f Berkeley 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
& -^ &** 
 
" IN POSSESSION. 
 

 *y i: 
 
 V h 
 
 
 THE GRAVE OF ELLEN FA1KMAN. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 NATHANIEL COOKE, MILEOED HOUSE, STRAND. 
 
 1854. 
 
LONDON PRINTED BY WOODFALL AND KINDER, 
 ANGEL COURT, SKJNNER STREET. 
 
TO 
 
 ALEXANDEK BLAIR, LL.D. 
 
 HIS BEST AXD DZABEST EEIEXD, 
 THIS YfOEE IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 IX GEATIIEDE AXD BEYEEEjsTIAL AEEECTIOX, 
 BY 
 
 TEE AUTHOR. 
 
 012 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Thirteen years have elapsed since Caleb [Stukelt made its appearance 
 in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. In the present edition, of the work, 
 the tale has been relieved of many passages, which, without assisting- the 
 progress of the story, added to its bulk, and took from its interest. It 
 is hoped that the approval accorded by the public, in 1841, to the first 
 literary effort of the author, will not suffer by the curtailments which 
 have been suggested by the voice of experience. 
 
 London, February, 1854. 
 

 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The voices of my home ! I hear them still 
 
 They have heen with me through the dreamy night — 
 
 The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
 
 My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight ! 
 
 I hear them still unchanged. 
 
 Mrs. Remans. 
 
 I WAS born on the 7th day of July, and in the year 1777. My father 
 carried on a respectable business in the city of London, and was reputed, 
 by all who knew him, a worthy tradesman and well to do in life. He had 
 married young, and of seven children that had blessed their union, when 
 he had reached the age of sixty, and my mother that of fifty-eight, I only 
 remained to cheer and enliven the sunset of their days. My parents were 
 both seriously disposed, and they lived in perfect simplicity and peace. 
 There was an air of stillness and repose about them and their proceed- 
 ings, and a calm atmosphere flowed throughout their habitation, forming, 
 in truth, a strong and happy contrast to the scene of business, activity, 
 and tumult, beyond it. The recollections of this house, situated as it was 
 in the very heart of the great city, with its regular, precise, but by no 
 means unsocial or cold-hearted inhabitants, are at this moment vivid 
 and fresh. It seems scarcely a year ; although, alas ! too many have 
 elapsed since the day that I quitted the happy roof beneath which I drew 
 my first breath, and heard for the last time the accents of a fond mother 
 bidding me adieu. They murmur still in my ear, like the melancholy 
 and hollow gushings of the sea-shell, bringing to my view the shadows of 
 times and feelings that are entombed in the irrevocable past. I left my 
 home on this occasion to take up my abode in Cambridge, at which uni- 
 versity I had entered a few months previously. From my earliest boyhood, 
 I had expressed a desire to be educated for the church ; and my father, by 
 every means in his power, encouraged, because he contemplated with de- 
 light the growing inclination of his last remaining hope. I was between 
 seventeen and eighteen years of age. Five years had passed under the eye 
 
2 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 of a clergyman, who, having himself gone out " high in honours," spent 
 his time in preparing a select number of young gentlemen for the same 
 distinction. I now " went up," as it is called, with a fair prospect of 
 realising, in a measure, the sanguine expectations that the indulgent pa- 
 rent so naturally, but, as the result every day proves, too eagerly, enter- 
 tains of his offspring, when he leaves his home, and enters for the first 
 time upon the pursuits of men — whether it be in the academy or in the 
 arena of busier life. Long is the list of fathers who have experienced the 
 bitter pangs of disappointment and of shame ; and how many a youth, 
 fortified with the strongest resolutions, and protected by the warmest sen- 
 sibilities, has been doomed to behold both, by a process and a transition 
 almost imperceptible in their workings, dwindling away and utterly disap- 
 pearing before the contaminating influence of evil example! On the 
 evening prior to my departure, my father quitted his counting-house at an. 
 earlier hour than usual ; and 1, whilst still busy in arrangements for my 
 removal, was summoned to his presence. My mother and he were seated 
 in their cool and quiet parlour; and the former, although she appeared, to 
 the exclusion of everything else, wholly engrossed in the duties of the 
 tea-table, bore upon her mild and benignant countenance the marks of 
 recent sorrow and of present trouble. We all three sat down, and in 
 silence partook of that meal which is sanctified by an association with our 
 best affections. 
 
 For the first time in my life my meal was a troubled one — there was a 
 weight about my heart, and I could not eat. Oh, how I loved my home 
 that happy evening, and how the thought of leaving it oppressed and 
 sickened me ! 
 
 Contrary to my expectation, my father spoke little to me : he had evi- 
 dently intended to say much ; but the uneasiness of my mother prevented 
 him, and his own heart was full. 1 saw this in his every movement — his 
 hand shook, and his eye filled more than once with involuntary tears. I 
 felt a momentary relief when at length he pressed my hand, and wished 
 me good-night. I did not answer him — I could not for worlds. A sick- 
 ening pain at my throat overpowered me. My heart was bursting when I 
 reached my room, and threw myself on my bed, my own dear bed — in 
 which I had slept from infancy, and on which perhaps I might never sleep 
 again. Exquisitely delicious were the tears that came to my relief — I 
 cried, until repose came, and a glow of comfort such as passionate tears 
 will bring at last. 
 
 The prayers that I offered up that night to the throne of goodness and 
 of grace were fervent, and, it may be, extravagantly expressed — but I 
 deemed, and felt them, to be honest. I Avas at that time innocent of the 
 lesson that was taught to me with some pains at a later period of my life ; 
 when the Serpent, amongst other secrets, whispered into my ear the mise- 
 rable intelligence, ihaX passion is not always truth, and that the signs and 
 symbols of sensibility may be nothing loftier than false and hypocriti- 
 cally contrived inventions. With what intensity did I implore blessings 
 for my dear father and mother ! What vows of obedience, duty, and 
 abiding love, did I not then make ! Again and again did 1 invoke my 
 Maker to protect and support the beloved authors of my existence through 
 all the trials and dangers of this life — to spare them yet for a short period, 
 until I might return to them a hundred-fold the many acts of kindness, 
 the thousand evidences of the tenderest affection, that I had received at 
 their hands. With resolutions firm, I believed, and immovable as the 
 eternal hills, I at length closed my eyes. 
 
 The morning came— a lovely one. The city itself looks fresh and happy 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 6 
 
 when the sun smiles upon it. and lights up its narrow streets. The spirits 
 of the passengers are buoyant, too, in spite of the heavy burden of care 
 which they doom themselves to carry. I have often remarked on a May 
 morning, when light and warmth are on the ground, and fresh breeze3 
 purify the air, the springy step and the erect gait of men who have for- 
 gotten for an hour that they are bondmen, whilst their eyes glance to the 
 stripe of blue heaven above them, and they tread the ground with the al- 
 most-forgotten elasticity of youth. The effect of this spirit-stirring morn- 
 ing reached also me. I forgot my sadness ; I longed to be on the spot to 
 which I was hastening, and to commence those operations which were 
 delightful to me ; chiefly in respect of the joy they would bring to the 
 aged hearts of my dear parents. True, a tear started now and then into 
 my eye, but it was one of pleasure and of glowing affection, and it sancti- 
 fied the many and virtuous resolves which, one after another, were silently 
 registered in my bosom. 
 
 It was past eight o'clock — at nine, the Cambridge Intelligence left the 
 inn, which was distant about a mile from our dwelling. My father called 
 me to him. " Caleb/' he said, " your time with us is nearly expired— here 
 is a letter for you, which you may read at your leisure. Take care of your- 
 self, and may God send you back in health and safety ! You will write to 
 us often." 
 
 As he spoke, my mother entered the counting-house in which we were, 
 and she looked as if she had slept but little. My father changed his tone, 
 and called briskly to his clerk, with whom, for some time, he held a con- 
 versation on matters connected with his business. In the presence of my 
 mother, he would scarcely make any reference to me or my proceedings. 
 The clock struck half-past eight — "Xow, lad," he exclaimed, hastening 
 from the room, " kiss your mother, and let us begone." I turned to take 
 leave of her whom I had never left before — my mother, whom I loved so 
 well. But ah ! I could not — I kissed her, and I sobbed on her bosom, and 
 she pressed me to hers, and cried bitterly. 
 
 " Good boy, good boy ! " she said through her tears — " Heaven protect 
 you, my dear and only child ! " 
 
 I dragged myself from her. 
 
 " Stay, Caleb," she cried out, " I had almost forgotten. Take this," and 
 she gave me a pocket-book. Good-bye, now. May God bless you for ever, 
 my darling child !" 
 
 My father, and a man carrying my trunk, had already departed. I fol- 
 lowed and overtook them. Instinctively I turned my head and looked 
 back upon our dwelling. My mother was at the door, she observed my 
 movement, and beckoned me a last farewell. 
 
 I turned the street, and lost sight of her for ever. 
 
 The inn from which I was to set out was full of life and bustle. The 
 heavy coach already stood before the inn yard. The driver was receiving 
 his last directions in the house, and men were busy in the disposal and 
 securing of the passengers' luggage. My spirits again failed me. The 
 activity there, the sunshine, and the happy looks of men, contrasted with 
 the low and oppressive feeling that came over me, but could not remove 
 it. My father remained at my side, silent and moody. My hand was held 
 in his, which trembled exceedingly. 
 
 "Is there anything you wish to say, father?-" I inquired. f, "VTe shall 
 soon start now." 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " come hither." He took me through the yard, at 
 the end of which an obscure passage led to a set of stables. He stopped 
 in the middlo of it, and, looking about, as if to be assured of privacy, he 
 
 b 2 
 
4 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 pressed his manly lips to my cheeks, and kissed me, in all the passionate 
 expression ot his unselfish fatherly affection. " May God Almighty bless 
 you, my dear Caleb, and keep you pure ! He knows how much I love 
 you." As he spoke, he wept like a child. We returned silently down the 
 yard. The ostler ran to us. 
 
 "Are you the other inside, sir ? Coach is waiting." I nodded yes. The 
 man called to the coachman, who had already taken his seat. I entered 
 the lumbering vehicle, and as we quitted the inn, with as brisk a flourish 
 as the driver could command, I observed my honoured parent turning, 
 with a slow and mournful gait, once more his steps towards home. 
 
 It was some time before I could rouse myself from the extreme despond- 
 ency into which the circumstances of the morning had subdued me. My 
 head hung languidly down, and my eye wandered over the straw that was 
 strewed at the bottom of the coach, and which served as a carpet for the 
 travellers' feet, until it became familiar with every wisp. My mind occu- 
 pied itself with the bed-side scene of the preceding night, the happiness 
 of my early days, and the prospect that was opening before me. I 
 dreamt of many things ; whilst, in and above everything, sprung up visions 
 of home, and of the beloved couple who presided over its placid doings. 
 In every dazzling plan that imagination reared of the future, the fivo ob- 
 jects of my entire and ineffable love held the chiefest place, and were the 
 brightest parts. 
 
 The country on every side, at the period I speak of, was nearer to Lon- 
 don by some miles than it is now. When I roused myself from my reverie, 
 we had reached the green fields and thick hedges, the waving trees and 
 the blessed open sky; and Nature, in her unspeakable loveliness and sim- 
 plicity, shed, as is her wont, an unseen healing power over my troubled 
 spirits. The weight became lighter on my heart, and my thoughts gradu- 
 ally assumed a more cheerful tone. I took the letter from my pocket which 
 my father, when he quitted the house, had placed in my hand. I now 
 opened it, and read as follows : — 
 " My dearest boy, 
 
 " If I have said little to you on the subject of your present removal from 
 us, it is not that I have thought lightly of it, or that I have not felt as your 
 father concerning you. With my parting blessing, receive these my parting 
 words. You have a tender mother, Caleb. Rebecca loved not her Jacob 
 better than she does you — her youngest-born. You do not know, indeed, 
 how much you owe her. She has nursed and cared for you with an untiring 
 spirit. Before you could understand the obligations and duties of a child, 
 she had accomplished for you more than a life of love and obedience can 
 repay. You were a delicate and sickly infant, and but for the ceaseless 
 watchings which seemed never too long for the motherly heart, you would 
 not be alive this day to hear how much you are her debtor. In boyhood, 
 your violent and passionate temperament, which threatened not only your 
 own happiness, but that of all who loved you, was checked and corrected, 
 and, I confidently trust, eventually expelled, by her enduring patience and 
 self-denial. As you have grown, who but she has been about you, like a 
 guardian angel, rendering joyous and almost sanctifying the hours of your 
 life 1 You should be moved by such affection, as I am sure you will be : 
 yet remember, Caleb, you are still young, and emotion is natural ; and be- 
 cause it is natural, there is danger lest it may pass away with the occasion, 
 and be forgotten. But I look for better things from you. I have described 
 your mother, and the claim she has upon you. You have now left her, 
 and be sure if you bring sorrow upon her aged head, there will be a deep 
 and lasting retribution. 
 
CALEB STUEELY. 5 
 
 "I confide in you, my child, to the uttermost ; still, whilst I concede to 
 you a more extensive knowledge of books than your unlettered parent, I 
 have the experience of years and the knowledge of men, which you must 
 yet obtain. The world into which you are entering is full of temptation, 
 and abounds with danger. Be firm, and you travel on unhurt. Yield to 
 the first, although the smallest and scarce-audible whisperings of evil pas- 
 sion, and you are in the hands of the Wicked One. A university is a 
 commonwealth, where many vicious as well as many honourable spirit.-: are 
 collected. It is the nature "of the fallen, to seek out greedily the yet pure, 
 and to endeavour, by every means, to drag them down from the bright 
 eminence which they 'themselves have lost for ever. Their lips are honeyed, 
 and their words sweet poison. They are most insidious in their temp tings, 
 but, if you love life, and would enjoy it, avoid them, though they come 
 with all the power and fascination of the serpent. All that is left me now 
 is to recommend you to the care of Him who has provided for us hitherto, 
 and to the guidance of the good principle He has implanted in your bosom. 
 You may rely, without fear of disappointment, upon the judgment of your 
 own good conscience, and, so long as you live, upon the affectionate regard 
 of vour loving parent." 
 
 I had read this epistle for the fifth or sixth time, when I was disturbed 
 by what sounded to me like a suppressed laugh, and a voice exclaiming, 
 just sufficiently loud for me to hear it, the single monosyllable— '- Fresh." 
 
 I raised my eyes from the letter, and became conscious of the presence 
 of other individuals. Imagining for an instant that every emotion I expe- 
 rienced, and every thought that ran through my brain, had been manifest 
 to strangers, I blushed deeply ; but I recovered myself quickly, and began 
 to observe more particularly the countenances of my companions. Which 
 of them it was that spoke and laughed, I could not decide ; for the eyes of 
 all were at the instant turned from me, and there was neither smile, nor 
 expression of any other kind, in the faces of any that might lead to de- 
 tection. 
 
 Our coach contained six inside passengers. The seat opposite cay own 
 was occupied by two young men, and a man somewhat advanced in years. 
 The former possessed a gentlemanly air, and were apparently well-bred. I 
 determined at once that they were bound for the same place and employ- 
 ment as myself. They were both dressed with remarkable neatness, and 
 had altogether that comfortable and easy manner, which indicates, in most 
 instances, the enjoyment of good circumstances, if not of actual indepen- 
 dence. Their look's were exceedingly grave ; but the solemnity of one, at 
 least, seemed false, and to exist rather in spite of his nature than as the 
 proper exponent of' it. There was a frowning eyebrow, but, at the same 
 time, a small and laughing eye, sparkling with joyousness that no effort 
 could conceal ; and although a demure and pursy turn was forced upon 
 the lip, it had to struggle for the mastery with a sly upward carl, by which 
 it was not difficult to perceive it must eventually be repulsed and overcome. 
 These observations apply to the younger of the two travellers, between whom 
 there subsisted a marked resemblance. He might have been about nine- 
 teen years of age, and a year or two the junior of his companion. As I con- 
 tinued my observation l"could not but suspect that to him were to be traced 
 the previous laugh and exclamation ; and I suffered a pang of boyish un- 
 easiness, as I concluded that I had been the cause and subject of them. He 
 was handsome, and his face beamed with confidence and delight. In spite 
 of his assumed seriousness, I pronounced at a glance, that good-nature and 
 he were by no means strangers to one another. 
 
6 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 The elderly gentleman, who sat next to them in the corner, was a very 
 different order of being. He looked about fifty years of age, but he might 
 have been some years older or younger. He had that peculiar mien which 
 makes it a puzzle to fix the precise age of an individual. There was a 
 glaring discrepancy between the glossy and black curly hair which orna- 
 mented his head, and the deep furrows and expressive lines that time or 
 trouble had ploughed along his cheek. Again, the vivacity and fire of an 
 eye which moved with the quickness and sharpness of youth, seemed 
 hardly to belong to the dull and heavy-lipped mouth, that, hanging down, 
 discovered almost toothless gums, and denoted either supreme stolidity or 
 the giving way of years. 
 
 If it were a task" to discover this good man's age, it was not a whit 
 easier to give him a position in society. He did not belong evidently to 
 that which is popularly called the lower order, and he was scarcely re- 
 spectable or clean enough to be ranked in the middle class. Had there 
 been a mean between the two he would have settled there ; but, in the 
 absence of this, he represented the extremes of both. You might note in 
 him, as it were, the last degree of the one class, and the first of the other. 
 His whole person was characterised by dirtiness. His face, hands, (he 
 wore no gloves,) clothes, and boots— all were dirty. His clothes were 
 made, perhaps, from the best wool, and had the neatest workmanship, and 
 if brushed, and fitted to a body to which cleanliness was an article not of 
 the least consideration in life, might have challenged comparison with the 
 choicest. The hand, too, relieved of its filthy covering, would not have 
 
 disgraced a lady for it was small and well-shapen. The complexion of 
 
 this curious person was a dark brown, and looked the browner by reason 
 of his universal fault. To conclude this short sketch of him, I must add 
 that his hair, to which I have already referred, was heightened in its 
 beauty by an exuberant plenty of strongly-scented oil, his dirty shirt was 
 decorated with a massive brooch, his nose was large and Roman, and all 
 his features were strongly stamped with that peculiar expression, which is 
 recognised over the whole world under the name of— Jewish. By way of 
 postscript (for I discovered this afterwards), let me say that his height 
 was five feet six or thereabouts, and he was of a slender make. 
 
 The remaining two travellers, they who shared my seat, were a mother 
 and daughter travelling to Lynn, in Norfolk. I need not refer to them 
 further. We said little as we journeyed, and parted company at Cam- 
 bridge. I have never seen them since. The old lady must have long since 
 mouldered in the grave ; and the blooming lass, who looked so bashful 
 and so coy, who could not choose but blush and bend her head beneath 
 the over-zealous gaze of that tall handsome youth— is she yet living 1 ? 
 Has she grown grey — the blossom brushed from off her cheek ] Age will 
 not spare it ; and the smooth soft skin, so very smooth was hers, is it 
 pinched up and withered 1 Does her eye lack lustre now, and is it turned 
 as mine is— back upon the past ? Pray God the retrospect is fair, and 
 yields a balm to soothe the swift descent— a joy that is at once a promise 
 and an earnest of the future. 
 
 The Israelitish gentleman soon became an active agent in the dismissal 
 of certain large pieces of dry bread, which he brought from his pocket, 
 one after another, and ate with amazing rapidity. He remained silent 
 the while ; but as he munched, and dropped the crumbs upon his neigh- 
 bour's knee, he drew his breath deeply through his nose, which again 
 discharged it in a disagreeable sound, something between sniffing and 
 snoring. The younger of the two young men at length interfered. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 7 
 
 " You are a queer brick, Lev}','' he said, in a tone that predicated ac- 
 quaintance; '"'but I advise you to have your breakfast next time at home, 
 and what you can't eat give to the birds. I'm not hungry." 
 
 "Mishter Temples," answered the person addressed, gulping down a 
 mouthful, " you are sich a funny gentlemansh ; you alvays makes your 
 vits vit poor Levy. I tink if Levy was dead you vouldn't know vat to do 
 vit yourself." 
 
 This was spoken with so curious a twang, and with so deferential an air, 
 that I could not help smiling, which observing, the young gentleman 
 turned to me, and, with a polite movement, thus accosted me : — " You 
 are, I presume, going to college, and should by all means know Mr. 
 Solomon Levy." The latter gentleman assumed a gesture of extreme 
 modesty. " He is as necessary to you as your cap and gown, and in every 
 respect as useful. The mellowest grape of Portugal, and the mildest 
 tobacco-leaf of America, are found with him ; and tin, when times are 
 hard, and governors have bled their last, as plentiful as in the sea-bound 
 Cassiterides." 
 
 The elderly gentleman did not seem to understand altogether the point 
 and meaning of this speech, nor in truth did 1 ; but, unwilling to acknow- 
 ledge my ignorance, 1 allowed the young student to proceed. 
 
 " I will not say that my friend Levy, like the Prince of Denmark, is 
 'the glass of fashion and the mould of form.' Xo, that were flattery. 
 But he hath daughters, passing fair, maids of Judah, whose bright eyes 
 put out all lesser orbs of light. I've seen them at the county-ball, as 
 Chaucer says — ' the silver drops all hanging on the Lev — es.' But they 
 were paste, as I've often said before." 
 
 " Kale shtones," interrupted Mr. Levy eagerly. " Rale shtones, as I 
 hoped to be shaved !" 
 
 " "Well, no matter, this gentleman may indeed consider it a lucky day 
 that brings him into this society. Sir, you must allow me to have the 
 honour of the introduction. Mr. Lew, Mr. V 
 
 " Stukelv." 
 
 * Mr. Levy, Mr. Stukelv." 
 
 I bowed to the dirty gentleman, and he in return smiled rather grimly 
 upon me, and winked his eye in token of admitted friendship. 
 
 " Ah," pursued the collegian, " these introductions are the bane of good 
 fellowship, and the very ruin of Cambridge. You might have spent a life 
 in the place, and yet for want of a common friend have been ignorant of 
 each other's existence. Had you made advances, indeed, Levy must have 
 repelled you ; for where custom becomes inveterate, it robs men of their 
 own will, and reduces them to the level of slaves." 
 
 "And yet, James," said his brother, who now made himself heard for 
 the first time, " how necessary to a well-constituted society is this social 
 arrangement ! What a protection does it afford to the retiring and meek 
 from the intrusion of the officious ! How else should the innocent and 
 unwary be sheltered from the worldling and the sharper 1 " 
 
 " True, king ! " replied the common friend ; " and therefore, lest Mr. 
 Stukely may form a hasty and incorrect judgment of your character, let 
 me at once introduce to his notice mv worthv elder brother, Mr. William 
 Temple.— Mr. Stukely, Mr. William Temple." 
 
 Mr. William Temple grasped my hand, and assured me that, having 
 legally acquired the pleasure of my acquaintance, he should have no ob- 
 jection in becoming exceedingly intimate. 
 
 " Do you go," inquired Mr. James, " to a large college ) " 
 
 " I have entered at Trinity," was my reply. 
 
8 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Ah, low — shocking low ; Trinity is going down very fast. The market 
 is overstocked, as they say in the city. They have sent out a good man 
 or two, who, I should guess, have bitten all the paters in existence ; for 
 they have been mad about Trinity ever since- No, that won't do at all. 
 You must migrate to Sidney — that's the college ! Nobody goes there. 
 Select and gentlemanly. Nothing snobbish. Men are friends and brothers 
 — quite a little family." 
 
 " Surely, James," interposed Mr. William again, " Mr. Stukely's friends 
 have well considered the propriety of their step, and have weighed all 
 things in the balance. There are both advantages and disadvantages, and 
 reasons both positive and negative." 
 
 "Now don't — there's a good fellow," said his brother, in a tone of sup- 
 plication. " You must know, Mr. Stukely, that they call my brother at 
 home old plies and minus. To be sure, he is no end of a mathematician. 
 He was three months dragging over the pons asinorum, since which feat 
 he has become so close a reasoner, that there is nothing which was pre- 
 viously right that he cannot prove now to be decidedly wrong. By the 
 way, are you for classics or mathematics ?" 
 
 " My own wishes," I replied, u would lead me to classics ; but my 
 father " 
 
 "Your what?" asked Mr. James. 
 
 " My father, sir." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Why, my father, sir," I repeated, somewhat puzzled. 
 
 "Ah ! I see now, I had forgotten. You mean the some time governor, 
 the now relieving officer. You speak the London dialect. We get more 
 Doric as we pi'oceed. The word father is less understood now every stage 
 we travel. When we arrive at Trumpington, the word's obsolete. Curious 
 fact that?" 
 
 "Kemarkable, indeed !" I added. "I was not aware that, so near to 
 the metropolis, so emphatic a change obtained in our language." 
 
 "I dare say not," rejoined my new acquaintance. "What do yon think 
 of the name for a man in a long blue cloak and brass buttons being bull- 
 dog, and no-end-qf-a-brich being a correct translation of a hard-reading 
 man?" 
 
 " Strange ! and upon what theory or law of language is it supposed that 
 such changes depend?" I inquired, and, as I have since thought, some- 
 what conceitedly. 
 
