ; but I never knew the most gay 
 or the most enlightened of audiences, that 
 were not, if the conversation continued for any 
 * Aubrey's Miscel.
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 203 
 
 length of time, completely and solemnly in 
 terested in it. There is, I believe, a degree of 
 superstition lurking in every mind; and I 
 doubt if any one can thoroughly examine all 
 his secret notions and impulses without detect 
 ing it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It 
 seems indeed to be a part of our nature, like 
 instinct in animals, and to act independently of 
 our reason. It is often found existing in lofty 
 natures, especially those that are poetical and 
 aspiring. A great and extraordinary poet of 
 our day, whose life and writings evince a mind 
 subject to powerful exaltation, is said to believe 
 in omens and secret intimations. Caesar, it is 
 well known, was greatly under the influence 
 of such belief; and Napoleon had his good 
 and evil days, and his presiding star. 
 
 As to the worthy parson, I have no doubt 
 that he is strongly inclined to superstition. 
 He is naturally credulous, and passes so much 
 of his time searching out popular traditions 
 and supernatural tales, that his mind has pro 
 bably become infected by them. He has lately
 
 ST. MARKS EVE. 
 
 been immersed in the Demonolatria of Nicholas 
 Remigius, concerning supernatural occurrences 
 in Lorraine, and the writings of Joachimus 
 Camerarius, called by Vossius the Phoenix of 
 Germany ; and he entertains the ladies with 
 stories from them, that make them almost 
 afraid to go to bed at night. I have been 
 charmed myself with some of the wild, little 
 superstitions which he has adduced from Blef- 
 ke'nius, Scheffer, and others ; such as those of 
 the Laplanders about the domestic spirits 
 which wake them at night, and summon them 
 to go and fish ; of Thor, the deity of thunder, 
 who has power of life and death, health and 
 sickness, and who, armed with the rainbow, 
 shoots his arrows at those evil demons that live 
 on the tops of rocks and mountains, and infest 
 the lakes; of the Juhles or Juhlafolket, va 
 grant troops of spirits, which roam the air, and 
 wander up and down by forests and moun 
 tains, and the moonlight sides of hills. 
 
 The parson never openly professes his belief 
 in ghosts, but I have remarked that he has a
 
 ST. MARKS EVE. 
 
 suspicious way of pressing great names into 
 the defence of supernatural doctrines, and 
 making philosophers and saints fight for him. 
 He expatiates at large on the opinions of the 
 ancient philosophers about larves, or nocturnal 
 phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which 
 wandered like exiles about the earth; and 
 about those spiritual beings which abode in 
 the air, but descended occasionally to earth, 
 and mingled among mortals, acting as agents 
 between them and the gods. He quotes also 
 from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary of the 
 apostles, and, according to some, the friend of 
 St. Paul, who says that the air is full of spirits 
 of different ranks ; some destined to exist for a 
 time in mortal bodies, from which, being eman 
 cipated, they pass and repass between heaven 
 and earth, as agents or messengers in the ser 
 vice of the Deity. 
 
 But the worthy little man assumes a bolder 
 tone when he quotes from the fathers of the 
 church; such as St. Jerome, who gives it as 
 the opinion of all the doctors, that the air is
 
 206 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 filled with powers opposed to each other ; 
 and Lactantius, who says that corrupt and 
 dangerous spirits wander over the earth, and 
 seek to console themselves for their own fall 
 by effecting the ruin of the human race; and 
 Clemens Alexandrinus, who is of opinion that 
 the souls of the hlessed have knowledge of 
 what passes among men, the same as angels 
 have. 
 
 I am now alone in my chamber, but these 
 themes have taken such hold of my imagina 
 tion, that I cannot sleep. The room in which 
 I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. 
 The walls are hung with tapestry, the figures 
 of which are faded, and look like unsubstantial 
 shapes melting away from sight. Over the 
 fireplace is the portrait of a lady, who, accord 
 ing to the housekeeper's tradition, pined to 
 death for the loss of her lover in the battle of 
 Blenheim. She has a most pale and plaintive 
 countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mourn 
 fully upon me. The family have long since 
 retired. I have heard their steps die away,
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 207 
 
 and the distant doors clap to after them. 
 The murmur of voices, and the peal of remote 
 laughter, no longer reach the ear. The clock 
 from the church, in which so many of the former 
 inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed 
 the awful hour of midnight. 
 
 I have sat by the window and mused \ipon 
 the dusky landscape, watching the lights dis 
 appearing, one by one, from the distant village ; 
 and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and 
 leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As 
 I have gazed upon these quiet groves and 
 shadowy lawns, silvered over, and imperfectly 
 lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my 
 mind has been crowded by " thick coming 
 fancies" concerning those spiritual beings 
 which 
 
 walk the earth 
 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." 
 
 Are there, indeed, such beings ? Is this space 
 between us and the deity filled up by innumer 
 able orders of spiritual beings, forming the 
 same gradations between the human soul and
 
 208 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 divine perfection, that we see prevailing from 
 humanity downwards to the meanest insect? 
 It is a sublime and beautiful doctrine, in 
 culcated by the early fathers, that there are 
 guardian angels appointed to watch over cities 
 and nations ; to take care of the welfare of 
 good men, and to guard and guide the steps of 
 helpless infancy. " Nothing," says St. Jerome, 
 " gives us a greater idea of the dignity of our 
 soul, than that God has given each of us, at 
 the moment of our birth, an angel to have care 
 of it." 
 
 Even the doctrine of departed spirits return 
 ing to visit the scenes and beings which were 
 dear to them during the body's existence, 
 though it has. been debased by the absurd 
 superstitions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully 
 solemn and sublime. However lightly it may 
 be ridiculed, yet the attention involuntarily 
 yielded to it whenever it is made the subject 
 of serious discussion ; its prevalence in all 
 ages and countries, and even among newly 
 discovered nations, that have had no previous
 
 ST. MARK S EVEi 
 
 interchange of thought with other parts of the 
 world, prove it to be one of those mysterious, 
 and almost instinctive beliefs, to which, if left 
 to ourselves, we should naturally incline. 
 
 In spite of all the pride of reason and phi 
 losophy, a vague doubt will still lurk in the 
 mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly 
 eradicated ; as it is concerning a matter that 
 does not admit of positive demonstration. 
 Every thing connected with our spiritual na 
 ture is full of doubt and difficulty. " We are 
 fearfully and wonderfully made ;" we are sur 
 rounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries 
 even to ourselves. Who yet has been able to 
 comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, 
 its connexion with the "body, or in what part of 
 the frame it is situated? We know merely 
 that it does exist; but whence it came, and 
 when it entered into us, and how it is retained, 
 and where it is seated, and how it operates, 
 are all matters of mere speculation, and con 
 tradictory theories. If, then, we are thus igno 
 rant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms 
 VOL. i. p
 
 210 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 a part of ourselves, and is continually present to 
 our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascer 
 tain or to deny its powers and operations when 
 released from its fleshly prison-house ? It is more 
 the manner, therefore, in which this superstition 
 has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, 
 that has brought it into contempt. Raise it 
 above the frivolous purposes to which it has 
 been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror 
 with which it has been surrounded, and there 
 is none of the whole circle of visionary creeds 
 that could more delightfully elevate the ima 
 gination, or more tenderly affect the heart. 
 It would become a sovereign comfort at the 
 bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung 
 from us by the agony of our mortal separation. 
 What could be more consoling than the idea, 
 that the souls of those whom we once loved were 
 permitted to return and watch over our welfare ? 
 That affectionate and guardian spirits sat by 
 our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil 
 over our most helpless hours ? That beauty 
 and innocence, which had languished into the
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 211 
 
 tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing 
 themselves in those blest dreams wherein we 
 live over again the hours of past endearment ? 
 A belief of this kind would, I should think, be 
 a new incentive to virtue ; rendering us cir 
 cumspect even in our most secret moments, 
 from the idea that those we once loved and 
 honoured were invisible witnesses of all our 
 actions. 
 
 It would take away, too, from that loneliness 
 and destitution which we are apt to feel more 
 and more as we get on in our pilgrimage 
 through the wilderness of this world, and find 
 that those who set forward with us, lovingly 
 and cheerily, on the journey, have one by one 
 dropped away from our side. Place the super 
 stition in this light, and I confess I should like 
 to be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that 
 is incompatible with the tender and merciful 
 nature of our religion, nor revolting to the 
 wishes and affections of the heart. 
 
 There are departed beings that I have loved 
 as I never again shall love in this world ; that
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 have loved me as I never again shall be loved ! 
 If such beings do ever retain in their blessed 
 spheres the attachments which they felt on 
 earth; if they take an interest in the poor 
 concerns of transient mortality, and are per 
 mitted to hold communion with those whom 
 they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at 
 this deep hour of night, in this silence and 
 solitude, I could receive their visitation with 
 the most solemn, but unalloyed, delight. 
 
 In truth, such visitations would be too happy 
 
 for this world ; they would be incompatible with 
 
 the nature of this imperfect state of being. 
 
 We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual 
 
 thraldom and restraint. Our souls are shut in 
 
 and limited by bounds and barriers ; shackled 
 
 by mortal infirmities, and subject to all the 
 
 gross impediments of matter. In vain would 
 
 they seek to act independently of the body, 
 
 and to mingle together in spiritual intercourse. 
 
 They can only act here through their fleshly 
 
 organs. Their earthly loves are made up of 
 
 transient embraces and long separations. The
 
 ST. MARK'S., EVE. 213 
 
 most intimate friendship, of what brief and 
 scattered portions of time does it consist ! We 
 take each other by the hand, and we ex 
 change a few words and looks of kindness, and 
 we rejoice together for a few short moments, 
 and then days, months, years intervene, and we 
 see and know nothing of each other. Or grant 
 ing that we dwell together for the full season 
 of this our mortal life, the grave soon closes its 
 gates between us, and then our spirits are 
 doomed to remain in separation and widow 
 hood ; until they meet again in that more perfect 
 state of being, where soul will dwell with soul 
 in blissful communion, and there will be neither 
 death, nor absence, nor any thing else to inter 
 rupt our felicity. 
 
 * # * In the foregoing paper I have alluded to 
 the writings of some of the old Jewish rabbins. 
 They abound with wild theories ; but among 
 them are many truly poetical flights ; and their 
 ideas are often very beautifully expressed.
 
 214 ST. MARK'S EVE. 
 
 Their speculations on the nature of angels are 
 curious and fanciful, though much resembling 
 the doctrines of the ancient philosophers. In 
 the writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an account 
 of the temptation of our first parents and the 
 fall of the angels, which the parson pointed 
 out to me as having probably furnished some 
 of the ground-work for " Paradise Lost." 
 
 According to Eleazer, the ministering angels 
 said to the Deity, " What is there in man that 
 thou makest him of such importance ? Is he 
 any thing else than vanity ? for he can scarcely 
 reason a little on terrestrial things." To which 
 God replied, " Do you imagine that I will be 
 exalted and glorified only by you here above ? 
 I am the same below that I am here. Who is 
 there among you that can call all the creatures 
 by their names ?" There was none found among 
 them that could do so. At that moment Adam 
 arose, and called all the creatures by their 
 name. Seeing which, the ministering angels 
 said among themselves, " Let us consult to 
 gether how we may cause Adam to sin a
 
 ST. MARKS EVE. 
 
 the Creator, otherwise he will not fail to be 
 come our master." 
 
 Sammael, who was a great prince in the 
 heavens, was present at this council, with the 
 saints of the first order, and the seraphim of 
 six bands. Sammael chose several out of the 
 twelve orders to accompany him, and de 
 scended below, for the purpose of visiting all 
 the creatures which God had created. He 
 found none more cunning and more fit to do 
 evil than the serpent. 
 
 The rabbi then treats of the seduction and 
 the fall of man ; of the consequent fall of the 
 demon, and the punishment which God inflicted 
 on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. " He made 
 them all come before him ; pronounced nine 
 maledictions on Adam and Eve, and condemned 
 them to suffer death; and he precipitated 
 Sammael and all his band from heaven. He 
 cut off the feet of the serpent, which had be 
 fore the figure of a camel (Sammael having 
 been mounted on him), and he cursed him 
 among all beasts and animals."
 
 GENTILITY. 
 
 True Gentrie standeth in the trade 
 
 Of virtuous life, not in the fleshly line ; 
 For bloud is knit, but Gentrie is divine. 
 
 MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES. 
 
 I HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the 
 squire in the education of his sons ; but I would 
 not have it thought that his instructions were 
 directed chiefly to their personal accomplish 
 ments. He took great pains also to form their 
 minds, and to inculcate what he calls good old 
 English principles, such as are laid down in 
 the writings of Peachem and his contempora 
 ries. There is one author of whom he cannot 
 speak without indignation, which is Chester 
 field. He avers that he did much, for a time, 
 to injure the true national character, and to 
 introduce, instead of open manly sincerity, a
 
 OKNTILITY. 17 
 
 hollow perfidious courtliness. " His maxims," 
 he affirms, " were calculated to chill the de 
 lightful enthusiasm of youth ; to make them 
 ashamed of that romance which is the dawn of 
 generous manhood, and to impart to them a 
 cold polish and a premature worldliness. 
 
 " Many of Lord Chesterfield's maxims would 
 make a young man a mere man of pleasure; 
 but an English gentleman should not be a 
 mere man of pleasure. He has no right to 
 such selfish indulgence. His ease, his leisure, 
 his opulence, are debts due to his country, 
 which he must ever stand ready to discharge. 
 He should be a man at all points ; simple, 
 frank, courteous, intelligent, accomplished, and 
 informed ; upright, intrepid, and disinterested ; 
 one that can mingle among freemen ; that can 
 cope with statesmen ; that can champion his 
 country and its rights either at home or abroad. 
 In a country like England, where there is such 
 free and unbounded scope for the exertion of 
 intellect, and where opinion and example have 
 such weight with the people, every gentleman
 
 218 GENTILITY. 
 
 of fortune and leisure should feel himself bound 
 to employ himself in some way towards pro 
 moting the prosperity or glory of the nation. 
 In a country where intellect and action are 
 trammelled and restrained, men of rank and 
 fortune may become idlers and triflers with im 
 punity ; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable ; 
 and this, perhaps, is the reason why he is the 
 most offensive and insupportable coxcomb in 
 the world." 
 
 The squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs 
 me, would often hold forth in this manner to 
 his sons when they were about leaving the 
 paternal roof; one to travel abroad, one to go 
 to the army, and one to the university. He 
 used to have them with him in the library, 
 which is hung with the portraits of Sydney, 
 Surrey, Raleigh, Wyat, and others. " Look at 
 those models of true English gentlemen, my 
 sons," he would say with enthusiasm ; " those 
 were men that wreathed the graces of the most 
 delicate and refined taste around the stern 
 virtues of the soldier ; that mingled what was
 
 GENTILITY. 
 
 gentle and gracious, with what was hardy and 
 manly; that possessed the true chivalry of 
 spirit, which is the exalted essence of manhood. 
 They are the lights by which the youth of the 
 country should array themselves. They were 
 the patterns and the idols of their country at 
 home ; they were the illustrators of its dignity 
 abroad. ' Surrey,' says Camden, ' was the 
 first nobleman that illustrated his high birth 
 with the beauty of learning. He was acknow 
 ledged to be the gallantest man, the politest 
 lover, and the completest gentleman of his 
 time.' And as to Wyat, his friend Surrey most 
 amiably testifies of him, that his person was 
 majestic and beautiful, his visage ' stern and 
 mild ;' that he sung, and played the lute with 
 remarkable sweetness ; spoke foreign languages 
 with grace and fluency, and possessed an in 
 exhaustible fund of wit. And see what a high 
 commendation is passed upon these illustrious 
 friends : ' They were the two chieftains, who, 
 having travelled into Italy, and there tasted 
 the sweet and stately measures and style of
 
 
 220 GENTILITY. 
 
 the Italian poetry, greatly polished our rude 
 and homely manner of vulgar poetry from what 
 it had been before, and therefore may be justly 
 called the reformers of our English poetry and 
 style.' And Sir Philip Sydney, who has left 
 us such monuments of elegant thought, and 
 generous sentiment, and who illustrated his 
 chivalrous spirit so gloriously in the field. And 
 Sir Walter Raleigh, the elegant courtier, the 
 intrepid soldier, the enterprising discoverer, 
 the enlightened philosopher, the magnanimous 
 martyr. These are the men for English gen 
 tlemen to study. Chesterfield, with his cold 
 and courtly maxims, would have chilled and im 
 poverished such spirits. He would have blighted 
 all the budding romance of their tempera 
 ments. Sydney would never have written his 
 Arcadia, nor Surrey have challenged the world 
 in vindication of the beauties of his Geraldine. 
 These are the men, my sons," the squire will 
 continue, " that show to what our national 
 character may be exalted, when its strong and 
 powerful qualities are duly wrought up and
 
 GENTILITY. 
 
 refined. The solidest bodies are capable of the 
 highest polish ; and there is no character that 
 may be wrought to a more exquisite and un 
 sullied brightness, than that of the true En 
 glish gentleman." 
 
 When Guy was about to depart for the 
 army, the squire again took him aside, and 
 gave him a long exhortation. He warned him 
 against that affectation of cold-blooded indif 
 ference, which he was told was cultivated by 
 the young British officers, among whom it was 
 a study to " sink the soldier" in the mere man 
 of fashion. " A soldier," said he, " without 
 pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a 
 mere sanguinary hireling. Nothing distin 
 guishes him from the mercenary bravo but a 
 spirit of patriotism, or a thirst for glory. It is 
 the fashion, now-a-days, my son," said he, " to 
 laugh at the spirit of chivalry ; when that spirit 
 is really extinct, the profession of the soldier 
 becomes a mere trade of blood." He then set 
 before him the conduct of Edward the Black 
 Prince, who is his mirror of chivalry; valiant,
 
 222 GENTILITY. 
 
 generous, affable, humane ; gallant in the field ; 
 but when he came to dwell on his courtesy to 
 wards his prisoner, the king of France ; how 
 he received him into his tent, rather as a con 
 queror than as a captive ; attended on him at 
 table like one of his retinue ; rode uncovered 
 beside him on his entry into London, mounted 
 on a common palfrey, while his prisoner was 
 mounted in state on a white steed of stately 
 beauty ; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the 
 old gentleman's eyes. 
 
 Finally, on taking leave, the good squire put 
 in his son's hands, as a manual, one of his fa 
 vourite old volumes, the Life of the Chevalier 
 Bayard, by Godefroy ; on a blank page of which 
 he had written an extract from the Morte d'Ar- 
 thur, containing the eulogy of Sir Ector over 
 the body of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, which 
 the squire considers as comprising the excel 
 lencies of a true soldier. " Ah, Sir Lancelot ! 
 thou wert head of all Christian knights ; now 
 there thou liest : thou were never matched of 
 none earthly knights-hands. And thou wert
 
 
 GENTILITY. 223 
 
 the curliest knight that ever bare shield. And 
 thou were the truest friend to thy lover that 
 ever bestrood horse ; and thou were the truest 
 lover of a sinfull man that ever loved woman. 
 And thou were the kindest man that ever strook 
 with sword ; and thou were the goodliest person 
 that ever came among the presse of knights. 
 And thou were the meekest man and the 
 gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. 
 And thou were the sternest knight to thy 
 mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest."
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 Each city, each town, and every village, 
 
 Affords us either an alms or pillage. 
 
 And if the weather be cold and raw, 
 
 Then in a barn we tumble on straw. 
 
 If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock, 
 
 The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock. 
 
 MERRY BEGGARS. 
 
 As I was walking one evening with the Ox 
 onian, Master Simon, and the general, in a 
 meadow not far from the village, we heard the 
 sound of a fiddle, rudely played, and looking 
 in the direction from whence it came, we saw 
 a thread of smoke curling up from among 
 the trees. The sound of music is always at 
 tractive ; for, wherever there is music, there is 
 good humour, or good-will. We passed along a 
 footpath, and had a peep, through a break in 
 the hedge, at the musician and his party, when
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 225 
 
 the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that 
 if we would follow him we should have some 
 sport. 
 
 It proved to be a gipsy encampment, con 
 sisting of three or four little cabins, or tents, 
 made of blankets and sail cloth, spread over 
 hoops that were stuck in the ground. It was 
 on one side of a green lane, close under a haw 
 thorn hedge, with a broad beech-tree spread 
 ing above it. A small rill tinkled along close 
 by, through the fresh sward, that looked like 
 a carpet. 
 
 A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece 
 of iron, over a fire made from dry sticks and 
 leaves, and two old gipsies, in red cloaks, sat 
 crouched on the grass, gossiping over their 
 evening cup of tea ; for these creatures, though 
 they live in the open air, have their ideas of 
 fireside comforts. There were two or three 
 children sleeping on the straw with which the 
 tents were littered ; a couple of donkeys were 
 grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog- 
 was lying before the fire. Some of the younger 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 gipsies were dancing to the music of a fiddle, 
 played by a tall slender stripling, in an old 
 frock coat, with a peacock's feather stuck in 
 his hatband. 
 
 As we approached, a gipsy girl, with a 
 pair of fine roguish eyes, came up, and, as 
 usual, offered to tell our fortunes. I could not 
 but admire a certain degree of slattern elegance 
 about the baggage. Her long black silken 
 hair was curiously plaited in numerous small 
 braids, and negligently put up in a picturesque 
 style that a painter might have been proud to 
 have devised. Her dress was of figured chintz, 
 rather ragged, and not over clean, but of a 
 variety of most harmonious and agreeable co 
 lours ; for these beings have a singularly fine 
 eye for colours. Her straw hat was in her 
 hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm. 
 
 The Oxonian offered at once to have his 
 fortune told, and the girl began with the usual 
 volubility of her race ; but he drew her on one 
 side, near the hedge, as he said he had no idea 
 of having his secrets overheard. I saw he was
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 talking to her instead of she to him, and by his 
 glancing towards us now and then, that he was 
 giving the baggage some private hints. When 
 they returned to us, he assumed a very serious 
 air. " Zounds ! " said he, " it's very astonishing 
 how these creatures come by their knowledge ; 
 this girl has told me some things that I thought 
 no one knew but myself!" 
 
 The girl now assailed the general : " Come, 
 your honour," said she, " I see by your face 
 you're a lucky man; but you're not happy in 
 your mind; you're not, indeed, sir: but have 
 a good heart, and give me a good piece of 
 silver, and I'll tell you a nice fortune." 
 