 " Ah, there you stagger me ! " replied Mr. James. " If you want the 
 theory, apply next door. Now, William, I am sure you must know. What's 
 the theory ?" 
 
 " Why," said the gentleman thus appealed to, rising in his seat as if he 
 were afraid of shaking the vast amount of thought that he carried in his 
 brain, " it is said — but I think I can show that the whole of the argument 
 is not susceptible of proof — that although there are remains of the ancient 
 Saxon language to be found in London, as elsewhere in England, yet the 
 pure. first-hand and only superfine Saxon is to be found in perfection in 
 Cambridge. So far I agree with the proposition. But to account for this 
 it is argued, that after the battle of Hastings, Harold, the son of Godwin, 
 and the opponent of the Conqueror, escaped with his life, and sought 
 refuge at the university, where he delivered lectures on the native lan- 
 guage and literature, became proctor, and eventually vice-chancellor ; and 
 that the genuine vernacular has descended to us, in consequence of his 
 own particular dying request, that no alteration or admixture should ever 
 be allowed by the public orator, or any other officer of the university for 
 
THE UNEXPECTED KETUKN. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 9 
 
 the time being. You see this statement involves two problems — 1st, The 
 existence of lectures at the time of the Conquest, and secondly, The ex- 
 istence of Harold as professor at the university. Now it is a self-evident 
 truth— or, more properly speaking, an axiom — that the university did not 
 exist until some centuries after the death of Harold ; therefore there was 
 no university at the time of the battle of Hastings. Much less were there 
 any professorship established, and a lectureship on the native language 
 and literature is equal to a professorship ; therefore there were no lectures 
 at the time of the Conquest. Again, Harold, it is said, was professor at 
 the university ; but it has been proved that there was no university, and, 
 a fortiori, no professorships. But Harold was professor, which is absurd ; 
 therefore, Harold was not a professor at the university — Quod erat de- 
 monstrandum." 
 
 At the conclusion of this speech, the mathematician looked at me ear- 
 nestly for a moment, and then, by slow degrees, resumed his original state 
 of reservedness — his arms folded, and his head falling languidly on his 
 chest. Mr. Levy looked obliquely at him, then triumphantly at me, and 
 treading on my toe at the same time, seemed to inquire what might be 
 my opinion of Mr. William Temple— now. 
 
 My respect and admiration were certainly increased for a man who 
 could thus bring to bear upon the most familiar topics the formula of 
 science, and who evidently did not hesitate to reject the simplest truth 
 until it had undergone the severe scrutiny of his very exact mind. The 
 allusion which hisbrother had made to the fifth proposition of Euclid, I 
 regarded as a mere figure of speech, such as I knew to be often employed 
 in the best possible humour against great minds. The airy disposition of 
 Mr. James imperceptibly won upon me. I looked upon him as one to 
 whom knowledge came unsought, and of its own free-will, whose head had 
 become a storehouse of intellectual acquirements without labour or exer- 
 tion — a genius, in fact : that species of humanity which I had often heard 
 of, but had never met face to face until now. Thus was there also a por- 
 tion of reverence mingled with the familiar delight with which I listened 
 to the frank and friendly communication of Mr. James. Even Mr. Levy, 
 looked up to as he was by the young scholar, acquired a rapidly growing 
 importance, for which I must acknowledge his language, his vulgar looks, 
 and his dirty appearance, could not offer any legitimate or corresponding 
 title. Amused and interested by all my companions, the journey was 
 anything but tedious or wearisome ; and before we reached that point in 
 our progress at which we halted for refreshment, my animal spirits, which 
 had congealed during the first hours of the morning, relaxed and grew 
 warm beneath the sunny influences which had so unexpectedly sprung up. 
 
 The five inside passengers entered the inn at which we stopped — Mr. 
 Temple, junior, promising himself to have no mercy on the various dishes 
 which were awaiting the honour of his arrival. Naturally backward and 
 timid, I was, on this particular occasion, not very desirous to join the 
 party. I could feel perfectly at home with them so long as we were con- 
 fined to the coach ; but the very instant we were loosed into the world 
 again, my constitutional bashfulness at once restored our previous relation. 
 The inn had a picturesque situation. On one side of it flowed a trans- 
 parent stream, and to the other was attached a spacious orchard, on whose 
 smooth sward there stood the finest trees I had ever beheld. To this spot 
 I directed my steps. Born and bred in London, without having passed 
 two weeks together beyond its dusty precincts — albeit it was not the 
 huge world of smoke it has since grown to be — I was, at this period, unac- 
 quainted with the simplest flowers of the field. I knew of Nature nothing but 
 
10 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 her loveliness, and the glimpses I had caught had made me sensible of her 
 dominion. Separated from the orchard by a sunken fence, a slowly-rising 
 meadow spread itself for a considerable distance ; and beyond it, as far as 
 the eye could reach, were rich surfaces of cultivation — the yellow corn 
 standing prominently forward, like patches of " stationary sunshine." In 
 the full possession of health, vigorous and young, I warmed with ecstasy as 
 I gazed upon this scene — common and every-day as it was — and thanked 
 God who had supplied me with a capacity of enjoyment, without a single 
 sorrow to embitter or detract from it. I seated myself beneath the foliage 
 of a chestnut-tree. I had not yet opened the pocket-book which my mother 
 had placed in my hands. I did so now. A few affectionate words had 
 been hastily written on the first page, and mention was also made of a 
 bank-note for fifty pounds which she had placed in one of the pockets for 
 my private use, u in addition to the sum which my father would allow me 
 for my general expenses." 
 
 Not for any length of time had I enjoyed the sweet communion of my 
 thoughts, when I was startled from my situation by a voice calling my 
 name. I could not mistake the accent. I raised myself from the ground, 
 and beheld Mr. Levy approaching the tree with rapid strides. When he 
 found I observed him, he walked more slowly. 
 
 " Mishter Sktukely," he began, " they are all eating avay there as if 
 they vere shtarved. If you are fond of cold fowl, upon my vord you 
 haven't a minute to shpare. That young Mishter Temples hasn't said a 
 syllable to nobody since he began, and is biting avay as hard as ever. He 
 has a most uncommon appetite ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Levy. I am not disposed to eat ; but I am grateful, 
 nevertheless, for your friendly hint." 
 
 "Oh, don't say a vord about that!" he replied; "vy shouldn't I be 
 civil 1 ? It doesn't cost me nothing. In going through the vorld, Mr. 
 Shtukely, you may always tell the good man from the bad man by that 
 'ere. The good man is ready to do anything for another, ven it costs him 
 nothing ; but the bad man is alvays for himself, and vouldn't so much as 
 go over the vay for his own father." 
 
 I once more thanked Mr. Levy for his civility, and begged that he would 
 not on my account keep from his friends or his unfinished dinner. 
 
 *' You are very good, sir," said the gentleman, " but my religions don't 
 allow me to eat' that sort of victuals, and I am very particular. You see 
 ve're a clean people, and are forbid to eat of the unclean animals, and the 
 nasty mixtures that the Christians— though I don't vish to be rude— make 
 vith their fat and their butter and their meat, and all them kind of non- 
 sense. Now you vont be angry vith me, if I tell you something— vill you? 
 Yell then, do you know, the very moment I saw you, you vun my heart 
 — you look so good and innoshent. But you must take cake of your- 
 self, my dear boy — excuse my being free : — you must indeed. This is 
 such a vicked vurld, and it ain't everybody that vill give you the benefit 
 of his experience ; 'cause you see, experience is something like shtock in 
 trade or capital, and after thirty or forty years perhaps, that's all a man 
 has left him to do business vith. I dare say you've got a father and a 
 mother — eh]" I am not sure that Mr. Levy perceived any particular 
 change in my countenance as he put this question to me ; but without 
 permitting me to answer, he continued — " Yell, never mind, don't tell me, 
 don't harrow up. I know vot it is, my dear boy, to have a good father and 
 mother ; yes, and to leave them too, and to be turned into the vurld among 
 strangers, as I vas at a tender age, vith nobody to take care of my morals 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 11 
 
 or teach me vat vas right, except the nature that vas born vith me. I dare 
 
 say. my dear, you've got plenty of money to skpend— eh? " 
 
 '"' Mv father, sir, is kind and liberal, and " 
 
 " Veil now, don't tell me, I von't hear a vord. It's no business of mine. 
 Only take care of it, my dear child, and don't shpend it like a narr* You 
 must excuse mv freedom ; but I tould you before, I'm quite taken vith 
 you, and I feel like your father ven I speak to you. Yen you get to Cam- 
 bridge, vou must put your money into the bands of some shteady honesht 
 person that knows vot the vurld is, and vill put you in the vay of laying it 
 out to the best advantage. Yas you reading a book, my dear, ven I came 
 up 1 Ah, vot a thing it is to be fond of reading ! Sometimes, ven I sits at 
 home, and thinks how vicked the vurld is, I think I should go vild if it 
 vasn't for reading the newspapers, vith the lisht of bankrupts and all the 
 polishe news." 
 
 Mr. Levy had touched a tender chord, and I answered him — " Yes, Mr. 
 Levy, I was perusing a most affectionate letter from the fondest and best 
 of mothers. Look here, sir !" I exclaimed warmly, drawing the book from 
 mv pocket, and moved even to tears ; " this is her latest gift. Although 
 she knew I had no need of it, and was amply supplied, with her own hand, 
 and without my knowledge, she inclosed this note. You can understand 
 and appreciate my tears." 
 
 " I vish I may die if I can't, and that's the long and the short of it," 
 said Mr. Levy passionately. u Xow, you look here, Mr. Shtukely, vat I 
 shall do. There's three pounds of smuggled cigars that I had put by ex- 
 presslv for Mishter Temples. I charge 'em twenty shillings a-pound, and 
 they're vorth forty if they're vorth a stiver. I'll break my vord vith him 
 for'vonce, if I never do" another shtroke of business vith him, and that 
 vould be as good as ruination to me. You shall have them every vone at 
 the price. I never see sich a model of a good boy since I vas born, and it 
 sha'n't go vithout its revard, or else Sol Levy vill know the reason vy." 
 
 Before I could remonstrate against so great a sacrifice of principle and 
 property, we were both summoned from the orchard by a shrill cry pro- 
 ceeding" from the volatile lungs of Mr. Temple, junior. 
 
 "Take care of yourself, Mr. Stukely," said that worthy, when we joined 
 him : " take care" of yourself. If you creep into holes and corners with 
 Mr. Levy, it will soon go hard with your orthodoxy. He's a seductive 
 character, and, before you are aware of it, he will turn you into one of the 
 faithful." 
 
 "Mishter Temples," said the Israelite very seriously, "vith other 
 people's religions I never bother my head. I've business enough upon 
 my mind vithout troubling myself vith vat doesn't consarn me. Besides, 
 it's very necessary that some should be this, and some the other. For my 
 part, I should be very sorry to see that day ven even-body vill be Jews j 
 for I think business vithout the Chrishtians vill be very fiat and inshipid." 
 
 " Ah ! Levy, you're a new light, and citizen of the world ! But why 
 have you deserte"d us, Mr. Stukely ? Your appetite will quarrel with your 
 breach of good manners before we reach Cambridge. _ Was our company 
 so disagreeable that you should refuse to break bread with us?" 
 
 " I felt no inclination for food, and the lovely day tempted me to feast 
 in the open air." 
 
 " Upon nothing ! Ah, you cannot feed capons so ! My dear fellow 
 you are a freshman, and freshmen belong to the extensive family of Green. 
 Tljey are known bv their small appetites and large feelings, by their love 
 of home and bread and milk, and by their dislike of mixed society. 
 
 * An^Vtce — -Fool. 
 
12 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Well, I suppose it must be so. Should we be fellow-travellers this time 
 twelvemonth, your poetry will be sensibly diminished, and your appetite 
 restored to you. 1 am wide awake to the whole proceeding, for, autem 
 ego — what is that Latin proverb about Catiline ] I have been so long at 
 Cambridge that I've forgotten the little Latin I took up with me." 
 
 ("Another figure of speech," thought I.) 
 
 " I shall be sorry," I replied, " to use the words of our friend here, to 
 see that day, Mr. Temple, that will find me less under the direction of 
 those feelings which at this moment attract and attach me to all that is 
 lovely and consolatory in life." 
 
 " A very sensible idea, and very veil put together," remarked Mr. Levy. 
 
 "Levy, be quiet," said Mr. Temple softly. "Stukely, you are young, 
 very young, not in years, but in facts. I have gone through all this, and 
 so has many a better fellow. It's a stale game, though new to you. There 
 are certain things which we must all undergo. We leave off sucking. 
 Our mothers take pride in combing our hair straight. We are discharged 
 from home, with many kisses and very many parting words. It's all 
 beautiful, no doubt, and, as you observe, very consolatory — but it's only 
 part of the system. Now, I never wager, except upon the odd trick at 
 whist, and then only half-crowns; but I should like to bet heavy odds at 
 this moment that I could read what's passing in your mind." 
 
 " Mr. Shtukcly," exclaimed Mr. Levy, " don't you do any sick thing. 
 That would be a very nice vay of getting rid of your money." 
 
 " How many times within this hour," continued Mr. Temple, " have you 
 persuaded yourself that your home, wherever it may be, is the choicest 
 place in life, and how many new attractions, which have escaped your 
 observation so many years, have you all at once discovered there 1 Why 
 do you blush ?- I know your home never looked so fair as it does this 
 moment, reflected to you at this short distance through the medium of 
 your passions. Don't deceive yourself; and, above all, beware of taking 
 credit for something very peculiar, which is as common to all men as their 
 meat and drink Pshaw ! I have known fellows who have been so bullied 
 and thrashed by their governors, that they have never risen from their 
 daily prayers without putting up a special one for their release, actually 
 stand crying and snivelling when the hour of deliverance came, sweating 
 that they had never been half thrashed enough, or sufficiently grateful for 
 what they had received. Things do look so different when we are about 
 to lose or leave them, and men are such arrant humbugs to themselves." 
 
 When I entered the Cambridge Intelligence, for the second time, I could 
 not understand why 1 felt so awkward, vexed, and uncomfortable, in the 
 presence of young Mr. Temple, But the said gentleman had not yet done 
 with me. 
 
 " Apropos, Mr. Stukely, to the subject we have just ^discussed." I 
 changed colour as he spoke ; for I dreaded an exposure, although I could 
 not exactly define what the speaker had to reveal concerning me. " You 
 must hear" a capital story that I can tell you of one who for a season was a 
 fellow of your own kidney. Poor Jack Husband ! Do you remember him, 
 Levy?" 
 
 Levy sighed deeply. 
 
 " Some kind relations, having of course his best interests at heart, 
 introduced him to a large house in India, which soon introduced him to 
 the yellow fever and six feet of earth. He came, in the first instance, 
 from Jamaica. His father was a large planter, and Jack was sent over to 
 learn manners, and the art of preaching to the niggers. For the first six 
 months things went on remarkably well. He was all his mother could 
 wish him. He wore clodhopper shoes, worsted stockings, a white choker, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 13 
 
 and thick cotton gloves. He rose regularly to chapel, and went to bed 
 every night punctually at nine o'clock, upon milk and water. lie barri- 
 caded his rooms ; and, because he had been told that the university was a 
 hotbed of vice, he shut himself up like a seed in a cucumber frame. If a 
 man by chance spoke to him, he buttoned his breeches pockets in order 
 to prevent the fellow's walking into them : and he watched the movements 
 of his bed-maker and gyp, as though to assassinate him had been the aim 
 and business of their lives. It was a great pity that his mamma ever 
 trusted so sweet a youth in so wicked a place — but it was a moral struggle, 
 and you shall hea/the result of it. Jack's remittances came at stipulated 
 times from his father's correspondent in London, and at one period it 
 happened that they hung fire most fearfully. He wrote at first very 
 politely on the subject; but, receiving no reply, expressed his opinion in 
 a peremptory and business-like manner. The second application proving 
 just as effectual as the first. Mr. Husband became very ill. He spoke to 
 his tutor, (who got as alarmed as himself.) procured an aegrotat and exeat, 
 and walked into London, with the bowels of a man determined on mischief. 
 The correspondent, correspondens a nan correspondendo, hung out in 
 Broad Street, City, and thither Mr. Husband first went The house was 
 closed, and every window but one blocked up by a shutter. Jack thought 
 of the ocean, the distance from home, and grew very wretched indeed. 
 'Is Mr. "Wilson at home]' faltered Jack. 'Which?' said the maid who 
 answered the knock. Jack, all alive to suspicion, looked hard at the girl, 
 fancied collusion, and walked into the passage without further delay. 
 
 " ' Xow, young woman,' said he, shutting the door, ' take care of what 
 you are about. I have come from quite as bad a place as London is, and 
 I know the whole thing. You just tell Mr. "Wilson, that Mr. John Hus- 
 band has called to see him, and isn't inclined to depart without having 
 that pleasure.' The servant ran away, and Jack walked into the parlour, and 
 a very curious object indeed there met his eye. A young gentleman, about 
 eighteen years of age, with a painted face, and a long curly wig, bedizened 
 in a glaring red court dress, was lying at full length on the ground, a sword 
 at his side, and apparently in the last agonies of death. ' Perdition catch 
 thy arm,' he bawled out, as Jack opened the door — ' the chance is thine !' 
 Before Husband could recover from his surprise, the young fellow was on 
 his legs, blushing scarlet through his crimson, and apologizing for the 
 queerness of the situation. To make short of the story, this was no other 
 than Mr. Wilson, junior, whose father being from home, and travelling in 
 Scotland (which facts, by the way, accounted for the suspension of the sup- 
 plies), he, the son, was perfecting himself in the rehearsal of a crack part 
 which he was to act on the following night at an amateur club, of which 
 he was the secretary, treasurer, and principal performer. What immedi- 
 ately passed between the two, I do not know. Jack did tell me that, after 
 a bit, the young one ordered up rump-steaks, pickles, and bottled porter, 
 and, about seven o'clock, proposed a visit to Drury-Lane Theatre, where 
 Siddons and Kemble that night acted in Shakspeare's tragedy of Macbeth 
 — that, at the conclusion of the performance, they adjourned to the John- 
 son's Head— and that, after that, about ten o'clock the next morning, he 
 found himself in bed in a strange place, without the remotest idea of the 
 means which had been taken to deposit him there. A day or two after- 
 wards, the tutor received a letter, which informed him that Mr. Husband 
 had been indefatigable in the pursuit of Mr. Wilson — but in vain, nor did 
 he hope to discover him for some weeks to come — that Mr. Husband bit- 
 terly regretted any circumstance that separated him from his studies, but 
 that he looked forward to returning to them with redoubled ardour, when 
 
14 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 his object in London was fully accomplished. In about a month, Jack re- 
 turned to Cambridge, in a very seedy condition. He looked pale and 
 sewed up. Mr. Wilson, junior, accompanied him. He came to spend a 
 "week or two with his friend, and to recruit. Jack waited on the tutor, 
 spun a long yarn about wandering barefooted over the Highlands of Scot- 
 land, paid the arrears, and was dismissed with tears, and an invitation to 
 supper. 
 
 " London had certainly rubbed off a good deal of Husband's rust. He 
 ceased to dress like a snob, and began to think like a gentleman. He 
 sported his oak no longer, and he looked upon his fellow-mortals with a 
 kindlier and more forgiving spirit ; subscribing implicitly to the opinion, 
 that man is by nature a sociable and communicative animal. I was at a 
 wine party that he gave about two months after his return, and there I 
 heard him deliver a very eloquent speech about prejudice, and antique 
 notions, the scales having fallen from his eyes, and so forth. It is a curious 
 fact, however, that after this eventful break in Husband's career, his remit- 
 tances came very irregularly, and the necessity for his personal attendance 
 in London exceedingly frequent. One morning he received a very impor- 
 tant communication from his friend, Wilson. It explained to him that he 
 might very shortly expect a visit from his governor ; for he (Wilson) had 
 extracted by stealth a letter from his own governor's pocket a day or two 
 before, whilst he was dozing after dinner, and had therein read that Mr. 
 Husband, senior, having occasion to make a voyage to England, had pro- 
 posed to himself the delight of taking his son by surprise, and to behold 
 him absorbed in the prosecution of his studies and mental improvement. 
 There was a postscript which I recollect well. It ran thus : — ' New Tragedy 
 on Friday. Glorious John and Siddons, first-rate parts — pitch the remit- 
 tances to Old Nosey. Come up.' Jack wishing, no doubt, to make some 
 enquiries respecting his parent's visit, went to town immediately. The 
 two friends greatly applauded the tragedy, and, as usual, when the curtain 
 fell, adjourned to the Johnson's Head. 
 
 " Jack used to say that, without being able to account for it, he never in 
 his life had felt so thoroughly complete as on this evening. A feeling of 
 universal benevolence gradually crept over him, and he vowed emphati- 
 cally to Wilson, ' that man is the very incarnation of all that is lovely and 
 good.' Milk punch floors the human heart — and that's a fact. 
 
 " Young Wilson belonged to a debating society, and it was a point of 
 honour with him to meet all general statements with particular contradic- 
 tion. 
 
 "'We'll argue that, Jack,' says he; and scarcely had he so said, when 
 a voice was heard in the passage. It spoke for a minute or two, and 
 stopped. 
 
 " Jack started. Wilson looked about the room for a thunderbolt. When 
 he turned again, Husband was under the table, pulling hard at his legs, 
 and imploring him in a whisper to blow out the candles. 
 
 " 'What's the matter?' cried Wilson. 
 
 " 'Wilson, I am dished. I'm blessed if that isn't the governor.' 
 
 '• 'What, Jamaica V asked Wilson. 
 
 "'Idem !' cried Jack. 
 
 "The candles were extinguished immediately. In a couple of hours, 
 Husband was flying to Cambridge as fast as four horses could carry him. 
 
 " About ten o'clock next evening, a respectable old gent, at Trinity Gate, 
 desired to be directed to the rooms of Mr. John Husband. That gentle- 
 man's gyp was by accident in the court at the time, and he begged the 
 elderly gentleman to follow him. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 15 
 
 " 'I'm afraid, sir,' said the animal, 'unless you're a very particular friend 
 I can't let you see Mr. Husband till four o'clock.' 
 
 " 'What,' to-morrow afternoon V enquired the venerable stranger. 
 
 " ']Sfo, sir, four o'clock to-morrow morning.' 
 
 " ' What do you mean 1 Does Mr. Husband receive visitors so early in 
 the morning?' 
 
 " 'Future Senior Wrangler, sir. Senior Wranglers never fag in the day- 
 time, sir.— Dav-time doesn't do for mathematics— too light and lively. 
 Hope Mr. Husband won't break down. Afraid he will. Many men, sir, 
 in my time, would have been senior wranglers, if they hadn't broke down. 
 Mathematics very unwholesome, sir. Very weakening, and bad for the 
 health. Senate-house large and cold. Men go in quite well— sit in a 
 draught— feel very ill— seized with a shivering pain in the stomach— forget 
 what they are about — walk out— nervous fevers — go home. 
 
 "'Poor John !' 
 
 " 'Do you know Mr. Husband, sir]' 
 
 * 'A little,' said the old man, with a great deal of feeling. 
 
 "'Only a little, sir] Ah ! what a happy man his father must be ! I'd 
 give a trifle to have such a son. Too good— that's his only fault. Do you 
 know his father, sir 1 A very respectable and intelligent old gentleman, 
 I've heard. 
 
 " 'Yes, my good man,' replied he of the white hair, 'I do know him a 
 little. Here's a crown for you. Who could have told you that I was— that 
 his father, I mean to say— was respectable and intelligent]' 
 
 " 'The world will talk, sir,' said the vulture. 
 
 " 'Ah, I forgot, so it will ! ]N"ow, you step in to Mr. Husband, and say 
 that a gentleman wishes to see him directly.' 
 
 " 'Upon my word, sir, it's more than my place is worth. What's the 
 time, sir]' 
 
 " The old gentleman struck his repeater. 
 
 " ' About half-past ten.' 
 
 "'Half-past ten. Really, I don't know— he's just beginning the Comic 
 Sections.' The old gentleman slipped another crown into the claws of 
 the camivora. ' Well, sir, I suppose I must risk it. What name shall I 
 say]' 
 
 " 'Oh ! — say a friend from the west.' 
 
 " The visitor was admitted, but so intent upon his studies^was Jack, that 
 it was some time before he was aware of his presence. Upon the table 
 before him were two globes, the terrestrial and the celestial, various mathe- 
 matical instruments— many books piled up, principally folios and quartos, 
 and several sheets of scribbling and scribbled paper. The student himself 
 was dressed in an old morning gown, and over his head to his shoulders 
 hung a wet towel, that most unaccountable yet effectual of all mathematical 
 charms. 
 