 The general had received all her approaches 
 with a banter, and had suffered her to get hold 
 of his hand ; but at the mention of the piece of 
 silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and turning 
 to us, asked if we had not better continue our 
 walk. " Come, my master," said the girl, 
 archly, " you 'd not be in such a hurry, if you 
 knew all that I could tell you about a fair lady 
 that has a notion for you. Come, sir, old love
 
 228 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 burns strong ; there's many a one comes to see 
 weddings that go away brides themselves ! " 
 Here the girl whispered something in a low 
 voice, at which the general coloured up, was a 
 little fluttered, and suffered himself to be drawn 
 aside under the hedge, where he appeared to 
 listen to her with great earnestness, and at the 
 end paid her half-a-crown with the air of a man 
 that has got the worth of his money. 
 
 The girl next made her attack upon Master 
 Simon, who, however, was too old a bird to be 
 caught, knowing that it would end in an attack 
 upon his purse, about which he is a little sen 
 sitive. As he has a great notion, however, of 
 being considered a royster, he chucked her 
 under the chin, played her off with rather broad 
 jokes, and put on something of the rake-helly 
 air, that we see now and then assumed on the 
 stage, by the sad-boy gentlemen of the old 
 school. " Ah, your honour," said the girl, with 
 a malicious leer, " you were not in such a 
 tantrum last year, when I told you about the 
 widow you know who ; but if you had taken a
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 friend's advice, you'd never have come away 
 from Doncaster races with a flea in your ear !" 
 
 There was a secret sting in this speech that 
 seemed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He 
 jerked away his hand in a pet, smacked his 
 whip, whistled to his dogs, and intimated that 
 it was high time to go home. The girl, how 
 ever, was determined not to lose her harvest. 
 She now turned upon me, and, as I have a 
 weakness of spirit where there is a pretty face 
 concerned, she soon wheedled me out of my 
 money, and, in return, read me a fortune ; 
 which, if it prove true, and I am determined to 
 believe it, will make me one of the luckiest 
 men in the chronicles of Cupid. 
 
 I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom 
 of all this oracular mystery, and was disposed 
 to amuse himself with the general, whose tender 
 approaches to the widow have attracted the 
 notice of the wag. I was a little curious, how 
 ever, to know the meaning of the dark hints 
 which had so suddenly disconcerted Master 
 Simon ; and took occasion to fall in the rear
 
 230 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 with the Oxonian on our way home, when he 
 laughed heartily at my questions, and gave me 
 ample information on the subject. 
 
 The truth of the matter is, that Master 
 Simon has met with a sad rebuff since my 
 Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at that 
 time to be joked about a widow, a fine dashing 
 woman, as he privately informed me. I had 
 supposed the pleasure he betrayed on these 
 occasions resulted from the usual fondness of 
 old bachelors for being teased about getting 
 married, and about flirting, and being fickle 
 and false-hearted. I am assured, however, that 
 Master Simon had really persuaded himself the 
 widow had a kindness for him ; in consequence 
 of which he had been at some extraordinary 
 expense in new clothes, and had actually got 
 Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from 
 Stultz. He began to throw out hints about 
 the importance of a man's settling himself in 
 life before he grew old ; he would look grave 
 whenever the widow and matrimony were men 
 tioned in the same sentence; and privately
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 asked the opinion of the squire and parson 
 about the prudence of marrying a widow with 
 a rich jointure, but who had several children. 
 
 An important member of a great family 
 connexion cannot harp much upon the theme 
 of matrimony without its taking wind ; and it 
 soon got buzzed about that Mr. Simon Brace- 
 bridge was actually gone to Doncaster races, 
 with a new horse ; but that he meant to return 
 in a curricle with a lady by his side. Master 
 Simon did, indeed, go to the races, and that 
 with a new horse ; and the dashing widow did 
 make her appearance in her curricle ; but it 
 was unfortunately driven by a strapping young 
 Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Simon's 
 self-complacency would not allow him to ven 
 ture into competition, and to whom she was 
 married shortly after. 
 
 It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master 
 Simon for several months, having never before 
 been fully committed. The dullest head in 
 the family had a joke upon him ; and there is no 
 one that likes less to be bantered than an ab-
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 solute joker. He took refuge for a time at 
 Lady Lillycraft's, until the matter should blow 
 over ; and occupied himself by looking over 
 her accounts, regulating the village choir, and 
 inculcating loyalty into a pet bullfinch, by 
 teaching him to whistle " God save the King." 
 
 He has now pretty nearly recovered from 
 the mortification ; holds up his head, and laughs 
 as much as any one ; again affects to pity mar 
 ried men, and is particularly facetious about 
 widows, when Lady Lillycraft is not by. His 
 only time of trial is when the general gets hold 
 of him, who is infinitely heavy and persevering 
 in his waggery, and will interweave a dull joke 
 through the various topics of a whole dinner 
 time. Master Simon often parries these attacks 
 by a stanza from his old work of " Cupid's So 
 licitor for Love :" 
 
 ' ' ' Tis in vain to wooe a widow over long, 
 
 In once or twice her mind you may perceive ; 
 Widows are subtle, be they old or young, 
 And by their wiles young men they will deceive."
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 Come, do not weep, my girl, 
 
 Forget him, pretty pensiveness ; there will 
 Come others, every day, as good as he. 
 
 SIR J. SUCKLING. 
 
 THE approach of a wedding in a family is 
 always an event of great importance, but par 
 ticularly so in a household like this, in a re 
 tired part of the country. Master Simon, who 
 is a pervading spirit, and, through means of 
 the butler and housekeeper, knows every thing 
 that goes forward, tells me that the maid-ser 
 vants are continually trying their fortunes, and 
 that the servants'-hall has of late been quite a 
 scene of incantation. 
 
 It is amusing to notice how the oddities of 
 the head of a family flow down through all the 
 branches. The squire, in the indulgence of
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 his love of every thing that smacks of old 
 times, has held so many grave conversations 
 with the parson at table, about popular super 
 stitions and traditional rites, that they have 
 been carried from the parlour to the kitchen 
 by the listening domestics, and, being appa 
 rently sanctioned by such high authority, the 
 whole house has become infected by them. 
 
 The servants are all versed in the common 
 modes of trying luck, and the charms to ensure 
 constancy. They read their fortunes by draw 
 ing strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a 
 form of words, and looking in a pail of water. 
 St. Mark's eve, I am told, was a busy time 
 with them ; being an appointed night for cer 
 tain mystic ceremonies. Several of them sowed 
 hemp-seed to be reaped by their true lovers ; 
 and they even ventured upon the solemn and 
 fearful preparation of the dumb-cake. This 
 must be done fasting, and in silence. The 
 ingredients are handed down in traditional 
 form. "An eggshell full of salt, an eggshell
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 235 
 
 full of malt, and an eggshell full of barley- 
 meal." When the cake is ready, it is put upon 
 a pan over the fire, and the future husband 
 will appear ; turn the cake, and retire ; but if 
 a word is spoken, or a fast is broken, during 
 this awful ceremony, there is no knowing what 
 horrible consequences would ensue ! 
 
 The experiments, in the present instance, 
 came to no result ; they that sowed the hemp- 
 seed forgot the magic rhyme that they were 
 to pronounce, so the true lover never appeared ; 
 and as to the dumb-cake, what between the 
 awful stillness they had to keep, and the awful- 
 ness of the midnight hour, their hearts failed 
 them when they had put the cake in the pan ; 
 so that, on the striking of the great house- 
 clock in the servants'-hall, they were seized with 
 a sudden panic, and ran out of the room, to 
 which they did not return until morning, when 
 they found the mystic cake burnt to a cinder. 
 
 The most persevering at these spells, how 
 ever, is Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's 
 niece. As she is a kind of privileged personage,
 
 236 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 and rather idle, she has more time to occupy 
 herself with these matters. She has always 
 had her head full of love and matrimony. She 
 knows the dream-book by heart, and is quite 
 an oracle among the little girls of the family, 
 who always come to her to interpret their 
 dreams in the mornings. 
 
 During the present gaiety of the house, 
 however, the poor girl has worn a face full of 
 trouble ; and, to use the housekeeper's words, 
 "has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately." 
 It seems that she was born and brought up in 
 the village, where her father was parish clerk, 
 and she was an early playmate and sweetheart 
 of young Jack Tibbets. Since she has come 
 to live at the Hall, however, her head has been 
 a little turned. Being very pretty, and na 
 turally genteel, she has been much noticed 
 and indulged; and being the housekeeper's 
 niece, she has held an equivocal station between 
 a servant and a companion. She has learnt 
 something of fashions and notions among the 
 young ladies, which have effected quite a meta-
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 237 
 
 morphosis ; insomuch that her finery at church 
 on Sundays has given mortal offence to her 
 former intimates in the village. This has oc 
 casioned the misrepresentations which have 
 awakened the implacable family pride of Dame 
 Tibbets. But what is worse, Phoebe, having 
 a spice of coquetry in her disposition, showed 
 it on one or two occasions to her lover, which 
 produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being 
 very proud and fiery, has absolutely turned his 
 back upon her fop several successive Sundays. 
 
 The poor girl is full of sorrow and repent 
 ance, and would fain make up with her lover ; 
 but he feels his security, and stands aloof. In 
 this he is doubtless encouraged by his mother, 
 who is continually reminding him what he 
 owes to his family ; for this same family pride 
 seems doomed to be the eternal bane of lovers. 
 
 As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I 
 have felt quite concerned for the luckless 
 Phcebe, ever since I heard her story. It is a 
 sad thing to be thwarted in love at any time, 
 but particularly so at this tender season of the
 
 238 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 year, when every living thing, even to the very 
 butterfly, is sporting with its mate ; and the 
 green fields, and the budding groves, and the 
 singing of the birds, and the sweet smell of 
 the flowers, are enough to turn the head of a 
 love-sick girl. I am told that the coolness of 
 young Ready-money lies very heavy at poor 
 Phoebe's heart. Instead of singing about the 
 house as formerly, she goes about pale and 
 sighing, and is apt to break into tears when 
 her companions are full of merriment. 
 
 Mrs. Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my 
 Lady Lillycraft, has had long talks and walks 
 with Phoebe, up and down the avenue, of an 
 evening ; and has endeavoured to squeeze some 
 of her own verjuice into the other's milky na 
 ture. She speaks with contempt and abhor 
 rence of the whole sex, and advises Phoebe to 
 despise all the men as heartily as she does. 
 But Phoebe's loving temper is not to be curdled ; 
 she has no such thing as hatred or contempt 
 for mankind in her whole composition. She 
 has all the simple fondness of heart of poor,
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 239 
 
 weak, loving woman ; and her only thoughts 
 at present are, how to conciliate and reclaim 
 her wayward swain. 
 
 The spells and love-charms, which are matters 
 of sport to the other domestics, are serious 
 concerns with this love-stricken damsel. She 
 is continually trying her fortune in a variety 
 of ways. I am told that she has absolutely 
 fasted for six Wednesdays and three Fridays 
 successively, having understood that it was a 
 sovereign charm to ensure being married to 
 one's liking within the year. She carries about, 
 also, a lock of her sweetheart's hair, and a 
 riband he once gave her, being a mode of pro 
 ducing constancy in, a lover. She even went 
 so far as to try her fortune by the moon, which 
 has always had much to do with lovers' dreams 
 and fancies. For this purpose she went out in 
 the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone in 
 the meadow, and repeated the old traditional 
 rhyme : 
 
 ' ' All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee ; 
 I pray thee, good moon, now show to me 
 The youth who my future husband shall be."
 
 240 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 When she came back to the house, she was 
 faint and pale, and went immediately to bed. 
 The next morning she told the porter's wife 
 that she had seen some one close by the hedge 
 in the meadow, which she was sure was young 
 Tibbets ; at any rate, she had dreamt of him 
 all night ; both of which, the old dame assured 
 her, were most happy signs. It has since turned 
 out that the person in the meadow was old 
 Christy, the huntsman, who was walking his 
 nightly rounds with the great stag-hound; so 
 that Phrebe's faith in the charm is completely 
 shaken.
 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 YESTERDAY the fair Julia made her first 
 appearance down stairs since her accident; 
 and the sight of her spread an universal cheer 
 fulness through the household. She was ex 
 tremely pale, however, and could not walk 
 without pain and difficulty. She was assisted, 
 therefore, to a sofa in the library, which is 
 pleasant and retired, looking out among trees ; 
 and so quiet, that the little birds come hopping 
 upon the windows, and peering curiously into 
 the apartment. Here several of the family 
 gathered round, and devised means to amuse 
 her, and make the day pass pleasantly. Lady 
 Lillycraft lamented the want of some new 
 novel to while away the time ; and was almost 
 in a pet, because the " Author of Waverley" 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 242 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 had not produced a work for the last three 
 months. 
 
 There was a motion made to call on the 
 parson for some of his old legends or ghost 
 stories ; but to this Lady Lillycraft objected, 
 as they were apt to give her the vapours. 
 General Harbottle gave a minute account, for 
 the sixth time, of the disaster of a friend in 
 India, who had his leg bitten off by a tyger, 
 whilst he was hunting ; and was proceeding to 
 menace the company with a chapter or two 
 about Tippoo Saib. 
 
 At length the captain bethought himself, 
 and said, he believed he had a manuscript tale 
 lying in one corner of his campaigning trunk, 
 which, if he could find, and the company were 
 desirous, he would read to them. The offer 
 was eagerly accepted. He retired, and soon 
 returned with a roll of blotted manuscript, in 
 a very gentlemanlike, but nearly illegible, hand, 
 and a great part written on cartridge paper. 
 
 " It is one of the scribblings," said he, " of my 
 poor friend, Charles Lightly, of the dragoons.
 
 THE LIBRARY. 243 
 
 He was a curious, romantic, studious, fanciful 
 fellow ; the favourite, and often the unconsci 
 ous butt of his fellow officers, who entertained 
 themselves with his eccentricities. He was in 
 some of the hardest service in the peninsula, 
 and distinguished himself by his gallantry. 
 When the intervals of duty permitted, he was 
 fond of roving about the country, visiting noted 
 places, and was extremely fond of Moorish 
 ruins. When at his quarters, he was a great 
 scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with 
 his pen in his hand. 
 
 " As I was a much younger officer, and a 
 very young man, he took me, in a manner, 
 under his care, and we became close friends. 
 He used often to read his writings to me, having 
 a great confidence in my taste, for I always 
 praised them. Poor fellow ! he was shot down 
 close by me at Waterloo. We lay wounded 
 together for some time, during a hard contest 
 that took place near at hand. As I was least 
 hurt, I tried to relieve him, and to stanch the 
 blood which flowed from a wound in his breast.
 
 244 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 He lay with his head in my lap, and looked 
 up thankfully in my face, but shook his head 
 faintly, and made a sign that it was all over 
 with him ; and, indeed, he died a few minutes 
 afterwards, just as our men had repulsed the 
 enemy, and came to our relief. I have his fa 
 vourite dog and his pistols to this day, and 
 several of his manuscripts, which he gave to 
 me at different times. The one I am now going 
 to read, is a tale which he said he wrote in 
 Spain, during the time that he lay ill of a wound 
 received at Salamanca." 
 
 We now arranged ourselves to hear the 
 story. The captain seated himself on the sofa, 
 beside the fair Julia, who I had noticed to be 
 somewhat affected by the picture he had care 
 lessly drawn of wounds and dangers in a field 
 of battle. She now leaned her arm fondly on 
 his shoulder, and her eye glistened as it rested 
 on the manuscript of the poor, literary dragoon. 
 Lady Lillycraft buried herself in a deep, well- 
 cushioned elbow-chair. Her dogs were nestled 
 on soft mats at her feet ; and the gallant ge-
 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 neral took his station, in an arm-chair, at her 
 side, and toyed with her elegantly ornamented 
 work-bag. The rest of the circle being all 
 equally well accommodated, the captain began 
 his story; a copy of which I have procured for 
 the benefit of the reader.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 What a life doe I lead with my master; nothing but blowing 
 of bellowes, beating of spirits, and scraping of croslets ! It is 
 a very secret science, for none almost can understand the lan 
 guage of it. Sublimation, almigation, calcination, rubification, 
 albification, and fermentation ; with as many termes unpos- 
 sible to be uttered as the arte to be compassed. 
 
 LILLY'S GALI.ATHEA. 
 
 ONCE upon a time, in the ancient city of 
 Grenada, there sojourned a young man of the 
 name of Antonio de Castros. He wore the 
 garb of a student of Salamanca, and was pur 
 suing a course of reading in the library of the 
 university; and, at intervals of leisure, in 
 dulging his curiosity by examining those re 
 mains of Moorish magnificence for which Gre 
 nada is renowned. , 
 
 Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently 
 noticed an old man of a singular appearance,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 247 
 
 who was likewise a visitor to the library. He 
 was lean and withered, though apparently more 
 from study than from age. His eyes, though 
 bright and visionary, were sunk in his head, 
 and thrown into shade by overhanging eye 
 brows. His dress was always the same : a 
 black doublet, a short black cloak, very rusty 
 and threadbare, a small ruff, and a large over 
 shadowing hat. 
 
 His appetite for knowledge seemed insati 
 able. He would pass whole days in the library 
 absorbed in study, consulting a multiplicity of 
 authors, as though he were pursuing some in 
 teresting subject through all its ramifications ; 
 so that, in general, when evening came, he was 
 almost buried among books and manuscripts. 
 
 The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and 
 he inquired of the attendants concerning the 
 stranger. No one could give him any informa 
 tion, excepting that he had been for some 
 time past a casual frequenter of the library; 
 that his reading lay chiefly among works treat 
 ing of the occult sciences, and that he was par-
 
 248 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 ticularly curious in his inquiries after Arabian 
 manuscripts. They added, that he never held 
 communication with any one, excepting to ask 
 for particular works ; that, after a fit of studious 
 application, he would disappear for several 
 days, and even weeks, and when he revisited 
 the library, he would look more withered and 
 haggard than ever. The student felt interested 
 by this account ; he was leading rather a de 
 sultory life, and had all that capricious curio 
 sity which springs up in idleness. He deter 
 mined to make himself acquainted with this 
 book-worm, and find out who and what he 
 was. 
 
 The next time that he saw the old man at 
 the library he commenced his approaches, by 
 requesting permission to look into one of the 
 volumes with which the unknown appeared 
 to have done. The latter merely bowed his 
 head in token of assent. After pretending to 
 look through the volume with great attention, 
 he returned it with many acknowledgements. 
 The stranger made no reply.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 " May I ask, senor," said Antonio, with some 
 hesitation, " may I ask what you are searching 
 after in all these books ?" 
 
 The old man raised his head, with an ex 
 pression of surprise, at having his studies inter 
 rupted for the first time, and by so intrusive a 
 question. He surveyed the student with a side 
 glance from head to foot : " Wisdom, my son," 
 said he, calmly ; " and the search requires every 
 moment of my attention." He then cast his 
 eyes upon his book and resumed his studies. 
 
 " But, father," said Antonio, " cannot you 
 spare a moment to point out the road to others? 
 It is to experienced travellers, like you, that we 
 strangers in the paths of knowledge must look 
 for directions on our journey." 
 
 The stranger looked disturbed : " I have 
 not time enough, my son, to learn," said he, 
 " much less to teach. I am ignorant myself 
 of the path of true knowledge ; how then can 
 I show it to others ?" 
 
 " Well, but father." 
 
 " Senor," said the old man, mildly, but
 
 250 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 earnestly, " you must see that I have but few 
 steps more to the grave. In that short space 
 have I to accomplish the whole business of my 
 existence. I have no time for words ; every 
 word is as one grain of sand of my glass wasted. 
 Suffer me to be alone." 
 
 There was no replying to so complete a 
 closing of the door of intimacy. The student 
 found himself calmly, but totally repulsed. 
 Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was 
 naturally modest, and on after-thoughts he 
 blushed at his own intrusion. His mind soon 
 became occupied by other objects. He passed 
 several days wandering among the mouldering 
 piles of Moorish architecture, those melancholy 
 monuments of an elegant and voluptuous peo 
 ple. He paced the deserted halls of the Al- 
 hambra, the paradise of the Moorish kings. He 
 visited the great court of the lions, famous for 
 the perfidious massacre of the gallant Aben- 
 cerrages. He gazed with admiration at its 
 mosaic cupolas, gorgeously painted in gold and 
 azure ; its basins of marble, its alabaster vase,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 supported by lions, and storied with inscrip 
 tions. 
 
 His imagination kindled as he wandered 
 among these scenes. They were calculated to 
 awaken all the enthusiasm of a youthful mind. 
 Most of the halls have anciently been beauti 
 fied by fountains. The fine taste of the Arabs 
 delighted in the sparkling purity and reviving 
 freshness of water, and they erected, as it were, 
 altars on every side, to that delicate element. 
 Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alham- 
 bra. It breathes along the very walls. Where- 
 ever Antonio turned his eye, he beheld inscrip 
 tions in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of 
 Moorish power and splendour within these 
 walls was confidently predicted. Alas ! how 
 has the prophecy been falsified ! Many of the 
 basins, where the fountains had once thrown 
 up their sparkling showers, were dry and 
 dusty. Some of the palaces were turned into 
 gloomy convents, and the bare-foot monk paced 
 through those courts, which had once glittered 
 with the array, and echoed to the music, of 
 Moorish chivalry.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 In the course of his rambles, the student 
 more than once encountered the old man of the 
 library. He was always alone, and so full of 
 thought as not to notice any one about him. 
 He appeared to be intent upon studying those 
 half-buried inscriptions, which are found, here 
 and there, among the Moorish ruins, and seem 
 to murmur from the earth the tale of former 
 greatness. The greater part of these have 
 since been translated ; but they were supposed 
 by many, at the time, to contain symbolical 
 revelations, and golden maxims of the Arabian 
 sages and astrologers. As Antonio saw the 
 stranger apparently decyphering these inscrip 
 tions, he felt an eager longing to make his ac 
 quaintance, and to participate in his curious 
 researches ; but the repulse he had met with 
 at the library deterred him from making any 
 further advances. 
 
 He had directed his steps one evening to 
 the sacred mount, which overlooks the beau 
 tiful valley watered by the Darro, the fertile 
 plain of the Vega, and all that rich diversity 
 of vale and mountain, that surrounds Grenada
 
 THE STUDKNT OF SALAMANCA. 53 
 
 with an earthly paradise. It was twilight when 
 he found himself at the place, where, at the 
 present day, are situated the chapels known by 
 the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are 
 so called from grottoes, in which some of the 
 primitive saints are said to have been burnt. 
 At the time of Antonio's visit, the place was an 
 object of much curiosity. In an excavation of 
 these grottoes, several manuscripts had re 
 cently been discovered, engraved on plates of 
 lead. They were written in the Arabian lan 
 guage, excepting one, which was in unknow 11 
 characters. The pope had issued a bull, for 
 bidding any one, under pain of excommuni 
 cation, to speak of these manuscripts. The pro 
 hibition had only excited the greater curiosity ; 
 and many reports were whispered about, that 
 these manuscripts contained treasures of dark 
 and forbidden knowledge. 
 