 "As the books say, ' I cannot describe the meeting of Jack with his go- 
 vernor' — for it was the old nigger-driver, and no one else. Jack set the 
 old man crying about his health, and, before he departed, blarneyed him 
 out of a hundred-pound-note. When the old man left the room, the gyp, 
 who had listened all the time at the door, jumped into it ; and Jack, over- 
 joved at his sudden accession of property, without saying a word by way of 
 introduction, seized all the folios and quartos, and, one after the other, 
 aimed them deliberately at the head of his attendant. He, being on the 
 most friendly footing with his master, returned the compliment ; and then 
 both burst into a loud fit of laughter, and wondered how old Ginger could 
 be such a fool, and counted up how many more hundreds they would relieve 
 
16 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 him of before they would let him go ; and passed many other jokes, all 
 very becoming and proper when you consider the relative state and con- 
 dition of the parties concerned. 
 
 " As ill luck would have it, however, old Sugarcane had left his stick 
 behind him, and, returning immediately for it, he was stopped at the door, 
 by a loud talking within ; but, naturally concluding that it was only Jack 
 doing his mathematics aloud, for the sake of the treat he applied his pa- 
 rental ear to the keyhole, from which I believe it would never have dragged 
 itself, if the two worthies, their remarks being over, and conversation 
 closed, had not emerged from the room, and brought themselves at once 
 beneath the gaze of the astounded eavesdropper." 
 
 "Poor, poor old man !" I cried, involuntarily interrupting the narrator. 
 
 " Well, he was almost broken-hearted. But he was more to blame than 
 Jack. What could they expect from a fellow whom they had taken such 
 pains to bring up a hvpocrite 1 ?" 
 
 " What became of him V 
 
 "Within a week of the blaze, Jack's debts were paid, and his name 
 taken off the boards. Three months afterwards he was on his way to 
 India, and in less than a twelvemonth the dust was shovelled over him. 
 Now, what's your opinion of the gentleman]' 
 
 " Can you ask me 1 Oh, could " 
 
 "Ah — well, I see, you needn't be violent. I don't agree with you." 
 
 The shadows of twilight came on. Before Mr. Temple had finished his 
 narrative, sleep had taken possession of the travellers. The jaggy motion 
 and the continuous rumbling of the vehicle, in a short quarter of an hour, 
 had produced its customary effect upon those who had partaken of a hearty 
 meal; and Mr. Levy, who had been once more at his dry bread, the crumbs 
 of which now hung lazily about his lips, also overcome, snored, oblivious 
 and happy, in the snug corner which he had first appropriated to himself — 
 suddenly he gaped. Mr. James Temple caught the infection. He stretched 
 his limbs, and sunk gradually to slumber. Greyer and greyer became the 
 light of day, and more definite and plain grew the sounds of external life. 
 The horses' hoofs' sounded distinct and hollow, as they trampled the dry 
 ground, and not less clear the smacking whip and friendly voice of their 
 conductor, cheering them on to the close of a long and heavy stage. All 
 else was silence. It was night when the rattling of stones announced our 
 arrival at the town. I gently opened the coach window, and looked out, 
 and oh ! that glorious sight of buildings, rearing themselves one after 
 another like giants in the transparent night. How stately did they look f 
 How venerable in their quiet and religious age ! It was a dream of poetry, 
 to gaze upon the noble bulk of living stone, laden with the memories of 
 years, standing so pensive and so calm beneath the bright and watching 
 stars of heaven. Here and there I could perceive, now walking through 
 some noiseless street, now issuing from an antique court or gateway, a soli- 
 tory student, and then a small cluster, these laughing aloud and boisterous, 
 but the former wrapt in meditation, or busy, it might be, with thoughts of 
 kindred and of home. Proud was I, as I looked around, that it was mine 
 to say, " 1 also have a share in this ; " and when I connected with the sacred 
 spot the mighty master-spirits that were gone, but whose names still rung 
 and were revered throughout the world, how did my youthful bosom burn 
 with ambition, and a desire for fame ! 
 
 The coach stopped at Trinity gate. When I alighted, my companions 
 were still asleep. I did not care to wake them. I requested my lug- 
 gage might be sent from the inn, and without a look I hurried past the 
 lodge. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 17 
 
 My rooms were pointed out to me. The bedrnaker had been informed 
 of my coming, and a comfortable fire awaited me. 
 
 Eeader ! the extremes of things opposed, they differ — the parts adjacent 
 blend. Would it were otherwise ! We cannot trace the first faint lines 
 of crime till we have lefc them far behind, and when " returning were as 
 tedious as go o'er;" we glide through good to ill. Were it at once to leap 
 into the depths of guilt, how many might be scared and saved ! Beware, 
 lest you listen with equanimity and delight to the lambent tongue of vice 
 — most dangerous when most playful ! 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 He that would win the race must guide his horse 
 Obedient to the customs of the course, 
 Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies, 
 A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
 
 Coicper. 
 
 Almost before I was aware of my own existence in the town and university 
 of Cambridge, it appeared that others had been possessed of the fact : for, 
 upon leaving the narrow slip of lodging in which I had passed the night, 
 (and which, certainly, might be styled the bedroom, inasmuch as there 
 was just room enough for a bed in it, and nothing more,) and entering the 
 sitting-room adjoining, I discovered upon the table, awaiting me, a letter 
 in due form addressed to Caleb Stukeiy, Esq., Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 The contents were as follows : — 
 
 " The Vice-chancellor presents his kind regards to Mr. Stukeiy, and 
 trusts that Mr. Stukeiy, senior, as well as Mrs. Stukeiy, are in the enjoy- 
 ment of the best possible health, as this leaves the Vice-chancellor at 
 present ; at the same time, the V. C. begs to request the favour of Mr. 
 Stukely's company at breakfast this morning, trusting that no previous 
 engagement will deprive him of the honour. 
 
 '• X.B. — Mr. Stukeiy will please attend in full dress." 
 
 Flattered as I really felt by this invitation, I attributed it rather to the 
 high character which my father enjoyed as a trader in the city of London, 
 than to any personal desert, of which the Vice-chancellor must necessarily 
 have been ignorant. Singularly vigilant, however, I could not but consider 
 that system, by which the private condition and movements of the humblest 
 of scholars were so immediately observed and communicated to the highest 
 authorities. Could this be the usual mode of receiving the adopted in the 
 affectionate bosom of alma mater ? or was it an especial mark of attention 
 extended to me — an exception from the general rule ? Let my youth 
 plead for the modesty that induced me to form the latter opinion. Xot 
 having yet donned my academic costume, I argued that it would be 
 becoming in me to present myself in that particular dress which had been 
 made in London expressly for evening parties ; albeit, such mighty and 
 fashionable doings had been foreign to the quiet abode from which I had 
 migrated. By Mr. Simmonds 1 was directed to the Vice-chancellor's 
 
 c 
 
18 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 abode. The reader will not have forgotten that very respectable character 
 introduced by Mr. Temple, in his narrative at the close of the last chapter 
 
 to wit, the gyp of Mr. Husband. The above-mentioned Simmonds 
 
 performed the like office for me ; but let not the worthiest of his species 
 be confounded with the vilest. Picture to yourself a body curved and 
 bending beneath a load of years — a head blanched in the service of old 
 time, not a hair but wearing the master's livery— an eye of settled still- 
 ness—a hand, bloodless and~old indeed, active only in its tremblings, 
 squeezed up and faded— a gait, to say it was a child's would be to 
 libel nature, it was so weak and tottering. This was the external 
 Simmonds. The invisible part of him was not younger or fresher in the 
 hour that his Maker first breathed the breath of life in him. I experienced 
 a feeling of shame when I engaged him. 
 
 " You are too old for work, man," said I to him. 
 
 "Not I, indeed, sir," was his reply; "I'm nearer to fourscore than 
 seventy— that is true ; but I'll warrant you a lad of eighteen is not more 
 nimble. Look here, now." And he attempted to run across the room ! 
 The exhibition was melancholy indeed. " Besides," he continued, holding 
 his sides, and catching his breath after the exertion, "I've a grandson — 
 God bless him !— who takes all the labour off my hands. But I should 
 die if I were to give it up altogether. Sixty years come next Shrovetide 
 have I done duty here. Ah, sir, things are different now ! Times are 
 not as they have been ! " 
 
 (I discovered, when I became a few years older, that no times are ever 
 as they have been. It is a fault inherent in the nature of times. Mr. 
 Simmonds had no particular complaint to make ; his remark was general.) 
 "Perhaps, sir," said Mr. Simmonds, when I had agreed to hire him, 
 " you would like to be shown over your room. Be good enough to follow 
 me." I must here premise that my room was of moderate dimensions, 
 and might be described as containing one very large fireplace, one very 
 large cupboard, two very large window-sills, and two very small windows. 
 Further, it was wainscoted, and in the ceiling the artificial black pre- 
 ponderated considerably over the natural white. Having observed all 
 this before, and at a glance, I was certainly not prepared for the important 
 air with which Mr. Simmonds proceeded to point out the various localities 
 and ornaments of the place. He made first for the large cupboard. 
 
 "This," said he, opening it, "is your pantry and larder, your china 
 closet, and the receptacle for your bellows, gridiron, tea-kettle, and little 
 saucepan. This," he continued, having reached the window-seat, " is your 
 wine-cellar." 
 
 "Indeed !" I exclaimed, not comprehending him. 
 " Your wine-cellar," he repeated, lifting up the top of the window-sill, 
 which was hinged to the rest of the timber, and discovering a hollow case 
 reaching to the floor, and filled with sawdust. 
 
 "And this," said he, performing the same ceremony at the fellow 
 window-sill, " is your coal-cellar. The locks of all are, as you see, broken, 
 and my first advice to you is, that you immediately gei them repaired. 
 It is a little guard, though not much to be sure— more's the pity!" 
 "Without enquiring further into the meaning of these dark hints, I 
 changed the conversation to the subject of the Vice-chancellor. I de- 
 sired, before my visit, to gather something of his character. 
 
 " Do you know anything of him 1 " I asked Simmonds. " Is he an 
 agreeable gentleman ] " 
 
 "Why, look you, Mr. Stukely," answered the gyp; "just as I am 
 standing talking to you now, I stood talking to him fifty years ago come 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 19 
 
 next commencement. Do I know anything of him ? That is good ! 
 Yes, I should say I do — a little. For about four years, between you and 
 me, sir, I knew rather too much of him. He was a mortal wild one, and 
 many a scrape he got me and himself into, and many a falsehood — more's 
 the sorrow ! — did he invent to get us out of it. But he had a mort of 
 money, and, of course, could do what poorer men daren't. He's an altered 
 man now." 
 
 Thus informed, I set out for the Vice-chancellor's residence. He was 
 the master of a small college, situated in one of the principal streets 
 of Cambridge. In my time, it was an old and picturesque building, and 
 looked grave and comely ; snugly protected as it was by its long crick 
 wall and row of lofty poplar-trees. That wall and those poplar-trees have 
 been since razed : the edifice has been plastered over, and stands with its im- 
 modest glare of pretension, a very whited sepulchre. I rang gently at the 
 lodge gate, and modestly placed my card in the hand of the well-dressed do- 
 mestic who opened it. He retired for a quarter of an hour, and then returned, 
 desiring me to follow him up-stairs. During his absence, I had not failed to 
 notice the painful silence that extended through the place. It was not the 
 delicious quiet that I had experienced on the orchard-ground the day before. 
 No, that was the silence of nature and of life, cheerful and exhilarating. This 
 was oppressive — the cold and earthy stillness of the tomb. A cough 
 echoed through the house again — once a door slammed, and there rung 
 through the dwelling a long and hideous reverberation. We passed into a 
 spacious and well-filled library, then through a noble room with polished 
 oaken floors. This looked upon a beautiful and extensive lawn. Shadows 
 of massive floating clouds skimmed the green surface as I softly trod the 
 room, and deepened the sombreness that pervaded the scholastic habitation. 
 Beyond was the drawing-room, an apartment of good dimensions, and 
 literally crowded with costly furniture. Here the lackey stopped, and 
 drawing to the fireplace a bulky chair, capacious enough for four, he 
 begged me to be seated, and then took his leave. 
 
 As it seemed to be the fashion in this establishment to proceed with 
 as little hurry and fatigue as possible, I had ample time afforded me to 
 observe the various sumptuous articles by which I was surrounded ; but 
 my curiosity was particularly excited by a small curtain which hung at 
 the further end of the room, evidently concealing something that was held 
 too sacred for the vulgar eye. For some time I fought against my desire, 
 but, unable at length to resist the temptation, I withdrew the curtain, and 
 discovered, not what I had expected to find, the form and feature of some 
 ladye love, but a portrait by Vandyke, painted in all the boldness and 
 truth of that great master, and bearing beneath it the following inscription, 
 " Oliver Cromwell, Protector of England." * 
 
 The thunder of another door permitted me only to glance at the por- 
 trait and to replace the curtain. The drawing-room door opened, and in 
 
 * This portrait hung in the drawing-room of the lodge attached to the college, 
 of which the Protector was a member. The following legend concerning it was 
 believed by old Simmonds. Many years ago— it is not said bow many — a letter 
 was received by the existing master of the college, desiring that the gates and 
 lodge door should be left open at a certain hour of the night, and free access 
 afforded to the drawing-room, in order that the picture of Oliver Cromwell might 
 be therein deposited, in compliance with his own dying request. It was hinted, 
 at the same time, that if any endeavour were made to discover either the donor 
 or bearer of the gift, the portrait would be for ever lost to the college, and curio- 
 sity still left ungratified. The terms were strictly complied with, and the picture 
 found its way in : for the next morning it was hanging ou the wall. 
 
 c2 
 
20 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 an invalid's chair, wheeled into my presence by the aforesaid lackey, en- 
 tered the Vice-chancellor. 
 
 He was a fine man, tall, sinewy, and robust-looking ; his chest was broad 
 and manly, his voice strong and sonorous, his face very florid, and his hair 
 white as the purified particles of snow. Beholding him as I did at our 
 first interview, an experienced physiognomist would have drawn two con- 
 clusions. First, that nature had never intended the Vice-chancellor for 
 such a chair ; and secondly, that his living was good, and he did not quar- 
 rel with it. He was wheeled to the fireplace, and he bade me be seated 
 next to him. 
 
 " And now, sir," he began, " what's your business .-" 
 
 If he had accused me of robbing him 1 could not have been more 
 alarmed than when he put this question to me. Had 1 made a mistake 1 
 Come to the wrong college, for instance "? I thought it advisable to give 
 him at once the note of invitation that I had received. He took it silently, 
 and read it. He then looked hard at me, and read it again. 
 
 "How long have you been in Cambridge J" said he. 
 
 " Since last night, sir." 
 
 " Are you a freshman V 
 
 « y es s i r ." 
 
 '•'What college]" 
 
 "Trinity, sir." 
 
 "Have you made any acquaintances yet?" 
 
 " Only Simmonds's, sir, the gyp's." 
 
 " King that bell." 
 
 I rang it, and my old friend the lackey appeared. 
 
 " Breakfast ! " said the Vice-chancellor. 
 
 " Sir ] " quoth the footman, as one who had not quite understood the 
 order. 
 
 " Breakfast !" was repeated in a tone of command, that at one and the 
 same time frightened the man out of the room, and me into the very 
 corner of the large chair in which I was sitting. 
 
 The breakfast was soon brought. The footman made the tea, and waited 
 upon us. The master ate and drank very little — almost as little, indeed, 
 as myself, who had by this time begun to feel any how but comfortable, 
 and to find no very great pleasure in the especial mark of favour with 
 which I had been indulged. 
 
 ' From what part of the country do you come, my lad?" enquired the 
 Vice-chancellor when the cloth was removed, and with more kindly an air 
 than he had shown before. (" A curious question," thought I, " after en- 
 quiring so particularly respecting the health of my father and mother ! ") : 
 
 " From London, sir," I replied. 
 
 "From London ! that's very remarkable ! and how old are you 1 ?" 
 
 " Eighteen, sir," said I, getting confidence from the Vice-chancellor's 
 increasing amenity of manners. 
 
 ' Then you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself," was the damp- 
 ing reply. " What ! a Londoner — and eighteen years of age ! to be gulled 
 
 like a oh — oh — oh, this infernal gout ! You young fool," he roared 
 
 out, " what do you mean by it V 
 
 I jumped from my seat in great trepidation, and thought, all things 
 considered, I had better go back again. My hand was on the door when 
 he summoned me to my chair. 
 
 " Sit down, and hear what I have to say. Somebody has made a fool of 
 you. That letter is an imposition. I never invited you to breakfast." 
 
 " No, sir ! I am sure I'm very sorry then " 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 21 
 
 " Xever mind, are you certain you've made no man's acquaintance V 
 " I am sure I haven't, sir. I only came last night." 
 " How did you get here V 
 " Bv coach, sir, from London." 
 '•' With whom did you travel V 
 
 Now the very moment the Vice-chancellor put the question to me, the 
 form of Mr. James Temple, with his hypocritical serious face, rose up be- 
 fore me ; and I felt as certain as I did of my own identity, that to him, 
 and to no one else, was I indebted for this very agreeable business. 
 " With two under-graduates, sir— Mr. Solomon Levy, a gentleman of very 
 great respectability — and two ladies." 
 
 " Do you know the under-graduates' names ] " 
 " Yes, sir. Temple." 
 " Their college 1 " 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 " Very well, young man. I'm glad to see you so straightforward," said 
 my questioner, "writing down the name. " And now, before you go, take 
 a word of advice. If you don't improve very rapidly, this is likely to be 
 not the last occasion "of your being duped. You must be a man, sir — 
 think, act, and feel like a man — oh — oh, this cursed gout ! Do you hear 
 what I say, you goose]" and he bellowed out again. 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then why don't you answer, when you see me in such pain ?- I tell 
 you it will not do to be a boy, where all your companions are men. What's 
 the use of your looking at that sofa whilst 1 am talking ! — look at me, can't 
 you ] If ever you receive such letters again, put them into the fire at once, 
 and don't believe them. You must learn your true position as soon as you 
 can; until you do, you never can be comfortable or at your ease. Attend 
 well to your studies, and keep good hours. I suppose you know the pro- 
 verb — Aurora arnica musarum. When / was a student, I was never out 
 of bed after nine o'clock in the evening, or in it after six in the morning. 
 Winter or summer makes no difference to an honest student, who has his 
 work to do, and will get through it, I have never known such happy 
 hours as those spent as an under-graduate in this college. All summers 
 were as one summer, and all winters as one winter, they were so much 
 alike. Every season found me at my books, and whether^ the birds 
 whistled, and the sun shone warm upon my study, or whether it was dark 
 and drearv without, and I had to sit by my snug fire, and read by my 
 little lamp, the simple fact of my being industrious was the same. There 
 I was to be found ; and I have reaped the good reward. Look at me, 
 sir ! the representative of one who is the representative of so many glorious, 
 noble, and religious foundations. Be assured, young man, excellence in 
 any one thing is not to be reached without the closest perseverance and 
 the severest self-denial." 
 
 I was not a little staggered by the Vice-chancellor's reminiscence of his 
 early davs. Here were two old men, both greyheaded, telling one story, 
 yet so differently, that, without attempting to mince either the subject- 
 matter, or my expression, I was brought to the very disagreeable necessity 
 of regarding one of them as the most eminent and egregious old liar that 
 had ever been endowed with the faculty of speech. I made, for the nonce, 
 a philosophical inference. The Vice-chancellor was a great man, and could 
 not lie. Poor Simmonds was a hireling, and did so ex-officio. 
 
 " I desire to say one word more before you go, and that is with regard 
 to your attendance at chapel. Your college will exact only a certain 
 number of attendances during the week ; but you will ask your conscience 
 
22 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 what it will require, and if it will be satisfied with anything short of a 
 regular daily regard for the ordinances of your religion. Christianity, 
 young man, is neither classics nor mathematics : it is something superior 
 to both ; these are indeed the food and substance of the mind, but that is 
 the mind's regulator. It pleases me to find that you are so attentive to 
 what I say. If you ask me what will improve the temper, render us ami- 
 able, regardful of our social duties, good politicians, benevolent members 
 of society, and perfect gentlemen, I answer Christianity ; and to subdue 
 and overcome the pains both of bod}- and of mind, I may freely say, from 
 experience, I know nothing so powerful and efficacious." Here the gout 
 became once more exceedingly troublesome, and caused great pain to the 
 worthy speaker. There arose first a rapid and sharp drawing of the breath, 
 
 then the blatant roar "Ring the bell, you young rascal ! " almost screeched 
 
 the Vice-chancellor, rolling in his chair with agony. I rushed to the rope, 
 and in my violent haste pulled it to the ground without provoking the 
 slightest tinkling from the bell. The master stared at me as if he would 
 have strangled me, had he been at liberty and able, which, thank Heaven, 
 he was not ! He bit his lip and frowned, tossed about and groaned, and 
 at last it burst out — 
 
 "D — mn you, you young villain, can't you bawl upon the stairs'?" 
 
 This concluding practical illustration of the master's own doctrine, was 
 favourable at least to my good opinion of poor Simmonds, who, I must 
 confess, during the first part of the Vice-chancellor's last speech, had been 
 rapidly sinking in my estimation. When I returned to my rooms, the 
 old man was busy in the repairs of the cupboard and " cellars." 
 
 I had now been two days absent from my parents, and for the first time 
 working in life, as it were, on my own account. Surely my short experi- 
 ence had been neither creditable to the world, nor satisfactory to the 
 humble individual who had thrown himself upon its sympathies and good- 
 nature ! My treatment had been rather that of a dog venturing into a 
 pre-occupied kennel, than of a human being joining the social common- 
 wealth, and seeking the rights and immunities of a denizen. It was im- 
 possible to avoid the flattering conviction, that both by Mr. Temple and 
 the Vice-chancellor— the former scarcely a month older than myself, and 
 that was the most unpleasant reflection in the whole transaction — I was 
 regarded as no better than a fool, to be played upon or insulted, according 
 to the present and prevailing humour of the party that took me in hand. 
 Temple had insulted me covertly when he bantered me in the orchard- 
 ground, and, in writing the letter, had openly played upon me. The Vice- 
 chancellor had proceeded contrariwise. He tacitly played upon me when 
 he ordered the breakfast, and without disguise or reservation, grossly in- 
 sulted me, as the reader has seen. 
 
 These thoughts, as I lay in bed the second night, irritated and dis- 
 tressed me. 
 
 I envied the happier condition of those who had spent their days in the 
 world, making themselves conversant with the doings and the habits of 
 men — who were entitled to assume a position in the community, and could 
 command its respect. And then I passed on to my own home— shall I 
 confess it 1 — blushing by the way for that simple and domestic grace which 
 was its ornament and honour. Yes, for a moment I became madly im- 
 patient and tormented, and during the wild paroxysm suffered base and 
 cruel thoughts to make a fiend and monster of me. Thank God ! it was 
 but for a moment ; for could I live and bear about with me one thought 
 that should impair the fulness of my filial love ] Happily, my folly took 
 another bent. Burning with shame for the indignities I had suffered, and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 23 
 
 determined upon revenge — such a revenge as in its perfect gratification 
 should humble those who looked upon me with contempt, and take from 
 my own mind the smarting sting that had been inflicted there — I made a 
 zealous vow, and at once embarked every feeling and desire in the labour 
 of the fulfilment. The solemn promise made to myself was this : Every 
 energy and talent that I possessed, I resolved henceforward to dedicate to 
 the pursuits and employments, the honours and rewards, of the university. 
 My father and mother should be revered for my sake, and those who trifled 
 with me now, should be taught respect for my acquirements, if not for 
 myself. With the vitality and vehemence of a passion, did the idea of 
 distinction force itself upon my imagination ; and, like the passion of a 
 boy, it was restless and uneasy till some steps were taken for its indul- 
 gence. Stamped on my memory, never to be obliterated, is the day on 
 which I attended my first lecture. With an emulous and quivering curio- 
 sity, I listened to the answers of those who were of the same standing as 
 myself, and judged from their readiness and ability both of the amount 
 of knowledge that was arrayed against me, and the order of minds with 
 which I had to contend. As the papers of some were handed to me to be 
 passed on to the tutor, I detained them in their passage for one eager 
 snatch of sight, in order to compare the proofs and results with those I 
 had already given on the same questions. Did I discover the slightest 
 discrepancy in my favour, a problem brought out with less care, defective 
 only in one step, I hugged the knowledge to my heart, and was rejoiced 
 indeed. It was a sweet gratification to me to find, from the tutor's man- 
 ner, that he was pleased with my work. He looked over my papers with 
 care at first, but before the close of the lecture he was content to give 
 them a glance, and to turn his eye to the result. For some he had a word 
 of complaint, for others reproof. —(He was an iron man, knew his business 
 well, and spoke as he thought, with the same bluntness to the friend of 
 seven years as to the stranger of to-day.) — And to me only, of the whole 
 number, did he accord his unmodified approbation. " Very good, Mil 
 Stukely — very good ! " was the observation that he made upon the last 
 paper that I sent to him. The men at the same moment looked up at me, 
 and I experienced the glory of a triumph. 
 
 As I walked from the lecture, across the court to my room, the tutor 
 stopped me. 
 
 " What school do you come from, Mr. Stukely]" 
 
 I explained to him the nature of my previous reading with the clergy- 
 man in our neighbourhood. 
 
 " You work out your things very neatly. Come to my rooms after hall 
 to-day." 
 