 As Antonio was examining the place from 
 whence these mysterious manuscripts had been 
 drawn, he again observed the old man of the li 
 brary, wandering among the ruins. His curiosity
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 was now fully awakened ; the time and place 
 served to stimulate it. He resolved to watch 
 this groper after secret and forgotten lore, 
 and to trace him to his habitation. There was 
 something like adventure in the thing, that 
 charmed his romantic disposition. He followed 
 the stranger, therefore, at a little distance ; 
 at first cautiously, but he soon observed him 
 to be so wrapped in his own thoughts, as to 
 take little heed of external objects. 
 
 They passed along the skirts of the moun 
 tain, and then by the shady banks of the Darro. 
 They pursued their way, for some distance 
 from Grenada, along a lonely road that led 
 among the hills. The gloom of evening was 
 gathering, and it was quite dark when the 
 stranger stopped at the portal of a solitary 
 mansion. 
 
 It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined 
 fragment, of what had once been a pile of 
 some consequence. The walls were of great 
 thickness ; the windows narrow, and generally 
 secured by iron bars. The door was of planks,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 255 
 
 studded with iron spikes, and had been of 
 great strength, though at present it was much 
 decayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruin 
 ous tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. 
 The edifice had probably been a country re 
 treat, or castle of pleasure, during the occupa 
 tion of Grenada by the Moors, and rendered 
 sufficiently strong to withstand any casual 
 assault in those warlike times. 
 
 The old man knocked at the portal. A light 
 appeared at a small window just above it, and 
 a female head looked out : it might have served 
 as a model for one of Raphael's saints. The 
 hair was beautifully braided, and gathered in 
 a silken net ; and the complexion, as well as 
 could be judged from the light, was that soft, 
 rich brunette, so becoming in southern beauty. 
 
 " It is I, my child," said the old man. The 
 face instantly disappeared, and soon after a 
 wicket-door in the large portal opened. An 
 tonio, who had ventured near to the building, 
 caught a transient sight of a delicate female 
 form. A pair of fine black eyes darted a look
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 of surprise at seeing a stranger hovering near, 
 and the door was precipitately closed. 
 
 There was something in this sudden gleam 
 of beauty that wonderfully struck the imagina 
 tion of the student. It was like a brilliant 
 flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered 
 about, regarding the gloomy pile with in 
 creasing interest. A few simple, wild notes, 
 from among some rocks and trees at a little 
 distance, attracted his attention. He found 
 there a group of Gitanas, a vagabond gipsy 
 race, which at that time abounded in Spain, and 
 lived in hovels and caves of the hills about the 
 neighbourhood of Grenada. Some were busy 
 about a fire, and others were listening to the 
 uncouth music which one of their companions, 
 seated on a ledge of the rock, was making with 
 a split reed. 
 
 Antonio endeavoured to obtain some in 
 formation of them concerning the old building 
 and its inhabitants. The one who appeared 
 to be their spokesman was a gaunt fellow, 
 with a subtle gait, a whispering voice, and
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 257 
 
 a sinister roll of the eye. He shrugged his 
 shoulders on the student's inquiries, and said 
 that all was not right in that building. An 
 old man inhabited it, whom nobody knew, and 
 whose family appeared to be only a daughter and 
 a female servant. He and his companions, he 
 added, lived up among the neighbouring hills ; 
 and as they had been about at night, they had 
 often seen strange lights, and heard strange 
 sounds from the tower. Some of the country 
 people, who worked in the vineyards among the 
 hills, believed the old man to be one that dealt 
 in the black art, and were not over fond of 
 passing near the tower at night ; " but for our 
 parts," said the Gitano, " we are not a people 
 that trouble ourselves much with fears of that 
 kind." 
 
 The student endeavoured to gain more pre 
 cise information, but they had none to furnish 
 him. They began to be solicitous for a com 
 pensation for what they had already imparted ; 
 and recollecting the loneliness of the place, 
 and the vagabond character of his companions, 
 
 VOL. i. s
 
 258 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 he was glad to give them a gratuity, and to 
 hasten homewards. 
 
 He sat down to his studies, but his brain 
 was too full of what he had seen and heard ; 
 his eye was upon the page, but his fancy still 
 returned to the tower, and he was continually 
 picturing the little window, with the beautiful 
 head peeping out ; or the door half open, and 
 the nymph-like form within. He retired to 
 bed, but the same objects haunted his dreams. 
 He was young and susceptible ; and the excited 
 state of his feelings, from wandering among the 
 abodes of departed grace and gallantry, had 
 predisposed him for a sudden impression from 
 female beauty. 
 
 The next morning he strolled again in the 
 direction of the tower. It was still more for 
 lorn by the broad glare of day than in the 
 gloom of evening. The walls were crumbling, 
 and weeds and moss were growing in every 
 crevice. It had the look of a prison rather 
 than a dwelling-house. In one angle, however, 
 he remarked a window which seemed an ex-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 59 
 
 ception to the surrounding squalidness. There 
 was a curtain drawn within it, and flowers 
 standing on the window-stone. Whilst he was 
 looking at it the curtain was partially with 
 drawn, and a delicate white arm, of the most 
 beautiful roundness, was put forth to water 
 the flowers. 
 
 The student made a noise to attract the at 
 tention of the fair florist. He succeeded. The 
 curtain was further drawn, and he had a glance 
 of the same lovely face he had seen the even 
 ing before ; it was but a mere glance ; the 
 curtain again fell, and the casement closed. 
 All this was calculated to excite the feelings 
 of a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown 
 under other circumstances, it is probable that 
 he would not have been struck with her beauty ; 
 but this appearance of being shut up and kept 
 apart gave her the value of a treasured gem. 
 He passed and repassed before the house several 
 times in the course of the day, but saw nothing 
 more. He was there again in the evening. 
 The whole aspect of the house was dreary.
 
 260 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 The narrow windows emitted no rays of cheer 
 ful light, to indicate that there was social life 
 within. Antonio listened at the portal, but no 
 sound of voices reached his ear. Just then he 
 heard the clapping to of a distant door, and 
 fearing to be detected in the unworthy act of 
 eaves-dropping, he precipitately drew off to 
 the opposite side of the road, and stood in the 
 shadow of a ruined archway. 
 
 He now remarked a light from a window in 
 the tower. It was fitful and changeable ; 
 commonly feeble and yellowish, as if from a 
 lamp ; with an occasional glare of some vivid 
 metallic colour, followed by a dusky glow. A 
 column of dense smoke would now and then 
 rise in the air, and hang like a canopy over 
 the tower. There was altogether such a lone 
 liness and seeming mystery about the building 
 and its inhabitants, that Antonio was half in 
 clined to indulge the country people's notions, 
 and to fancy it the den of some powerful 
 sorcerer, and the fair damsel he had seen to be 
 some spell-bound beauty.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 261 
 
 After some time had elapsed, a light ap 
 peared in the window where he had seen the 
 beautiful arm. The curtain was down, but it 
 was so thin that he could perceive the shadow 
 of some one passing and repassing between it 
 and the light. He fancied that he could 
 distinguish that the form was delicate ; and 
 from the alacrity of its movements, it was 
 evidently youthful. He had not a doubt but 
 this was the bed-chamber of his beautiful 
 unknown. 
 
 Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, 
 and a female voice singing. He drew near 
 cautiously, and listened. It was a plaintive 
 Moorish ballad, and he recognised in it the 
 lamentations of one of the Abencerrages on 
 leaving the walls of lovely Grenada. It was 
 full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of 
 the delights of early life ; the hours of love it 
 had enjoyed on the banks of the Darro, and 
 among the blissful abodes of the Alhambra. It 
 bewailed the fallen honours of the Abencer 
 rages, and imprecated vengeance on their op 
 pressors. Antonio was affected by the music.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 It singularly coincided with the place. It was 
 like the voice of past times echoed in the pre 
 sent, and breathing among the monuments of 
 its departed glories. 
 
 The voice ceased ; after a time the light dis 
 appeared, and all was still. " She sleeps ! " 
 said Antonio, fondly. He lingered about the 
 building with the devotion with which a lover 
 lingers about the bower of sleeping beauty. 
 The rising moon threw its silver beams on the 
 gray walls, and glittered on the casement. 
 The late gloomy landscape gradually became 
 flooded with its radiance. Finding, therefore, 
 that he could no longer move about in obscurity, 
 and fearful that his loiterings might be ob 
 served, he reluctantly retired* 
 
 The curiosity which had at first drawn the 
 young man to the tower was now seconded by 
 feelings of a more romantic kind. His studies 
 were almost entirely abandoned. He main 
 tained a kind of blockade of the old mansion ; 
 he would take a book with him, and pass a 
 great part of the day under the trees in its 
 vicinity ; keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 endeavouring to ascertain what were the walks 
 of his mysterious charmer. He found, how 
 ever, that she never went out except to mass, 
 when she was accompanied by her father. He 
 waited at the door of the church, and offered 
 her the holy water, in the hopes of touching 
 her hand; a little office of gallantry common 
 in catholic countries. She, however, modestly 
 declined, without raising her eyes to see who 
 made the offer, and always took it herself from 
 the font. She was attentive in her devotion ; 
 her eyes were never taken from the altar or 
 the priest ; and, on returning home, her coun 
 tenance was almost entirely concealed by her 
 mantilla. 
 
 Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for 
 several days, and was hourly getting more 
 and more interested in the chase, but never a 
 step nearer to the game. His lurkings about 
 the house had probably been noticed, for he no 
 longer saw the fair face at the window, nor 
 the white arm put forth to water the flowers. 
 His only consolation was to repair nightly to
 
 264 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 his post of observation andlisten to her warbling, 
 and if by chance he could catch a sight of 
 her shadow, passing and repassing before the 
 window, he thought himself most fortunate. 
 
 As he was indulging in one of these evening 
 vigils, which were complete revels of the ima 
 gination, the sound of approaching footsteps 
 made him withdraw into the deep shadow of 
 the ruined archway, opposite to the tower. A 
 cavalier approached, wrapped in a large Spanish 
 cloak. He paused under the window of the 
 tower, and after a little while began a serenade, 
 accompanied by his guitar, in the usual style 
 of Spanish gallantry. His voice was rich and 
 manly ; he touched the instrument with skill, 
 and sang with amorous and impassioned elo 
 quence. The plume of his hat was buckled by 
 jewels that sparkled in the moon-beams ; and, 
 as he played on the guitar, his cloak falling off 
 from one shoulder, showed him to be richly 
 dressed. It was evident that he was a person 
 of rank. 
 
 The idea now flashed across Antonio's mind,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 that the affections of his unknown beauty might 
 be engaged. She was young, and doubtless 
 susceptible ; and it was not in the nature of 
 Spanish females to be deaf and insensible to 
 music and admiration. The surmise brought 
 with it a feeling of dreariness. There was a 
 pleasant dream of several days suddenly dis 
 pelled. He had never before experienced any 
 thing of the tender passion ; and, as its morn 
 ing dreams are always delightful, he would fain 
 have continued in the delusion. 
 
 " But what have I to do with her attach 
 ments ?" thought he, " I have no claim on her 
 heart, nor even on her acquaintance. How do 
 I know that she is worthy of affection ? Or if 
 she is, must not so gallant a lover as this, with 
 his jewels, his rank, and his detestable music, 
 have completely captivated her? What idle 
 humour is this that I have fallen into ? I must 
 again to my books. Study, study will soon 
 chase away all these idle fancies !" 
 
 The more he thought, however, the more he 
 became entangled in- the spell which his lively
 
 266 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 imagination had woven round him; and now 
 that a rival had appeared, in addition to the 
 other obstacles that environed this enchanted 
 beauty, she appeared ten times more lovely and 
 desirable. It was some slight consolation to 
 him to perceive .that the gallantry of the un 
 known met with no apparent return from the 
 tower. The light at the window was extin 
 guished. The curtain remained undrawn, and 
 none of the customary signals were given to 
 intimate that the serenade was accepted. 
 
 The cavalier lingered for some time about 
 the place, and sang several other tender airs 
 with a taste and feeling that made Antonio's 
 heart ache ; at length he slowly retired. The 
 student remained with folded arms, leaning 
 against the ruined arch, endeavouring to sum 
 mon up resolution enough to depart ; but there 
 was a romantic fascination that still enchained 
 him to the place. " It is the last time," said 
 he, willing to compromise between his feelings 
 and his judgment, " it is the last time ; then 
 let me enjoy the dream a few moments longer."
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 267 
 
 As his eye ranged about the old building to 
 take a farewell look, he observed the strange 
 light in the tower, which he had noticed on a 
 former occasion. It kept beaming up and de 
 clining as before. A pillar of smoke rose in 
 the air, and hung in sable volumes. It was 
 evident the old man was busied in some of those 
 operations that had gained him the reputation 
 of a sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood. 
 
 Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare 
 shone through the casement, followed by a 
 loud report, and then a fierce and ruddy glow. 
 A figure appeared at the window, uttering 
 cries of agony or alarm; but immediately 
 disappeared, and a body of smoke and flame 
 whirled out of the narrow aperture. Antonio 
 rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with 
 vehemence. He was only answered by loud 
 shrieks, and found that the females were al 
 ready in helpless consternation. With an 
 exertion of desperate strength he forced the 
 wicket from its hinges, and rushed into the 
 house.
 
 268 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 He found himself in a small vaulted hall, and 
 by the light of the moon which entered at the 
 door, he saw a staircase to the left. He hurried 
 up it to a narrow corridor, through which was 
 rolling a volume of smoke. He found here the 
 two females in a frantic state of alarm ; one of 
 them clasped her hands, and implored him to 
 save her father. 
 
 The corridor terminated in a spiral flight 
 of steps, leading up to the tower. He sprang 
 up it to a small door, through the chinks of 
 which came a glow of light, and smoke was 
 spuming out. He burst it open, and found 
 himself in an antique vaulted chamber, fur 
 nished with furnace, and various chemical ap 
 paratus. A shattered retort lay on the stone 
 floor ; a quantity of combustibles, nearly con 
 sumed, with various half-burnt books and pa 
 pers, were sending up an expiring flame, and 
 filling the chamber with stifling smoke. Just 
 within the threshold lay the reputed conjuror. 
 He was bleeding, his clothes were scorched, 
 and he appeared lifeless. Antonio caught him
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 269 
 
 up, and bore him down the stairs to a chamber 
 in which there was a light, and laid him on a 
 bed. The female domestic was despatched 
 for such appliances as the house afforded ; but 
 the daughter threw herself frantically beside 
 her parent, and could not be reasoned out of 
 her alarm. Her dress was all in disorder ; her 
 dishevelled hair hung in rich confusion about 
 her neck and bosom, and never was there be 
 held a lovelier picture of terror and affliction. 
 
 The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon 
 produced signs of returning animation in his 
 patient. The old man's wounds, though severe, 
 were not dangerous. They had evidently been 
 produced by the bursting of the retort ; in his 
 bewilderment he had been enveloped in the 
 stifling metallic vapours, which had overpow 
 ered his feeble frame, and had not Antonio 
 arrived to his assistance, it is possible he might 
 never have recovered. 
 
 By slow degrees he came to his senses. He 
 looked about with a bewildered air at the
 
 270 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 chamber, the agitated group around, and the 
 student who was leaning over him. 
 
 " Where am I ?" said he, wildly. 
 
 At the sound of his voice his daughter ut 
 tered a faint exclamation of delight. "My 
 poor Inez !" said he, embracing her ; then put 
 ting his hand to his head, and taking it away 
 stained with blood, he seemed suddenly to 
 recollect himself, and to be overcome with 
 emotion. 
 
 " Ay !" cried he, " all is over with me ! all 
 gone! all vanished! gone in a moment! the 
 labour of a lifetime lost !" 
 
 His daughter attempted to soothe him, but 
 he became slightly delirious, and raved inco 
 herently about malignant demons, and about 
 the habitation of the green lion being de 
 stroyed. His wounds being dressed, and such 
 other remedies administered as his situation 
 required, he sunk into a state of quiet. Antonio 
 now turned his attention to the daughter, 
 whose sufferings had been little inferior to
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 271 
 
 those of her father. Having with great dif 
 ficulty succeeded in tranquillizing her fears, 
 he endeavoured to prevail upon her to retire, 
 and seek the repose so necessary to her frame, 
 proffering to remain by her father until morn 
 ing. "I am a stranger," said he, " it is true, and 
 my offer may appear intrusive ; but I see you are 
 lonely and helpless, and I cannot help ventur 
 ing over the limits of mere ceremony. Should 
 you feel any scruple or doubt, however, say 
 but a word, and I will instantly retire." 
 
 There was a frankness, a kindness, and a 
 modesty mingled in Antonio's deportment that 
 inspired instant confidence; and his simple 
 scholar's garb was a recommendation in the 
 house of poverty. The females consented to 
 resign the sufferer to his care, as they would 
 be the better able to attend to him on the mor 
 row. On retiring, the old domestic was pro* 
 fuse in her benedictions; the daughter only 
 looked her thanks ; but as they shone through 
 the tears that filled her fine black eyes, the 
 student thought them a thousand times the 
 most eloquent.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Here, then, he was, by a singular turn of 
 chance, completely housed within this myste 
 rious mansion. When left to himself, and the 
 bustle of the scene was over, his heart throbbed 
 as he looked round the chamber in which he 
 was sitting. It was the daughter's room, the 
 promised land towards which he had cast so 
 many a longing gaze. The furniture was old, 
 and had probably belonged to the building in its 
 prosperous days ; but every thing was arranged 
 with propriety. The flowers that he had seen 
 her attend stood in the window ; a guitar 
 leaned against a table, on which stood a cruci 
 fix, and before it lay a missal and a rosary. 
 There reigned an air of purity and serenity 
 about this little nestling place of innocence ; it 
 was the emblem of a chaste and quiet mind. 
 Some few articles of female dress lay on the 
 chairs ; and there was the very bed on which 
 she had slept ; the pillow on which her soft 
 cheek had reclined! The poor scholar was 
 treading enchanted ground; for what fairy 
 land has more of magic in it than the bed 
 chamber of innocence and beauty ?
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 From various expressions of the old man in 
 his ravings, and from what he had noticed on 
 a subsequent visit to the tower, to see that the 
 fire was extinguished, Antonio had gathered 
 that his patient was an alchymist. The phi 
 losopher's stone was an object eagerly sought 
 after by visionaries in those days ; but in con 
 sequence of the superstitious prejudices of 
 the times, and the frequent persecutions of 
 its votaries, they were apt to pursue their 
 experiments in secret ; in lonely houses, in 
 caverns and ruins, or in the privacy of cloistered 
 cells. 
 
 In the course of the night the old man had 
 several fits of restlessness and delirium ; he 
 would call out upon Theophrastus, and Geber, 
 and Albertus Magnus, and other sages of his 
 art ; and anon would murmur about fermenta 
 tion and projection, until, towards daylight, he 
 once more sunk into a salutary sleep. When 
 the morning sun darted his rays into the case 
 ment, the fair Inez, attended by the female do 
 mestic, came blushing into the chamber. The 
 
 VOL. i. T
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 student now took his leave, having himself need 
 of repose, but obtained ready permission to re 
 turn and inquire after the sufferer. 
 
 When he called again, he found the alchy- 
 mist languid and in pain, but apparently suffer 
 ing more in mind than in body. His delirium 
 had left him, and he had been informed of the 
 particulars of his deliverance, and of the sub 
 sequent attentions of the scholar. He could 
 do little more than look his thanks, but An 
 tonio did not require them ; his own heart re 
 paid him for all that he had done, and he almost 
 rejoiced in the disaster that had gained him 
 an entrance into this mysterious habitation. 
 The alchymist was so helpless as to need much 
 assistance ; Antonio remained with him there 
 fore the greater part of the day. He repeated 
 his visit the next day, and the next. Every 
 day his company seemed more pleasing to the 
 invalid ; and every day he felt his interest in 
 the latter increasing. Perhaps the presence of 
 the daughter might have been at the bottom 
 of this solicitude.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 275 
 
 He had frequent and long conversations with 
 the alchymist. He found him, as men of his 
 pursuits were apt to be, a mixture of enthusiasm 
 and simplicity ; of curious and extensive read 
 ing on points of little utility, with great in 
 attention to the every-day occurrences of life, 
 and profound ignorance of the world. He was 
 deeply versed in singular and obscure branches 
 of knowledge, and much given to visionary 
 speculations. Antonio, whose mind was of a 
 romantic cast, had himself given some atten 
 tion to the occult sciences, and he entered upon 
 those themes with an ardour that delighted the 
 philosopher. Their conversations frequently 
 turned upon astrology, divination, and the 
 great secret. The old man would forget his 
 aches and wounds, rise up like a spectre in his 
 bed, and kindle into eloquence on his favourite 
 topics. When gently admonished of his situa 
 tion, it would but prompt him to another sally 
 of thought. 
 
 " Alas, my son !" he would say, " is not this 
 very decrepitude and suffering another proof 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 of the importance of those secrets with which 
 we are surrounded ? Why are we trammelled 
 by disease, withered by old age, and our spirits 
 quenched, as it were, within us, but because 
 we have lost those secrets of life and youth 
 which were known to our parents before their 
 fall ? To regain these have philosophers been 
 ever since aspiring ; but just as they are on the 
 point of securing the precious secrets for ever, 
 the brief period of life is at an end ; they die, 
 and with them all their wisdom and experience. 
 ' Nothing,' as De Nuysment observes, ' nothing 
 is wanting for man's perfection but a longer 
 life, less crossed with sorrows and maladies, to 
 the attaining of the full and perfect knowledge 
 of things.'" 
 
 At length Antonio so far gained on the heart 
 of his patient, as to draw from him the outlines 
 of his story. 
 
 Felix de Vasquez, the alchymist, was a native 
 of Castile, and of an ancient and honourable 
 line. Early in life he had married a beautiful 
 female, a descendant from one of the Moorish
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 277 
 
 families. The marriage displeased his father, 
 who considered the pure Spanish blood con 
 taminated by this foreign mixture. It is true, 
 the lady traced her descent from one of the 
 Abencerrages, the most gallant of Moorish 
 cavaliers, who had embraced the Christian 
 faith on being exiled from the walls of Gre 
 nada. The injured pride of the father, how 
 ever, was not to be appeased. He never saw 
 his son afterwards ; and on dying left him but 
 a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the 
 residue, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, 
 to the erection of convents, and the perform 
 ance of masses for souls in purgatory. Don 
 Felix resided for a long time in the neighbour 
 hood of Valladolid in a state of embarrassment 
 and obscurity. He devoted himself to intense 
 study, having, while at the university of Sala 
 manca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. 
 He was enthusiastic and speculative ; he went 
 on from one branch of knowledge to another, 
 until he became zealous in the search after the 
 grand Arcanum.
 