 If before the lecture I had resolved upon my plan of conduct, I was now 
 not to be shaken from the one object of my life by any influence that could 
 be brought against me. I had gone into the room, regarding the men as 
 my natural enemies ; but when I left it, my superiority, and, still more, 
 the implied acknowledgment of it on the part of the tutor, had rubbed 
 away the asperity, and brought me to think more charitably of them. I 
 secretly determined, however, upon one course of procedure, and that was, 
 so to conduct myself always before my competitors, as to give them no 
 reason to suppose that I was straining to beat them, and, by every artifice 
 I could practise, to keep them off their guard, drawing their attention 
 chiefly to my own apparent freedom from labour and easiness of disposi- 
 tion. " If the usage I had received had effected nothing else, it had been 
 very successful in sowing the seeds of a selfish, sordid hypocrisy. 
 
 In the course of a few weeks I became friendly and familiar with more 
 
24 CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 than one under-graduate of my college. They courted my society : I did 
 not seek theirs. Amongst the rest, there was a man of the same year as 
 myself. He was of a reserved and modest habit, thoughtful and intel- 
 lectual. In the lecture-room, he caused me more uneasiness than all the 
 others together. We did not meet the first day. He came up afterwards, 
 and soon — too soon, alas ! for my equanimity and comfort — he began to 
 share in the favourable expressions and encomiums of the tutor. He was 
 a tall thin man, somewhat older than myself, excessively pale and weak- 
 looking, possessing large and piercing black eyes. He was remarkable 
 for a seeming and complete exemption from all physical exertion and 
 suffering. He glided about so noiselessly, and his doings partook so 
 largely of quietism, that he gave you the notion of a spirit rather than of 
 a human being ; or, you might suppose, if your humour were quaint, that 
 the soul was anxious for her fragile covering, so wasted and so wan already, 
 and, for its safety, suspended its accustomed privileges. The paucity of 
 his words corresponded with the inactivity of his body ; but, if it were 
 proper to conclude from appearances, the restlessness of his mind made up 
 for both. He had a noble forehead, and, young as he was, a few long and 
 slender hairs only hung dispersed and straggling about his head, as though 
 the incessant working of the brain beneath had blighted and thrown off 
 the rest, and they were soon to follow. This individual had attached him- 
 self to me, and early in the period of our acquaintance he would often 
 follow me to my room, and, without exchanging a dozen words, sit list- 
 lessly at the window, his emaciated hand supporting his bending head ; 
 or he would muse, for an hour or two perhaps, over some dusty work of 
 metaphysics, faintly smiling when he approved, and uttering the mono- 
 syllable "no" as often as he differed from the author. So would he come 
 and go, careless if his visits pleased, and innocent of the great alarm they 
 caused me. As for myself — knowing how closely in the lecture-room he 
 ran upon my heels, how easily, once or twice, he had unwound a knotty 
 point, that in the strength of its entanglement had set even me at bold 
 defiance, and how, without the shadow of an effort, he executed that which 
 cost me the dearest labour to accomplish — I hated him most heartily, and 
 estimated his visits as you would the encroachments of an adversary, and 
 the stratagems of a spy. There was a scholarship of some value open to 
 freshmen, the examination for which took place at the close of the first 
 academic year. To the attainment of this 1 looked forward with a san- 
 guineness that could not admit the possibility of failure. I had set my 
 mind, my heart, my happiness, upon it. It was the point in which all 
 hope of after-joy was centred, from which, if ever, the future energies must 
 radiate. After I had tried the ground, and felt it sure, to behold an inter- 
 loper seizing from my grasp the prize that was already mine ! The 
 thought was maddening. What a discomfiture and terrible destruction 
 of all my lofty aspirations ! Were they to end in this ? I would not per- 
 mit so wretched a belief. I promised to devote myself, with redoubled 
 energy, to the measures necessary for the coming battle. I might reach 
 him yet ! Besides, who knew ] the sum of my knowledge might still ex- 
 ceed his. notwithstanding that his acuteness, in solitary instances, had 
 evinced itself at the moment superior to my own. And again I thought — 
 and from the thought, the reader will learn how rapidly I was advancing, 
 not only in the knowledge of the doctrine of chances, but of all that was 
 virtuous and lovely in morals — I thought that this sickly fellow could not 
 possibly live long ; but looking only to the fair probabilities of the case, 
 I might have confidence and a most reasonable hope that he would be rot- 
 ting in the grave long before the hour of contest should arrive. I longed, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 2 -J 
 
 yet dreaded, to know his ( own views. Perhaps he did not care for that 
 which, for so many reasons, was of inestimable value to me. Possibly, 
 knowing my strong desire, he would not enter into competition. What 
 could a person, with health so delicate, and a frame so very ill-constituted 
 for arduous pursuits, expect from a distinction that curtailed his future ease, 
 and demanded increasing labour to sustain ; since even scholarships, like 
 the more worldly titles, are worthless, unsupported ] A little friendly chat 
 would, I was sure, convince a man of sense that his interest and happiness 
 were not to be found in the excitement of college wranglings, for which 
 physical power was no less essential than mental attainments. The argu- 
 ments were conclusive, and, had I reasoned for a brother, I could not have 
 been more satisfied of their truth and justice. It might be, nevertheless, 
 not quite so easy to persuade him ; men generally are such very bad judges 
 of their own cases, and their eyes are jaundiced when turned upon them- 
 selves. Would he not, however, on that account the more readily listen 
 to his friend ? At all events it should be tried — but in what manner ? 
 This was the difficulty. Once or trace already I had attempted to draw 
 him out, but he had shown himself so close, so little interested in the 
 whole matter, that I could only beat about, and retire at length without 
 advantage. Being desirous that he should attribute my friendly advice 
 only to my regard for him, I was myself apprehensive of appearing _ too 
 earnest, lest— for I was still in doubt as to the man's real nature — I might 
 haply be caught in my own snare, and only expose myself at last, without 
 learning anything from him. I must proceed most cautiously. 
 
 He streamed into my room one morning as usual, and took his cus- 
 tomary seat on the top of the coal-cellar. For a wonder, he commenced 
 the conversation, and gave me the opportunity of following it up. 
 
 He had taken from his pocket a very old copy of a sermon by Doctor 
 South. 
 
 " Stukely," he began, " how very different is the style of the intermediate 
 fathers, as Ve may call them, to that of our modern divines ! In these old 
 books the thoughts bear heavy on the words, which are too weak for what 
 they carry. The oak is planted in the china vessel. With us, the thought 
 is like the needle in the hay — a little matter in a world of waste ; when 
 found, not worth the trouble of the searcher." 
 
 " Did those men, Grimsley (this was his name), do much at college V' 
 
 This question found Grimsley reading again, so that it was not for a little 
 time that he replied. 
 
 " What did you say just now, Stukely V 
 
 "Did these fathers fag much when they were up]" 
 
 " 1ST o doubt, a great deal," was the reply. 
 
 " Took good degrees, eh V 
 
 " Unquestionably." 
 
 '• What strong men they must have been ! To look at their fine por- 
 traits, and their sturdy figures, printed in their books, one would suppose 
 that thev belonged to a much earlier age." 
 
 " Tso, Stukely ; these men, as students, were probably no stronger than 
 ourselves. It is the ease of later life (when the struggles of ambition have 
 subsided, and there is nothing more to gain) that brings men flesh, and 
 makes them sleek." 
 
 " Yet many die in the conflict ; is it not so ?-" 
 
 " Yes ; but in some causes death is victory." 
 
 " Weil, to my thinking, the reward of toil is inadequate to the cost. 
 Even here, how much dogged labour is necessary to arrive at the smallest 
 honours ! " 
 
26 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " I agree "with you. I would not purchase their chief distinctions at the 
 price so many pay for the most moderate. What waste of body, what 
 drying up of the very sap of life, for dreams and shadows after all ! No 
 — the day-labourer in the open fields is a simpler but a wiser man. 
 Still, where moderate labour — and this is both wholesome and need- 
 ful — leads eventually to honour, I cannot but think it sin to keep our talent 
 idle." 
 
 " Isn't there," I asked, carelessly, and determined now to probe him to 
 the very core, " isn't there something of a — a sort of scholarship, that they 
 try for in the college at the end of the year V 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It's not worth having, I suppose." 
 
 " On the contrary, as I hear, it is well worth having." 
 
 "You mean to work up for it, then 8" 
 
 The sword of Damocles hung over me. 
 
 " No, certainly not." 
 
 I breathed. 
 
 " I was sure you wouldn't think it worth your while. Come, Grimsley, 
 take a glass of wine. It's a very raw day. This is a very fenny country. 
 Don't you feel it 1 You haven't had a glass of wine in my room, I do be- 
 lieve, since I have known you. It is really not the thing. You are too 
 abstemious. I take but little, but find that little necessary. No, dear 
 Grimsley," continued I, producing the wine, " I was quite satisfied that you 
 would not go through the wear and tear of a long examination. Besides, in 
 your state of health, of what use would a scholarship be to you 1 I consider 
 you a philosopher, my dear fellow, for declining it." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Grimsley, very gently ; " I did not say that 
 exactly — you misunderstand me. You asked me if I intended to work up 
 for the scholarship, and I said, as I say now — No, decidedly not ! It does 
 not follow, if I gain the scholarship without working up for it, that I 
 shall think proper to refuse it — I should most certainly do no such thing." 
 
 He turned to his book with a sardonic grin, and I despised myself forth- 
 with for the candour (!) into which I had been betrayed, as heartily as I 
 did him for his artful deceit. 
 
 Matters had now reached the crisis. There was clearly no royal road to 
 the point for which I strove. Away with underplots and sleights of mind S 
 The enemy had shown the cloven foot. It was now open fight, face to face, 
 foot to foot, or else give way at once. Give way ! I burned to think it 
 possible. Had I been inclined to do so, the force of circumstances-impelled 
 me on. In the college, I had been regarded for some time as the man (all 
 boys are men at college) who must obtain the scholarship. The voice of 
 my fellow-students had given me a prescriptive claim upon it. Finding 
 the contest hopeless, they had themselves retired, one after another, from 
 the ground, yielding it to me. I had merely to walk over it. The tutor 
 himself had more than once advised and made a plan of future reading, 
 when the bustle and anxiety of the examination should be over, and there 
 would be nothing further to contend for. To sum up all, in the extremity 
 and overflow of joyousness, I had so far committed myself as to convey to 
 my father a positive assurance of success, and to inspire him with hopes 
 and expectations that I could not see betrayed and blasted, and still live. 
 It was wonderful, indeed, that, in all their calculations, the under-graduates 
 had made no regard of Grimsley. But, as I have said before, he spoke so 
 very seldom, said so very little when he did speak ; his movements were so 
 still and undisturbing ; his attenuated form so all unlikely to command at- 
 tention or awaken fear, that they might, unconcerned observers as they 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 27 
 
 were, find ample reasons for their marked neglect of him. It was otherwise 
 with me. Carelessness in me was criminal. I dared not conceal from my- 
 self the glaring fact, that there were energies concealed within his lathy- 
 frame, that, when called forth, would startle by their power ; that, beyond 
 this, he enjoyed a clearness of intellect, an extraordinary amount of know- 
 ledge, a facility in reducing it to order and giving it expression, that 
 carried him far beyond my level. His coolness and ease, his modest demea- 
 nour and h s self-devotion, made him only the more terrible ; and I noted 
 them as so many additional causes for vigilance and alarm to his antagonist. 
 Having made myself acquainted with the views of Grimsley, I saw that 
 it was necessary to concentrate all my attention and reading upon the sub- 
 jects fixed for the examination, and to neglect all else until the issue of 
 that was known. 
 
 Grimsley 's general knowledge could not avail him there — that was a 
 comforting reflection. Perseverance, I had often heard, was the worst foe 
 to genius. Let him look to that ! As for defeat, I would not know the 
 word. A fter my late interview with him, I became more friendly and so- 
 ciable with the rest of the under-graduates. I found more pleasure in their 
 society, and their sympathy and attachment were most acceptable to me. 
 I commended myself to their good-nature by many trifling acts of kindness, 
 and imperceptibly identified them with the cause in which I was embarked. 
 Not a whisper did I breathe at the same time of danger, not a syllable of 
 the quarter whence it threatened. Old Simmonds about this time reported 
 to me, that he had heard me very highly spoken of by the fellows in the 
 Combination Room ; and one under-graduate (I forget his name, but I re- 
 member that once or twice I had worked out his papers for him) had 
 asserted in Hall, at table, " that Stukely was the best fellow in the college, 
 and he hoped that he would have the scholarship without any examination, 
 for he was sure no man of his year had so good a right to it." 
 
 Curiously enough, as it may seem, by the advice of my tutor I placed 
 myself in the hands of a private tutor, one of those attaches of the univer- 
 sity, who, for a consideration, relieved the public and paid tutors from 
 the irksome and onerous duties of their office. I do not know what altera- 
 tions and improvements have taken place since my secession from the 
 university. Neither my inclination nor my occasions have, during the last 
 quarter of a century, carried me back to its proceedings. I have no doubt, 
 however — the more learned and better informed reader will correct me if 
 I err — that this anomaly and others have, in the advance of time, been 
 satisfactorily amended. We have heard of the giant strides of intellect, 
 and the tocsin of reform has resounded through the land, rousing from 
 their slumbers the very hamlets and villages of the soil. The priests of 
 knowledge cannot have slept at the altar with the alarum ringing in their 
 ears. I owe it, as a child of alma mater (a prodigal, alas !), to infer other- 
 wise. Men are not faultless, nor institutions either. That was a faulty 
 system, surely, that rendered abortive the exertions and the studies of a 
 man whose fortunes denied him the advantage of private and extraneous 
 aid, who, coming to the university to be taught, found teachers, indeed, 
 wasting their pampered days in idleness — teaching nothing, rioting perhaps 
 on the pious charity of those who had bequeathed their substance, emphati- 
 cally, for the building up, the maintenance, and the happiness of England's 
 poor scholars. The under-graduate of the present enlightened day will 
 assuredly meet in the closets of the tutor and fellows of his society, that 
 instruction which, in my time, was only to be found at a costly rate without 
 the college walls. 
 
 Mr. Cube, of St. John's, was a pragmatical gentleman, with a snub nose 
 
28 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 and carbuncular visage. Iu days of yore, St. John's was a snub-nose-and- 
 carbuncular college. The members were known by their looks. Mr. Cube 
 had small peering eyes, protected by spectacles, was very short, but some- 
 what stout. Ignorant of the ways of life, but desirous at all times to display 
 his good breeding, his usual expressions of politeness constituted a very 
 good harlequinade. You would have smiled at him in a ball-room, and 
 set him down for a country dancing-master. 
 
 His days were literally taken up by his pupils ; he had so many of them. 
 He enjoyed an extraordinary reputation. He had crammed all the best 
 men for the six preceding years, and his very name had become at last a 
 guarantee of success. Hard readers went to him really for the benefit of 
 his judgment and experience, which were powerful and extensive. Men 
 who did not read at all, paid him twenty guineas a term for the mere 
 pleasure of his acquaintance ; — knowing, cunning rogues ! that there 
 lurked in it some very potent charm, which would work miracles for them 
 on the day of examination in the Senate House. There is a rage and 
 fashion for tutors as well as for cravats and ladies' furbelows — and Mr. 
 Cube was now in the ascendant. He had come up a sizar, had taken the 
 best degree of his year, and his income was already upwards of 1000£. 
 He was the son of a curate, formerly a very poor one. His son's success — 
 to that son's honour be it written — had made him rich. 
 
 I explained to Mr. Cube my views and prospects. When I had finished, 
 he bade me sit down. 
 
 " There are pens and ink. See what you can make of that paper." 
 
 In about an hour I had finished the task, and to his satisfaction. 
 
 " Well done, Mr. Stukely, well done — that'll do. What books are you 
 reading now 1 " 
 
 I named them. 
 
 * Very well, very well. Bring them to me to-morrow. We'll see what 
 can be done. Very fine day, very fine day — good-bye, good-bye ; " and he 
 fidgeted me to the door, and bowed me out of the room. 
 
 The next day 1 waited on him. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Stukely, how do you do ? — very cloudy. Do you think it will 
 rain?" 
 
 It might be presumed that, as Mr. Cube seldom or never left his 
 room, the state of the weather was a subject of comparative indifference 
 to him. Not so ; the weather and its effects were a constant topic of dis- 
 course. 
 
 " The country wants rain — rain's a capital thing, if it didn't make the 
 streets so terribly muddy. You are very punctual — just three minutes 
 and forty three seconds before your time. That's better than being three 
 minutes and forty-three seconds after it. Take a seat. Oh, you've got 
 your books ! Ah, yes ! Well, we'll to business at once. Be seated. 
 You'll observe the great secret is this." The door was open, and he rose 
 to shut it. 
 
 Now it was coming — the secret — the great secret, as he termed it — the 
 key to all the brilliant triumphs of his pupils. Ah, Grimsley, what would 
 you give for this ! 
 
 " The great secret, as I said before, is this " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 At this moment there was a sharp knocking at the door. 
 
 " Come in," cried Mr. Cube. 
 
 It was his bedmaker. 
 
 " Sir," said that lady, " if you takes away the key of your bedroom, it's 
 quite «;«.possible that I can get into it." 
 
CALEB STUKELY, 29 
 
 Mr. Cube fumbled about his pockets for the instrument, and banded it 
 to her with his usual agitated air of politeness. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Stukely. As I was saying, the secret of the 
 
 whole matter is this " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied I again. 
 
 And again did that Tartarean door prevent the explanation I was burst- 
 ing to hear. 
 
 The knock this time was a soft one. "With many apologies Mr. Cube 
 once more rose from his seat. Turning the handle of the door, he ushered 
 into the room the abominated Grimsley. 
 The latter bowed to me. 
 
 " Ah, Stukely, I had no idea— I beg your pardon. Shall you be disen- 
 gaged in an hour, Cube?" 
 
 " Oh yes! quite— less than that— very dull day, isn't it? so chilly! I 
 hope we" sha'n't have any snow. I've heard of snow in this month, though. 
 It would be very awkward. You are sure to find me at leisure in an hour." 
 Grimsley nodded to me, and departed. 
 
 " The secret, Mr. Stukely, is this " 
 
 * Pray, sir," said I, more nervous and agitated than I can express, and 
 in my turn interrupting the momentous communication, "is that gentle- 
 man a pupil of yours'?" 
 
 "Young Grimsley %— oh, no!— couldn't afford it — worthy fellow— father 
 a poor curate near us — nine children — old friend, that's all." 
 
 " Have you ever told him the secret that you are about to communicate 
 tome?" 
 
 " Oh, never talk on business in play hours ! Grimsley, kind soul, reads 
 Shakespeare to me— does it beautifully. Talks metaphysics— likes them 
 better than mathematics." . 
 
 " Well, sir, I didn't care to know. It was only from sheer curiosity. 
 " Ah, just so ! Give me your algebra. You see this is the thing : men 
 fail, not so often in consequence of reading too little, as through reading 
 too much. You look surprised ; but it is true, nevertheless : they who 
 throw themselves into large waters sometimes sink. The cautious keep 
 within the depth, and swim. What do you, or what does any man, come 
 to me for ? — that he may take a good degree : in order to that end, cer- 
 tain questions will be propounded to him, which he must answer. Get up 
 those answers, and forget all besides." He opened my book. " X ow, here's 
 a proof — have you got it up ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, and some time it took me too." 
 "Just so. You found it stiff?" 
 " No end, sir ; but it's a beautiful proof." 
 
 "No doubt of it. But I have been here upwards of ten years, and have 
 not seen its face in anv examination paper yet. Comus is a very beautiful 
 poem, but if you had "it at your fingers' ends, stops and all, it wouldn't get 
 you one mark in the senate-house." 
 
 " T read it with a view to my general improvement." 
 " General improvement, general knowledge, and general literature, are 
 not academic terms ; all perhaps very good in their proper places, but sad 
 blocks in the way of a good degree. Here's a formula, have you it by 
 heart?" 
 
 " No, sir — but I have a shorter one, which I think better.' 
 
 "Upon my word, Mr. Stukely, this won't do at all. You are on a wrong 
 
 track. It may be the finest that ever was written ; but until you can 
 
 persuade the examiners that it is so, you will derive no benefit from the 
 
 fact. The fellows who set the papers are as jealously fond of their old 
 
30 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 forms and expressions as a mother of her babies. If you alter a verb or 
 a noun, nay, more, if you reject in a sentence a verb that has stood from 
 time immemorial in the shape ol an infinitive, only to restore it in the 
 more lively garb of a participle, you'll vex and distress them, and put 
 them out of humour with you and your papers, how great soever may be 
 their merit and yours in every other respect." 
 
 " If the substance and sense are correct, may we not use our own words 
 to illustrate them'?" 
 
 " You may, certainly, if you wish to cut your own throat, but you'll 
 most certainly not be understood. Sense is one thing, words are another ; 
 and so attached are the examiners to the strict use of the latter, that, if 
 they were compelled to acknowledge a preference, I verily believe they 
 would answer, as the Lord Hamlet does in the play, ' words, words, words.' 
 Now remember this above all things, and note well the pencil marks I am 
 about to make in your book. Wherever I put the sign plus (+) pass on 
 without reading at all. Ask no questions. What I desire you to neglect, 
 may possibly be useful, instructive, and good; but unfortunately it will do 
 nothing for you. ' The worth of a thing is what it will bring ;' and if this 
 brings you nothing in the shape of marks, it is worth nothing. We have 
 no time to throw away upon knowledge for the sake of itself. I intend 
 that you should read once all those parts against which you will find a 
 circle drawn so (O) ; but wherever you find this figure of a triangle (A), 
 read, and read to your soul's content. Don't omit a preposition, a syllable, 
 a sign, a stop ; read till the matter is as familiar to you as your own name. 
 Have it by heart, if it is possible, for that's most agreeable ; at all events, 
 by rote. Eepeat it when you walk — with your grace before meals — and in 
 your bed after prayers. Dream of it, if you can, and, if you are fond of 
 music, sing it to your favourite tunes. And whilst I run through your 
 book," -continued Mr. Cube, handing me a paper, " Avork out these pro- 
 blems, and do them slowly and safely. Never work in a hurry. A false 
 multiplication may ruin a man for life." 
 
 And under such skilful pilotry did I pass days and nights in the prose- 
 cution of my one great purpose, feverish and anxious alwaj^s, but driven 
 on by the most resistless of all human impulses. The plan of study forced 
 upon me by Mr. Cube, expedient as I believed it to be, was in itself dis- 
 agreeable and most unsatisfactory. It was drudgery, the most enervating. 
 The mind revolted from the iron yoke, and yearned again for freedom, for 
 that unshackled perfect liberty which is its birthright, in the blessed 
 enjoyment of which, knowledge is beauty, power, dignity, enduring wealth ; 
 deprived of it, is lumber, dross, rust, refuse — anything that loads, dis- 
 figures, and degrades. 
 
 Teachers of the young, fosterers of the germs of that capacity which 
 we call mind, beware ! It is a heavenly principle that you do take in 
 trust. Touch charily, and with a pious hand, the image of your God ! 
 
 Frequent had been the communications that had passed between my 
 parents and myself. From my father I received the strongest encourage- 
 ment ; and every argument that could incite me to perseverance, again 
 and again did he reiterate. Blindness of human wisdom ! How little 
 did the old man dream that he was adding fuel to the flame that was con- 
 suming me — poison to the canker bit that fed upon my vitals. My tender 
 mother — tender is a mother always — with that unworldly virtue so peculiar 
 to her sex — implored me to make no sacrifice of health or happiness for 
 the highest honour that lay within my reach. " What satisfaction, Caleb," 
 she said feelingly in one of her letters, " to your poor mother would be 
 the highest rewards you could obtain, purchased at the price of what is 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 31 
 
 dearest to me in life 1 No, my dear boy, return in health to me as you 
 left us ; there is no cause that can justify a tampering with the choicest 
 blessing of our condition." 
 
 A summer and a winter had passed away. Spring had again burst forth 
 in vigour, enlivening the dull face of nature ; the sun grew warmer, and 
 once more the impatient buds, breaking from imprisonment, unfolded to 
 the scented air. The second summer had arrived, and found still undi- 
 minished the iron rigour of my service. Heedless of my mother's words, 
 I had spent a year in toil, unflinching, and indeed most trying. Through 
 lack of exercise, and the constant sedentary occupation, my body had 
 become weak, my nerves unstrung, and my pale face and sunken eye true 
 chroniclers of what was rife within. My will and strong determination 
 were, as at first, unconquered and invincible. The issue of the struggle 
 was at hand. I was prepared for it. During the winter I had suffered a 
 month's severe illness. Being, by nature, of a susceptible temperament, 
 small matters, if they jarred or jangled with my desires, fretted me to a 
 high degree. The agitation induced by the novelty and exciting character 
 of my pursuits, in conjunction with a sharp cold, brought on eventually a 
 state of fever which in a night prostrated me, kept me to my bed, and for 
 a short time caused great apprehension for my safety in the minds of those 
 to whose care I was entrusted. During the attack, from which I recovered 
 very slowly, Simmonds had been my constant attendant, nor could any 
 persuasion prevail upon him to leave me until I was thoroughly restored 
 again. When I was first taken ill he made himself a bed upon the floor 
 of the sitting-room, and night after night did he there lie, more awake 
 than asleep, listening to my breathings, and to my every turn, ready with 
 the drink whenever I was athirst, and punctual as a clock with the medi- 
 cines, which he was so anxious that I should take not one second sooner 
 or later than the time prescribed upon the label. Within this old man's 
 withered case there throbbed a woman's heart. The affections of the softest 
 of that soft sex were not more fond, her patient and religious confidence 
 more constant and enduring. 
 