 278 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 He had at first engaged in the pursuit with 
 the hopes of raising himself from his present 
 obscurity, and resuming the rank and dignity 
 to which his birth entitled him ; but, as usual, 
 it ended in absorbing every thought, and be 
 coming the business of his existence. He was 
 at length aroused from this mental abstraction 
 by the calamities of his household. A malig 
 nant fever swept off his wife and all his child 
 ren, excepting an infant daughter. These 
 losses for a time overwhelmed and stupefied 
 him. His home had in a manner died away 
 from around him, and he felt lonely and for 
 lorn. When his spirit revived within him, he 
 determined to abandon the scene of his hu 
 miliation and disaster ; to bear away the child 
 that was still left him, beyond the scene of 
 contagion, and never to return to Castile until 
 he should be enabled to reclaim the honours of 
 his line. 
 
 He had ever since been wandering and un 
 settled in his abode. Sometimes the resident 
 of populous cities, at other times of absolute
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 279 
 
 solitudes. He had searched libraries, medi 
 tated on inscriptions, visited adepts of different 
 countries, and sought to gather and concen 
 trate the rays which had been thrown by 
 various minds upon the secrets of alchymy. 
 He had at one time travelled quite to Padua 
 to search for the manuscripts of Pietro d'Abano, 
 and to inspect an urn which had been dug up 
 near Este, supposed to have been buried by 
 Maximus Olybius, and to have contained the 
 grand elixir*. 
 
 While at Padua he had met with an adept 
 versed in Arabian lore, who talked of the in- 
 
 * This urn was found in 1533. It contained a lesser one, in 
 which was a burning lamp betwixt two small vials, the one of 
 gold, the other of silver, both of them full of a very clear liquor. 
 On the largest was an inscription, stating that Maximus Olybius 
 shut up in this small vessel elements which he had prepared 
 with great toil. There were many disquisitions among the 
 learned on the subject. It was the most received opinion, that 
 this Maximus Olybius was an inhabitant of Padua, that he had 
 discovered the great secret, and that these vessels contained 
 liquor, one to transmute metals to gold, the other to silver. The 
 peasants who found the urns, imagining this precious liquor to 
 be common water, spilt every drop, so that the art of transmuting 
 metals remains as much a secret as ever.
 
 280 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 valuable manuscripts that must remain in the 
 Spanish libraries, preserved from the spoils of 
 the Moorish academies and universities ; of 
 the probability of meeting with precious un 
 published writings of Geber, and Alfarabius, 
 and Avicenna, the great physicians of the 
 Arabian schools, who, it was well known, had 
 treated much of alchymy; but above all, he 
 spoke of the Arabian tablets of lead, which 
 had recently been dug up in the neighbour 
 hood of Grenada, and which, it was confidently 
 believed among adepts, contained the lost se 
 crets of the art. 
 
 The indefatigable alchymist once more bent 
 his steps for Spain, full of renovated hope. He 
 had made his way to Grenada : he had wearied 
 himself in the study of Arabic, in decyphering 
 inscriptions, in rummaging libraries, and ex 
 ploring every possible trace left by the Arabian 
 sages. 
 
 In all his wanderings he had been accompanied 
 by Inez ; through the rough and the smooth, 
 the pleasant and the adverse ; never complain-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 281 
 
 ing, but rather seeking to soothe his cares by 
 her innocent and playful caresses. Her in 
 struction had been the employment and the 
 delight of his hours of relaxation. She had 
 grown up while they were wandering, and had 
 scarcely ever known any home but by his side. 
 He was family, friends, home, every thing to 
 her. He had carried her in his arms when 
 they first began their wayfaring ; had nestled 
 her, as an eagle does its young, among the 
 rocky heights of the Sierra Morena ; she had 
 sported about him in childhood in the solitudes 
 of the Bateucas ; had followed him, as a lamb 
 does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, 
 and into the fair plains of Languedoc ; and 
 now she was grown up to support his feeble 
 steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal 
 ancestors. 
 
 His property had gradually wasted away in 
 the course of his travels and his experiments. 
 Still hope, the constant attendant of the alchy- 
 mist, had led him on; ever on the point of reap 
 ing the reward of his labours, and ever dis-
 
 282 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 appointed. With the credulity that often at 
 tended his art, he attributed many of his dis 
 appointments to the machinations of the malig 
 nant spirits that beset the path of the alchy- 
 mist, and torment him in his solitary labours. 
 " It is their constant endeavour/' he observed, 
 "to close up every avenue to those sublime 
 truths, which would enable man to rise above 
 the abject state into which he has fallen, and 
 to return to his original perfection." To the 
 evil offices of these demons he attributed his 
 late disaster. He had been on the very verge 
 of the glorious discovery; never were the in 
 dications more completely auspicious ; all was 
 going on prosperously, when, at the critical 
 moment which should have crowned his labours 
 with success, and have placed him at the very 
 summit of human power and felicity, the burst 
 ing of a retort had reduced his laboratory and 
 himself to ruins. 
 
 " I must now," said he, " give up at the 
 very threshold of success. My books and 
 papers are burnt ; my apparatus is broken. I
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 am too old to bear up against these evils. 
 The ardour that once inspired me is gone ; my 
 poor frame is exhausted by study and watch 
 fulness, and this last misfortune has hurried 
 me towards the grave." He concluded in a 
 tone of deep dejection. Antonio endeavoured 
 to comfort and reassure him ; but the poor 
 alchymist had for once awakened to a con 
 sciousness of the worldly ills that were gather 
 ing around him, and had sunk into despond 
 ency. After a pause, and some thoughtful- 
 ness and perplexity of brow, Antonio ventured 
 to make a proposal. 
 
 " I have long," said he, " been filled with a 
 love for the secret sciences, but have felt too 
 ignorant and diffident to give myself up to 
 them. You have acquired experience ; you 
 have amassed the knowledge of a lifetime ; it 
 were a pity it should be thrown away. You 
 say you are too old to renew the toils of the 
 laboratory, suffer me to undertake them. Add 
 your knowledge to my youth and activity, and 
 what shall we not accomplish ? As a pro-
 
 284< THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 bationary fee, and a fund on which to proceed, 
 I will bring into the common stock a sum of 
 gold, the residue of a legacy, which has enabled 
 me to complete my education. A poor scholar 
 cannot boast much ; but I trust we shall soon 
 put ourselves beyond the reach of want ; and 
 if we should fail, why, I must depend, like 
 other scholars, upon my brains to carry me 
 through the world." 
 
 The philosopher's spirits, however, were more 
 depressed than the student had imagined. This 
 last shock, following in the rear of so many 
 disappointments, had almost destroyed the re 
 action of his mind. The fire of an enthusiast, 
 however, is never so low, but that it may be 
 blown again into a flame. By degrees the old 
 man was cheered and reanimated by the buoy 
 ancy and ardour of his sanguine companion. 
 He at length agreed to accept of the services 
 of the student, and once more to renew his ex 
 periments. He objected, however, to using 
 the student's gold, notwithstanding that his 
 own was nearly exhausted ; but this objection
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 285 
 
 was soon overcome; the student insisted on 
 making it a common stock and common cause ; 
 and then how absurd was any delicacy about 
 such a trifle, with men who looked forward to 
 discovering the philosophers' stone ! 
 
 While, therefore, the alchymist was slowly 
 recovering, the student busied himself in get 
 ting the laboratory once more in order. It 
 was strewed with the wrecks of retorts and 
 alembics, with old crucibles, boxes and phials 
 of powders and tinctures, and half-burnt books 
 and manuscripts. 
 
 As soon as the old man was sufficiently re 
 covered, the studies and experiments were 
 renewed. The student became a privileged 
 and frequent visitor, and was indefatigable in 
 his toils in the laboratory. The philosopher 
 daily derived new zeal and spirits from the 
 animation of his disciple. He was now enabled 
 to prosecute the enterprise with continued ex 
 ertion, having so active a coadjutor to divide 
 the toil. While he was poring over the writings 
 of Sandivogius, and Philaletehs, and Dominus
 
 286 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 de Nuysment, and endeavouring to compre 
 hend the symbolical language in which they 
 have locked up their mysteries,, Antonio would 
 occupy himself among the retorts and cru 
 cibles, and keep the furnace in a perpetual 
 glow. 
 
 With all his zeal, however, for the discovery 
 of the golden art, the feelings of the student 
 had not cooled as to the object that first drew 
 him to this ruinous mansion. During the old 
 man's illness, he had frequent opportunities of 
 being near the daughter ; and every day made 
 him more sensible to her charms. There was 
 a pure simplicity, and an almost passive gen 
 tleness in her manners ; yet with all this was 
 mingled something, whether mere maiden shy 
 ness, or a consciousness of high descent, or a 
 dash of Castilian pride, or perhaps all united, 
 that prevented undue familiarity, and made 
 her difficult of approach. The danger of her 
 father, and the measures to be taken for his 
 relief, had at first overcome this coyness and 
 reserve ; but as he recovered and her alarm
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 287 
 
 subsided, she seemed to shrink from the fami 
 liarity she had indulged with the youthful 
 stranger, and to become every day more shy 
 and silent. 
 
 Antonio had read many books, but this was 
 the first volume of womankind that he had 
 ever studied. He had been captivated with 
 the very title-page ; but the further he read 
 the more he was delighted. She seemed formed 
 to love ; her soft black eye rolled languidly 
 under its long silken lashes, and wherever it 
 turned, it would linger and repose ; there was 
 tenderness in every beam. To him alone she 
 was reserved and distant. Now that the com 
 mon cares of the sick room were at an end, 
 he saw little more of her than before his ad 
 mission to the house. Sometimes he met her 
 on his way to and from the laboratory, and at 
 such times there was ever a smile and a blush ; 
 but, after a simple salutation, she glided on 
 and disappeared. 
 
 " 'Tis plain," thought Antonio, " my presence 
 is indifferent, if not irksome to her. She has
 
 288 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 noticed my admiration, and is determined to 
 discourage it ; nothing but a feeling of grati 
 tude prevents her treating me with marked 
 distaste and then has she not another lover, 
 rich, gallant, splendid, musical ? how can I 
 suppose she would turn her eyes from so bril 
 liant a cavalier, to a poor obscure student, 
 raking among the cinders of her father's labo 
 ratory ?" 
 
 Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader 
 continually haunted his mind. He felt con 
 vinced that he was a favoured lover ; yet, if so, 
 why did he not frequent the tower ? Why did 
 he not make his approaches by noon-day ? 
 There was mystery in this eaves-dropping and 
 musical courtship. Surely Inez could not be 
 encouraging a secret intrigue ! Oh, no ! she 
 was too artless, too pure, too ingenuous ! But 
 then the Spanish females were so prone to 
 love and intrigue ; and music and moonlight 
 were so seductive, and Inez had such a tender 
 soul languishing in every look. " Oh!" would 
 the poor scholar exclaim, clasping his hands,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 289 
 
 " Oh that I could but once behold those loving 
 eyes beaming on me with affection !" 
 
 It is incredible to those who have not expe 
 rienced it, on what scanty aliment human life 
 and human love may be supported. A dry 
 crust, thrown now and then to a starving man, 
 will give him a new lease of existence ; and a 
 faint smile, or a kind look, bestowed at casual 
 intervals, will keep a lover loving on, when a 
 man in his sober senses would despair. 
 
 When Antonio found himself alone in the 
 laboratory his mind would be haunted by one 
 of these looks, or smiles, which he had received 
 in passing. He would set it in every possible 
 light, and argue on it with all the self-pleasing, 
 self-teasing logic of a lover. 
 
 The country around him was enough to 
 awaken that voluptuousness of feeling so fa 
 vourable to the growth of passion. The win 
 dow of the tower rose above the trees of the 
 romantic valley of the Darro, and looked down 
 upon some of the loveliest scenery of the Vega, 
 where groves of citron and orange were re- 
 
 VOL. i. u
 
 290 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 freshed by cool springs and brooks of the 
 purest water. The Xenel and the Darro wound 
 their shining streams along the plain, and 
 gleamed from among its bowers. The sur 
 rounding hills were covered with vineyards, 
 and the mountains crowned with snow, seemed 
 to melt into the blue sky. The delicate airs 
 that played about the tower were perfumed by 
 the fragrance of myrtle and orange blossoms, 
 and the ear was charmed with the fond war 
 bling of the nightingale, which, in these happy 
 regions, sings the whole day long. Sometimes, 
 too, there was the idle song of the muleteer, 
 sauntering along the solitary road ; or the 
 notes of the guitar from some group of pea 
 sants dancing in the shade. All these were 
 enough to fill the head of a young lover with 
 poetic fancies ; and Antonio would picture to 
 himself how he could loiter among those happy 
 groves, and wander by those gentle rivers, and 
 love away his life with Inez. 
 
 He felt at times impatient at his own weak 
 ness, and would endeavour to brush away these
 
 T^HE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 291 
 
 eobwebs of the mind. He would turn his 
 thought, with sudden effort, to his occult stu 
 dies, or occupy himself in some perplexing pro 
 cess ; but often, when he had partially suc 
 ceeded in fixing his attention, the sound of 
 Inez' lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would 
 come stealing upon the stillness of the cham 
 ber, and, as it were, floating round the tower. 
 There was no great art in her performance ; 
 but Antonio thought he had never heard music 
 comparable to this. It was perfect witchcraft 
 to hear her warble forth some of her national 
 melodies; those little Spanish romances and 
 Moorish ballads that transport the hearer, in 
 idea, to the banks of the Guadalquiver, or the 
 walls of the Alhambra, and make him dream 
 of beauties, and balconies, and moonlight sere 
 nades. 
 
 Never was poor student more sadly beset 
 than Antonio. Love is a troublesome com 
 panion in a study at the best of times; but 
 in the laboratory of an alchymist his intrusion 
 is terribly disastrous. Instead of attending
 
 292 
 
 to the retorts and crucibles, and watching the 
 process of some experiment intrusted to his 
 charge, the student would get entranced in one 
 of these love-dreams, from which he would 
 often be aroused by some fatal catastrophe. 
 The philosopher, on returning from his re 
 searches in the libraries, would find every 
 thing gone wrong, and Antonio in despair 
 over the ruins of the whole day's work. The 
 old man, however, took all quietly, for his had 
 been a life of experiment and failure. 
 
 " We must have patience, my son," would he 
 say, " as all the great masters that have gone 
 before us have had. Errors, and accidents, 
 and delays, are what we have to contend with. 
 Did not Pontanus err two hundred times be 
 fore he could obtain even the matter on which 
 to found his experiments ? The great Flamel, 
 too, did he not labour four and twenty years, 
 before he ascertained the first agent ? What 
 difficulties and hardships did not Cartilaceus 
 encounter, at the very threshold of his disco 
 veries ? And Bernard de Treves, even after he
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 2QS 
 
 had attained a knowledge of all the requisites, 
 was he not delayed full three years ? What 
 you consider accidents, my son, are the machi 
 nations of our invisible enemies. The trea 
 sures and golden secrets of nature are sur 
 rounded by spirits hostile to man. The air 
 about us teems with them. They lurk in the 
 fire of the furnace, in the bottom of the crucible 
 and the alembic, and are ever on the alert to 
 take advantage of those moments when our 
 minds are wandering from intense medita 
 tion on the great truth that we are seeking. 
 We must only strive the more to purify our 
 selves from those gross and earthly feelings 
 which becloud the soul, and prevent her from 
 piercing into nature's arcana." 
 
 " Alas !" thought Antonio, " if to be purified 
 from all earthly feeling requires that I should 
 cease to love Inez, I fear I shall never discover 
 the philosophers' stone !" 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time 
 at the alchymist's. Day after day was sending 
 the student's gold in vapour up the chimney ;
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 every blast of the furnace made him a ducat 
 the poorer, without apparently helping him a 
 jot nearer to the golden secret. Still the 
 young man stood by, and saw piece after piece 
 disappearing without a murmur : he had daily 
 an opportunity of seeing Inez, and felt as if 
 her favour would be better than silver or gold, 
 and that every smile was worth a ducat. 
 
 Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, when 
 the toils of the laboratory happened to be 
 suspended, he would walk with the alchymist 
 in what had once been a garden belonging to 
 the mansion. There were still the remains of 
 terraces and balustrades, and here and there 
 a marble urn, or mutilated statue overturned, 
 and buried among weeds and flowers run wild. 
 It was the favourite resort of the alchymist in 
 his hours of relaxation, where he would give 
 full scope to his visionary flights. His mind 
 was tinctured with the Rosycrucian doctrines. 
 He believed in elementary beings ; some favour 
 able, others adverse to his pursuits ; and in 
 the exaltation of his fancy, had often imagined
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. C 2$5 
 
 that he held communion with them in his so 
 litary walks about the whispering groves and 
 echoing walls of this old garden. 
 
 When accompanied by Antonio, he would 
 prolong these evening recreations. Indeed, he 
 sometimes did it out of consideration for his dis 
 ciple, for he feared lest his too close application, 
 and his incessant seclusion in the tower, should 
 be injurious to his health. He was delighted 
 and surprised by this extraordinary zeal and 
 perseverance in so young a tyro, and looked 
 upon him as destined to be one of the great 
 luminaries of the art. Lest the student should 
 repine at the time lost in these relaxations, the 
 good alchymist would fill them up with whole 
 some knowledge, in matters connected with 
 their pursuits ; and would walk up and down 
 the alleys with his disciple, imparting oral in 
 struction, like an ancient philosopher. In all 
 his visionary schemes there breathed a spirit 
 of lofty, though chimerical, philanthropy, that 
 won the admiration of the scholar. Nothing 
 sordid, nor sensual ; nothing petty nor selfish
 
 296 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 seemed to enter into his views, in respect to 
 the grand discoveries he was anticipating. On 
 the contrary his imagination kindled with con 
 ceptions of widely dispensated happiness. He 
 looked forward to the time when he should 
 be able to go about the earth relieving the 
 indigent, comforting the distressed; and, by his 
 unlimited means, devising and executing plans 
 for the complete extirpation of poverty, and 
 all its attendant sufferings and crimes. Never 
 were grander schemes for general good, for 
 the distribution of boundless wealth and uni 
 versal competence, devised, than by this poor, 
 indigent alchymist in his ruined tower. 
 
 Antonio would attend these peripatetic lec 
 tures with all the ardour of a devotee ; but 
 there was another circumstance which may 
 have given a secret charm to them. The garden 
 was the resort also of Inez, where she took her 
 walks of recreation ; the only exercise that 
 her secluded life permitted. As Antonio was 
 duteously pacing by the side of his instructor, 
 he would often catch a glimpse of the daughter,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 297 
 
 walking pensively about the alleys in the soft 
 twilight. Sometimes they would meet her 
 unexpectedly, and the heart of the student 
 would throb with agitation. A blush too would 
 crimson the cheek of Inez, but still she passed 
 on, and never joined them. 
 
 He had remained one evening, until rather 
 a late hour, with the alchymist in this favourite 
 resort. It was a delightful night after a sultry 
 day, and the balmy air of the garden was 
 peculiarly reviving. The old man was seated 
 on a fragment of a pedestal, looking like a part 
 of the ruin on which he sat. He was edifying 
 his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from the 
 stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in 
 the dark blue vault of a southern sky ; for he 
 was deeply versed in Behmen, and other of 
 the Rosicrucians, and talked much of the 
 signature of earthly things, and passing events, 
 which may be discerned in the heavens ; of 
 the power of the stars over corporeal beings, 
 and their influence on the fortunes of the sons 
 of men. 
 
 By degrees the moon rose, and shed her
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 gleaming light among the groves. Antonio 
 apparently listened with fixed attention to the 
 sage, but his ear was drinking in the melody 
 of Inez* voice, who was singing to her lute in 
 one of the moonlight glades of the garden. 
 The old man having exhausted his theme, sat 
 gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. An 
 tonio could not resist an inclination to steal a 
 look at this coy beauty, who was thus playing 
 the part of the nightingale, so sequestered and 
 musical. Leaving the alchymist in his celestial 
 reverie, he stole gently along one of the alleys. 
 The music had ceased, and he thought he 
 heard the sound of voices. He came to an 
 angle of a copse that had screened a kind of 
 green recess, ornamented by a marble foun 
 tain. The moon shone full upon the place, 
 and by its light, he beheld his unknown sere 
 nading rival at the feet of Inez. He was de 
 taining her by the hand, which he covered with 
 kisses ; but at sight of Antonio he started up 
 and half drew his sword, while Inez, disen 
 gaged, fled back to the house. 
 
 All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 299 
 
 were now confirmed. He did not remain to 
 encounter the resentment of his happy rival 
 at being thus interrupted, but turned from the 
 place in sudden wretchedness of heart. That 
 Inez should love another would have been 
 misery enough ; but that she should be capable 
 of a dishonourable amour, shocked him to the 
 soul. The idea of deception in so young and 
 apparently artless a being, brought with it 
 that sudden distrust in human nature, so 
 sickening to a youthful and ingenuous mind ; 
 but when he thought of the kind, simple pa 
 rent she was deceiving, whose affections all 
 centered in her, he felt for a moment a senti 
 ment of indignation, and almost of aversion. 
 
 He found the alchymist still seated in his 
 visionary contemplation of the moon. " Come 
 hither, my son," said he, with his usual en 
 thusiasm; " come, read with me in this vast vo 
 lume of wisdom, thus nightly unfolded for our 
 perusal. Wisely did the Chaldean sages affirm, 
 that the heaven is as a mystic page, uttering 
 speech to those who can rightly understand;
 
 300 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 warning them of good and evil, and instructing 
 them in the secret decrees of fate." 
 
 The student's heart ached for his venerable 
 master ; and, for a moment, he felt the futility 
 of all his occult wisdom. " Alas ! poor old 
 man ! " thought he, " of what avails all thy 
 study ? Little dost thou dream, while busied 
 in airy speculations among the stars, what a 
 treason against thy happiness is going on under 
 thine eyes ; as it were, in thy very bosom! Oh 
 Inez ! Inez ! where shall we look for truth and 
 innocence ; where shall we repose confidence 
 in woman, if even you can deceive ?" 
 
 It was a trite apostrophe, such as every lover 
 makes when he finds his mistress not quite 
 such a goddess as he had painted her. With 
 the student, however, it sprung from honest 
 anguish of heart. He returned to his lodgings 
 in pitiable confusion of mind. He now de 
 plored the infatuation that had led him on 
 until his feelings were so thoroughly engaged. 
 He resolved to abandon his pursuits at the 
 tower, and trust to absence to dispel the fasci-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 301 
 
 nation by which he had been spell-bound. He 
 no longer thirsted after the discovery of the 
 grand elixir : the dream of alchymy was over ; 
 for without Inez, what was the value of the 
 philosophers' stone ? 
 