 It was a mild summer's evening, and I quitted my room with a dis- 
 ordered body and not less perturbed mind. I walked through the pensive 
 and shaded alleys that adorn the various colleges, bestowing a rural grace 
 that marks them from the naked barrenness beyond, each college standing 
 in a waste — a thing of beauty in itself. The air was balmy, and the 
 setting sun poured forth a golden stream of light, that broke into a 
 thousand particles, and settled in surpassing brilliancy on every object 
 and in every nook. More like the palace of the Fairy tale, for every pane 
 of glass one spotless dazzling diamond, shone forth that college, the 
 noblest in the world, on which I now looked back. 
 
 It was the evening preceding the examination, and I waited, by ap- 
 pointment, on Mr. Cube. 
 
 " Here's an evening, Stukely ! " exclaimed the tutor as I entered the 
 room. " Delicious, is it not ] look at the thermometer. Eighty in the 
 shade all day. What's the matter 1 you look pale. You have been sitting 
 too long again to-day. Well, your troubles will soon be over." 
 
 " Yes, thank Heaven ! " 
 
 "How many days are there to be]" 
 
 "Five." 
 
 "What hour do you go in to-morrow?" 
 
 "Nine." 
 
 "Very well. Suppose we run over your first day's subject now. I 
 
82 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 hare scribbled some questions for you. Write them out ;" and be walked 
 to tbe open window. " Bless my heart, tbis is weatber indeed ! " 
 
 It was late wben I left Mr. Cube's rooms, and returned to my own. I 
 had answered all his questions correctly, with the exception of three. 
 I did not feci myself secure in that branch of my subject to which these 
 questions referred ; and I spent a great portion of tbis, my last night, in 
 reading it once more over. Day had dawned — the free and blithesome 
 birds were twittering in the morning air— the dews were glittering in the 
 sunny light. I closed my book, and happy men were leaping from their 
 beds as I sought rest in mine. 
 
 When I entered the room set apart for the trial of strength, the clock 
 striking nine, some dozen men were already assembled. For the sake of 
 form, but not with the most distant prospect or notion even of success, 
 they' were about to take their seats at the broad table that stood in the 
 centre of the room, amply furnished with the materia for the coming war. 
 They all shook me heartily by the hand, and were confident in their 
 anticipations of the result of the proceeding, which still they could not 
 consider as admitting tbe slightest doubt. 
 
 " We must have a supper, Stukely," said a fat youth, whose father was 
 Lord Mayor of London. 
 
 " Copus, and no mistake," rejoined a thinner gentleman, with a turgid 
 countenance and a blearing eye, strong indications of his favourite habit ; 
 "a thing's not legal till it's christened. You get the scholarship, and 
 we'll wet it for you." 
 
 " Ah, as you say, get it — that's well advised ! If I were as clever at 
 getting as you are at wetting, the matter's done ; but this is not so clear." 
 
 " Come, get out of that, and sink the blarney if you please," responded 
 my bibacious friend. " Isn't it as clear as bricks that you are the man 1 
 Doesn't everybody know it ; and hasn't your own coach said clone to it six 
 months ago 1" 
 
 " If you mean to have kidneys," said the young Lord Mayor, in con- 
 tinuation, still harping on the supper, " do tell that wretch of a cook to 
 broil them for Christians, and not to season them with cayenne as if he 
 were dishing them up for devils." 
 
 The tutor entered the room, followed by a few men who had loitered 
 about the door, some laughing and jesting, others inhaling the summer air 
 until his arrival. The last who entered was Grimsley. The expression of 
 his features was, as usual, free from all excitement, and he seated himself 
 at the table with his shy and native unobtrusiveness. I sat opposite to 
 him, and gazed on his lank form with fear and wonder. Extreme quiet in 
 anything produces awe in the beholder. It is painful to witness the 
 heavy silence of a sultry day, and terrible sometimes is the storm that it 
 foretells. The examination papers were distributed. I watched my ad- 
 versary's bearing for a moment, as his eye passed over them — gathering, 
 however, nothing from the scrutiny — then, with a most intense and eager 
 view, turning to my own, I endeavoured at a glance to be possessed of all 
 that was to do. I could not read the wording of the questions. It was too 
 slow an operation. I saw their general bearing, their scope and gist. 
 One look might satisfy me as to that ; and oh ! relief and ecstasy, as I 
 proudly placed the sheet before me, and knew that this one day at least 
 the strength was equal to the task ! In the course of an hour, our com- 
 pany had sensibly decreased. The Lord Mayor became hungry, and 
 retired to lunch. The man of drink was troubled wiih a tickling in the 
 throat, and could not write another line until he was relieved. One could 
 not work ; he never could whilst men were making such a scritch-scratch 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 33 
 
 with their pens, and this poor soul had fainted from his infancy, confined 
 in close oppressive atmospheres. Six out of sixteen then remained. In 
 the afternoon, including Grimsley and myself, four only were found 
 constant to the table. He proceeded steadih', apparently without fatigue. 
 I laboured on, well satisfied with the accuracy of my work — delighted 
 with my progress. The hours allotted were from nine till twelve, and in 
 the afternoon from one till four. At three, Grimsley had finished. He 
 laid his pen aside — folded up his papers, then rising gently, as though he 
 feared to hinder or perplex the rest, he softly went on tip-toe through the 
 room, and took his leave. " He has not answered all ; he could not, I am 
 sure." Such was my thought, though 1 might scarcely stay to think, so 
 close had grown the struggle between the hours and me. It wanted but a 
 minute to the time when I had done. My hand would hardly hold the pen 
 for pain, but the brave limb had done its duty nobly. 
 
 Thus for four days did we proceed. At the close of every one I did not 
 fail to spend an hour or two with Mr. Cube, reporting progress, and, as it 
 were, renewing the supplies. It was strange that every day Grimsley 
 should have finished at least an hour before me. Still it was a favourable 
 sign, and gave me hope and courage. I went into the room on the last 
 morning with a lighter heart than I had hitherto borne, and certainly 
 less alarmed for the decision. From the second day up to this time the 
 competitors had been four — a heavy built man, disagreeable in his manners, 
 who knew nobody and whom nobody cared to know, by name Smithson ; 
 a young man whose family resided in Cambridge, and who was, in con- 
 sequence, compelled to attend ; Grimsley, and myself. Since the conver- 
 sation that I had held with him in my room, very little communication 
 had taken place between us. In the examination-room we had only- 
 bowed. I hated him because he was so artful, and his persevering opposi- 
 tion had not mitigated the feeling. Once more we took our places, and 
 once more the papers were handed to us. I ran them over, and was most 
 distressed to find that the majority of questions were such as, under the 
 direction of the too-confiding Mr. Cube, I had either neglected altogether, 
 or, seeing the fatal (0) annexed to them, had read only once, and there- 
 fore most ineffectually. Alas ! my mortification was excessive. But I 
 looked instinctively at Grimsley, and to my unbounded joy perceived him, 
 or I was grievously mistaken, as nonplussed as myself. His arms were 
 folded, resting on" the table — his paper lay before him, and his head 
 bending over it with a most gratifying air of serene embarrassment. 
 Had I been dubious on the point, his closing the papers at twelve o'clock, 
 and his leaving the room with his customary silence at the same moment, 
 was convicting evidence. Now, granting that I had beaten him on the 
 preceding day, if we were only equal on this, I had still the advantage. 
 Consoled by this reflection, with my paper not half answered, I rose about 
 two o'clock and hastened to the author of the mischief. 
 
 "Well, Stukely," said Mr. Cube, "you're out early to-day. Floored the 
 paper — eh.%" 
 
 " Not exactly. It has floored me." 
 
 " What do you mean]" 
 
 I explained. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the tutor—" it's that sly-boots Decimal. He set the 
 papers. Great enemy of mine. Knew my plan of reading. Did it to 
 sell you and bother me." 
 
 " It's very hard, though," said I, pettishly, " that I should suffer from 
 his aversion to you." 
 
 " Ah, my dear fellow, fortune of war ! Make yourself happy. I'll return 
 
 D 
 
34 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 the compliment one of these fine days. Talking of fine days, such a conti- 
 nuation of glorious weather I don't remember since I was twelve years old." 
 It was the custom, a few days after a college examination, to affix in 
 the hall a paper containing the names of all the competitors, written in 
 the order of their merit. He who had gained the first place, would appear 
 first on the list, and so on. In due course the morning came that was 
 to realise or wither my best hopes, to compensate, I fondly trusted, for 
 the melancholy servitude and self-denial of the year that had elapsed. 
 Nervous, indeed, I was, and most impatient and unquiet. Upon going to 
 rest the previous night, I determined to lie asleep, if possible, until a very 
 late hour, and to rise just as the announcement was put up, so that 
 nothing should intervene between my rising and rushing to the Hall for 
 the result. But this I found to be impracticable. I was restless all night, 
 and restless in the morning. When daylight peered into the room, I felt 
 that I should go mad if I lay longer unemployed. A good walk far into 
 the country would, I conceived, divert the current of my thoughts, and 
 give tone and cheerfulness to my jaded spirits. I might return about 
 an hour after the declaration was made, the men would see me fresh from 
 the trip, and would not fail to observe, that the only party who looked 
 with unconcern to the state of the poll, was the very individual who Avas 
 himself at the head of it. This step I adopted. I took the ferry across 
 the water, streamed on through fields, farm-yards, and villages ; now 
 watching the stately movements of a large family of geese, now sitting 
 beside some ruminating cow, and vainly sighing that vaccine peace and 
 quiet were not communicable as vaccine pus. Sometimes I listened to the 
 wild melody of -unseen birds, and one long hour I passed in a road-side 
 public-house, trifling with the words of an old newspaper — reading the 
 lines backwards, or turning them into unmeaning anagrams ; and tired of 
 that at last, scratching on the window with a pin, almost unconsciousl}', 
 the name of Grimsley. How strange the fiend should haunt me when I 
 had taken so much pains to exorcise him ! 
 
 I returned to Cambridge after an absence of some hours, walking with 
 good speed until I entered the town, then sauntering through it, and 
 afterwards into the college, with a most idle and indifferent air. It must 
 be an experienced player to act well so difficult a part. I first sped to my 
 room. Nobody was there ; but I spied from the window old Simmonds 
 crawling along the court, his bending body still more bent, his palsied 
 gait more trembling and inert. He had that very moment issued from 
 the hall, and was possessed of all I burned and feared to know. I tapped 
 gently on the glass. The old man looked quickly round : his face was 
 ghastly pale. Poor creature, he was ill ! He did not see me — if he did, 
 he would not, for he went on his road. I shook with terror, and grew sick 
 at heart. "Why does the old man look so white? — he loves me, and he 
 knows that I have set my life upon the cast. Present fears," thought I, 
 "are less than horrible imaginings. I should be eas} r any way, if I were 
 only satisfied. Suspense is dreadful." With a bold step, I left my room 
 and trode across the court, and then into the hall. Many men were 
 there. As I entered, they walked back a step or two, and looked upon 
 me with an eye of sorrow and commiseration. It was enough. Grimsley 
 was there — I could have struck him dead at my foot. I approached the 
 paper. My eye became dizzy as I read three names following each other 
 in this succession — 
 
 Smithson. 
 
 Stukely. 
 
 Geimslet. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 35 
 
 For a moment I was blind and stunned. I could not speak. The rest 
 •were silent. I reeled to my room — I know not how I reached it ; and 
 there sat, the tears dropping and dropping from eyes that nature should 
 have parched up, the old man who had coiled about my heart ! I recollect 
 nothing more. I fell down before him, as though stricken to the earth by 
 a thunder-stone. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 Thus the warm vouth 
 
 Whom love deludes iuto his thorny wilds, 
 Through flowery tempting paths, or leads a life 
 Of fever'd rapture, or of cruel care ; 
 His brightest aims extinguish' d all, and all 
 His lively moments running down to waste. 
 
 Thomsor* 
 
 I woke from the state of syncope into which I had been thrown by the 
 unhappy result of the contest, to be conscious of a degradation, deep and 
 insupportable. What could I do ? Whither should I go I How escape from 
 the ridicule which every man would cast upon me ?- To have been beaten 
 was now not the consideration. To be known as defeated — to be recognised 
 as the man who had so modestly condescended to receive the premature 
 congratulation of his Mends — who had made sure of his prize, and missed 
 it after all ! — to live in the college, a memorable instance of disappointed 
 hope and vanquished self-sufficiency ; — this, all this, was not to be borne. 
 I walked about in my room in a state of inconceivable wretchedness and 
 mental disturbance. Simmonds sat over the fire, imploring me to be at 
 peace, and raking away at the cinders to conceal his own too evident grief. 
 
 "Do not take on so. sir," said the old man; "what is the use of it? 
 This only makes matters worse." 
 
 " Simmonds !" I exclaimed, " what will the men think?-" 
 
 " Yes, and what will they think next year," asked Simmonds, with a 
 vain attempt at cheerfulness, " when you have beaten every one of them?-" 
 
 "And my poor father, what will he say l" 
 
 " Why, what can he say, sir ?- Everybody knows you did your best " 
 
 " No," I answered quickly, " I did not do my best ; this would not have 
 happened if I had. I have been too careless all through, and this is the 
 consequence." 
 
 " If you had not been so ill, I am sure you would have done a great deal 
 more. You were knocked up before you went in." 
 
 I was appeased by the good man's remark. 
 
 " Yes, Simmonds, I was ill — very ill — and the men must have observed 
 it. Do you not think so ?" 
 
 " Xo doubt of it, sir; and ILr. Smithson has such a constitution! I am 
 sure nothing would bring his flesh down. Doesn't he look like it ?-" 
 
 "He looks more like a bricklayer than a gentleman," I answered pet- 
 tishly. " Who is this Smithson ?-" 
 
 "Don't you know, sir 1 He is Mr. Squareroot's nephew, and the son of 
 a Xorfolk clergvman." 
 
 d 2 
 
36 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 "What!" I exclaimed, almost knocked down with surprise, "what is it 
 you say] Smithson, the tutor's nephew] Squareroot's — the tutor's?-'' 
 
 " Ye3, sir, the tutor's." 
 
 "This, then, is the secret of it all." (Ah, me ! why was I so eager to 
 jump at any but the simple and apparent cause of my defeat ?) " No wonder 
 that I am beaten. Newton would not have been successful. Indeed he 
 would not. And poor Grimsley, too," ('his with marked tenderness,) " no 
 wonder that your quiet spirit and cultivated mind were doomed to succumb ! 
 Is this generally known, Simmonds 1 " 
 
 " Oh, bless you ! yes, sir. In the college all the gentlemen know it ; 
 but he is not a great favourite with them. He is not very friendly in his 
 manner, and he keeps a good deal to himself." 
 
 " Now answer me, Simmonds. Do not you, for one, feel satisfied that 
 favour has been shown to Smithson, and I have lost the scholarship un- 
 fairly?" 
 
 " Why, as to that, sir, I cannot say, really — I don't think " 
 
 "Ah, poor fellow, you dare not tell me what you think ! You eat their 
 bread, and are bound to them. It is not so with me. Let them be assured 
 the matter shall not rest here." 
 
 " I think you are wrong — I do indeed, sir," said the gyp. " Mr. Square- 
 root is a gentleman of strict integrity, and, I believe, would rather lose his 
 hand than let it do a dirty action. It is Mr. Smithson's constitution, sir, 
 and nothing else, believe me." 
 
 I answered my worthy friend with a sneer, and truly happy was I to 
 find, an hour afterwards, that I did not stand alone in the suspicions that 
 I entertained of the justice and honour of the college functionary. 
 
 In truth, the cordial sympathy that so suddenly burst upon me from my 
 fellow-students, was at once a panacea to my broken spirits. Instead of 
 averted looks, or signs of triumph and ridicule, their recognitions were 
 friendly and encouraging. As to the favour which had been afforded 
 Smithson, they Avere, to a man, quite satisfied of that — and their indig- 
 nation at the fact by far surpassed my own. Their advice to take im- 
 mediate steps for the exposure of the "precious system," was offered in 
 all the warmth of a brotherly regard, and urged with one consent. There 
 was one individual especially indignant and violent in his counsel. A tall, 
 fair-haired, dissipated youth, who had not opened any but his betting-book 
 since his appearance in Cambridge, and who, with an income of three 
 hundred pounds a-year, lived at the rate of as many thousands ; but this I 
 knew not at the time. As I have said, Mr. Easyman, more than all the 
 rest, was affected with choler at my disappointment. 
 
 "Of course," said he, "I knew how it would be. Why didn't I go in 
 for the scholarship ? Why do I take life easy % What's the use of reading, 
 when everything is settled beforehand ? Upon my honour," (Mr. Easyman 
 never went higher than this.) " I believe the best men do nothing at all at 
 college. They are wise, and see what's what with half an eye." 
 
 The conversation, of which the above elegant extract formed a part, was 
 held in my own room, about an hour after I had been made acquainted 
 in the hail with the success of Mr. Smithson. A body of men had flocked 
 thither to offer me their condolence, aud to assure me of their readiness 
 and desire to make ' my grievance unconditionally their own. Many 
 speeches were made on the subject; and, as every one had something im- 
 portant and original to advance, it may easily be conceived that our meet- 
 ing became at intervals exceedingly noisy, and the difficulty of drawing 
 attention on the part of individuals inconveniently great. At one moment, 
 my friends would deem it expedient to fall simultaneously into a violent 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 37 
 
 rage, and to discharge themselves of their anger at one and the same mo- 
 ment ; then Bedlam itself seemed loosed into the room. Afterwards 
 there would be a corresponding silence ; every one stopped for breath at 
 once, and then every one bellowed out again. These continued alter- 
 nations of excessive violence and extreme repose could not but be very- 
 distressing to the lodger overhead. They proved so. The rooms imme- 
 diately above my own were occupied by Mr. Squareroot himself; and at 
 this very time he was busy, in his capacity of moderator, in the concoction 
 of divers mathematical puzzles, with which to tickle the brains of his 
 friends at the ensuing bachelor's examination. Annoyed at length beyond 
 his power of endurance, he sent his servant to us -with a particular request, 
 that we should be more temperate in the sound at least of our remarks; 
 by which very natural and certainly justifiable proceeding, the tutor in- 
 creased to its* height the bitter feeling which was already engendered 
 against him. Its effect, however, was decisive, for perfect silence ensued, 
 and it was left for Mr. Easyman, in these memorable words, to break it. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said in an under tone, and looking around him, "the 
 right of discussion is contested with us. This only was wanting. But we 
 will give the enemy no advantage. Let us separate now, but let me see 
 you all in my rooms this afternoon to wine, 2s o tutors will interrupt us 
 there. Stukely, I shall expect you." 
 
 Which invitation being given and accepted, and a few remarks made 
 afterwards in a subdued and gentle voice, the meeting for the present 
 separated. 
 
 The hour of Mr. Easyman'a wine-party arrived. I was about to set out 
 for his rooms. I did not feel comfortable. I could not say that I was on 
 really good terms with any one, least of all with myself. What could 
 render me so irritable and vexed] Xo doubt the shameful conduct of 
 Mr. Squareroot — the impudent trickery of him and his ill-favoured relative. 
 Old Simmonds, who was in my bedroom during the visit of my friends in 
 the morning, as I now walked across the room to depart, asked me, as I 
 thought somewhat sharply, if I really intended to go. 
 
 "Go !" I answered hastily — "intend to go,! What do you mean, old 
 man? Most certainly 1 intend to go. Didn't you hear this morning'? 
 This barefaced piece of business isn't to rest here. Every one is satisfied 
 of their conduct. Others have seen through it, and have known it all 
 along.'' 
 
 " It is not for me to say, sir," said the gyp, very calmly, " what is the 
 opinion, or what are the motives of those gentlemen. You are not one of 
 them — you have never been one of them — and you must not become one. 
 If you do, God help you ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! It is a pretty thing for you to dictate to me in this 
 way. I tell you what it is, Simmonds, I have permitted you to go on after 
 this fashion too long. I ought to have checked vou at once. A younger 
 man shouldn't have presumed so far, I can assure you." 
 
 " Mr. Stukely," said the old man, " you frighten me. I know very 
 well where all this ends. I have not been in college sixty years for no- 
 thing." 
 
 "Do you mean to insult me ?- I shall not submit to your impertinence. 
 I suppose you think you may just say and do what you please now— hut 
 you'll find your mistake." 
 
 " Why can't you," continued the old man, taking no notice of my vio- 
 lence, " why can't you sit down to-night quietly and comfortably, a3 you 
 have done always ] You never wanted to go out before this evening, and 
 you have been happy enough too." 
 
3S CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 /'Sit down ! No, 111 not sit down, until I have made my injury known 
 to the whole world." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! " said the imperturbable gyp, " how can you talk such 
 nonsense ? Why will you deceive yourself? Who will believe you? Do you 
 think that Mr. Squareroot's character is not too well known 1 He wouldn't 
 do such a thing to be made chancellor to-morrow. There's a dear gentle- 
 man, give me your hat, and don't tease yourself any more about the matter. 
 There now, the kettle's boiling — do sit clown and let me make your tea." 
 
 " Ho. Simmonds, this will not do. I have promised my friends, and they 
 will see me redressed." 
 
 " They will see you laughed at, sir. Every one will laugh at you, if you 
 run about making this complaint." 
 
 The gyp had reached a vulnerable part. I shrunk from ridicule as the 
 horned snail does from the finger touch. An indistinct apprehension of 
 his meaning disarmed me in an instant. The colour mounted to my cheek. 
 I stood irresolute. Simmonds profited by the opportunity, and slipped 
 my hat from my hands. 
 
 " 111 write home to my father," I said at length, sighing in great per- 
 plexity. " Simmonds, fetch me some letter-paper." 
 
 "Have you none here, sir 1 ?" enquired the poor fellow, looking nervously 
 into my portfolio, and afraid to leave me. 
 
 " None : I used the last yesterday." 
 
 " Very well then," he replied, evidently much annoyed, " I suppose I 
 must get some ; " and he walked off — very quickly for him — taking care 
 to shut the door carefully after him. 
 
 The hour of my appointment was already past. I had resolved. Sim- 
 monds after all might be right. I would not go. I would that evening 
 write to my father, explain the circumstances to him, and beg him at once 
 to withdraw me from the university, with which I was already very much 
 disgusted. It was a good resolution. The shadow of Mr. Easyman 
 shrouded me as I made it. I looked up, and lo ! that gentleman was 
 smiling at the window. 
 
 " Hallo !" said he. " Bricked up 1 Upon my honour, that's very clever. 
 Open sesame, if you please. Fine animal that of yours," continued he, 
 entering my room. "Rather groggy just now. First-rate in his time — 
 almost ready for the knacker. I wonder what he is saying now to old 
 Squareroot." 
 
 " Whom do you refer to 1 ?" 
 
 '• Your Caliban Simmonds." 
 
 " Is he with Squareroot now V 
 
 " Yes. I saw him as I crossed the court. Oh ! Caliban is a sweet boy 
 for his age. But they are all in one game ; and I will say this for the 
 whole tribe, they do play most cleverly into one another's hands." 
 
 " Are they really so bad V 
 
 "Worse than housebreakers. Never mind. Come along, we are all 
 waiting for you." 
 
 "Well, do you know, I was thinking, Easyman " 
 
 " Oh ! don't think — there's a good fellow ! There's really no time for 
 it to-day. You shall think to-morrow, and act now. You know you have 
 given your word to the men " (and the hat that Simmonds had a moment 
 before enticed from my hand, the wily Easyman insidiously restored to 
 it). " It is your own party, and they are all eager to give you the meeting. 
 They will never leave you, my boy, until you are righted. They are the 
 real sort, depend upon it — true blood to the back-bone." 
 
 " I really do not feel inclined — I cannot go " 
 
CALEB STTJKELY. 39 
 
 h< Why, my dear fellow, consider — you wouldn't have the men laugh at 
 you]" 
 
 I plunged my head into the hat, and rushed out of the room with him. 
 
 " But is it true," 1 asked, when we reached his door, " that you saw 
 Simmonds a minute or two ago with the tutor?" 
 
 " As true as I see you now — upon my honour/' 
 
 " Then, Easyman, that old man is neither more nor less than a grey- 
 headed devil." 
 
 Mr. Easyman had, without exception, the very Lest rooms in the college. 
 Why should they not be 1 they were the most expensive. The manner in 
 which they were fitted up did credit to his taste. Mr. Easyman was not 
 an ordinary man. He prided himself upon his knowledge of the fitness 
 of things. A stranger would discover his peculiar talent at a glance. He 
 was a walking illustration of himself — of his own mind. His dress, his 
 air, his gait, his very hand, were so many indices to his inner self. There 
 was a union, a harmony, certain corresponding effects, in all of them. 
 They all bore testimony to the innate sense of order and propriety. Walk 
 into his abode — you were struck with the costliness and elegance of the 
 furniture, but not so much with these as with the remarkable adaptation 
 and blending of the several pieces. Every one was perfect; and, with re- 
 ference to the others, exactly in that particular spot which it would have 
 selected for itself, had it been endued with the powers of sense and motion. 
 Shall I describe his bedroom ? My pen halts. It is some years since, for 
 the first time, 1 read the poem of Lalla Boohh, (who shall read it a second 
 time, and not grow faint from the excessive sweetness ?) and the descrip- 
 tions of joyous indolence in that romance, brought to my recollection the 
 sublime dormitory of Mr. Easyman. It was emphatically eastern — and 
 admirably suited to the ambitious and extravagant notions of a man living, 
 as I have before mentioned, with a lofty contempt of his own poor means, 
 in a most eastern and inconsiderate manner. 
 
 Mr. Easyman opened the door, and introduced me to his company. 
 There were about fifteen of them. They rose, their glasses in their hands 
 — for the libations had already commenced— and,. with one cheering halloo, 
 they welcomed me amongst them. Violent applause is dangerous to the 
 object of it — always. If the object is a fool, it is ruinous indeed. I 
 smiled radiantly upon the assembly, and in a moment was repaid for 
 much of my past anxiety and wretchedness. I felt, as I sat down amongst 
 so many ardent and devoted spirits, that if the wicked Simmonds might 
 observe my triumph, I could forgive even him his foul iniquity. The 
 room was a spacious one, and the table placed in the centre of it, round 
 which the guests were seated, was well supplied with fruits, confections, 
 and the choicest wines. The chairs were all occupied but one. This was 
 the honoured seat, reserved for me. Amongst the company I noticed my 
 friend the paulo-post-futurum Lord Mayor, and the thin drinking gentle- 
 man. There was another individual present, by no means to be disre- 
 garded in this relation. He was the connection of a celebrated tragedian 
 of the day, remarkable for his frequent quotation of Shakspeare, and for 
 the pertinacity with which he insisted upon obliging his friends, during 
 vacation time, with orders for the play. His name was Deboos. He ac- 
 costed me, as I entered, with the following words : — 
 
 " Here had we now our country's honour rooi'd, 
 AVere the graced person of our Stukcly present,' 
 "Who may I rather challenge for unkiudness 
 Than pity for mischance." 
 
40 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 "That's the fifth time you have said that, Boosey" (so he was called hy 
 his familiars) ; "now don't say it any more." Thus spoke Mr. Laurel, the 
 Lord Mayor. " Stukely," he added, addressing me in a low tone, " I am 
 happy to see you — sit down." His chair was next to mine. " I have not 
 seen you since our sell. We have been floored cleanly. We couldn't help 
 it— that's a great consolation, i saw the thing at once, and cried done in 
 time. You died game." 
 
 But Mr. Laurel was interrupted ; for the decanters on the table had 
 already performed a rapid gyration, and the glasses became musical, from 
 the tinkling sounds that were drawn from them. Mr. Easyman had re- 
 sumed his seat, which was distinguished from the rest by being raised 
 slightly above them, and he now struck the table with great rapidity and 
 vehemence. Silence being obtained, he rose : — " Gentlemen," he com- 
 menced, "I am no speaker; but you know my plan. Procrastination is 
 the thief of time. It was my favourite copy at school. I act upon the 
 maxim now — never postpone till to-morrow what you can do to-day. To 
 business. Are your glasses charged, my boys'? Stukely, you stop the 
 bottle. Fill your glass, and pass it on." 
 
 I obeyed, attentive to my host's address, and watching the point of con- 
 vergence to which his words were tending. 
 
 " His Majesty — God bless him !" exclaimed Mr. Easyman after a proper 
 muse, and with all the gravity so solemn a benediction demanded. 
 
 "His Majesty — God bless him!" shouted with more fervour, and less 
 ceremony, a thousand voices condensed into fifteen. As the thunder 
 abated, the silver tones of Mr. Deboos were caught lingering at the close 
 with — 
 
 " Not all the waters of the rough rude sea 
 Can wash the balm from an anointed king." 
 
 There succeeded to this a quarter of an hour's animated conversation, cha- 
 racterised, as indeed many of the subsequent discussions of the evening 
 were, not so much by abstruseness or learned acumen, as by the happy 
 facility which every one displayed in leaping from one subject to another 
 in an inconceivably short space of time. Not that deep and abstract mat- 
 ters were entirely neglected. Far from it ; but they were treated with so 
 lively and novel a disposition, that they must have astonished a sober- 
 minded individual who had previously taken pains to think seriously 
 about them, or to make his head giddy with their pleasing perplexities. 
 Opinions were offered, and difficult points mooted and settled, with a free- 
 dom and grace that were truly refreshing. Great, indeed, are the advan- 
 tages of a university education ! It was my nature to be shy and silent 
 in mixed companies ; but by the very force of example, I became by de- 
 grees an impassioned and eloquent speaker. It was very gratifying, in- 
 deed, to my vanity to perceive that every word I uttered, every notion I 
 ventured to submit — and silly enough were many — was listened to with 
 fixed attention, and acknowledged by universal approbation. It is worthy 
 of remark, that, before I had spent an hour with my friends, every one of 
 them, without exception, after having done honour to the usual toasts, did 
 me the kindness to drink my health, and to wish me prosperity. Most 
 exhilarated did I become — most grateful for their attentive and affection- 
 ate regard. A warm glow sprung up at my heart, and unconsciously a 
 tear or two trickled down my cheeks, as though with very superfluity of 
 happiness. And then the grand business of Smithson was discussed, and, 
 I must confess it, almost too soon disposed of. But the subject was an 
 unpleasant one, and my supporters were glad to withdraw themselves from 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 41 
 
 the pressure of it. I cannot but add, that, as time wore on, even T could 
 not bring myself to esteem the very occasion of our meeting as forming 
 the chief delight of it. I had rather a peculiar pleasure from the very act 
 of forcing all thoughts of Smithson from my mind, and giving myself up 
 unconditionally to the excited and animated scene around me. The never- 
 ending, still-beginning process of the wine-bottle, did not slacken with the 
 approach of twilight. The sun went down in surpassing splendour. I 
 looked out upon him as his eye of fire closed upon the world. " Never 
 before," thought I, "has he left such jocund spirits on the earth behind 
 him/' The dusky middle light of eve — the soft crepuscule — delicious as 
 it is in little country parlours, through which, laden with pensive thought 
 and breathless melody, it steals with a religious quiet — calls up no gladly 
 feeling in the heart of him who plies his calling at the shrine of Bacchus. 
 Comes it with reproach to him, or does it, from the vasty depths, invoke 
 images of bygone innocence and peace 1 Is it too touching and too soft, 
 or does the one short hour of absent glare make legible the naked cha- 
 racters of shame 1 Mr. Easyman could not probably explain his motive, 
 but the fact is certain. No sooner had the sun departed, and left the 
 denizens of earth to stretch their limbs, and breathe cool air again, than 
 did our worthy host desire the attendant gyp to close the shutters and 
 " bring in the wax." 
 
 And soon hilarity became intense, and the several warm hearts then 
 melted into one. And then the wine, that had performed its part so well, 
 took leave, and came no more ; but, in its stead, a thrilling mixture, 
 mysterious in its power and in the union of its elements, whose luscious 
 drops searched blood, and bone, and marrow, and lit up with fire the very 
 seat of all sensation. I tasted, and electric pleasure started through my 
 frame, demanding still another and another taste, until at length I revelled 
 unresisting in delicious draughts. Nor was the revelling confined to me. 
 The bright nectar found willing entrance at every lip, and many bowls 
 gave evidence of untiring flavour and enduring virtue. Twilight gave 
 place to night — bowl had succeeded bowl with terrible dispatch. Mr. 
 Easyman grew flushed. He rose to speak the praise of punch, and, in his 
 capacity of toastmaster, he said laconically, and in Greek of course — 
 
 " To KdXov." 
 
 " YLa.i to uoio-Tov" screamed out the company. 
 i"Do you mean it ?-" enquired the host. 
 
 " Do we not %" was the interrogative reply. 
 
 " Woodlouse ! — pipes," cried the giver of the feast to his gyp, Mr. "Wood- 
 /iouse. '•' Pipes and tobacco." 
 
 The apo-rov (pipes and tobacco) was brought ; and a short silence pre- 
 vailed, whilst the room became dim with smoke, and the candles sickened 
 in thick vapours. 
 
 '"'Now, lads," resumed Mr. Easyman, shutting one eye, and looking 
 knowingly with the other at a glass of the mixture which he held in one 
 hand, his pipe falling gracefully from the other, "let me give you ro 
 
 KCtXat 'A.a.1 TO UOlffTOV." 
 
 A tremendous cheer, and a stunning knocking upon the table, and a 
 corresponding kicking under it, marked the welcome which the classic 
 toast received from all. 
 
 "Come, my nqiXnyizirvs" said the guest on my left. This was the 
 great Greek scholar of the company, who was allowed by every one pre- 
 sent to be the first classic of his year ; but, by some unaccountable mis- 
 take, was dragged out afterwards somewhere behind the last. " Come, 
 my vtftXv," said he, hitting me on the back with a violence that made 
 
42 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 me, in the condition to which I was brought, exceedingly nervous and 
 uncomfortable, "blow and be happy," and he thrust a pipe into my 
 hand. 
 
 I had never smoked a pipe before. I was unequal to the task, but still 
 more to that of sitting unmoved amidst a host of cloud-gatherers, the sole 
 consumer of a suffocating fog. Partly to avoid this disagreeable alter- 
 native, partly to lose none of the regard that I had gained up to this 
 period of the festival, and partly because I was so very warm and reckless, 
 that I was ready to do anything in the shape of a request, I took the clay 
 without a syllable of reply, and proceeded, awkwardly enough, to the suc- 
 cessive steps of filling, stopping, lighting, and imbibing. And oh, what 
 obfuscation and confusion ! With the first fumes of the tobacco, my brain 
 received a shock. The whole scene became immediately a moving pano- 
 rama. The company, table, chairs— everything passed rapidly round me, 
 then suddenly stood still, and left me sick and tottering. I caught at 
 the table, as 1 fondly hoped, unperceived ; for, deplorable as I felt, I was 
 still more than ever susceptible of shame. The sense of feebleness was 
 more than half subdued by the mental exertion which I forced to my aid. 
 I seized a glass of the intoxicating liquor ; the nausea was for a time over- 
 come, and my spirits flashed up with new fire. 
 
 Midnight had long since stolen away, leaving the assembly not more 
 willing for separation than it had been six hours before. I heard St. Mary's 
 clock strike three, and, about the same time, remember to have seen a 
 vision of my classic neighbour. He was " upon his legs," as far as it is 
 competent for me to assert this of a staggering and reeling man, whose 
 legs obstinately disregarded their natural duty, and left the trunk to seek 
 support elsewhere. He was in the act of addressing the chair. His 
 manner was oily and insinuating ; but his speech, unconnected, and made 
 up of Greek, Latin, and drunken English, cruelly betrayed the lament- 
 able state into which he had fallen. " Mr. Chairman," he hiccupped out, 
 after having already spoken for some time, and with great eagerness — 
 " Mr. Chairman, I don't know what I am going to say, and it's no odds to 
 nobody ; two negatives don't make an affirmative — put that down. The 
 ancients," and he made a low bow — "1 always make a Icotou to the an- 
 cients — that's pious ; the ancients never knew what they were going to 
 say; vide Cicero — 'rum bene provisam, verba haud invita sequentur."' 
 
 "Rum!" exclaimed Mr. Deboos, with a contemptuous curve of the lip ; 
 "rem, if you please." 
 
 " Order, order ! chair, chair ! " proceeded from half-a-dozen husky 
 voices, and a moment afterwards there issued, as it might be from my 
 very feet, a long, loud, irrelevant groan. I looked down, and beheld cling- 
 ing to my chair, pale as death, my right hand neighbour, Mr. Laurel. Oh, 
 the internal commotion that I suffered then ! I forced my eyes, not slowly, 
 from the disgusting object, and relied upon crushing the rapidly-rising 
 physical phenomena by a tremendous concentration of all my attention 
 upon the speaker. But the speaker had already finished. The interrup- 
 tion of Mr. Deboos had led to a further interruption on the part of the 
 other gentlemen, and the jovial scene unexpectedly became one of alarm- 
 ing tumult and disorder. Unfortunately for the general peace, Mr. Deboos 
 obstinately contended for the emendation which he had thought proper to 
 introduce in the foregoing Latinity, and treated the judgment of the 
 chair, who decided in favour of the orator, with no more respect than he 
 had listened in the first instance to the classic himself. Unhappily, too, 
 the chair himself just now was not in circumstances to brook opposition 
 in respect of any matter whatever. His eye had become bloodshot and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 43 
 
 furious. When he spoke, he raged at the top of his voice, and his gesticu- 
 lation assumed all the violent incoherence of an uncontrollable madman. 
 He Avas very drunk indeed ; but Mr. Deboos would talk, and would have 
 the last word. 
 
 " You son of a strolling vagabond." screamed out Easyman at last, ■ if 
 you don't be quiet, I'll smash you, so help me !" 
 
 And at the same time he seized a full goblet of punch, and held it 
 threateningly before the unlucky Shaksperian. 
 
 "Ah ha, boy!" retorted the latter in derision, "saijstthou so ? Art 
 thou there. Truepenny ? Come on — you hear this fellow- in the cellarage ;" 
 and then added, with more profound contempt, " Drv.nl: — speak, parrot — 
 squabble — swagger — swear." 
 
 At the close of which apt speech, and in spite of the interference of his 
 friends, who endeavoured to save him from what they clearly saw would 
 be the finale to his discourse, he received on his broad forehead, and from 
 the powerful hand of his host, the glass and its contents, which sent him 
 bleeding and senseless to the ground. 
 
 The men rushed to the help of poor Deboos, but Easyman himself did 
 not move from his place. He filled another goblet with liquor — drank off 
 its contents at a draught — threw the glass in a frenzy on the floor, and, 
 whilst it flew about in a thousand pieces, swore, with a fearful oath, that 
 he would in like manner break the bones of any one who offered the least 
 assistance to his victim. 
 
 Things looked very black, and I grew alarmed ; but I kept my seat, 
 Two or three men, in spite of Easyman's threat, persisted in restoring the 
 fallen Deboos, or in an attempt to restore him, for he seemed dead : the 
 rest crowded round the host himself, seeking by various and opposite 
 means to pacify him, and to fix him in his chair. As may be supposed, 
 the worrying rendered him more infuriate. He continued to swear, every 
 succeeding oath rising more awful than the last, and to struggle against a 
 dozen men with the strength and passion of a giant. Amongst the choicest 
 of Mr. Easyman's many valuable possessions was a watch of exquisite 
 manufacture. It was a repeater, the smallest that had ever been seen. 
 It had been admired by every one ; and the owner, in his sober moments, 
 valued it above all other things. It was indeed a gem. Its price would 
 have furnished the materials of happiness to many a starving creature. 
 This precious ornament was now swinging in the air, and the violent 
 efforts of so many friends of order threatened its speedy destruction. 
 
 " The watch, the watch ! " shrieked a dozen voices, pulling the wearer a 
 dozen different ways. 
 
 '•' What do you mean V roared Easyman, dashing every individual from 
 him. " You infernal robbers, what do you meanl" and he tore the minia- 
 ture clock from his neck, hurled it with desperate violence to the ground, 
 and stamped madly and repeatedly upon it, until the little beauty was 
 reduced to atoms. 
 
 Passing notice has already been taken in this narrative of the thin 
 drinking gentleman. For him was reserved, and in his own peculiar 
 fashion, the task of subduing the fierce disturber. He had admitted into 
 his small frame more than his just proportion of the liquid fire, but unre- 
 mitting habit had fortified his little stomach, and made the drink inno- 
 cuous as water. At the height of the affray he rose from his seat, and 
 surveyed Mr. Easyman with a steady, sober look ; he watched a favour- 
 able opportunity, seized it, and then, without a syllable, felled him like a 
 bullock to the earth. Had I not been a witness to this act, cruel and 
 dastardly as it was, in spite of Paley, I could not have believed it possible. 
 
44 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 I looked at the aggressor, with what I intended to be a most expressive 
 gaze of angry reprimand. He smiled upon me with contempt : and turn- 
 ing from me to the affrighted guests, unruffled and in a gentle voice, he 
 bade them carry their quiet host to bed. By his direction four of the 
 party lifted the insensible Easyman from the ground, and conveyed him 
 off. He followed in silence ; but the rest of the men, excepting always 
 those excluded by physical incapacity, crowded in the rear, stamping and 
 yelling as though they were savages dancing the war-dance, and singing 
 the death-song, before the immolation of a sacrifice. Believing, I know 
 not why, that the murder of my friend was the next business to be per- 
 formed by the thin ruffian, if indeed it had not been already perpetrated 
 by him, I determined to stand up (metaphorically speaking) in the defence 
 of the poor sufferer, and to venture my life, if it were necessary, in the 
 attempt to rescue him. Had I fallen down dead at this instant, the j my 
 would have performed their duty carelessly if they had not written me 
 down insane. Whilst I had a clear knowledge of the broad facts, I am 
 sure that I must have been mad. My brain was whirling, and I was losing 
 fast all power of restraint. I reached Easyman's bedroom, as the body- 
 bearers were placing him on the fine quilt that covei'ed his luxurious bed. 
 He was still senseless — he moaned deeply and at intervals, with a con- 
 vulsive catching in the throat that was to me indicative of fast-approaching 
 death. But the small fiend was still unmoved. 
 
 " Now," said the latter, turning back his wristbands, as if he had busi- 
 ness to do, and it was time to set about it; "now, Woodhouse !" and he 
 bawled with a voice that ought to have awakened Easyman. " Woodhouse 
 — mustard — and a quart of water — warm." Turning to the bed, he loosened 
 the cravat and unbuttoned the shirt-collar of the groaning man. Then, 
 feeling his pulse with the gravity of a doctor, he sat quietly down, and 
 awaited the arrival of the gyp. 
 
 Into the measure of water he threw a quantity of the mustard, and 
 stirred it well. Desiring the men to raise Easyman iqion his back, he 
 himself applied his fingers to the drunken man's mouth, opened it, as you 
 would that of an unwilling horse, and then poured down the liquid, as 
 through a funnel, in sudden doses, and with many stops. In a short mi- 
 nute or two, the disturbing quality of the medicine was beautifully appa- 
 rent. A violent natural effort on the part of Easyman caused the com- 
 pany to retreat with great precipitation, and restored the sufferer himself 
 to consciousness. But such a consciousness ! Oh, it sickened you to 
 behold it ! no longer raving and roaring, the man appeared to have sunk 
 in spirit below the level of a poltroon. He whined and groaned alter- 
 nately, and tears that might have had their origin in fatuity — such feeble- 
 ness of mind, so perfect a prostration of soul, did they evince — rolled 
 piteously down his cheeks. He sobbed with fear, and shook from head to 
 foot, and besought the men around him, in the most supplicating terms, 
 not to leave him in his present miserable plight. Although he partially 
 recognized every individual who came near and spoke to him, I could not 
 believe that his reason was wholly given back. Who could look upon him, 
 and subscribe to so humiliating a conclusion ? He could not be sober. 
 Drunkenness had but assumed another form. The fiend was still making 
 merry with humanity, tricking him in another and more offensive garb, 
 for his own sport and pastime. 
 
 " Oh, I am so ill ! " cried the wretched sniveller. " What shall I do % 
 It's a shame to treat a man so in his own house. Don't leave me — there's 
 a dear fellow ! I am sure I am dying." 
 
 " Nonsense," replied his medical attendant, " go to sleep, you fool ! " 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 45 
 
 and he put him on his back again, and threw the clothes in a heap over 
 his head. 
 
 Easyman made no resistance, but whined like a beaten cur. beneath his 
 coverings. Again and again he assured us he was dying, implored some 
 one to keep him company, and protested against the cruelty and ingrati- 
 tude of " treating a man in this way in his own rooms." 
 
 In the midst of these protestations, by the desire of our leader, we 
 departed, and returned forthwith to the banqueting-room, where, in truth, 
 the scene was not more pleasant than that which we had quitted. Five 
 men were lying on the ground in different stages of intoxication. The 
 eyes of one protruded from their sockets, and with a stupid stare were fixed 
 upon the ceiling. Every muscle of his countenance was rigid, and from 
 his lips oozed forth a sluggish saliva, that played about the corners of 
 his mouth in frothy bubbles. " The last internal throes of death." thought 
 I, " may already have taken place." Another man lay at the very feet of 
 this one. He was fast asleep, and snored with a constancy and vigour that 
 no noise could conquer, no human efforts might abate. A third man sat 
 under the table, clinging to its legs, and smiling sottishly. He was talking 
 aloud — to himself — to characters which his fancy conjured up — to the in- 
 animate table — and severally to its four inanimate legs. Perfect sensual 
 enjoyment beamed from his watery eyes. Mr. Laurel, son of the civic 
 dignitary, so to speak, wallowed like a dog in his own mire, and was, in- 
 deed, in sore distress. His cheeks were ashy pale, his lips bloodless. His 
 head was torn with pain, it was plunged deep into the palms of both 
 hands, and he breathed hard, and swung about, like one struggling to cast 
 off suffering. He had made a sad mistake. With the instinct of his 
 tribe, he had, during the whole of the evening, partaken largely and 
 greedily of all the eatables. These, consisting chiefly of sweet cakes and 
 sugary preparations, had kicked against rather than socially blended with 
 the port wine and strong tobacco smoke, which not frugally had entered 
 his weak dyspeptic stomach. Hence his present miserable state. 
 
 Connected with the room in which we were, and opening into it, was an 
 antechamber of very moderate dimensions — a narrow slip, devoted to the 
 reception of coats, and cloaks, and such-like gear. Into this hole, and at 
 the instance of the little iron man, the five unfortunates were cast. The 
 only one who was aware of the proceedings — the Lord Mayor himself — 
 submitted to the operation with a languid resignation. The four insen- 
 sibles said nothing. We saw them " safely stowed," and — will it be be- 
 lieved ] — drew once more round the table and the bowl. 
 
 • * * * * * # * 
 
 When I awoke from a disturbed uneasy sleep, the sun was overhead. It 
 was broad noon. An intolerable throbbing at the temples, a general rack- 
 ing headache, a burning throat, a fever-coated tongue, a sickness at the 
 heart, prostrating, annihilating. Thus reduced, I rose from the carpet on 
 which I had slept, in the horrid chamber of the symposium, and, almost 
 overwhelmed by the fumes that hung around me, by the disgusting aspect 
 of the disordered room, loathing myself, and hating all the world, I crawled 
 away, and slunk into my room. 
 
 "With a trembling hand, and with the soul of a criminal, I took from my 
 desk a letter which had arrived by the morning's post. The tears dropped 
 slowly and heavily upon the handwriting of my mother. She expected 
 my return daily, hourly. She was most anxious to behold me, longing to 
 clasp me again in her arms, and to congratulate me on the happy issue of 
 my hard study and noble perseverance. My father had communicated to 
 her the strong assurances which I had forwarded of my strength and easy 
 
46 CALEB STUJKELY. 
 
 success, and she reproached herself lest her frequent motherly counsels 
 might have interfered in any way with the perfect fulfilment of my laudable 
 desires. These were the terms of her epistle, which had fallen fresh and 
 unsuspecting from her affectionate heart. Oh, could she but have seen me 
 now, how would that heart have snapped at once ! — what bitterness — what 
 anguish might it have been spared ! 
 
 If shame had not made me irresolute, the dissipation of the past night 
 would have rendered me incapable of action. It stunned me to think — to 
 move was a sickening effort. I closed the door, and tottered to my bed. 
 Late in the afternoon I awoke, feverish and unrefreshed, quivering in body, 
 crushed in spirit, the slave of a triumphant devil — cowering beneath a 
 dismal hypochondria. 
 
 As I sat silently wretched over the cold fireplace, my feet upon the 
 fender, my head reposing in my hands, Simmonds unlocked the door, and 
 stepped into the room. 
 
 " I am very sorry, sir," began the old man ; " but the master wants to see 
 you. I hope it is nothing serious ; but you had better go." 
 
 The blood mounted to my cheek, my anger was great, my hatred of the 
 old man more bitter than ever ; but I beat the fender with my feet, and 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Ah ! " continued the gyp, deploringly, " I knew no good would come of 
 it. I wish the devil would never let another drop of liquor into the world 
 again. My heart alive ! how pale you look. Well, sir, it can't be helped 
 now. You must make the best of it. But, pray go. This is the third time 
 that I have been sent for you." 
 
 " What does the master want with me?" I enquired, in a surly tone and 
 without moving. 
 
 " I don't know, sir, and I am afraid to guess." 
 
 " You lie ! you grey-haired Iscariot !" I replied, turning upon him like 
 a tiger. " You know enough ; too much for me. Go about your business, 
 and never let me hear your canting voice again. Ah ! you barefaced Judas." 
 