 He rose, after a sleepless night, with the de 
 termination of taking his leave of the alchymist, 
 and tearing himself from Grenada. For several 
 days did he rise with the same resolution, and 
 every night saw him come back to his pillow 
 to repine at his want of resolution, and to make 
 fresh determinations for the morrow. In the 
 meanwhile he saw less of Inez than ever. She 
 no longer walked in the garden, but remained 
 almost entirely in her apartment. When she 
 met him, she blushed more than usual; and 
 once hesitated, as if she would have spoken ; 
 but after a temporary embarrassment, and still 
 deeper blushes, she made some casual observa 
 tion, and retired. Antonio read in this con 
 fusion, a consciousness of fault, and of that 
 fault's being discovered. " What could she 
 have wished to communicate ? Perhaps to
 
 302 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 account for the scene in the garden ; but how 
 can she account for it, or why should she ac 
 count for it to me ? What am I to her ? or 
 rather, what is she to me ?" exclaimed he, 
 impatiently; with a new resolution to break 
 through these entanglements of the heart, and 
 fly from this enchanted spot for ever. 
 
 He was returning that very night to his 
 lodgings, full of this excellent determination, 
 when, in a shadowy part of the road, he passed 
 a person, whom he recognised, by his height 
 and form, for his rival : he was going in the 
 direction of the tower. If any lingering doubts 
 remained, here was an opportunity of settling 
 them completely. He determined to follow 
 this unknown cavalier, and, under favour of 
 the darkness, observe his movements. If he 
 obtained access to the tower, or in any way a 
 favourable reception, Antonio felt as if it would 
 be a relief to his mind, and would enable him 
 to fix his wavering resolution. 
 
 The unknown, as he came near the tower, 
 was more cautious and stealthy in his ap-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. SOS 
 
 preaches. He was joined under a clump of 
 trees by another person, and they had much 
 whispering together. A light was burning in 
 the chamber of Inez, the curtain was down, 
 but the casement was left open, as the night 
 was warm. After some time, the light was 
 extinguished. A considerable interval elapsed. 
 The cavalier and his companion remained 
 under covert of the trees, as if keeping watch. 
 At length they approached the tower with 
 silent and cautious steps. The cavalier re-- 
 ceived a dark lantern from his companion, and 
 threw off his cloak. The other then softly 
 brought something from the clump of trees, 
 which Antonio perceived to be a light ladder : 
 he placed it against the wall, and the sere- 
 nader gently ascended. A sickening sensation 
 came over Antonio. Here was indeed a con 
 firmation of every fear. He was about to 
 leave the place, never to return, when he heard 
 a stifled shriek from Inez' chamber. 
 
 In an instant the fellow that stood at the 
 foot of the ladder lay prostrate on the ground.
 
 304 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Antonio wrested a stiletto from his nerveless 
 hand, and hurried up the ladder. He sprang 
 in at the window, and found Inez struggling 
 in the grasp of his fancied rival : the latter, 
 disturbed from his prey, caught up his lan 
 tern, turned its light full upon Antonio, and 
 drawing his sword, made a furious assault; 
 luckily the student saw the light gleam along 
 the blade, and parried the thrust with the 
 stiletto. A fierce, but unequal combat, en 
 sued. Antonio fought exposed to the full 
 glare of the light, while his antagonist was 
 in shadow : his stiletto, too, was but a poor 
 defence against a rapier. He saw that nothing 
 would save him, but closing with his adversary 
 and getting within his weapon : he rushed 
 furiously upon him, and gave him a severe 
 blow with the stiletto ; but received a wound 
 in return from the shortened sword. At the 
 same moment a blow was inflicted from behind, 
 by the confederate, who had ascended the 
 ladder ; it felled him to the floor, and his an 
 tagonists made their escape.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 305 
 
 By this time the cries of Inez had brought 
 her father and the domestic to the room. An 
 tonio was found weltering in his blood, and 
 senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber 
 of the alchymist, who now repaid in kind the 
 attentions which the student had once be 
 stowed upon him. Among his varied know 
 ledge he possessed some skill in surgery, which 
 at this moment was of more value than even 
 his chymical lore. He stanched and dressed 
 the wounds of his disciple, which on examina 
 tion proved less desperate than he had at first 
 apprehended. For a few days, however, his 
 case was anxious, and attended with danger. 
 The old man watched over him with the 
 affection of a parent. He felt a double debt 
 of gratitude towards him on account of his 
 daughter and himself: he loved him too as a 
 faithful and zealous disciple ; and he dreaded 
 lest the world should be deprived of the pro 
 mising talents of so aspiring an alchymist. 
 
 An excellent constitution soon medicined 
 his wounds ; and there was a balsam in the 
 
 VOL. i. x
 
 306 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 looks and words of Inez, that had a healing 
 effect on still severer wounds which he carried 
 in his heart. She displayed the strongest 
 interest in his safety; she called him her de 
 liverer, her preserver. It seemed as if her 
 grateful disposition sought, in the warmth of 
 its acknowledgments, to repay him for past 
 coldness. But what most contributed to An 
 tonio's recovery, was her explanation concern 
 ing ,his supposed rival. It was some time since 
 he had first beheld her at church, and he had 
 ever since persecuted her with his attentions. 
 He had beset her in her walks, until she had 
 been obliged to confine herself to the house, 
 except when accompanied by her father. He 
 had besieged her with letters, serenades, and 
 every art by which he could urge a vehement, 
 but clandestine and dishonourable suit. The 
 scene in the garden was as much of a surprise 
 to her as to Antonio. Her persecutor had been 
 attracted by her voice, and had found his way 
 over a ruined part of the wall. He had come 
 upon her unawares ; was detaining her by
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 307 
 
 force, and pleading his insulting passion, when 
 the appearance of the student interrupted him, 
 and enabled her to make her escape. She had 
 forborne to mention to her father the perse 
 cution which she suffered ; she wished to spare 
 him unavailing anxiety and distress, and had 
 determined to confine herself more rigorously 
 to the house ; though it appeared that even 
 here she had not been safe from his daring 
 enterprise. 
 
 Antonio inquired whether she knew the name 
 of this impetuous admirer ? She replied, that 
 he had made his advances under a fictitious 
 name ; but that she had heard him once called 
 by the name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa. 
 
 Antonio knew him, by report, for one of the 
 most determined and dangerous libertines in 
 all Grenada. Artful, accomplished, and, if he 
 chose to be so, insinuating ; but daring and 
 headlong in the pursuit of his pleasures; 
 violent and implacable in his resentments. He 
 rejoiced to find that Inez had been proof 
 against his seductions, and had been inspired
 
 308 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 with aversion by his splendid profligacy; but 
 he trembled to think of the dangers she had 
 run, and he felt solicitude about the dangers 
 that must yet environ her. 
 
 At present, however, it was probable the 
 enemy had a temporary quietus. The traces 
 of blood had been found for some distance 
 from the ladder, until they were lost among 
 thickets ; and, as nothing had been heard or 
 seen of him since, it was concluded that he had 
 been seriously wounded. 
 
 As the student recovered from his wounds, 
 he was enabled to join Inez and her father in 
 their domestic intercourse. The chamber in 
 which they usually met had probably been a 
 saloon of state in former times. The floor was 
 of marble ; the walls partially covered with 
 remains of tapestry ; the chairs, richly carved 
 and gilt, were crazed with age, and covered 
 with tarnished and tattered brocade. Against 
 the wall hung a long, rusty rapier, the only 
 relique that the old man retained of the chivalry 
 of his ancestors. There might have been some-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 309 
 
 thing to provoke a smile in the contrast be 
 tween the mansion and its inhabitants ; between 
 present poverty and the traces of departed 
 grandeur ; but the fancy of the student had 
 thrown so much romance about the edifice and 
 its inmates, that every thing was clothed with 
 charms. The philosopher, with his broken- 
 down pride, and his strange pursuits, seemed 
 to comport with the melancholy ruin he inha 
 bited ; and there was a native elegance of spirit 
 about the daughter, that showed she would 
 have graced the mansion in its happier days. 
 
 What delicious moments were these to the 
 student ! Inez was no longer coy and reserved. 
 She was naturally artless and confiding; though 
 the kind of persecution she had experienced 
 from one admirer had rendered her, for a time, 
 suspicious and circumspect towards the .other. 
 She now felt an entire confidence in the sin 
 cerity and worth of Antonio, mingled with an 
 overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met his, 
 they beamed with sympathy and kindness ; and
 
 310 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Antonio, no longer haunted by the idea of a 
 favoured rival, once more aspired to success. 
 
 At these domestic meetings, however, he had 
 little opportunity of paying his court, except 
 by looks. The alchymist supposing him, like 
 himself, absorbed in the study of alchymy, 
 endeavoured to cheer the tediousness of his 
 recovery by long conversations on the art. He 
 even brought several of his half-burnt volumes, 
 which the student had once rescued from the 
 flames, and rewarded him for their preservation, 
 by reading copious passages. He would enter 
 tain him with the great and good acts of Flamel, 
 which he effected through means of the phi 
 losophers' stone, relieving widows and orphans, 
 founding hospitals, building churches, and what 
 not ; or with the interrogatories of King Kalid, 
 and the answers of Morienus, the Roman 
 hermit of Hierusalem ; or the profound ques 
 tions which Elardus, a necromancer of the pro 
 vince of Catalonia, put to the Devil, touching 
 the secrets of alchymy, and the Devil's replies.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 311 
 
 All these were couched in occult language, 
 almost unintelligible to the unpractised ear of 
 the disciple. Indeed, the old man delighted in 
 the mystic phrases and symbolical jargon in 
 which the writers that have treated of alchymy 
 have wrapped their communications ; rendering 
 them incomprehensible except to the initiated. 
 With what rapture would he elevate his voice 
 at a triumphant passage, announcing the grand 
 discovery ! " Thou shalt see," would he ex 
 claim in the words of Henry Kuhnrade*, "the 
 stone of the philosophers (our king) go forth 
 of the bedchamber of his glassy sepulchre into 
 the theatre of this world ; that is to say, rege 
 nerated and made perfect, a shining carbuncle, a 
 most temperate splendour, whose most subtle 
 and depurated parts are inseparable, united 
 into one with a concordial mixture, exceeding 
 equal, transparent as chrystal, shining red like 
 a ruby, permanently colouring or ringing, fixt 
 in all temptations or tryals ; yea, in the exa 
 mination of the burning sulphur itself, and the 
 * Amphitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 devouring waters, and in the most vehement 
 persecution of the fire, always incombustible 
 and permanent as a salamander !" 
 
 The student had a high veneration for the 
 fathers of alchymy, and a profound respect for 
 his instructor ; but what was Henry Kuhnrade, 
 Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus him 
 self, compared to the countenance of Inez, 
 which presented such a page of beauty to his 
 perusal? While, therefore, the good alchy- 
 mist was doling out knowledge by the hour, 
 his disciple would forget books, alchymy, every 
 thing but the lovely object before him. Inez, 
 too, unpractised in the science of the heart, 
 was gradually becoming fascinated by the 
 silent attentions of her lover. Day by day 
 she seemed more and more perplexed by the 
 kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of 
 her bosom. Her eye was often cast down in 
 thought. Blushes stole to her cheek without 
 any apparent cause, and light* half-suppressed 
 sighs, would follow these short fits of musing. 
 Her little ballads, though the same that she had
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 313 
 
 always sung, yet breathed a more tender spirit. 
 Either the tones of her voice were more soft 
 and touching, or some passages were delivered 
 with a feeling which she had never before given 
 them. Antonio, besides his love for the abstruse 
 sciences, had a pretty turn for music ; and 
 never did philosopher touch the guitar more 
 tastefully. As, by degrees, he conquered the 
 mutual embarrassment that kept them asunder, 
 he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her 
 songs. He had a voice full of fire and tender 
 ness : as he sang, one would have thought, from 
 the kindling blushes of his com'panion, that he 
 had been pleading his own passion in her ear. 
 Let those who would keep two youthful hearts 
 asunder beware of music. Oh ! this leaning over 
 chairs, and conning the same music book, and 
 entwining of voices, and melting away in har 
 monies ! the German waltz is nothing to it. 
 
 The worthy alchymist saw nothing of all 
 this. His mind could admit of no idea that 
 was not connected with the discovery of the
 
 314 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 grand arcanum, and he supposed his youthful 
 coadjutor equally devoted. He was a mere 
 child as to human nature ; and, as to the pas 
 sion of love, whatever he might once have felt 
 of it, he had long since forgotten that there was 
 such an idle passion in existence. But, while 
 lie dreamed, the silent amour went on. The 
 very quiet and seclusion of the place were 
 favourable to the growth of romantic passion. 
 The opening bud of love was able to put forth 
 leaf by leaf, without an adverse wind to check 
 its growth. There was neither officious friend 
 ship to chill by its advice, nor insidious envy 
 wither by its sneers, nor an observing world to 
 look on and stare it out of countenance. There 
 was neither declaration, nor vow, nor any other 
 form of Cupid's canting school. Their hearts 
 mingled together, and understood each other 
 without the aid of language. They lapsed into 
 the full current of affection, unconscious of its 
 depth, and thoughtless of the rocks that might 
 lurk beneath its surface. Happy lovers ! who
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 315 
 
 wanted nothing to make their felicity com 
 plete, but the discovery of the philosophers' 
 stone ! 
 
 At length Antonio's health was sufficiently 
 restored to enable him to return to his lodg 
 ings in Grenada. He felt uneasy, however, at 
 leaving the tower, while lurking danger might 
 surround its almost defenceless inmates. He 
 dreaded lest Don Ambrosio, recovered from his 
 wounds, might plot some new attempt, by 
 secret art, or open violence. From all that he 
 had heard, he knew him to be too implacable 
 to suffer his defeat to pass unavenged, and too 
 rash and fearless, when his arts were unavail 
 ing, to stop at any daring deed in the accom 
 plishment of his purposes. He urged his ap 
 prehensions to the alchymist and his daughter, 
 and proposed that they should abandon the 
 dangerous vicinity of Grenada. 
 
 "I have relations," said he, "in Valentia, 
 poor indeed, but worthy and affectionate. 
 Among them you will find friendship and quiet, 
 and we may there pursue our labours unmo-
 
 316 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 lested." He went on to paint the beauties and 
 delights of Valentia with all the fondness of a 
 native, and all the eloquence with which a 
 lover paints the fields and groves which he is 
 picturing as the future scenes of his happiness. 
 His eloquence, backed by the apprehensions of 
 Inez, was successful with the alchymist, who, 
 indeed, had led too unsettled a life to be par 
 ticular about the place of his residence ; and it 
 was determined, that, as soon as Antonio's 
 health was perfectly restored, they should 
 abandon the tower, and seek the delicious 
 neighbourhood of Valentia*. 
 
 * Here are the strongest silks, the sweetest wines, the excel- 
 lent'st almonds, the best oyls and beautifull'st females of all 
 Spain. The very bruit animals make themselves beds of rose 
 mary, and other fragrant flowers hereabouts ; and when one is 
 at sea, if the winde blow from the shore, he may smell this soyl 
 before he come in sight of it many leagues off, by the strong 
 odoriferous scent it casts. As it is the most pleasant, so it is also 
 the temperat'st clime of all Spain, and they commonly call it 
 the second Italy, which made the Moors, whereof many thou 
 sands were disterr'd, and banish'd hence to Barbary, to think 
 that Paradise was in that part of the heavens which hung over 
 this citie. 
 
 HOWELL'S LETTERS.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 317 
 
 To recruit his strength, the student sus 
 pended his toils in the laboratory, and spent 
 the few remaining days, before departure, in 
 taking a farewell look at the enchanting envi 
 rons of Grenada. He felt returning health and 
 vigour as he inhaled the pure temperate breezes 
 that play about its hills ; and the happy state 
 of his mind contributed to his rapid recovery. 
 Inez was often the companion of his walks. 
 Her descent, by the mother's side, from one of 
 the ancient Moorish families, gave her an in 
 terest in this once favourite seat of Arabian 
 power. She gazed with enthusiasm upon its 
 magnificent monuments, and her memory was 
 filled with the traditional tales and ballads of 
 Moorish chivalry. Indeed the solitary life she 
 had led, and the visionary turn of her father's 
 mind, had produced an effect upon her cha 
 racter, and given it a tinge of what, in modern 
 days, would be termed romance. All this was 
 called into full force by this new passion ; for, 
 when a woman first begins to love, life is all 
 romance to her.
 
 318 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 In one of their evening strolls, they had 
 ascended to the mountain of the Sun, where is 
 situated the Generaliffe, the palace of pleasure, 
 in the days of Moorish dominion, but now 
 a gloomy convent of capuchins. They had 
 wandered about its garden, among groves of 
 orange, citron, and cypress, where the waters, 
 leaping in torrents, or gushing in fountains, or 
 tossed aloft in sparkling jets, fill the air with 
 music and freshness. There is a melancholy 
 mingled with all the beauties of this garden, 
 that gradually stole over the feelings of the 
 lovers. The place is full of the sad story of past 
 times. It was the favourite abode of the lovely 
 queen of Grenada, where she was surrounded 
 by the delights of a gay and voluptuous court. 
 It was here, too, amidst her own bowers of 
 roses, that her slanderers laid the base story of 
 her dishonour, and struck a fatal blow to the 
 line of the gallant Abencerrages. 
 
 The whole garden has a look of ruin and neg 
 lect. Many of the fountains are dry and broken ; 
 the streams have wandered from their marble
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 319 
 
 channels, and are choked by weeds and yellow 
 leaves. The reed whistles to the wind where 
 it had once sported among roses, and shaken 
 perfume from the orange blossom. The con 
 vent bell flings its sullen sound, or the drowsy 
 vesper hymn floats along these solitudes, which 
 once resounded with the song, and the dance, 
 and the lover's serenade. Well may the Moors 
 lament over the loss of this earthly paradise ; 
 well may they remember it in their prayers, 
 and beseech heaven to restore it to the faithful ; 
 well may their ambassadors smite their breasts 
 when they behold these monuments of their 
 race, and sit down and weep among the fading 
 glories of Grenada ! 
 
 It is impossible to wander about these 
 scenes of departed love and gaiety, and not 
 feel the tenderness of the heart awakened. It 
 was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe 
 his passion, and to express by words what his 
 eyes had long since so eloquently revealed. 
 He made his avowal with fervour, but with 
 frankness. He had no gay prospects to hold
 
 320 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 out : he was a poor scholar, dependent on his 
 " good spirits to feed and clothe him." But a 
 woman in love is no interested calculator. Inez 
 listened to him with downcast eyes, but in them 
 was a humid gleam that showed her heart 
 was with him. She had no prudery in her 
 nature ; and she had not been sufficiently in 
 society to acquire it. She loved him with all 
 the absence of worldliness of a genuine woman; 
 and, amidst timid smiles and blushes, he drew 
 from her a modest acknowledgment of her 
 affection. 
 
 They wandered about the garden with that 
 sweet intoxication of the soul which none but 
 happy lovers know. The world about them 
 was all fairy land ; and, indeed, it spread forth 
 one of its fairest scenes before their eyes, as 
 if to fulfil their dream of earthly happiness. 
 They looked out from between groves of 
 orange upon the towers of Grenada below 
 them; the magnificent plain of the Vega beyond, 
 streaked with evening sunshine, and the distant 
 hills tinted with rosy and purple hues ; it 

 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 321 
 
 seemed an emblem of the happy future that 
 love and hope was decking out for them. 
 
 As if to make the scene complete, a group 
 of Andalusians struck up a dance, in one of 
 the vistas of. the garden, to the guitars of two 
 wandering musicians. The Spanish music is 
 wild and plaintive, yet the people dance to it 
 with spirit and enthusiasm. The picturesque 
 figures of the dancers ; the girls with their hair 
 in silken nets that hung in knots and tassels 
 down their backs, their mantillas floating round 
 their graceful forms, their slender feet peeping 
 from under their basquinas, their arms tossed 
 up in the air to play the castanets, had a 
 beautiful effect on this airy height, with the 
 rich evening landscape spreading out below 
 them. 
 
 When the dance was ended, two of the 
 parties approached Antonio and Inez ; one of 
 them began a soft and tender Moorish ballad, 
 accompanied by the other on the lute. It 
 alluded to the story of the garden, the wrongs 
 of the fair queen of Grenada, and the mis- 
 
 VOL. i. Y
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 fortunes of the Abencerrages. It was one of 
 those old ballads that abound in this part of 
 Spain, and live, like echoes, about the ruins of 
 Moorish greatness. The heart of Inez was at 
 that moment open to every tender impression ; 
 the tears rose into her eyes as she listened to 
 the tale, The singer approached nearer to 
 her ; she was striking in her appearance ; 
 young, beautiful, with a mixture of wildness 
 and melancholy in her fine black eyes. She 
 fixed them mournfully and expressively on 
 Inez, and suddenly varying her manner, sang 
 another ballad, which treated of impending 
 danger and treachery. All this might have 
 passed for a mere accidental caprice of the 
 singer, had there not been something in her 
 look, manner, and gesticulation, that made it 
 pointed and startling. 
 
 Inez was about to ask the meaning of this 
 evidently personal application of the song, 
 when she was interrupted by Antonio, who 
 gently drew her from the place. Whilst she 
 had been lost in attention to the music, he had
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 323 
 
 remarked a group of men, in the shadows of 
 the trees, whispering together. They were 
 enveloped in the broad hats and great cloaks, 
 so much worn by the Spanish, and while they 
 were regarding himself and Inez attentively, 
 seemed anxious to avoid observation. Not 
 knowing what might be their character or in 
 tention, he hastened to quit a place where the 
 gathering shadows of evening might expose 
 them to intrusion and insult. On their way 
 down the hill, as they passed through the 
 woods of elms, mingled with poplars and ole 
 anders, that skirts the road leading from the 
 Alhambra, he again saw these men, apparently 
 following at a distance ; and he afterwards 
 caught sight of them among the trees on the 
 banks of the Darro. He said nothing on the 
 subject to Inez, nor her father, for he would 
 not awaken unnecessary alarm ; but he felt at 
 a loss how to ascertain or to avert any machina 
 tions that might be devising against the help 
 less inhabitants of the tower. > 
 
 He took his leave of them late at night, full of
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 this perplexity. As he left the dreary old pile, 
 he saw some one lurking in the shadow of the 
 wall, apparently watching his movements. He 
 hastened after the figure, but it glided away, 
 and disappeared among some ruins. Shortly 
 after he heard a low whistle, which was an 
 swered from a little distance. He had no 
 longer a doubt but that some mischief was on 
 foot, and turned to hasten back to the tower, 
 and put its inmates on their guard. He had 
 scarcely turned, however, before he found him 
 self suddenly seized from behind by some one 
 of Herculean strength. His struggles were in 
 -vain ; he was surrounded by armed men. One 
 threw a mantle over him that stifled his cries, 
 and enveloped him in its folds ; and he was 
 hurried off with irresistible rapidity. 
 