 The only answer to my abuse was a mild and piteous look, a long and 
 deep-drawn sigh. 
 
 " I shall not go to the master." 
 
 " Pray do, sir," said Simmonds, earnestly ; " pray, pray go. If anything 
 is amiss, the master is not very hard : it's a word or tvo, and then done 
 with. He forgives and forgets in a moment. But if you are obstinate, 
 you'll force him to be severe, and I don't know what will be the conse- 
 quence." 
 
 Either the advice was not lost upon me, or I had not courage to act 
 in opposition to it. I did go to the master. Having dismissed Simmonds, 
 I made a careful toilet, assumed a cheerfulness, and hastened to the lodge. 
 
 The late Bishop of was then president of the college. He was at 
 
 this time beloved for that primitive simplicity and real modesty that 
 adorned his later life. When I was ushered into his presence, I felt con- 
 founded and abashed. The mildness of his eye — his open countenance — 
 the refreshing purity of his whole expression, all satisfactory and soothing 
 to a virtuous observer, were so many reproaches to a spirit conscious of 
 recent transgression, guilty, and ill at ease. As I stood before the worthy 
 master, " eaten by shame," my conscience forced me to contrast my present 
 irksome littleness with the disgraceful tyranny that I had exercised towards 
 Simmonds a few minutes before, and I was grateful that the gyp was not an 
 eye-witness of my humiliation. 
 
 The master was writing when I entered ; he wrote on for a second or 
 two, and then he raised his head and looked at me. " Mr. Stukely," he 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 47 
 
 said, putting his pen gently upon the table. " I am glad that you have come, 
 and that you see the propriety of attempting no concealment. However 
 easily you might escape from mc, you would find it a difficult task to elude 
 the hands of justice." 
 
 "Sir! " 
 
 " I cannot express to you how thoroughly annoyed and grieved I am at 
 this unhappy event. I will do you the justice to believe that you bore 
 your unfortunate victim no malice, and that the act which you committed 
 in the moment of intoxication was not premeditated in the hour of reason 
 and sobriety." 
 
 " Sirj! " 
 
 " I have no desire to wound you with reproaches. Your mind is surely 
 sufficiently disturbed. But I must tell you that the character which you 
 have hitherto borne in the college did not prepare me for this interview. 
 Whilst it is my duty to enforce your residence in Cambridge until Mr. 
 Deboos is pronouneed out of danger, let me, as a friend, entreat you to 
 offer up your grateful acknowledgments to that Power which alone has 
 saved you from becoming a murderer." 
 
 " Sir !" I shrieked out, jumping back a step or two. 
 
 a Mr. Stukely," continued the master, " do not aggravate your offence by 
 this light conduct. I had hoped to find you sensible of your situation, and. 
 am sorry to see you not yet free from the influence of liquor." 
 
 Many confused ideas rushed into my brain at the same moment. They 
 settled into three distinct: I was indeed drunk — or dreaming— or the 
 master himself was mad. In my difficulty I asked faintly what was the 
 matter, and what I had done. 
 
 " Eather let me ask you, Mr. Stukely, why you persist in such assurance ?- 
 Do you think it possible to deceive me by this artful line of conduct ] 
 Pray take care — do not add crime to crime." 
 
 There is no doubt that, if I had been sober the night before, I should 
 at this juncture have demanded boldly a full explanation from my accuser. 
 But the drink had so mashed my intellect, had put my frame into such a 
 novel state of giddy disturbance, that I more than questioned my right to 
 do anything of the kind. I therefore remained silent, and, as well as I 
 could, called to my recollection all that had happened, in order to justify 
 the master in the course he was taking. 
 
 '•' Where did you spend the past night, Mr. Stukely V enquired the prin- 
 cipal. My attention was called to the next question before I could find a 
 satisfactory answer to the first. 
 
 " Was Mr. Deboos in your company . " 
 
 ' "He was, sir," I replied, sighing at the general picture of the scene 
 which the name of this unlucky gentleman vividly called up. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the good master, noticing the deep-drawn breath ; " this is 
 more becoming. I am quite aware of it. You passed the night with him 
 and with other gentlemen — is it not so V 
 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 '•'Well, then, listen to what I say : You must remain for the present in 
 the town. I will place no other restraint upon you. When the medical 
 attendant of Mr. Deboos assures me that all dangerous symptoms have 
 disappeared, you will receive your exeat, but not till then. I hope that the 
 information which I have received touching this discreditable business is 
 not in every particular correct. It will be comforting to believe that you 
 did not know what you were doing at the time ; and I sincerely trust that 
 you now regret, very deeply regret, the injury which you have inflicted 
 upon this unfortunate young man." 
 
48 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 : I beg your pardon, sir- 
 
 " Mine is easily granted, but you must seek forgiveness elsewhere, Mr. 
 Stukely." The master had scarcely uttered these words, when his servant 
 entered and announced " dinner." The footman held the door open, and 
 
 " I have nothing more to say, Mr. Stukely— you will not fail to do what 
 is necessary. Good-morning." 
 
 And the venerable principal went to dinner. 
 
 I stood stupidly still, then walked nervously up and down the room, and 
 at last rushed out, with the intention of following the master. The man 
 in livery hastened after me. 
 
 " That way, sir," said he, in an insinuating voice, and urging me gently 
 before him — "that way, sir ;" and I went on till I reached the door, which 
 he quickly opened, and as quickly closed upon me. 
 
 More than half crazed, and almost blind with irritation, I sought my 
 own abode again. What could be the meaning of it all ? What had I to do 
 with Deboos 1 What had happened to him for which I was answerable, or 
 in any way culpable ? He had received a blow— a fearful one, it is true — 
 from Easyman, and had been carried to his room, bleeding and insensible. 
 That I well remembered ; but what was this to me more than to any other 
 individual spectator ? Ha ! was it conceivable that the men, one and all, 
 had falsely charged me with the crime] The thought crossed my brain, 
 and at last possessed it till I became frantic. Deboos was dying, perhaps— 
 who knew but he was dead already?— and they had all conspired to bring 
 me to the gallows ! What Avas I to do, if they persisted in such an accusa- 
 tion? Who would believe me singly, and against them all? What did 
 they care for me, so long as they might preserve themselves'? I was a 
 stranger to them— they had been long united— might they not consider it 
 a melancholy duty to sacrifice me for the general safety ? " Oh ! would to 
 Heaven that I had never gone to that accursed meeting ! Oh ! sweet news 
 for my poor mother, when she would hear of me to-morrow as the drunkard 
 and the assassin ! What was to become of me now ?" 
 
 I was not in a humour to receive visitors, and one was sitting in my 
 room when I arrived. His back was towards me; but he rose when he 
 heard my footstep, and looked me in the face. Were my eyes sporting 
 with my reason? Was this another drunken vision] Ko, I was not 
 deceived. My coach companion, the man who had played the first trick 
 upon me— James Temple really stood before me. 
 
 Since I parted with him on the eventful evening of my advent, I had 
 neither seen nor heard from him. This was not surprising. I had 
 hitherto passed my days chiefly within walls. He was a member of 
 another college, and his pleasures and pursuits led him into haunts with 
 which I was" unacquainted, and into the society of men with whom I 
 enjoyed nothing in common. His presence staggered me._ I could not 
 guess his business. My experience of him inclined me to think it no good 
 one, and my temper, roused to mischief, sprung at the opportunity which 
 was fairly afforded me to bully and to quarrel. 
 
 " How dare you," said I, pale, I am sure, with anger and annoyance, 
 "how dare you show vour face here ?" 
 
 " It required some boldness, I allow," said Temple ; " but since I have 
 come, you will hardly turn me out, Stukely, without a word ?" 
 
 "Didn't you write that letter?" I continued, my flesh tingling with a 
 cutting sense of shame : " didn't you write that letter, I say, asking me to 
 breakfast with the vice-chancellor ? Answer me— didn't you?" and I was 
 ready to burst with vexation at the bare revival of the fact. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 49 
 
 "My sole object in coming here now," answered Temple, evidently 
 affected and subdued by my excitement, " is to acknowledge that I did so." 
 
 "You own it then, do you 1 ?" I replied, puzzled, now that he had con- 
 fessed it, as to what I should say or do next. 
 
 " I hope, Stukely, that it is never too late to confess — never too late to 
 be sorry for doing wrong. I have not behaved well towards you. It was 
 a boyish trick — foolish in every way. I regret it deeply. I could not 
 rest until I had asked your pardon, and you had freely forgiven me. Will 
 you do so now I In a few months I leave Cambridge. We may never 
 meet again. Let us part friends. Will you take my hand ?•" 
 
 " It was villanous conduct though," I replied, determined not to 
 commit myself by any friendly acknowledgments, before I had fully 
 decided upon the proper conduct to be pursued. 
 
 " Say no more about it. I have reproached myself a thousand times, 
 and have suffered sharper pangs than you yourself would desire to inflict 
 upon me. What can I do more than plead guilty to the charge, and express 
 my unfeigned grief? What would you have me do 1 Tell me, and judge 
 of my sorrow and sincerity by the eagerness with which I attend to your 
 wishes." 
 
 Instead of listening to him, my attention was called to my present 
 doubtful position, and the great need in which I stood of a friend and 
 adviser — matters of much more importance to me, than the friendship or 
 even the life of the speaker. By the time he had finished, I was prepared, 
 without any view to him or his motives, but with the most calculating 
 selfishness, to extend the forgiveness which would cost me nothing, and to 
 secure his services, which would be worth a great deal. 
 
 Yet, not without an air of wounded pride, nor without some show of 
 dignity and condescension, did I permit the cordial grasp so eagerly 
 desired by Temple. Once given, however, the gates of separation loosed, 
 and a rapid stream of friendly interchangements flowed. Soon I learned 
 his college history ; and, bound by the act of confidence, soon did I 
 disburden my own over-loaded soul. I communicated eveiwthing. With 
 more seriousness than I had expected from my former volatile companion, 
 he listened to my moving tale, and with a kindliness of feeling that spoke 
 for the truth of his contrition, more emphatically than a thousand 
 protestations, he volunteered " to pioneer " me through my difficulties, 
 and to aid me with his counsel and experience. 
 
 " It is now late," he said, at the close of a long and confidential con- 
 versation. " Seven o'clock, by Jupiter ! I must be off, and you will not 
 be sorry to kiss your pillow after the night's carouse. Good-night — to- 
 morrow, or the next day, you shall see me again." 
 
 "Oh, say to-morrow !" I replied, very loth to part with him at all. 
 
 " If I can I will, but I must not promise. I go out in January, and 
 there is three years' work to do in nearly as many months. According to 
 the latest calculations, I have but five hours to spare. With six months 
 clear before me which I could call my own, I might have taken my ease. 
 Considerate alma mater is not hard upon her young ones. Long may her 
 religious and ancient foundations rest undisturbed !" 
 
 " Well, wait a little longer now." 
 
 " Don't ask me — good-by till we meet again." 
 
 He departed, and left me to myself — a hideous companion in my 
 present mood. To my great comfort, he returned almost immediately. 
 
 " You are dull and low-spirited this evening. What say you, Stukely ? 
 — will you take a stroll 1 You may be the better for it. It will cool 
 your head." 
 
 E 
 
50 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " No, thank you, Temple, " I replied, " I would rather keep at home 
 to-night." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right ; good-by once more." 
 
 He was on the threshold, when I called him back. 
 
 " Do you really think that it will cool my head ? Well, the fresh air 
 may revive me. I shall be back before eight o'clock." 
 
 " As earlv as you please. But do not be persuaded." 
 
 " I'll walk a little way." 
 
 As we crossed the court, I begged Temple to enquire at Deboos's rooms 
 "if the gentleman was still in danger." He vias very bad ! 
 
 My friend's apartments were distant about a mile from the college. 
 He rented the principal rooms of a small cottage, whose front was adorned 
 with a thick-spreading vine, and sweet flowers rising from the ground and 
 clambering to the windows. It was a dwelling for a hermit or a lover. I 
 accompanied him to the door ; and, as I shook him by the hand at 
 parting, the quiet freshness of the place touched me, and started a deeply- 
 seated sigh. 
 
 " You are cold after your walk," said Temple looking at me ; " step in, 
 and take a cordial." 
 
 " No, no," I said shuddering, and loathing the very thought of liquor ; 
 "no, Temple, no more drink." 
 
 " Well, not for the world unless you are disposed. I shall not persuade 
 you ; but I am not a stranger to your sensations. A bitter cordial, mark 
 you, medicinally " 
 
 " No ; do not ask me. I will step into your pretty cot for a minute — 
 look at your rooms, and then away." 
 
 " After you, then," said Temple, motioning forwards. 
 
 His rooms were small, but very snug. The order and arrangement of 
 the quiet furniture — the pretty chimney ornaments — the small flower-pots, 
 covered with green paper fantastically cut — the painted china vase, with 
 its graceful flowers, newly culled, all bespoke a woman's hand, and the 
 presidency of a spirit less rigorous than man's. The apartment thus dis- 
 tinguished was occupied by four individuals, friends of my host, and 
 apparently not unexpected. They were about his own age, and under- 
 graduates. Their caps and gowns were thrown carelessly over two chairs, 
 which deformed one angle of the room, and disturbed the general har- 
 mony. 
 
 I was made known to the visitors, who bowed civilly and formally to 
 me, evincing neither pleasure nor dislike at the introduction, and making 
 no further effort to arrive at intimacy. 
 
 " Eest yourself there a moment, Stukely, and never mind us. Here's a 
 book of drawings. Amuse yourself." And he placed a cosey arm-chair 
 before me, and at the same time a handsomely-bound book in my hand. 
 " But stay, I have forgotten the cordial." 
 
 Before company, I had power to resist no longer. He produced from a 
 square mahogany case a miniature decanter, from which he poured a very 
 small quantity of creamy liquid. 
 
 " It is proper stuff, I can assure you." 
 
 It was delicious indeed — very pungent and very bitter, but so felicitously 
 adapted to the existing state of my palate, that, if they were not created 
 for each other, it was a splendid accident that brought them into union. 
 I sat down refreshed, lolled in the chair, and turned over the leaves of the 
 sketch-book. W hilst I was busy, Temple and his friends were not idle. 
 A square table, covered with green baize, was rolled into the centre of the 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 51 
 
 room, and two candles, at opposite corners, were placed upon it. Temple 
 and three of the visitors sat over against one another in pairs. A pack of 
 cards were taken from a drawer, were shuffled, cut, distributed, then 
 scattered, and collected — performing, in their various turns, the thirteen 
 mystic acts that make up Whist. 
 
 The players were good. I knew the game obscurely, and their skill 
 compelled my whole attention. In spite of my good resolution to return 
 by eight o'clock, I sat for an hour or two with great composure and delight. 
 I might have sat for an hour or two longer, if Temple had not taken care 
 of me. The fourth visitor at length cut in, and Temple, whose place he 
 had taken, called me aside. 
 
 "Now Stukely," said he, "return to college. You cannot afford at 
 present to give them a fresh cause of complaint ; you may get into trouble, 
 and I should never forgive myself if I were the cause of" it. It must not 
 be. You shall see me to-morrow ; take care of yourself." 
 
 "This is indeed kind of you, Temple," I replied, squeezing his hand; 
 " you are a true friend." 
 
 " I shall live to convince you that I am." he answered, returning my 
 grasp. " Good-night ; never mind the men— they are very busy, and we 
 have no ceremony here." 
 
 I shook my considerate friend once more by the hand, and departed from 
 the cottage. The night was very fair. The moon was up, and filled the 
 earth with tranquil loveliness. The light of noon was shed abroad without 
 the glare. It was a passionless day, and no night. A medicinal healing 
 softness does the moonshine pour upon a wounded heart. I knew it, as I 
 issued from beneath the cottage eaves : and very sad was I to think how 
 soon the moon would disappear, and the harsh "day return again ! As I 
 stepped from the doorway into the open road, the casement above my 
 head was hastily thrown up. Turning towards it, with a natural impulse, 
 I beheld, stooping from the window, a young and handsome female. By 
 the light that shone, her jet-black hair and ivory skin were visible; just 
 for one instant did I gaze, and then the form, observing me, withdrew. One 
 hasty glance formed but a slight connection with this moonlight vision ; 
 yet, by this first and slender link had the great enemy secured my future 
 misery and fall. 
 
 Daylight brought back the cares of day. Rising the following morning, 
 my first concern was to ascertain the state of Deboos's health, and this 
 was very satisfactory. My next to visit Easyman ; he had received his 
 exeat, and had gone to London ! So had also" all the men who had shared 
 with me his hospitality. With this information, I turned to a more diffi- 
 cult task — a letter to my mother. Temple, during our pleasant walk on 
 the preceding evening, had strongly enforced the necessity of writing 
 home immediately, in order to secure myself against exposure, and to 
 save my parents needless sorrow and alarm. The plan of future conduct 
 which my new counsellor had marked out, may be partly gathered from 
 the epistle which I forwarded. It was as follows : — 
 
 " Dearest Mother, — You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I have 
 determined, subject to your permission, to remain in Cambridge during 
 the long vacation. Your surprise will cease, however, when I inform you, 
 that the scholarship of which you have heard so much will not be tried for 
 until next commencement. They have allowed us longer time to read 
 the subjects. Dearest mother, how I regret this separation, you can guess. 
 I am consoled, however, when I reflect that I am doing my duty. It is 
 impossible to have the opportunities for reading at home which we find 
 here; and there is no doubt that, by remaining up, I shall eventually 
 
 E 2 
 
52 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 secure what all of us hare so much at heart. Who knows so well as you, 
 that if I were allowed to follow my own inclination, I should not remain 
 another hour absent from my home ? Believe me, 
 
 "Dearest Mother, 
 
 " Your dutiful and loving son, 
 
 " Caleb Stdkely." 
 
 " P.S. — As the long vacation will be expensive, I should be grateful for 
 a further remittance of fifty pounds." 
 
 Such was the letter, advised by Mr. Temple, written by myself. We 
 are generally proud of our portraits. I turn away from mine with shame ! 
 
 Villanous and full of lies, however, as this precious document undoubt- 
 edly is, let me have credit with the reader for the very small under-current 
 of virtue that runs hidden from his view. When Temple suggested to 
 me that my father might be grieved and vexed at my failure — my mother 
 possibly rendered frantic if she heard of my critical position, anxiety for 
 them melted me, and rendered me susceptible of any impression. When 
 he told me that, in a few days, Deboos would be well, and no more heard 
 of that ; that if I waited up, and read determinedly and hard, I should 
 be sure to get the scholarship given to second year's men, which scholar- 
 ship I could assure my honoured parents was the one they knew of; when 
 he added, too, that in my case to speak the truth was vicious — I was pre- 
 pared to write as I was taught : nor did I blush to do so, and to add, at 
 his particular desire, the small request that figured in the postscript. 
 
 After the lapse of a few days the post brought down the sum required, 
 and with it a long, loving letter, that would have saved me from the pre- 
 cipice on which I stood, but that a new and fatal fascination lured me 
 onwards, and kept me spellbound till I should make the final leap, and 
 plunge headlong to ruin. A second and a third time the same whist party 
 met in Temple's rooms, and I was there, a mere spectator, as at first. 
 Temple maintained a steady, considerate regard, offered me on all occa- 
 sions a slight refreshment, and at an early hour insisted on my taking 
 leave of him ; so very much he feared that late hours would give offence 
 at college, and he might be the cause of any trouble. Ever as I passed 
 the cottage door, curiosity prompted me to gaze above, and catch another 
 glimpse of the fair form — but the accident did not occur again. Once I 
 asked Temple who the lady was. He answered me with a smile, and 
 tapped me on the shoulder, " All in good time ; you shall know by-and- 
 by;" and then, with no good reason, I coloured up and looked ashamed. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight, Deboos was able to get about again. He had 
 received a severe wound, and had greatly suffered from pain and loss of 
 blood. I received justice from the good Shaksperian. His first business, 
 after his recovery, was to wait upon the master, and to exonerate me from 
 all share in the affray by which he had nearly lost his life. Neither his 
 debility, nor the awful termination of his last quotations, prevented him 
 from addressing the master in his usual strain. 
 
 " I had rather," he said, " have this tongue cut from my mouth, 
 Than it should -do offence to Caleb Stukely ; 
 Yet I persuade myself, to speak the truth 
 Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, master." 
 
 And, in his original fashion, he proceeded to explain the cause of quarrel, 
 and Easyman's violent aggression. Deboos's heart was good, and in it he 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 53 
 
 found something to quote even to excuse the man who had neither pity 
 nor regard for him. He added, 
 
 " More of this matter can I not report. 
 But men are men — the best sometimes forget, 
 And even in rage strike those that, wish them best." 
 
 Shortly after our visit to the master, I accompanied the worthy Deboos 
 to the inn, from which he was about to set out on his way to his native 
 town. He took his seat in the coach, and gave me his hand. 
 
 " The men have acted vilely by you, Stukely, in this business. You 
 have been a victim, and, upon my soul, I am sorry for you." 
 
 " Don't mention it," I replied with naivete. " I am grateful for what 
 you have done for me." 
 
 " Ah, Stukely," he said, breaking out afresh, 
 
 " Thou art e'en as just a man 
 As e'er my conversation coped withal. 
 ***** Thou hast been 
 As one in suffering all, that suffers nothing. 
 A man that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Has ta'en with equal thanks ; — and bless'd are those 
 Whose " 
 
 The speech was not finished. The coach started in the middle of it, 
 and I heard Shakspeare from the lips of Mr. Deboos for the last time. 
 Upon the day that f received from the master permission to leave Cam- 
 bridge, Temple strongly recommended me to take lodgings in the neigh- 
 bourhood of his cottage. He believed that the purer air of the suburb 
 would invigorate my constitution, and that the influences of the lovely 
 situation would be highly favourable to the reading. Nothing could be 
 kinder than the interest which he took in my welfare. What could be 
 more friendly than this advice] I acted upon it with alacrity. Two 
 rooms of moderate size, in a cottage that was attached to a farm-house, I 
 selected for my residence. My books were removed from college. I 
 placed them on the shelves with a cheerfulness that 1 had not known for 
 many months. I felt my heart new opened. A determined desire to do 
 well, that augured promisingly for my future peace of mind, gave a brisk- 
 ness to my movements, and a glad activity to my thoughts. Temple 
 called upon me whilst I was thus employed, and his spirits were as elated 
 as my own. 
 
 " This is comfortable, indeed, Stukely. Ah, we shall make all right, 
 yet ! A little relaxation and proper enjoyment, to recover you from the 
 annoyances of the past, and then you will have strength for anything." 
 
 " I am resolved at least, Temple, to be wiser for the time to come. I 
 have been very unfortunate ; but if I have learned nothing from misfor- 
 tune I deserve to suffer again. In the first place, I shall read no more 
 with Cube. I am satisfied that he floored me ! If I had read what he 
 desired me to omit, and omitted what he advised me to read, I should 
 have done better. It serves me right." 
 
 " Not at all. It is the fault of the place. Everything is done in ex- 
 citement. I hate excitement. You may depend upon it, Cambridge life 
 will always be disgusting until they learn to take things quietly. No 
 man can live comfortably in a constant sweat." 
 
 " And yet, Temple, how many men have become immortal under this 
 very system ! " 
 
 " You mean to say — in spite of it ! " 
 
54 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Ah me," said I pricked by my love of approbation, " what would I 
 give to become a great man ! It is worth something to be spoken of by 
 all the world. But it will never be. I feel that I shall never do any good. 
 The first failure has been a deathblow to me." 
 
 " I don't believe it." 
 
 " And I hope not. But I can never read another page with confidence. 
 And they say confidence is the parent of success." 
 
 " Yes, as we should say at Newmarket, ' Success, got by Confidence 
 out of Hard Labour.' But when you have put your harness on again, and 
 have spent a few pleasant evenings with us, you'll have a different tale to 
 tell. By the way, you'll dine with us to-day ?- There will be nobody but 
 my cousin, whom you have not yet seen. In the evening your old friends 
 will amuse you with a rubber." 
 
 " They are first-rate players, are they not 1 ?" said I. 
 
 "Yes, pretty fair. You are not asleep either. From an observation 
 that you made the other night when Roberts passed my king, I guess that 
 you would be a match for any one of them. You have no taste for the 
 game, and I am glad of it. You have nobler sport before you." 
 
 " If you really think I am able, I shouldn't mind trying them this 
 evening. Mind, just for one game." 
 
 "As to your ability, I wish I was as sure of a living when I have 
 taken my degree. You shall please yourself, provided that you play for 
 
 love." 
 
 "As to that, I shall not play high, but it wouldn't do to interfere with 
 the other men. Threepenny points will not ruin us. It is but for once. 
 When I begin to work again, nothing, you know, must interfere with that. 
 One night's whist can't ruin a man." 
 
 Temple's dinner-hour was four o'clock. Shortly before that hour I had 
 got my little rooms in order, and, as I surveyed them before my departure, 
 I could not but congratulate myself on their genteel and scholastic look. 
 Much reading did I mentally confer upon myself; and, in truth, more pas- 
 sionate love for my shelved friends did I never experience, than when I 
 turned my back upon them, and hastened from the house. 
 