 The next day passed without the appearance 
 of Antonio at the alchymist's. Another, and 
 another day succeeded, and yet he did not 
 come ; nor had any thing been heard of him 
 at his lodgings. His absence caused, at first, 
 surprise and conjecture, and at length alarm.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 325 
 
 Inez recollected the singular intimations of 
 the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which 
 seemed to warn her of impending danger, and 
 her mind was full of vague forebodings. She 
 sat listening to every sound at the gate, or 
 footstep on the stairs. She would take up her 
 guitar and strike a few notes, but it would not 
 do ; her heart was sickening with suspense and 
 anxiety. She had never before felt what it 
 was to be really lonely. She now was con 
 scious of the force of that attachment which 
 had taken possession of her breast ; for never 
 do we know how much we love, never do we 
 know how necessary the object of our love is 
 to our happiness, until we experience the weary 
 void of separation. 
 
 The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his 
 disciple almost as sensibly as did his daughter. 
 The animating buoyancy of the youth had in 
 spired him with new ardour, and had given to 
 his labours the charm of full companionship. 
 However, he had resources and consolations of 
 which his daughter was destitute. His pur 
 suits were of a nature to occupy every thought,
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 and keep the spirits in a state of continual 
 excitement. Certain indications, too, had lately 
 manifested themselves, of the most favourable 
 nature. Forty days and forty nights had the 
 process gone on successfully ; the old man's 
 hopes were constantly rising, and he now con 
 sidered the glorious moment once more at 
 hand, when he should obtain not merely the 
 major lunaria, but likewise the tinctura Solaris, 
 the means of multiplying gold, and of pro 
 longing existence. He remained, therefore, 
 continually shut up in his laboratory, watch 
 ing his furnace ; for a moment's inadvertency 
 might once more defeat all his expectations. 
 
 He was sitting one evening at one of his soli 
 tary vigils, wrapped up in meditation ; the hour 
 was late, and his neighbour, the owl, was hooting 
 from the battlement of the tower, when he heard 
 the door open behind him. Supposing it to be 
 his daughter coming to take her leave of him 
 for the night, as was her frequent practice, he 
 called her by name, but a harsh voice met his 
 ear in reply. He was grasped by the arms, 
 looking up, perceived three strange men
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 in the chamber. He attempted to shake them 
 off, but in vain. He called for help, but they 
 scoffed at his cries. 
 
 " Peace, dotard !" cried one, think'st thou 
 the servants of the most holy inquisition are 
 to be daunted by thy clamours ? Comrades, 
 away with him !" 
 
 Without heeding his remonstrances and 
 entreaties, they seized upon his books and 
 papers, took some note of the apartment 
 and the utensils, and then bore him off a pri 
 soner. 
 
 Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and 
 lonely evening ; seated by a casement which 
 looked into the garden, she had pensively 
 watched star after star sparkle out of the blue 
 depths of the sky, and was indulging a crowd 
 of anxious thoughts about her lover, until the 
 rising tears began to flow. She was suddenly 
 alarmed by the sound of voices that seemed to 
 come from a distant part of the mansion. There 
 was not long after a noise of several persons 
 descending the stairs. Surprised at these un 
 usual sounds in their lonely habitation, she
 
 328 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 remained for a few moments in a state of 
 trembling, yet indistinct apprehension, when 
 the servant rushed into the room, with terror 
 in her countenance, and informed her that her 
 father was carried off by armed men. 
 
 Inez did not stop to hear further, but flew 
 down stairs to overtake them. She had scarcely 
 passed the threshold, when she found herself 
 in the grasp of strangers. "Away! away!" 
 cried she, wildly ; " do not stop me let me fol 
 low my father." 
 
 " We come to conduct you to him, senora," 
 said one of the men, respectfully. 
 
 " Where is he, then ?" 
 
 " He is gone to Grenada," replied the man: 
 " an unexpected circumstance requires his pre 
 sence there immediately ; but he is among 
 friends." 
 
 " We have no friends in Grenada," said Inez, 
 drawing back ; but then the idea of Antonio 
 rushed into her mind; something relating to 
 him might have called her father thither. " Is 
 senor Antonio de Castros with him ?" demanded 
 she with agitation.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 329 
 
 " I know not, senora," replied the man. " It 
 is very possible. I only know that your father 
 is among friends, and is anxious for you to 
 follow him." 
 
 " Let us go, then," cried she, eagerly. The 
 men led her a little distance to where a mule 
 was waiting, and, assisting her to mount, they 
 conducted her slowly towards the city. 
 
 Grenada was on that evening a scene of fanci 
 ful revel. It was one of the festivals of the Mae- 
 stranza, an association of the nobility to keep 
 up some of the gallant customs of ancient chi 
 valry. There had been a representation of a 
 tournament in one of the squares ; the streets 
 would still occasionally resound with the beat 
 of a solitary drum, or the bray of a trum 
 pet, from some straggling party of revellers. 
 Sometimes they were met by cavaliers, richly 
 dressed in ancient costumes, attended by their 
 squires, and at one time they passed in sight of 
 a palace brilliantly illuminated, from whence 
 came the mingled sounds of music and the 
 dance. Shortly after they came to the square, 
 where the mock tournament had been held.
 
 330 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 It was thronged by the populace, recreating 
 themselves among booths and stalls where re 
 freshments were sold, and the glare of torches 
 showed the temporary galleries, and gay-co 
 loured awnings, and armorial trophies, and 
 other paraphernalia of the show. The con 
 ductors of Inez endeavoured to keep out of 
 observation, and to traverse a gloomy part of 
 the square ; but they were detained at one 
 place by the pressure of a crowd surrounding 
 a party of wandering musicians, singing one of 
 those ballads of which the Spanish populace are 
 so passionately fond. The torches which were 
 held by some of the crowd, threw a strong mass 
 of light upon Inez, and the sight of so beau 
 tiful a being, without mantilla or veil, looking 
 so bewildered, and conducted by men, who 
 seemed to take no gratification in the sur 
 rounding gaiety, occasioned expressions of cu 
 riosity. One of the ballad singers approached, 
 and striking her guitar with peculiar earnest 
 ness, began to sing a doleful air, full of sinister 
 forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It 
 was the same ballad-singer that had addressed
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 331 
 
 her in the garden of Generalise. It was the 
 same air that she had then sung. It spoke of 
 impending dangers; they seemed, indeed, to 
 be thickening around her. She was anxious 
 to speak with the girl, and to ascertain whether 
 she really had a knowledge of any definite 
 evil that was threatening her ; but as she at 
 tempted to address her, the mule, on which 
 she rode, was suddenly seized, and led forcibly 
 through the throng by one of her conductors, 
 while she saw another addressing menacing 
 words to the ballad-singer. The latter raised 
 her hand with a warning gesture as Inez lost 
 sight of her. 
 
 While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused 
 by this singular occurrence, they stopped at 
 the gate of a large mansion. One of her at 
 tendants knocked, the door was opened, and 
 they entered a paved court. " Where are we ?" 
 demanded Inez, with anxiety. " At the house 
 of a friend, senora," replied the man. " Ascend 
 this staircase with me, and in a moment you 
 will meet your father." 
 
 They ascended a staircase that led to a suite
 
 332 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 of splendid apartments. They passed through 
 several until they came to an inner chamber. 
 The door opened, some one approached ; but 
 what was her terror at perceiving, not her fa 
 ther, but Don Ambrosio ! 
 
 The men who had seized upon the alchymist 
 had, at least, been more honest in their pro 
 fessions. They were, indeed, familiars of the 
 inquisition. He was conducted in silence to 
 the gloomy prison of that horrible tribunal. It 
 was a mansion whose very aspect withered joy, 
 and almost shut out hope. It was one of those 
 hideous abodes which the bad passions of men 
 conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fancied 
 dens of demons and the accursed. 
 
 Day after day went heavily by without any 
 thing to mark the lapse of time, but the decline 
 and re-appearance of the light that feebly glim 
 mered through the narrow window of the dun 
 geon, in which the unfortunate alchymist was 
 buried, rather than confined. His mind was 
 harassed with uncertainties and fears about 
 his daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. 
 He endeavoured to gather tidings of her from
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 333 
 
 the man who brought his daily portion of 
 food. The fellow stared, as if astonished, at 
 being asked a question in that mansion of 
 silence and mystery, but departed without say 
 ing a word. Every succeeding attempt was 
 equally fruitless. 
 
 The poor alchymist was oppressed by many 
 griefs ; and it was not the least that he had been 
 again interrupted in his labours on the very 
 point of success. Never was alchymist so near 
 attaining the golden secret a little longer, 
 and all his hopes would have been realised. 
 The thoughts of these disappointments afflicted 
 him more even than the fear of all that he 
 might suffer from the merciless inquisition. 
 His waking thoughts would follow him Jnto 
 his dreams. He would be transported in fancy 
 to his laboratory, busied again among retorts 
 and alembic^, and surrounded by Lully, by 
 D 'Abano, by Olybius, and the other masters of 
 the sublime art. The moment of projection 
 would arrive ; a seraphic form would rise out 
 of the furnace, holding forth a vessel, contain 
 ing the precious elixir ; but, before he could
 
 334 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 grasp the prize, he would awake, and find him 
 self in a dungeon. 
 
 All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity 
 were employed to ensnare the old man, and to 
 draw from him evidence that might be brought 
 against himself, and might corroborate certain 
 secret information that had been given against 
 him. He had been accused of practising ne 
 cromancy and judicial astrology, and a cloud 
 of evidence had been secretly brought forward 
 to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious 
 to enumerate all the circumstances, apparently 
 corroborative, which had been industriously 
 cited by the secret accuser. The silence which 
 prevailed about the tower, its desolateness, the 
 very v quiet of its inhabitants, had been adduced 
 as proofs that something sinister was perpe 
 trated within. The alchymist's conversations 
 and soliloquies in the garden haa been over 
 heard and misrepresented. The lights and 
 strange appearances at night, in the tower, 
 were given with violent exaggerations. Shrieks 
 and yells were said to have been heard from 
 thence at midnight, when, it was confidently
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 335 
 
 asserted, the old man raised familiar spirits by 
 his incantations, and even compelled the dead 
 to rise from their graves, and answer to his 
 questionings. 
 
 The alchymist, according to the custom of 
 the inquisition, was kept in complete ignorance 
 of his accuser; of the witnesses produced 
 against him ; even of the crimes of which he 
 was accused. He was examined generally, 
 whether he knew why he was arrested, and 
 was conscious of any guilt that might deserve 
 the notice of the holy office ? He was examined 
 as to his country, his life, his habits, his pur 
 suits, his actions, and opinions. The old man 
 was frank and simple in his replies ; he was 
 conscious of no guilt, capable of no art, prac 
 tised in no dissimulation. After receiving a 
 general admonition to bethink himself whether 
 he had not committed any act deserving of 
 punishment, and to prepare, by confession, to 
 secure the well-known mercy of the tribunal, 
 he was remanded to his cell. 
 
 He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty 
 familiars oftheinquisition; who, under pretence
 
 336 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 of sympathy and kindness, came to beguile the 
 tediousness of his imprisonment with friendly 
 conversation. They casually introduced the 
 subject of alchymy, on which they touched 
 with great caution and pretended indifference. 
 There was no need of such craftiness. The 
 honest enthusiast had no suspicion in his na 
 ture : the moment they touched upon his fa 
 vourite theme, he forgot his misfortunes and 
 imprisonment, and broke forth into rhapsodies 
 about the divine science. 
 
 The conversation was artfully turned to the 
 discussion of elementary beings. The alchy- 
 mist readily avowed his belief in them ; and 
 that there had been instances of their attend 
 ing upon philosophers, and administering to 
 their wishes. He related many miracles said 
 to have been performed by Apollonius Thy aneus 
 through the aid of spirits or demons ; insomuch 
 that he was set up by the heathens in opposi 
 tion to the Messiah ; and was even regarded 
 with reverence by many Christians. The fa 
 miliars eagerly demanded whether he believed 
 Apollonius to be a true and worthy philoso-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 337 
 
 pher. The unaffected piety of the alchymist 
 protected him even in the midst of his sim 
 plicity; for he condemned Apollonius as a 
 sorcerer and an impostor. No art could draw 
 from him an admission that he had ever em 
 ployed or invoked spiritual agencies in the pro 
 secution of his pursuits, though he believed 
 himself to have been frequently impeded by 
 their invisible interference. 
 
 The inquisitors were sorely vexed at not 
 being able to enveigle him into a confession of 
 a criminal nature ; they attributed their failure 
 to craft, to obstinacy, to every cause but the 
 right one, namely, that the harmless visionary 
 had nothing guilty to confess. They had 
 abundant proof of a secret nature against him ; 
 but it was the practice of the inquisition to 
 endeavour to procure confession from the pri 
 soners. An auto da f was at hand ; the worthy 
 fathers were eager for his conviction, for they 
 were always anxious to have a good number of 
 culprits condemned to the stake, to grace these 
 solemn triumphs. He was at length brought 
 to a final examination. 
 
 VOL. i. z
 
 338 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 The chamber of trial was spacious and 
 gloomy. At one end was a huge crucifix, the 
 standard of the inquisition. A long table ex 
 tended through the centre of the room, at which 
 sat the inquisitors and their secretary ; at the 
 other end a stool was placed for the prisoner. 
 
 He was brought in, according to custom, 
 bare-headed and bare-legged. He was en 
 feebled by confinement and affliction ; by con 
 stantly brooding over the unknown fate of his 
 child, and the disastrous interruption of his ex 
 periments. He sat bowed down and listless ; 
 his head sunk upon his breast ; his whole ap 
 pearance that of one " past hope, abandoned, 
 and by himself given over." 
 
 The accusation alleged against htm was now 
 brought forward in a specific form ; he was 
 called upon by name, Felix de Vasquez, for 
 merly of Castile, to answer to the charges of 
 necromancy and demonology. He was told 
 that the charges were amply substantiated ; 
 and was asked whether he was ready, by full 
 confession, to throw himself upon the well- 
 known mercy of the holy inquisition.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 339 
 
 The philosopher testified some slight surprise 
 at the nature of the accusation, but simply re 
 plied, " I am innocent." 
 
 " What proof have you to give of your in 
 nocence ?" 
 
 " It rather remains for you to prove your 
 charges," said the old man. " I am a stranger 
 and a sojourner in the land, and know no one 
 out of the doors of my dwelling. I can give 
 nothing in my vindication but the word of a 
 nobleman and a Castilian." 
 
 The inquisitor shook his head, and went on 
 to repeat the various inquiries that had before 
 been made as to his mode of life and pursuit. 
 The poor alchymist was too feeble and too 
 weary at heart to make any but brief replies. 
 He requested that some man of science might 
 examine his laboratory, and all his books and 
 papers, by which it would be made abundantly 
 evident that he was merely engaged in the 
 study of alchymy. 
 
 To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy 
 had become a mere covert for secret and deadly 
 sins. That the practisers of it were apt to
 
 340 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate 
 greediness of gold. Some had been known to 
 use spells and impious ceremonies ; to con 
 jure the aid of evil spirits ; nay, even to sell 
 their souls to the enemy of mankind, so that 
 they might riot in boundless wealth while 
 living. 
 
 The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, 
 or, at least, passively. He had, disdained to 
 vindicate his name otherwise than by his word ; 
 he had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, 
 when applied merely to himself; but when 
 the sublime art, which had been the study and 
 passion of his life, was assailed, he could no 
 longer listen in silence. His head gradually 
 rose from his bosom ; a hectic colour came in 
 faint streaks to his cheek ; played about there, 
 disappeared, returned, and at length kindled 
 into a burning glow. The clammy dampness 
 dried from his forehead ; his eyes, which had 
 been nearly extinguished, lighted up again, 
 and burned with their wonted and visionary 
 fires. He entered into a vindication of his 
 favourite art. His voice at first was feeble
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 841 
 
 and broken ; but it gathered strength as he pro 
 ceeded, until it rolled in a deep and sonorous 
 volume. He gradually rose from his seat as 
 he rose with his subject; he threw back the 
 scanty black mantle which had hitherto wrap 
 ped his limbs ; the very uncouthness of his 
 form and looks gave an impressive effect to 
 what he uttered ; it was as though a corpse 
 had become suddenly animated. 
 
 He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast 
 upon alchymy by the ignorant and vulgar. He 
 affirmed it to be the mother of all art and sci 
 ence, citing the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandivo- 
 gius, Raymond Lully, and others, in support of 
 his assertions. He maintained that it was pure 
 and innocent, and honourable both in its pur 
 poses and means. What were its objects? 
 The perpetuation of life and youth, and the 
 production of gold. " The elixir vitae," said 
 he, " is no charmed potion, but merely a con 
 centration of those elements of vitality which 
 nature has scattered through her works. The 
 philosophers ' stone, or tincture, or powder, as 
 it is variously called, is no necromantic talis-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 man, but consists simply of those particles 
 which gold contains within itself for its re 
 production ; for gold, like other things, has its 
 seed within itself, though bound up with incon 
 ceivable firmness, from the vigour of innate 
 fixed salts and sulphurs. In seeking to dis 
 cover the elixir of life, then," continued he, 
 " we seek only to apply some of nature 's own 
 specifics against the disease and decay to which 
 our bodies are subjected; and what else does 
 the physician, when he tasks his art, and uses 
 subtle compounds and cunning distillations to 
 revive our languishing powers, and avert the 
 stroke of death for a season ? 
 
 " In seeking to multiply the precious metals, 
 also, we seek but to germinate and multiply, 
 by natural means, a particular species of na 
 ture 's productions ; and what else does the 
 husbandman, who consults times and seasons, 
 and, by what might be deemed a natural magic, 
 from the mere scattering of his hand, covers a 
 whole plain with golden vegetation ? The my 
 steries of our art, it is true, are deeply and 
 darkly hidden; but it requires so much the
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 343 
 
 more innocence and purity of thought to pene 
 trate unto them. No, father ! the true alchy- 
 mist must be pure in mind and body ; he must 
 be temperate, patient, chaste, watchful, meek, 
 humble, devout. ' My son, ' says Hermes Tris- 
 megestes, the great master of our art, ' My son, 
 I recommend you above all things to fear God.' 
 And indeed it is only by devout castigation of 
 the senses and purification of the soul, that the 
 alchymist is enabled to enter into the sacred 
 chambers of truth. ' Labour, pray, and read,' is 
 the motto of our science. As De Nuysementwell 
 observes, ' these high and singular favours are 
 granted unto none, save only unto the sons of 
 God, (that is to say, the virtuous and devout), 
 who, under his paternal benediction, have ob 
 tained the opening of the same, by the helping 
 hand of the queen of arts, divine Philosophy.' 
 Indeed, so sacred has the nature of this know 
 ledge been considered, that we are told it has 
 four times been expressly communicated by 
 God to man, having made a part of that ca- 
 balistical wisdom which was revealed to Adam 
 to console him for the loss of Paradise ; and to
 
 344 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Moses in the bush, and to Solomon in a dream, 
 and to Esdras by the angel. 
 
 " So far from demons and malign spirits 
 being the friends and abettors of the alchy- 
 mist, they are the continual foes with which 
 he has to contend. It is their constant endea 
 vour, to shut up the avenues to those truths 
 which would enable him to rise above the abject 
 state into which he has fallen, and return to 
 that excellence which was his original birth 
 right. For what would be the effect of this 
 length of days, and this abundant wealth, but 
 to enable the possessor to go on from art to 
 art, from science to science, with energies un 
 impaired by sickness, uninterrupted by death ? 
 For this have sages and philosophers shut 
 themselves up in cells and solitudes ; buried 
 themselves in caves and dens of the earth ; 
 turning from the joys of life, and the pleasance 
 of the world ; enduring scorn, poverty, persecu 
 tion. For this was Raymond Lully stoned to 
 death in Mauritania. For this did the immortal 
 Pietro D'Abano suffer persecution at Padua, 
 and when he escaped from his oppressors by
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 345 
 
 death, was despitefully burnt in effigy. For 
 this have illustrious men of all nations intre 
 pidly suffered martyrdom. For this, if unmo 
 lested, have they assiduously employed the 
 latest hour of life, the expiring throb of exist 
 ence ; hoping to the last that they might yet 
 seize upon the prize for which they had strug 
 gled, and pluck themselves back even from the 
 very jaws of the grave ! 
 
 " For, when once the alchymist shall have' 
 attained the object of his toils; when the 
 sublime secret shall be revealed to his gaze, 
 how glorious will be the change in his con 
 dition ! How will he emerge from his soli 
 tary retreat, like the sun breaking forth from 
 the darksome chamber of the night, and dart 
 ing his beams throughout the earth ! Gifted 
 with perpetual youth and boundless riches, to 
 what heights of wisdom may he attain ! How 
 may he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread of 
 knowledge, which has hitherto been snapped 
 at the death of each philosopher ! And, as the 
 increase of wisdom is the increase of virtue, 
 how may he become the benefactor of his fel-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 low-men ; dispensing with liberal, but cautious 
 and discriminating hand, that inexhaustible 
 wealth which is at his disposal; banishing 
 poverty, which is the cause of so much sorrow 
 and wickedness ; encouraging the arts ; pro 
 moting discoveries, and enlarging all the means 
 of virtuous enjoyment ! His life will be the con 
 necting band of generations. History will live in 
 his recollection ; distant ages will speak with his 
 tongue. The nations of the earth will look to 
 him as their preceptor, and kings will sit at his 
 feet and learn wisdom. Oh glorious ! Oh 
 celestial alchymy !" 
 
 Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor, 
 who had suffered him to go on thus far, in 
 hopes of gathering something from his un 
 guarded enthusiasm. " Senor," said he, " this 
 is all rambling, visionary talk. You are charged 
 with sorcery, and in defence you give us a 
 rhapsody about alchymy. Have you nothing 
 better than this to offer in your defence T 
 
 The old man slowly resumed his seat, but 
 did not deign a reply. The fire that had 
 beamed in his eye gradually expired. His
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 34-7 
 
 cheek resumed its wonted paleness; but he 
 did not relapse into inanity. He sat with a 
 steady, serene, patient look, like one prepared 
 not to contend but to suffer. 
 
 His trial continued for a long time, with 
 cruel mockery of justice, for no witnesses were 
 ever, in this court, confronted with the accused, 
 and the latter had continually to defend him 
 self in the dark. Some unknown and powerful 
 enemy had alleged charges against the unfor 
 tunate alchymist, but who he could not ima 
 gine. Stranger and sojourner as he was in the 
 land ; solitary and harmless in his pursuits, how 
 could he have provoked such hostility ? The 
 tide of secret testimony, however, was too 
 strong against him ; he was convicted of the 
 crime of magic, and condemned to expiate his 
 sins at the stake, at the approaching auto da fe. 
 
 While the unhappy alchymist was under 
 going his trial at the inquisition, his daughter 
 was exposed to trials no less severe. Don Am- 
 brosio, into whose hands she had fallen, was, as 
 has before been intimated, one of the most daring 
 and lawless profligates in all Grenada. He was
 
 348 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 a man of hot blood and fiery passions, who stop 
 ped at nothing in the gratification of his de 
 sires ; yet with all this he possessed manners, 
 address, and accomplishments, that had made 
 him eminently successful among the sex. From 
 the palace to the cottage he had extended his 
 amorous enterprises ; his serenades harassed 
 the slumbers of half the husbands in Grenada; 
 no balcony was too high for his adventurous 
 attempts; nor any cottage too lowly for his 
 perfidious seductions. Yet he was as fickle as 
 he was ardent ; success had made him vain and 
 capricious ; he had no sentiment to attach him 
 to the victim of his arts, and many a pale 
 cheek and fading eye, languishing amidst the 
 sparkling of jewels; and many a breaking- 
 heart, throbbing under the rustic boddice, bore 
 testimony to his triumphs and his faithlessness. 
 He was sated, however, by easy conquests, 
 and wearied of a life of continual and prompt 
 gratification. There had been a degree of 
 difficulty and enterprise in the pursuit of Inez, 
 that he had never before experienced. It had 
 aroused him from the monotony of mere sensual
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 349 
 
 life, and stimulated him with the charm of 
 adventure. He had become an epicure in 
 pleasure ; and now that he had this coy beauty 
 in his power, he was determined to protract 
 his enjoyment, by the gradual conquest of her 
 scruples, and downfall of her virtue. He was 
 vain of his person and address, which he thought 
 no woman could long withstand ; and it was 
 a kind of trial of skill, to endeavour to gain 
 by art and fascination, what he was secure of 
 obtaining at any time by violence. 
 
 When Inez, therefore, was brought into his 
 presence by his emissaries, he affected not to 
 notice her terror and surprise ; but received her 
 with formal and stately courtesy. He was too 
 wary a fowler to flutter the bird when just en 
 tangled in the net. To her eager and wild 
 inquiries about her father, he begged her not 
 to be alarmed ; that he was safe, and had been 
 there, but was engaged elsewhere in an affair 
 of moment, from which he would soon return ; 
 in the meantime he had left word, that she 
 should await his return in patience. After some
 
 350 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 stately expressions of general civility, Don Am- 
 brosio made a ceremonious bow and retired. 
 
 The mind of Inez was full of trouble and 
 perplexity. The stately formality of Don Am- 
 brosio was so unexpected as to check the ac 
 cusations and reproaches that were springing 
 to her lips. Had he had evil designs, would he 
 have treated her with such frigid ceremony when 
 he had her in his power ? But why, then, was 
 she brought to his house ? Was not the myste 
 rious disappearance of Antonio connected with 
 this? A thought suddenly darted into her 
 mind. Antonio had again met with Don 
 Ambrosio they had fought Antonio was 
 wounded perhaps dying ! It was him to 
 whom her father had gone. It was at his re 
 quest that Don Ambrosio had sent for them to 
 soothe his dying moments ! These, and a thou 
 sand such horrible suggestions harassed her 
 mind; but she tried in vain to get informa 
 tion from the domestics ; they knew nothing 
 but that her father had been there, had gone, 
 and would soon return.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 351 
 
 Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought 
 and vague yet cruel apprehensions. She knew 
 not what to do, or what to believe : whether 
 she ought to fly, or to remain ; but if to fly, 
 how was she to extricate herself? and where 
 was she to seek her father ? As the day dawned 
 without any intelligence of him, her alarm in 
 creased ; at length a message was brought from 
 him, saying that circumstances prevented his 
 return to her, but begging her to hasten to 
 him without delay. 
 
 With an eager and throbbing heart did 
 she set forth with the men that were to con 
 duct her. She little thought, however, that 
 she was merely changing her prison-house. 
 Don Ambrosio had feared lest she should be 
 traced to his residence in Grenada ; or that he 
 might be interrupted there before he could 
 accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her 
 now conveyed, therefore, to a mansion which 
 he possessed in one of the mountain solitudes 
 in the neighbourhood of Grenada ; a lonely, 
 but beautiful retreat. In vain, on her arrival, 
 did she look around for her father, or Antonio ;
 
 352 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 none but strange faces met her eye ; menials 
 profoundly respectful, but who knew nor saw 
 any thing but what their master pleased. 
 
 She had scarcely arrived before Don Am- 
 brosio made his appearance, less stately in his 
 manner, but still treating her with the utmost 
 delicacy and deference. Inez was too much 
 agitated and alarmed to be baffled by his 
 courtesy, and became vehement in her demand 
 to be conducted to her father. 
 
 Don Ambrosio now put on an appearance 
 of the greatest embarrassment and emotion. 
 After some delay, and much pretended con 
 fusion, he at length confessed that the seizure 
 of her father was all a stratagem; a mere 
 false alarm to procure him the present oppor 
 tunity of having access to her, and endeavour 
 ing to mitigate that obduracy, and conquer 
 that repugnance, which he declared had almost 
 driven him to distraction. 
 
 He assured her that her father was again 
 at home in safety, and occupied in his usual 
 pursuits ; having been fully satisfied that his 
 daughter was in honourable hands, and would
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 353 
 
 soon be restored to him. It was in vain that 
 she threw herself at his feet, and implored to 
 be set at liberty; he only replied, by gentle en 
 treaties, that she would pardon the seeming 
 violence he had to use; and that she would 
 trust a little while to his honour. " You are 
 here," said he, " absolute mistress of every 
 thing : nothing shall be said or done to offend 
 you ; I will not even intrude upon your ear the 
 unhappy passion that is devouring my heart. 
 Should you require it, I will even absent my 
 self from your presence ; but to part with you 
 entirely at present, with your mind full of 
 doubts and resentments, would be worse than 
 death to me. No, beautiful Inez, you must 
 first know me a little better, and know by my 
 conduct, that my passion for you is as delicate 
 and respectful as it is vehement." 
 
 The assurance of her father's safety had re 
 lieved Inez from one cause of torturing anxiety, 
 only to render her fears the more violent on 
 her own account. Don Ambrosio, however, 
 continued to treat her with artful deference, 
 
 VOL. i. A A
 
 354 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 that insensibly lulled her apprehensions. It is 
 true she found herself a captive, but no ad 
 vantage appeared to be taken of her helpless 
 ness. She soothed herself with the idea that 
 a little while would suffice to convince Don 
 Ambrosio of the fallacy of his hopes, and that 
 he would be induced to restore her to her home. 
 Her transports of terror and affliction, there 
 fore, subsided, in a few days, into a passive, yet 
 anxious melancholy, with which she awaited 
 the hoped-for event. 
 
 In the mean while all those artifices were 
 employed that are calculated to charm the 
 senses, ensnare the feelings, and dissolve the 
 heart into tenderness. Don Ambrosio was a 
 master of the subtil arts of seduction. His 
 very mansion breathed an enervating atmo 
 sphere of languor and delight. It was here, 
 amidst twilight saloons and dreamy chambers, 
 buried among groves of orange and myrtle, 
 that he shut himself up at times from the prying 
 world, and gave free scope to the gratification 
 of his pleasures.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 355 
 
 The apartments were furnished in the most 
 sumptuous and voluptuous manner ; the silken 
 couches swelled to the touch, and sunk in 
 downy softness beneath the slightest pressure. 
 The paintings and statues all told some classic 
 tale of love, managed, however, with an in 
 sidious delicacy ; which, while it banished the 
 grossness that might disgust, was the more 
 calculated to excite the imagination. There 
 the blooming Adonis was seen, not breaking 
 away to pursue the boisterous chase, but 
 crowned with flowers, and languishing in the 
 embraces of celestial beauty. There Acis wooed 
 his Galatea in the shade, with the Sicilian sea 
 spreading in halcyon serenity before them. 
 There were depicted groups of fawns and 
 dryads, fondly reclining in summer bowers, 
 and listening to the liquid piping of the reed ; 
 or the wanton satyrs surprising some wood- 
 nymph during her noontide slumber. There, 
 too, on the storied tapestry, might be seen the 
 chaste Diana, stealing, in the mystery of moon 
 light, to kiss the sleeping Endymion ; while 
 
 A A 2
 
 556 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Cupid and Psyche, entwined in immortal mar 
 ble, breathed on each other's lips the early kiss 
 of love. 
 
 The ardent rays of the sun were excluded 
 from these balmy halls ; soft and tender music 
 from unseen musicians floated around, seeming 
 to mingle with the perfumes that were exhaled 
 from a thousand flowers. At night, when the 
 moon shed a fairy light over the scene, the 
 tender serenade would rise from among the 
 bowers of the garden, in which the fine voice 
 of Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished ; 
 or the amorous flute would be heard along the 
 mountain, breathing in its pensive cadences the 
 very soul of a lover's melancholy. 
 
 Various entertainments were also devised to 
 dispel her loneliness, and to charm away the 
 idea of confinement. Groups of Andalusian 
 dancers performed, in the splendid saloons, 
 the various picturesque dances of their country ; 
 or represented little amorous ballets, which 
 turned upon some pleasing scene of pastoral 
 coquetry and courtship. Sometimes there were
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 357 
 
 bands of singers, who, to the romantic guitar, 
 warbled forth ditties full of passion and tender 
 ness. 
 
 Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and 
 voluptuousness ; but the heart of Inez turned 
 with distaste from this idle mockery. The 
 tears would rush into her eyes as her thoughts 
 reverted from this scene of profligate splendour, 
 to the humble but virtuous home from whence 
 she had been betrayed ; or if the witching 
 power of music ever soothed her into a tender 
 reverie, it was to dwell with fondness on the 
 image of Antonio. But if Don Ambrosio, de 
 ceived by this 'transient calm, should attempt 
 at such time to whisper his passion, she would 
 start as from a dream, and recoil from him 
 with involuntary shuddering. 
 
 She had passed one long day of more than 
 ordinary sadness, and in the evening a band of 
 these hired performers were exerting all the 
 animating powers of song and dance to amuse 
 her. But while the lofty saloon resounded 
 with their warblings, and the light sound of 
 feet upon its marble pavement kept time to
 
 358 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 the cadence of the song, poor Inez, with her 
 face buried in the silken couch on which she 
 reclined, was only rendered more wretched by 
 the sound of gaiety. 
 
 At length her attention was caught by the 
 voice of one of the singers, that brought with 
 it some indefinite recollections. She raised 
 her head, and cast an anxious look at the per 
 formers, who, as usual, were at the lower end 
 of the saloon. One of them advanced a little 
 before the others. It was a female, dressed in 
 a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the cha 
 racter she was sustaining ; but her counte 
 nance was not to be mistaken. It was the same 
 ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path, 
 and given her mysterious intimations of the 
 lurking mischief that surrounded her. When 
 the rest of the performances were concluded, 
 she seized a tambourine, and tossing it aloft, 
 danced alone to the melody of her own voice. 
 In the course of her dancing she approached to 
 where Inez reclined ; and as she struck the 
 tambourine, contrived, dexterously, to throw a 
 folded paper on the couch. Inez seized it with
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 369 
 
 avidity, and concealed it in her bosom. The 
 singing and dancing were at an end ; the motley 
 crew retired ; and Inez, left alone, hastened 
 with anxiety to unfold the paper thus my 
 steriously conveyed. It \was written in an 
 agitated, and almost illegible, hand-writing; 
 " Be on ypur guard ! you are surrounded by 
 treachery. Trust not to the forbearance of 
 Don Ambrosio; you are marked out for his 
 prey. An humble victim to his perfidy gives 
 you this warning ; she is encompassed by too 
 many dangers to be more explicit. Your 
 father is in the dungeons of the inquisition !" 
 
 The brain of Inez reeled as she read this 
 dreadful scroll. She was less filled with alarm 
 at her own danger, than horror at her father's 
 situation. The moment Don Ambrosio ap 
 peared, she rushed and threw herself at his 
 feet, imploring him to save her father. Don 
 Ambrosio started with astonishment; but 
 immediately regaining his self-possession, en 
 deavoured to soothe her by his blandishments, 
 and by assurances that her father was in safety. 
 She was not to be pacified ; her fears were too
 
 360 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 much aroused to be trifled with. She declared 
 her knowledge of her father's being a prisoner 
 of the inquisition, and reiterated her frantic 
 supplications that he would save him. 
 
 Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in per 
 plexity, but was too adroit to be easily con 
 founded. " That your father is a prisoner," 
 replied he, " I have long known. I have con 
 cealed it from you, to save you from fruitless 
 anxiety. You now know the real reason of 
 the restraint I have put upon your liberty : I 
 have been protecting instead of detaining you. 
 Every exertion has been made in your father's 
 favour ; but I regret to say, the proofs of the 
 offences of which he stands charged have been 
 too strong to be controverted. Still," added 
 he, " I have it in my power to save him ; I 
 have influence, I have means at my beck ; it 
 may involve me, it is true, in difficulties, per 
 haps in disgrace ; but what would I not do in 
 the hopes of being rewarded by your favour ? 
 Speak, beautiful Inez," said he, his eyes kindling 
 with sudden eagerness, "it is with you to say 
 the word that seals your father's fate. One kind
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 36l 
 
 word, say but you will be mine, and you will 
 behold me at your feet, your father at liberty 
 and in affluence, and we shall all be happy !" 
 
 Inez drew back from him with scorn and 
 disbelief. My father," exclaimed she, " is 
 too innocent and blameless to be convicted of 
 crime ; this is some base, some cruel artifice!" 
 Don Ambrosio repeated his asseverations, and 
 with them also his dishonourable proposals ; 
 but his eagerness overshot its mark ; her in 
 dignation and her incredulity were alike 
 awakened by his base suggestions ; and he 
 retired from her presence checked and awed 
 by the sudden pride and dignity of her de 
 meanour. 
 
 The unfortunate Inez now became a prey 
 to the most harrowing anxieties. Don Am 
 brosio saw that the mask had fallen from his 
 face, and that the nature of his machinations 
 was revealed. He had gone too far to retrace 
 his steps, and assume the affectation of tender 
 ness and respect ; indeed he was mortified and 
 incensed at her insensibility to his attractions, 
 and now only sought to subdue her through
 
 362 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 her fears. He daily represented to her the 
 dangers that threatened her father, and that 
 it was in his power alone to avert them. Inez 
 was still incredulous. She was too ignorant 
 of the nature of the inquisition to know that 
 even innocence was not always a protection 
 from its cruelties ; and she confided too surely 
 in the virtue of her father to believe that any 
 accusation could prevail against him. 
 
 At length, Don Ambrosio, to give an effec 
 tual blow to her confidence, brought her the 
 proclamation of the approaching auto da f6, in 
 which the prisoners were enumerated. She 
 glanced her eye over it, and beheld her father's 
 name, condemned to the stake for sorcery. 
 
 For a moment she stood transfixed with 
 horror. Don Ambrosio seized upon the tran 
 sient calm. " Think, now, beautiful Inez," 
 said he, with a tone of affected tenderness, " his 
 life is still in your hands ; one word from you, 
 one kind word, and I can yet save him." 
 
 " Monster ! wretch ! " cried she, coming to 
 herself, and recoiling from him with insu 
 perable abhorrence : " 'tis you that are the
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 363 
 
 cause of this 'tis you that are his murderer!" 
 Then, wringing her hands, she broke forth 
 into exclamations of the most frantic agony. 
 
 The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of 
 her soul, and anticipated from it a triumph. 
 He saw that she was in no mood, during her 
 present paroxysm, to listen to his words ; but 
 he trusted that the horrors of lonely rumi 
 nation would break down her spirit, and sub 
 due her to his will. In this, however, he was 
 disappointed. Many were the vicissitudes of 
 mind of the wretched Inez ; one time she would 
 embrace his knees with piercing supplications ; 
 at another she would shrink with nervous hor 
 ror at his very approach ; but any intimation 
 of his passion only excited the same emotion of 
 loathing and detestation. 
 
 At length the fatal day drew nigh. " To 
 morrow," said Don Ambrosio, as he left her 
 one evening, " To-morrow is the auto da fe. 
 To-morrow you will hear the sound of the bell 
 that tolls your father to his death. You will 
 almost see the smoke that rises from his fu 
 neral pile. I leave you to yourself. It is yet
 
 364 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 in my power to save him. Think whether you 
 can stand to-morrow's horrors without shrink 
 ing ? Think whether you can endure the after- 
 reflection, that you were the cause of his death, 
 and that merely through a perversity in re 
 fusing proffered happiness." 
 
 What a night was it to Inez ! Her heart, 
 already harassed and almost broken by re 
 peated and protracted anxieties ; her strength 
 wasted and enfeebled. On every side horrors 
 awaited her ; her father's death, her own dis 
 honour ; there seemed no escape from misery 
 or perdition. " Is there no relief from man 
 no pity in heaven ?" exclaimed she. " What 
 what have we done that we should be thus 
 wretched ?" 
 
 As the dawn approached, the fever of her 
 mind arose to agony ; a thousand times did she 
 try the doors and windows of her apartment, 
 in the desperate hope of escaping. Alas ! with 
 all the splendour of her prison, it was too 
 faithfully secured for her weak hands to work 
 deliverance. Like a poor bird, that beats its 
 wings against its gilded cage, until it sinks
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 365 
 
 panting in despair, so she threw herself on the 
 floor in hopeless anguish. Her blood grew 
 hot in her veins, her tongue was parched, her 
 temples throbbed with violence, she gasped 
 rather than breathed ; it seemed as if her brain 
 was on fire. " Blessed Virgin!" exclaimed 
 she, clasping her hands and turning up her 
 strained eyes, " look down with pity, and sup 
 port me in this dreadful hour !" 
 
 Just as the day began to dawn, she heard 
 a key turn softly in the door of her apart 
 ment. She dreaded lest it should be Don Am- 
 brosio ; and the very thought of him gave her 
 a sickening pang. It was a female, clad in a 
 rustic dress, with her face concealed by her 
 mantilla. She stepped silently into the room, 
 looked cautiously round, and then, uncover 
 ing her face, revealed the well-known fea 
 tures of the ballad-singer. Inez uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise, almost of joy. The 
 unknown started back, pressed her finger on 
 her lips enjoining silence, and beckoned her to 
 follow. She hastily wrapped herself in her 
 veil and obeyed. They passed with quick but
 
 366 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 
 
 noiseless steps through an antechamber, across 
 a spacious hall, and along a corridor ; all was 
 silent ; the household was yet locked in sleep. 
 They came to a door, to which the unknown 
 applied a key. Inez' heart misgave her; she 
 knew not but some new treachery was me 
 nacing her ; she laid her cold hand on the 
 stranger's arm : " Whither are you leading 
 me ?" said she. " To liberty," replied the 
 other, in a whisper. 
 
 " Do you know the passages about this 
 mansion ?" 
 
 " But too well !" replied the girl, with a 
 melancholy shake of the head. There was an 
 expression of sad veracity in her countenance 
 that was not to be distrusted. The door opened 
 on a small terrace, which was overlooked by 
 several windows of the mansion. 
 
 " We must move across this quickly," said 
 the girl, " or we may be observed." 
 
 They glided over it as if scarce touching 
 the ground. A flight of steps led down into 
 the garden ; a wicket at the bottom was rea 
 dily unbolted : they passed with breathless
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 367 
 
 velocity along one of the alleys, still in sight 
 of the mansion, in which, however, no person 
 appeared to be stirring. At length they came 
 to a low private door in the wall, partly hidden 
 by a fig-tree. It was secured by rusty bolts, 
 that refused to yield to their feeble efforts. 
 
 " Holy Virgin !" exclaimed the stranger, 
 " what is to be done ? one moment more, and 
 we may be discovered." 
 
 She seized a stone that lay near by : a few 
 blows, and the bolts flew back; the door 
 grated harshly as they opened it, and the next 
 moment they found themselves in a narrow 
 road. 
 
 " Now," said the stranger, " for Grenada as 
 quickly as possible ! The nearer we approach 
 it, the safer we shall be ; for the road will be 
 more frequented." 
 
 The imminent risk they ran of being pur 
 sued and taken gave supernatural strength to 
 their limbs ; they flew rather than ran. The 
 day had dawned ; the crimson streaks on the 
 edge of the horizon gave tokens of the ap 
 proaching sunrise : already the light clouds
 
 368 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 that floated in the western sky were tinged 
 with gold and purple ; though the broad plain 
 of the Vega, which now began to open upon 
 their view, was covered with the dark haze 
 of morning. As yet they only passed a few 
 straggling peasants on the road, who could 
 have yielded them no assistance in case of their 
 being overtaken. They continued to hurry 
 forward, and had gained a considerable di 
 stance, when the strength of Inez, which had 
 only been sustained by the fever of her mind, 
 began to yield to fatigue : she slackened her 
 pace, and faltered. 
 
 " Alas !" said she, " my limbs fail me ! I can 
 go no further !" " Bear up, bear up," replied 
 her companion cheeringly ; " a little further 
 and we shall be safe : look ! yonder is Grenada, 
 just showing itself in the valley below us. A 
 little further, and we shall come to the main 
 road, and then we shall find plenty of pas 
 sengers to protect us." 
 
 Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get 
 forward, but her weary limbs were unequal to 
 the eagerness of her mind; her mouth and
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 369 
 
 throat were parched by agony and terror : she 
 gasped for breath, and leaned for support 
 against a rock. " It is all in vain !" exclaimed 
 she ; " I feel as though I should faint." 
 
 " Lean on me," said the other ; " let us get 
 into the shelter of yon thicket, that will con 
 ceal us from the view ; I hear the sound of 
 water, which will refresh you." 
 
 With much difficulty they reached the thicket, 
 which overhung a small mountain stream, just 
 where its sparkling waters leaped over the rock 
 and fell into a natural basin. Here Inez sank 
 upon the ground exhausted. Her companion 
 brought water in the palms of her hands, and 
 bathed her pallid temples. The cooling drops 
 revived her; she was enabled to get to the 
 margin of the stream, and drink of its crystal 
 current ; then, reclining her head on the bosom 
 of her deliverer, she was first enabled to mur 
 mur forth her heartfelt gratitude. 
 
 " Alas!" said the other, " I deserve no 
 thanks; I deserve not the good opinion you 
 express. In me you behold a victim of Don 
 
 VOL. i. B B
 
 370 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Ambrosio's arts. In early years he seduced 
 me from the cottage of my parents : look ! 
 at the foot of yonder blue mountain in the 
 distance lies my native village : but it is no 
 longer a home for me. From thence he lured 
 me when I was too young for reflection ; he 
 educated me, taught me various accomplish 
 ments, made me sensible to love, to splendor, 
 to refinement ; then, having grown weary 
 of me, he neglected me, and cast me upon 
 the world. Happily the accomplishments he 
 taught me have kept me from utter want ; and 
 the love with which he inspired me has kept 
 me from further degradation. Yes ! I confess 
 my weakness ; all his perfidy and wrongs can 
 not efface him from my heart. I have been 
 brought up to love him ; I have no other 
 idol : I know him to be base, yet I cannot help 
 adoring him. I am content to mingle among 
 the hireling throng that administer to his 
 amusements, that I may still hover about him, 
 and linger in those halls where I once reigned 
 mistress. What merit, then, have I in assist-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 371 
 
 ing your escape ? I scarce know whether I am 
 acting from sympathy, and a desire to rescue 
 another victim from his power; or jealousy, 
 and an eagerness to remove too powerful a 
 rival!" 
 
 While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in 
 all its splendor ; first lighting up the mountain 
 summits, then stealing down height by height, 
 until its rays gilded the domes and towers of 
 Grenada, which they could partially see from 
 between the trees, below them. Just then 
 the heavy tones of a bell came sounding from 
 a distance, echoing, in sullen clang, along the 
 mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound. 
 She knew it to be the great bell of the cathe-> 
 dral, rung at sunrise on the day of the auto 
 da f6, to give note of funeral preparation. 
 Every stroke beat upon her heart, and inflicted 
 an absolute, corporeal pang. She started up 
 wildly. " Let us be gone !" cried she ; " there 
 is not a moment for delay!" 
 
 " Stop!" exclaimed the other, " yonder are 
 horsemen coming over the brow of that distant
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 height ; if I mistake not, Don Ambrosio is at 
 their head. Alas ! 'tis he ; we are lost. Hold !'* 
 continued she, " give me your scarf and veil ; 
 wrap yourself in this mantilla. I will fly up 
 yon footpath that leads to the heights. I will 
 let the veil flutter as I ascend ; perhaps they 
 may mistake me for you, and they must dis 
 mount to follow me. Do you hasten forward : 
 you will soon reach the main road. You have 
 jewels on your fingers : bribe the first muleteer 
 you meet to assist you on your way." 
 
 All this was said with hurried and breath 
 less rapidity. The exchange of garments was 
 made in an instant. The girl darted up the 
 mountain-path, her white veil fluttering among 
 the dark shrubbery; while Inez, inspired with 
 new strength, or rather new terror, flew to the 
 road, and trusted to Providence to guide her 
 tottering steps to Grenada. 
 
 All Grenada was in agitation on the morn 
 ing of this dismal day. The heavy bell of the 
 cathedral continued to utter its clanging tones, 
 that pervaded every part of the city, summon-
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 3?3 
 
 ing all persons to the tremendous spectacle 
 that was about to be exhibited. The streets 
 through which the procession was to pass 
 were crowded with the populace. The win 
 dows, the roofs, every place that could admit 
 a face or a foothold, was alive with spectators. 
 In the great square a spacious scaffolding, like 
 an amphitheatre, was erected, where the sen 
 tences of the prisoners were to be read, and 
 the sermon of faith to be preached ; and close 
 by were the stakes prepared, where the con 
 demned were to be burnt to death. Seats 
 were arranged for the great, the gay, the 
 beautiful; for such is the horrible curiosity of 
 human nature, that this cruel sacrifice was 
 attended with more eagerness than a theatre, 
 or even a bull feast. 
 
 As the day advanced, the scaffolds and bal 
 conies were filled with expecting multitudes ; 
 the sun shone brightly upon fair faces and 
 gallant dresses; one would have thought it 
 some scene of elegant festivity, instead of an 
 exhibition of human agony and death. But 
 what a different spectacle and ceremony was
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 this from those Which Grenada exhibited in 
 the days of her Moorish splendor. " Her 
 galas, her tournaments, her sports of the ring* 
 her ftes of St. John, her music, her Zambras, 
 and admirable tilts of canes ! Her serenades, 
 her concerts, her songs in Generaliffe ! The 
 costly liveries of the Abencerrages, their ex 
 quisite inventions, the skill and valour of the 
 Alabaces, the superb dresses of the Zegries* 
 Mazas, and Gomeles*!" All these were at an 
 end. The days of chivalry were over. Instead 
 of the prancing cavalcade, with neighing steed 
 and lively trumpet ; with burnished lance, and 
 helm, and buckler; with rich confusion of 
 plume, and scarf, and banner, where purple, 
 and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every 
 gay colour were mingled with cloth of gold and 
 fair embroidery ; instead of this crept on the 
 gloomy pageant of superstition, in cowl and 
 sackcloth ; with cross and coffin, and frightful 
 symbols of human suffering. In place of the 
 frank, hardy knight, open and brave, with his 
 lady 's favour in his casque, and amorous motto 
 
 * Rodd's Civil Wars of Grenada.
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 3/5 
 
 tm his shield, looking, by gallant deeds, to win 
 the smile of beauty, came the shaven, unmanly 
 monk, with downcast eyes, and head and heart 
 bleached in the cold cloister, secretly exulting 
 in this bigot triumph. 
 
 The sound of the bells gave notice that the 
 dismal procession was advancing. It passed 
 slowly through the principal streets of the 
 city, bearing in advance the awful banner of 
 the holy office. The prisoners walked singly, 
 attended by confessors, and guarded by fa 
 miliars of the inquisition. They were clad in 
 different garments, according to the nature of 
 their punishments ; those who were to suffer 
 death wore the hideous Samarra, painted with 
 flames and demons. The procession was swelled 
 by choirs of boys, by different religious orders 
 and public dignitaries, and, above all, by the 
 fathers of the faith, moving " with slow pace, 
 and profound gravity, truly triumphing, as 
 becomes the principal generals of that great 
 victory*." 
 
 As the sacred banner of the inquisition ad- 
 
 * Gonsalvius, p. 135.
 
 376 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 vanced, the countless throng sunk on their 
 knees before it ; they bowed their faces to the 
 very earth as it passed, and then slowly rose 
 again, like a great undulating billow. A mur 
 mur of tongues prevailed as the prisoners ap 
 proached, and eager eyes were strained, and 
 fingers pointed, to distinguish the different 
 orders of penitents, whose habits denoted the 
 degree of punishment they were to undergo. 
 But as those drew near whose frightful garb 
 marked them as destined to the flames, the 
 noise of the rabble subsided ; they seemed 
 almost to hold in their breaths ; filled with 
 that strange and dismal interest with which 
 we contemplate a human being on the verge 
 of suffering and death, 
 
 It is an awful thing a voiceless, noiseless 
 multitude ! The hushed and gazing stillness of 
 the surrounding thousands, heaped on walls, 
 and gates, and roofs, and hanging, as it were, 
 in clusters, heightened the effect of the pageant 
 that moved drearily on. The low murmuring 
 of the priests could now be heard in prayer 
 and exhortation, with the faint responses of
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 37? 
 
 the prisoners, and now and then the voices of 
 the choir at a distance, chanting the litanies of 
 the saints. 
 
 The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and 
 disconsolate. Even those who had been par 
 doned, and wore the Sanbenito, or penitential 
 garment, bore traces of the horrors they had 
 undergone. Some were feeble and tottering 
 from long confinement; some crippled and 
 distorted by various tortures ; every counte 
 nance was a dismal page, on which might be 
 read the secrets of their prison-house. But in 
 the looks of those condemned to death there 
 was something fierce and eager. They seemed 
 men harrowed up by the past, and desperate 
 as to the future. They were, anticipating, 
 with spirits fevered by despair, and fixed and 
 clenched determination, the vehement struggle 
 with agony and death which they were shortly 
 to undergo. Some cast now and then a wild 
 and anguished look about them upon the 
 shining day ; the " sun-bright palaces," the gay, 
 the beautiful world, which they were soon to 
 quit for ever ; or a glance of sudden indigna-
 
 378 THE STUDENT OP SALAMANCA. 
 
 tion at the thronging thousands, happy in li 
 berty and life, who seemed, in contemplating 
 their frightful situation, to exult in their own 
 comparative security. 
 
 One among the condemned, however, was 
 an exception to these remarks. It was an 
 aged man, somewhat bowed down, with a 
 serene, though dejected countenance, and a 
 beaming, melancholy eye. It was the alchy- 
 mist. The populace looked upon him with a 
 degree of compassion, which they were not 
 prone to feel towards criminals condemned by 
 the inquisition ; but when they were told that 
 he was convicted of the crime of magic, they 
 drew back with awe and abhorrence. 
 
 The procession had reached the grand 
 square. The first part had already mounted the 
 scaffolding, and the condemned were approach 
 ing. The press of the populace became ex 
 cessive, and was repelled, as it were, in billows 
 by the guards. Just as the condemned were 
 entering the square, a shrieking was heard 
 among the crowd. A female, pale, frantic, 
 dishevelled, was seen struggling through the
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 379 
 
 multitude. " My father ! my father !" was all 
 the cry she uttered, but it thrilled through 
 every heart. The crowd instinctively drew 
 back, and made way for her as she advanced. 
 The poor alchymist had made his peace 
 with Heaven, and, by hard struggle, had closed 
 his heart upon the world, when the voice of 
 his child called him once more back to worldly 
 thought and agony. He turned towards the 
 well-known voice ; his knees smote together ; 
 he endeavoured to stretch forth his pinioned 
 arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces 
 of his child. The emotions of both were too 
 agonizing for utterance. Convulsive sobs, and 
 broken exclamations, and embraces more of 
 anguish than tenderness, were all that passed 
 between them. The procession was interrupted 
 . for a moment. The astonished monks and 
 familiars were filled with involuntary respect 
 at this agony of natural affection. Ejaculations 
 of pity broke from the crowd, touched by the 
 filial piety, the extraordinary and hopeless 
 anguish of so young and beautiful a being.
 
 380 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on 
 her to retire, was unheeded ; at length they 
 endeavoured to separate her from her father 
 by force. The movement roused her from 
 her temporary abandonment. With a sudden 
 paroxysm of fury, she snatched a sword from 
 one of the familiars. Her late pale counte 
 nance was flushed with rage, and fire flashed 
 from her once soft and languishing eyes. The 
 guards shrunk back with awe. There was 
 something in this filial frenzy, this feminine 
 tenderness wrought up to desperation, that 
 touched even their hardened hearts. They 
 endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain. Her 
 eye was eager and quick as the she-wolf's 
 guarding her young. With one arm she pressed 
 her father to her bosom, with the other she 
 menaced every one that approached. 
 
 The patience of the guards was soon ex 
 hausted. They had held back in awe, but not 
 in fear. With all her desperation the weapon 
 was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and 
 she was borne shrieking and struggling among
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 381 
 
 the crowd. The rabble murmured compassion ; 
 but such was the dread inspired by the inqui 
 sition, that no one attempted to interfere. 
 
 The procession again resumed its march. 
 Inez was ineffectually struggling to release 
 herself from the hands of the familiars that 
 detained her, when suddenly she saw Don 
 Ambrosio before her. " Wretched girl !" ex 
 claimed he with fury, " why have you fled from 
 your friends ? Deliver her," said he to the fa 
 miliars, " to my domestics ; she is under my 
 protection." 
 
 His creatures advanced to seize her. " Oh 
 no ! oh no !" cried she, with new terrors, and 
 clinging to the familiars, " I have fled from no 
 friends. He is not my protector ! He is the 
 murderer of my father !" 
 
 The familiars were perplexed; the crowd 
 pressed on with eager curiosity. " Stand off!" 
 cried the fiery Ambrosio, dashing the throng 
 from around him. Then turning to the familiars, 
 with sudden moderation, "My friends," said 
 he, " deliver this poor girl to me. Her distress 
 has turned her brain ; she has escaped from
 
 382 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 her friends and protectors this morning ; but a 
 little quiet and kind treatment will restore her 
 to tranquillity." 
 
 " I am not mad ! I am not mad !" cried she 
 vehemently. " Oh, save me ! save me from 
 these men ! I have no protector on earth but 
 my father, and him they are murdering !" 
 
 The familiars shook their heads ; her wild- 
 ness corroborated the assertions of Don Am- 
 brosio, and his apparent rank commanded 
 respect and belief. They relinquished their 
 charge to him, and he was consigning the 
 struggling Inez to his creatures. 
 
 " Let go your hold, villain !" cried a voice 
 from among the crowd, and Antonio was seen 
 eagerly tearing his way through the press of 
 people. 
 
 "Seize him! seize him!" cried Don Am- 
 brosio to the familiars : " 'tis an accomplice of 
 the sorcerer." 
 
 " Liar !" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the 
 mob to the right and left, and forced himself 
 to the spot. 
 
 The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 383 
 
 instant from the scabbard; the student was 
 armed, and equally alert. There was a fierce 
 clash of weapons ; the crowd made way for 
 them as they fought, and closed again, so as to 
 hide them from the view of Inez. All was tu 
 mult and confusion for a moment ; when there 
 was a kind of shout from the spectators, and 
 the mob again opening, she beheld, as she 
 thought, Antonio weltering in his blood. 
 
 This new shock was too great for her already 
 overstrained intellects. A giddiness seized 
 upon her ; every thing seemed to whirl before 
 her eyes ; she gasped some incoherent words, 
 and sunk senseless upon the ground. 
 
 Days weeks elapsed before Inez returned 
 to consciousness. At length she opened her 
 eyes, as if out of a troubled sleep. She was 
 lying upon a magnificent bed, in a chamber 
 richly furnished with pier glasses and massive 
 tables inlaid with silver, of exquisite workman 
 ship. The walls were covered with tapestry ; 
 the cornices richly gilded : through the door, 
 which stood open, she perceived a superb 
 saloon, with statues and crystal lustres, and a
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA* 
 
 magnificent suite of apartments beyond. The 
 casements of the room were open to admit the 
 soft breath of summer, which stole in, laden 
 with perfumes from a neighbouring garden ; 
 from whence, also, the refreshing sound of 
 fountains and the sweet notes of birds came in 
 mingled music to her ear. 
 
 Female attendants were moving, with noise^ 
 less step, about the chamber ; but she feared 
 to address them. She doubted whether this 
 were not all delusion, or whether she was not 
 still in the palace of Don Ambrosio, and that 
 her escape, and all its circumstances, had not 
 been but a feverish dream. She closed her eyes 
 again, endeavouring to recall the past, and to 
 separate the real from the imaginary. The 
 last scenes of consciousness, however, rushed 
 too forcibly, with all their horrors, to her mind 
 to be doubted, and she turned shuddering 
 from the recollection, to gaze once more on 
 the quiet and serene magnificence around her. 
 As she again opened her eyes, they rested on 
 an object that at once dispelled every alarm. 
 At the head of her bed sat a venerable form
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 385 
 
 watching over her with a look of fond anxiety 
 it was her father ! 
 
 I will not attempt to describe the scene thas 
 ensued ; nor the moments of rapture which 
 more than repaid all the sufferings that her 
 affectionate heart had undergone. As soon ai 
 their feelings had become more calm, the al- 
 chymist stepped out of the room to introduce 
 a stranger, to whom he was indebted for his 
 life and liberty. He returned, leading in An 
 tonio, no longer in his poor scholar's garb, but 
 in the rich dress of a nobleman. 
 
 The feelings of Inez were almost over 
 powered by these sudden reverses, and it was 
 some time before she was sufficiently composed 
 to comprehend the explanation of this seeming 
 romance. 
 
 It appeared that the lover, who had sought 
 her affections in the lowly guise of a student, 
 was only son and heir of a powerful grandee 
 of Valentia. He had been placed at the uni 
 versity of Salamanca ; but a lively curiosity and 
 an eagerness for adventure had induced him 
 
 VOL. i. c c
 
 586 
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 to abandon the university, without his father's 
 consent, and to visit various parts of Spain. His 
 rambling inclination satisfied, he had remained 
 incognito for a time at Grenada, until, by fur 
 ther study and self-regulation, he could pre 
 pare himself to return home with credit, and 
 atone for his transgressions against paternal 
 authority. 
 
 How hard he had studied does not remain 
 on record. All that we know is his romantic 
 adventure of the tower. It was at first a mere 
 youthful caprice, excited by a glimpse of a 
 beautiful face. In becoming a disciple of the 
 alchymist, he probably thought of nothing more 
 than pursuing a light love-affair. Further ac 
 quaintance, however, had completely fixed his 
 affections ; and he had determined to conduct 
 Inez and her father to Valentia, and to trust 
 to her merits to secure his father's consent to 
 their union. 
 
 In the mean time he had been traced to his 
 concealment. His father had received intelli 
 gence of his being entangled in the snares of a
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 387 
 
 mysterious adventurer and his daughter, and 
 likely to become the dupe of the fascinations 
 of the latter. Trusty emissaries had been 
 despatched to seize upon him by main force, 
 and convey him without delay to the paternal 
 home. 
 
 What eloquence he had used with his father 
 to convince him of the innocence, the honour, 
 and the high descent of the alchymist, and of 
 the exalted worth of his daughter, does not 
 appear. All that we know is, that the father, 
 though a very passionate, was a very reason 
 able man, as appears by his consenting that 
 his son should return to Grenada, and conduct 
 Inez, as his affianced bride, to Valentia. 
 
 Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, 
 full of joyous anticipations. He still forbore 
 to throw off his disguise, fondly picturing to 
 himself what would be the surprise of Inez, 
 when, having won her heart and hand as a poor 
 wandering scholar, he should raise her and her 
 father at once to opulence and splendour. 
 On his arrival he had been shocked at find-
 
 388 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 ing the tower deserted by its inhabitants. In 
 vain he sought for intelligence concerning 
 them ; a mystery hung over their disappear 
 ance which he could not penetrate, until he 
 was thunderstruck, on accidentally reading a 
 list of the prisoners at the impending auto da 
 fe", to find the name of his venerable master 
 among the condemned. 
 
 It was the very morning of the execution. 
 The procession was already on its way to the 
 grand square. Not a moment was to be lost. 
 The grand inquisitor was a relation of Don 
 Antonio, though they had never met. His 
 first impulse was to make himself known ; to 
 exert all his family influence, the weight of his 
 name, and the power of his eloquence, in vin 
 dication of the alchymist. But the grand in 
 quisitor was already proceeding, in all his 
 pomp, to the place where the fatal ceremony 
 was to be performed. How was he to be ap 
 proached ? Antonio threw himself into the 
 crowd, in a fever of anxiety, and was forcing 
 his way to the scene of horror, when he ar- 

 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 389 
 
 rived just in time to rescue Inez, as has been 
 mentioned. 
 
 It was Don Ambrosio that fell in their con 
 test. Being desperately wounded, and think 
 ing his end approaching, he had confessed, to 
 an attending father of the inquisition, that he 
 was the sole cause of the alchymist's con 
 demnation, and that the evidence on which it 
 was grounded was altogether false. The testi 
 mony of Don Antonio came in corroboration of 
 this avowal ; and his relationship to the grand 
 inquisitor had, in all probability, its proper 
 weight. Thus was the poor alchymist snatched, 
 in a manner, from the very flames ; and so 
 great had been the sympathy awakened in his 
 case, that for once a populace rejoiced at being 
 disappointed of an execution. 
 
 The residue of the story may readily be 
 imagined by every one versed in this valuable 
 kind of history. Don Antonio espoused the 
 lovely Inez, and took her and her father with 
 him to Valentia. As she had been a loving 
 and dutiful daughter, so she proved a true and 
 tender wife. It was not long before Don An-
 
 390 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 tonio succeeded to his father's titles and estates, 
 and he and his fair spouse were renowned for 
 being the handsomest and happiest couple in 
 all Valentia. 
 
 As to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered 
 to the enjoyment of a broken constitution and 
 a blasted name, and hid his remorse and dis 
 graces in a convent ; while the poor victim of his 
 arts, who had assisted Inez in her escape, 
 unable to conquer the early passion that he 
 had awakened in her bosom, though convinced 
 of the baseness of the object, retired from the 
 world, and became a humble sister in a nun 
 nery. 
 
 The worthy alchymist took up his abode 
 with his children. A pavilion, in the garden 
 of their palace, was assigned to him as a labo 
 ratory, where he resumed his researches, with 
 renovated ardour, after the grand secret. He was 
 now and then assisted by his son-in-law; but 
 the latter slackened grievously in his zeal and 
 diligence, after marriage. Still he would listen 
 with profound gravity and attention to the 
 old man's rhapsodies, and his quotations from
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 391 
 
 Paracelsus, Sandivogius, and Pietro D'Abano, 
 which daily grew longer and longer. In this 
 way the good alchymist lived on quietly and 
 comfortably, to what is called a good old age, 
 that is to say, an age that is good for nothing, 
 and, unfortunately for mankind, was hurried 
 out of life in his ninetieth year, just as he was 
 on the point of discovering the Philosophers' 
 Stone. 
 
 Such was the story of the captain's friend, 
 with which we whiled away the morning. The 
 captain was, every now and then, interrupted 
 by questions and remarks, which I have not 
 mentioned, lest I should break the continuity 
 of the tale. He was a little disturbed, also, 
 once or twice, by the general, who fell asleep, 
 and breathed rather hard, to the great horror 
 and annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long 
 and tender love-scene, also, which was par 
 ticularly to her ladyship's taste, the unlucky 
 general, having his head a little sunk upon his 
 breast, kept making a sound at regular inter-
 
 392 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 vals, very much like the word pish, long drawn 
 out. At length he made an odd abrupt gut 
 tural sound, that suddenly awoke him; he 
 hemmed, looked about with a slight degree of 
 consternation, and then began to play with her 
 ladyship's work-bag, which, however, she rather 
 pettishly withdrew. The steady sound of the 
 captain's voice was still too potent a soporific 
 for the poor general ; he kept gleaming up and 
 sinking in the socket, until the cessation of the 
 tale again roused him, when he started awake, 
 put his foot down upon Lady Lillycraft's cur, 
 the sleeping Beauty, which yelped, and seized 
 him by the leg, and, in a moment, the whole 
 library resounded with yelpings and exclama 
 tions. Never did a man more completely mar 
 his fortunes while he was asleep. Silence 
 being at length restored, the company ex 
 pressed their thanks to ^he captain, and gave 
 various opinions of the story. The parson's 
 mind, I found, had been continually running 
 upon the leaden manuscripts, mentioned in the 
 beginning, as dug up at Grenada, and he put 
 several eager questions to the captain on the
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 3Q3 
 
 subject. The general could not well make out 
 the drift of the story, but thought it a little 
 confused. " I am glad, however," said he, 
 " that they burnt the old chap of the tower ; I 
 have no doubt he was a notorious impostor." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINT!!) FT THOMAS DAVISON, WH1TEFRIARS.
 
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