 Arriving at the cottage, I opened the door, as was my custom, and 
 walked up stairs. I entered Temple's neatly-furnished room, and beheld, 
 sitting at the table, alone, engaged in needlework, the very lady I had seen 
 before, partially, by moonlight, at the window. Confused by the unex- 
 pected sight, and riveted by her uncommon beauty and graceful form, it 
 was a moment or two before I evinced my unwillingness to break upon her 
 privacy, and my readiness to retire. She rose, however, to prevent me, 
 and, with a winning smile, and in a voice that seemed to overflow with 
 melody, she begged me to remain. 
 
 " I came to Mr. Temple, madam," I said, looking full upon her, and un- 
 able to withdraw the look ; " I was not aware " 
 
 The lady answered, " Oh, he will soon be here ! Pray be seated. Mr. 
 Stukely, I presume 1" 
 
 I bowed. 
 
 " Mr. Temple expects you. He is very late. Something has detained 
 him." And she went to the window, as if to look for him, and displayed a 
 figure such as I knew to exist in poets' fancies — and only there. 
 
 She closed the casement, and took her seat again. " I cannot see him. 
 It is very unfortunate." 
 
 I could not think so. For I experienced all that mawkish awkwardness 
 which the presence of lovely woman— so elegant and much at ease herself 
 —invariably inspires in caged and colleged spirits ; and I was glad to view, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 55 
 
 alone and unobserved, the charms that had so suddenly revealed them- 
 selves. The lady plied her needle, and kindly bent her head. 
 
 How the perception of my inferiority stung me to the quick, as I sat, 
 cowed and speechless, before this gentle specimen of the weaker sex ! What 
 topic to introduce, what interesting subject to discuss, alas ! I knew not. 
 Many times my broad mouth opened and emitted air, and more than once 
 I sent my eye abroad to catch an object that might afford me matter for a 
 dozen words. Finding nothing, the orb too gladly fixed again upon the 
 lady and her needlework. 
 
 The lady spoke at length, in pity or contempt. 
 
 "Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Stukely V 
 
 " Oh, very, madam ! Are you a poet?" 
 
 " I scribble verses sometimes — not worth your reading." 
 
 u Perhaps you like mathematics better 1 " 
 
 " I might, if I understood them. Here is a volume of Cowper, my fa- 
 vourite bard. It may entertain you." 
 
 " If he is a favourite of yours," I said, with the recklessness of a man 
 driven by a resistless force to say something good or bad, " I am sure he 
 must be worth the reading. How is he for quantities V 
 
 " He has written a very great deal, if you mean that," replied the lady ; 
 " but he never tires you. It is not like poetry," she continued, putting a 
 volume into my hands, " it is all so natural and simple — so easy to be un- 
 derstood." 
 
 Had I dared, I would have begged her to point out the passages which 
 she particularly approved ; but the one brief hair-breadth touch of her 
 alabaster fingers had taken away my speech. I longed for the time to come 
 when I should return the book, and touch that hand again. 
 
 The volume contained the translation of the Iliad. My eyes swam con- 
 vulsively over the page, but saw nothing except a fairy phantom of a 
 narrow hand, with white and tapered fingers. " Yes, madam," I exclaimed, 
 mechanically, "it is very natural, and very easy to be understood." 
 
 "Are you an admirer of sketches, Mr. Stukely ] : ' enquired again the owner 
 of the milk-white hand. 
 
 "Above all things, madam." 
 
 " Oh, you are a sketcher, then ! " 
 
 " Not in the least. But I hope you have some drawings to show me. 1 
 am sure you can draw and paint beautifully ; that incomparable hand was 
 made for it," I added, getting delirious. 
 
 " I have a book here," said the lady, not noticing the flattery, or what- 
 ever else she might deem it, and pointing to the handsomely-bound port- 
 folio which I had often fingered through and through. " I think you have 
 seen it already." 
 
 " No, never, madam, I can assure you." 
 
 " Here are one or two clever things by an artist, but the rest are mere 
 scratches. This is very pretty now," she exclaimed, putting her finger on 
 a scene in somewhere. 
 
 " Celestial ! " I exclaimed, with reference to the finger. 
 
 "And so is this" and so — very soon we held the book between us. 
 
 Now she turned over the leaves — now I. My face scorched rapidly, and 
 my heart throbbed and sickened with, I knew not what — a painful enjoy- 
 ment of the keenest pleasure never before experienced. My head bent 
 over the book, no levers could have raised it, and I turned and turned the 
 pages over immethodically, and almost blind. The black and glossy 
 tresses of the lovely lady, as they streamed with the quick movements of 
 her head, more than once assailed my cheek, and set it tingling with a 
 
56 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 ■wild timidity. Strangely confused, I put my hand near hers — by accident 
 they touched, and then, from head to foot, my poor frame quivered. 
 
 Had not Temple's footstep at this serious crisis brought me with bal- 
 loon speed to the earth again, what would have happened next I cannot 
 say. Perhaps I should have fainted, or, more likely still, have thrown 
 myself at the fair lady's feet, and vowed myself eternally her slave. The 
 fiercest passion may be overcome more easily than is allowed. The fear of 
 discovery, the shame of exposure, subdued me in an instant. I ceased to 
 tremble, and began to think. Retiring a pace or two, I assumed an easy 
 and artistic air, and was deep in the study of " a view in Venice," before 
 Temple reached the door. I flattered myself that I was safe from his 
 suspicion. The lady maintained her position with unaffected calmness, 
 and criticised the compositions up to the very period of his entrance. I 
 listened with undivided attention until she had uttered the last word, and 
 not till then did I venture to return his friendly greeting. 
 
 Temple apologised for his unavoidable absence, and introduced me for- 
 mally to his lady friend. "Stukely," he said, "you have never met my 
 cousin before. Emma, this is my friend Stukely. Stukely, my cousin 
 Emma" — and he smiled slightly, but peculiarly, as he introduced us. I 
 should, in all probability, not have noticed this, had I not recollected im- 
 mediately, that in the morning he had smiled in precisely the same man- 
 ner, when he invited me to meet his cousin at dinner. I was puzzled to 
 guess his meaning. Did he wish to insinuate that I had made an interest- 
 ing impression on the heart of his beauteous relative, upon the evening 
 that she had caught so very partial a glimpse of my form and features ? 
 "Verily, I believed that such was his design, and straightway I peeped into 
 the looking-glass, and a countenance radiant with complacency and con- 
 ceit was reflected from that faithful index. 
 
 We dined. Temple was in high spirits. But for myself, in spite of every 
 attempt that I made at cheerfulness, and notwithstanding the help afforded 
 by the wine — which wine, by the way, had already ceased to nauseate — I 
 could not rise permanently from the slough of despondency into which the 
 former excitement had effectually cast me. Heavy sighs escaped me at in- 
 tervals. They would have been remarked by an observer infinitely less 
 keen than James Temple. 
 
 " Come, come, Stukely, you must forget the past. Live for the future. 
 All the grumbling in the world cannot alter what has happened. Take 
 my word for it, you will do well next year." 
 
 I permitted and encouraged his thoughts to flow in this channel. 
 
 " Fill your glass," he continued ; " and Emma, you are takiug nothing. 
 What ails you both? Thank Heaven, I have not lost my appetite." 
 
 And to give proof of this, he dived at once into a chicken. I took that 
 opportunity to steal a look at Emma, just to observe her true condition. 
 Her purpose was the same. Electric was the mutual glance. Our eyes 
 met, and I blushed to the forehead. I loathed my food immediately, and 
 ate no more. The dinner ended. Temple, throughout its operation, had 
 been fortunately too busy to note the reason of my uneasiness and confusion. 
 Ever and anon, as often as he reposed from eating (and he ate with an avi- 
 dity and gout that were truly disgusting to me, who could taste nothing), 
 he would still make a passing remark upon the lowness of my spirits, but 
 referring them always to a cause by which I was in no way affected. 
 
 Later in the evening, the four inseparables arrived to whist, and shortly 
 before their appearance the lady had retired. I took part in the play, ac- 
 cording to the previous arrangement, and became the partner of Temple. 
 But the desire to exercise my skill, which had been so acute in the morn- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 57 
 
 ing, had evaporated. Xow that Emma had gone, I heeame restless, and 
 wished to go too ; the hours had passed so very quickly whilst she was 
 present, and the minutes lagged so heavily in her absence. Once or twice, 
 the men played out their three cards, and looked to me to follow with the 
 fourth ; but the door having suddenly opened on these occasions, my eyes 
 instantly bolted thither, and I forgot the cards, the players, and every 
 other sublunary thing, with the exception of the lovely Emma, whom I 
 expected incontinently to walk in. A servant-maid invariably destroyed 
 the catalepsy. — Strange, that in spite of these interruptions, the men should 
 have applauded my playing throughout! I rose from the table a loser to 
 the extent of three pounds ten shillings. 
 
 It was on this eventful night that I became the subject of a mysterious 
 phenomenon. I was carried home through the air. I have not the most 
 shadowy recollection of walking upon the ground ; nor had I, that very 
 night, when — perfectly sensible and sober, as far as drink is concerned — I 
 put my feet into the bed, wondering how I got there. There I was at home, 
 and certainly in my bed, but I had reached it with no species of physical 
 exertion, without the smallest muscular energy, with no thought of active 
 locomotion. I could call to memory no roads which I had passed, no paths 
 that I had traversed. Invisible spirits had taken charge of my body, whilst 
 my mind was bewildered and lost in an ecstatic reverie. 
 
 I had passed the day in a fitful fever, but " I did not sleep well." I turned 
 and tossed, dozed, and started up. If I slept, I dreamt. If I kept awake, 
 I dreamt. Were my eyes open, the image of Emma was fixed upon the 
 retina ; were my eyes shut, that image was vivid and distinct. Xow I 
 slumbered, with a conviction that I was wide awake and active. Xow I 
 looked about me, satisfied that I was fast asleep and dreaming. A deep 
 sleep of about two hours, by which I was overcome late in the morning, 
 saved me, perhaps, from madness. It quieted me wonderfully, inducing, 
 when I awoke, a decided reaction, that might have lasted, if I could have 
 kept in bed for ever afterwards, or fixed my thoughts for ever in their 
 present healthy tone. My bedroom opened into the sitting parlour. The 
 door of the latter stood upon its hinges, and, as I lay on my pillow, my 
 books, all so cosily arranged, looked in, and cast upon me a silent and 
 reproachful look. Instinctively, and more in sorrow than in anger, I turned 
 my back upon them ; but my good genius bade me turn again, and I sur- 
 veyed them with a spirit chastened by their friendly admonition. " Yes !" 
 I mentally exclaimed, " this look is providential. I will regard it. Dear 
 friends, you call me back to duty ; I will obey the summons." 
 
 I rose, I dressed myself. I took my breakfast, and then spread my books 
 and papers on the small reading table. I did not speak a word. The wait- 
 ing servant-maid performed her work in silence, and seemed to feel that 
 talking would not please me. It would now be difficult to describe the exact 
 condition of my mind, if I were able to decide it. I know I was doggedly 
 resolute — determined to read hard, and to permit no thought of her to 
 rest upon my brain. I bit my lip, and frowned — deeming, perchance, per- 
 sonal severity to be needful for moral protection, and to secure fixicy of 
 purpose. Giving, in an austere voice, orders to deny me to all visitors, I 
 locked the door, and thus, armed as it were to the teeth, I breathed more 
 freely, and drew a chair to the table. For some minutes — it might be 
 fifteen — 1 roamed over the printed page. I read it once, twice, thrice, 
 again, again, and again, but I gathered no meaning — acquired no principles 
 — imbibed no ideas. The words and syllables passed before my eyes as 
 they might have passed before the painted orbs of a blind automaton. 
 What triumph for the imps of darkness, if they stood by, and saw the arch- 
 
58 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 fiend steal away the spirit, leaving the carcass there, intent and studious ! 
 What a yell of victory ! Yes, there I sat, staring vacantly, doltishly, upon 
 the book, innocent that my mind was loose again, unchained, and far away, 
 revelling in the luscious beauty I had sworn never to approach again. Such 
 a state could not last. The fluttering of the soul, its flitting here and there, 
 its great tumultuous joy, at length disturbed and shook the fleshly taber- 
 nacle. A sudden shock wakened the clod to life and sensibility, and then 
 hot, scalding tears poured in a torrent down the unconscious book. 
 
 The Rubicon was passed, the mask had fallen. The hours for study had 
 gone by for ever. I would make the vain attempt no more. / could not 
 live without the sight of her. 
 
 It was with no rash or passionate step I walked once more towards her 
 dwelling. With deliberate choice I sought her now. I knew the danger 
 and the error. I felt a punishment would come, and I could meet it cheer- 
 fully. Thus intoxicated by the fascination, falsely and wildly at ease, I 
 made the plunge. No threat, no entreaty, no fear, no human power, could 
 have held me back. 
 
 For the following month I was a daily visitor at Temple's cottage. The 
 mornings were passed in her society. Whist was the usual occupation of 
 the evening. I took no interest, had no pleasure, in the game ; and the 
 society of the men was heavy and oppressive. But my daily privilege was 
 worth a greater sacrifice. The sums 1 lost — for I left the table always a 
 loser — were, judged by my means, considerable ; but I noticed the dimi- 
 nution of my funds with apathy, if not contentedly. My own little home 
 had no attraction for me. I was wretched and restless if I sat in the quiet 
 parlour for an instant. Every object, in one way or another, would attack 
 my conscience. It was generally very late at night when I reached the 
 farm-house, and then I went instantly to bed. No dark thoughts on these 
 occasions rose to trouble or to check me. All was dazzling light. A sorcery 
 bewitched me ever with a vision of the coming morrow. I anticipated the 
 enjoyment again of her bright presence, and, in prefiguring that, I realised 
 a present joy — a gush of pleasure — the more delicious and abiding because 
 its fulness was yet incomplete. I rocked myself to sleep — not to forget- 
 fulness — with blissful reminiscences of the winged day that had flown by. 
 Her bashful smile crossed me in the darkness, as it had at noon. Her 
 voice thrilled clearer in my ears. Her glossy ringlets danced more vividly 
 before the shut-up lid. Once more we walked together in the garden- 
 plot, whence, with her delicate white hand, she plucked the coloured flower 
 that I hugged beneath my pillow. When I fell asleep at length, sleep only 
 painted the reality — raising the true unto the beautiful ideal. 
 
 The excitement in which I lived caused me to be unobservant of a fact 
 which, had I considered it at the time, must have called forth my wonder. 
 Temple never spoke to me again on the subject of my reading, so anxious 
 as he had been about it when he recommended me to rent the cottage. 
 Our friendship warmed, our mutual confidence grew unlimited, our bear- 
 ing ripened to affection ; but we never recurred to the past, nor spoke of 
 the future. More remarkable than this was his apparent ignorance of my 
 state of mind. By no word or act did he once make it evident to me that 
 he suspected the love which I bore for his fair relative. He did not re- 
 mark the glaring neglect which I exhibited of everything but her and her 
 proceedings. He stood by unconcerned and silent, whilst to a stranger's 
 eye there must have risen testimony and proof irrefragable of the raging 
 fire that was consuming me. 
 
 I had now known Emma Fitzjones three months. At the earliest mo- 
 ment of our interview, I had fallen beneath the aggression of her beauty. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 59 
 
 My love grew in proportion to the quickness with which it was at first 
 called forth. It increased by what it fed on. I had long ceased to be 
 master of my actions — of myself. Absorbed in her existence, I had no 
 happiness excluded from her presence, no real joy but in feasting on her 
 charms. More than anything else, I desired to tell her so, to acquaint her 
 with the strength and depth of my passion, and to implore her to requite 
 my true affection — to exchange her maiden love for mine. Many oppor- 
 tunities I had to make this interesting communication ; but I might have 
 been dumb for any help my tongue afforded me. It would not budge. 
 Every attempt I made to disburden my poor overloaded heart, threatened 
 me with suffocation — the words stuck in my throat, so sure as I called 
 them there for utterance. In this extremity, for the same reason that the 
 blind man applies to his sense of touch, I invoked the assistance of my 
 eyes, and eloquent I am sure they were, if they delivered half that my 
 flurried soul conveyed to them. I hoped, believed, felt that I was under- 
 stood. Still one syllable would have made assurance doubly sure, and, 
 till it was spoken, I was virtually as much separated from my prize as on 
 the evening when I caught the first half glimpse of it, ignorant and care- 
 less of the value of the treasure that had lighted on my path. Deter- 
 mined to make a confession, satisfied that I should be able to do no such 
 thing — alternately courageous as a lion, and shy and fearful as a lamb — 
 I one day planted myself in a narrow lane, through which I knew she 
 must walk on her way to Chesterton. 
 
 It was a brisk, autumnal morning— bright, and love-inspiring. The 
 neighbourhood of Cambridge, it must be confessed, has very little interest 
 in the picturesque. Those mighty smailnesses, the Gog-magog excres- 
 cences, in spite of the pardonable and fond pride of the ambitious native, 
 who would fain believe them mountains, look painfully ridiculous on the 
 sensible horizon, as they rise there an inch or two higher than the broad 
 and barren level. Green lanes are few, the sweet sequestered spots are 
 none. The far-renowned Cam herself, save where she winds with unob- 
 trusive and scholastic grace, ripply and clear, beside some grassy college 
 plain — what is she but a slice of muddied Thames, cut on a windy day, 
 and at its ugliest turn, and fixed between her own two aguish banks of 
 dripping rushes ] The sun, this fair autumnal morning, shone upon nature 
 in her lowliest attire, and still my throbbing heart, tuned to sympathy by 
 love, looked from within, and saw all things beautiful. With what a show 
 of loveliness can the source of light, and the source of all human joy, deck 
 and enliven the meanest spot of earth ! It was a buoyant day — one that, 
 as it passes, we would gladly cling to, or keep back — a cheerful and a 
 cheering day. Ah ! I have known many such, in seasons, too, of trial and 
 of anguish, and they have stanched the tear, and eased the brain, and 
 drawn with silken force the soul from evil thoughts to thoughts of kindli- 
 ness and love. Ah ! thrice blessed giver of light and warmth ! Surely 
 it was upon a ray of sunny light that the illuminated thought of immor- 
 tality first streamed into the savage mind ! 
 
 At an early hour I took up my position. I was sure that I should see 
 her. She had not told me so ; but a conviction, more satisfying than mere 
 words, supported my belief — a conviction born of indistinct, impalpable 
 declarations ; a thousand evident nothings, from which I flattered myself 
 not only into a certainty of our present meeting, but into a gratifying 
 belief that I had already won her virgin young affections. I must have 
 presented a strange spectacle to an attentive observer, had such a one been 
 present. I was ashamed to be found by her ivatching for her appearance. 
 I desired rather to suggest the idea that chance had brought us at the 
 
60 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 same time to the spot. With this deliberate view, I marched to the ex- 
 treme end of the lane, turned the angle of it, and took my body out of 
 sight. With my head peeping round the corner, I marked the entrance 
 into the street of every female figure. Did any one assume the most re- 
 mote likeness to the lady I expected, in an instant I was out, advancing 
 towards her with my quickest, busiest step. Many blue bonnets, and many 
 grey pelisses, doomed me to disappointment, and sent me, drooping, back 
 again. For two good hours had I been " a wakeful sentry, and on duty 
 now," when a form, difficult indeed to be mistaken, tripped into the lane. 
 Flushed and confused, I hurried from the point of observation, and stag- 
 gered towards it — I was at Emma's side. 
 
 We stopped, we blushed, and spoke. I made a puerile remark, to which 
 she gave some answer, and then moved gently on. I turned to go in such 
 good company. Oh ! she would not think of that — she could not take me 
 back again. I was growing a sad inventor. With brazen audacity albeit 
 with a weak and faltering voice, I said that I was walking forward when 
 the sight of her had stopped me in my progress. Did she suppose, I mar- 
 vel, that I had eyes behind as well as eyes before 1 
 
 How shall I narrate the whole of a conversation which was forgotten an 
 hour after it took place, or which, more properly to speak, never was re- 
 membered ? We walked on. For the first time I had possession of her 
 arm. I held it at a modest distance, and scarcely felt its fairy weight. 
 Proud as a monarch was I of my prize ! As we proceeded, the sensible 
 burden became distinct and undeniable, and my heart grew bolder. A 
 tender pressure, hardly intended, conceived and executed like a flash, 
 suspended me in keen and dreadful doubt. It did not offend. I gloried 
 in triumphant love. Still we proceeded, and the arm I gathered in a 
 closer fold, and constrained with gentlest might. We reached the water 
 side. Upon the bank we strolled, silent and overpowered. Her arm had 
 fallen, and our hands were clasped. Oh, for a word to speak, to utter, and 
 relieve my full and parching throat ! I raised the hand — that fair and 
 milk-white hand — I kissed and seared it with my burning tears. 
 
 "Emma, Emma !" I cried, the awakened waterdrops still pouring down 
 my boyish cheeks, "do you love me ? Say you do ! Let me hear you say 
 it!" 
 
 Her head fell upon my shoulder, and the beautiful black hair, released 
 from its imprisonment, flowed loosely to her shoulders. I kissed her coral 
 lips. " Tell me, Emma, that you love me. Say that you would give up 
 everything for me. I could die for you. I cannot live without you. Tell 
 me, dearest Emma, could you be happy all your days with a poor clergyman 
 for your partner 1 Oh, I could be steeped in poverty with you, and still 
 be rich ! Speak, speak, to me, dearest Emma ! " She pressed my hand. 
 I was answered, and was happy. 
 
 How, irpon our road homeward, we chatted about flowers and birds, and 
 every beauteous thing of life ! How suddenly unreserved did we become ! 
 How very much she was pleased with objects that afforded me delight, and 
 how interesting to me was every little matter that had a share in her 
 esteem ! How strange, how thrilling, how delicious, was this young excite- 
 ment ! How curious in its effects, especially in driving from my mind all 
 thought of " honoured parents," and from 'the recollection of my Emma 
 the little business that she had to do in Chesterton ! 
 
 I had eaten nothing throughout the day. Before seeing Emma, I could 
 as easily have committed murder as swallowed food. The thought of it 
 was more than sufiicient. The idea, however, lost much of its grossness 
 when, in the evening, my appetite, no longer encumbered with the doubts 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 61 
 
 and anxieties, the fears and hopes, of an undeclared passion, asserted its 
 natural and long-established claims. I ate heartily, and fortified the patient 
 stomach with draughts of wine, that well repaid it for its previous fast. 
 Stimulated to a high degree— my animal spirits within a hair of spoiling 
 my better judgment — mercurial and bold, I sprang, at the close of dinner, 
 from my own fireside, and flew to Temple's favourite cottage. I was 
 engaged to take a hand at the eternal whist-table. The three visitors 
 and Temple were assembled. They looked, all of them, awfully savage. 
 Temple's gun, or eye, or hand, had failed him at a pigeon-match in the 
 morning, and he and his backers had lost considerably. They were very 
 spiteful, and recriminations and sour bandyings passed amongst them with 
 a very faint reserve. My elation was all the stronger for the contrast. 
 Mr. Eoberts, one of the gentlemen, the most ill-natured of the lot, affected 
 to believe that I was laughing because he was grave : and more than once, 
 in addressing me, he bordered on the offensive and the personal. I was 
 in no humour for quarrelling, and I laughed the more. When the men 
 ceased to upbraid one another, and had talked their spleen clean out, the\- 
 sat down to their usual game, but not with their usual grace. After two 
 rubbers, I cut in. I was the opponent of Mr. Eoberts, and on this occasion 
 I had a wicked desire to beat him ; not for the sake of his money — I had 
 already parted freely with too much of my own to have any keen coveting 
 for that — it was his obstinate peevishness that I thought to irritate, his 
 discontented temper that I wished to gall. I was not prepared for the 
 advantage of attack which he shortly offered. I played with more than 
 ordinary attention, or, more properly to speak. I played with attention. I 
 had never done so until this evening, nor should I now, if my existing 
 relation with Emma had not put me entirely at ease. I marked the playing 
 well. It was the lead of Eoberts's partner. I studied my own hand closely ; 
 but in the very act, my eye was directed, I knew not by what incitement, to 
 my adversary's movements. Judge my surprise when I beheld Eoberts 
 secretly displaying the front of his cards to his partner ; and making signs 
 with his fingers respecting them. He was as cool and collected as though he 
 could not conceive the possibility of detection. He observed me, reversed the 
 position of his cards, and said nothing. Fired by the wine, roused by the fraud, 
 I placed my cards upon the table, and impeached him without hesitation. 
 
 " Eoberts," I exclaimed, " you are a cheat ! You have robbed me of 
 even 7 farthing that you have pretended to win." 
 
 Eoberts turned pale ; but asked me very quietly what I meant. Temple 
 was astonished, and likewise called upon me for an explanation. I gave 
 it, and he received the accusation with incredulity. He would not, he 
 could not, believe it. I must be mistaken. I was excited. I had drank 
 too much wine ; it had got the better of me. He had known Eoberts for 
 years ; he was honour itself, and, more than that, was one of his — Temple's 
 — dearest friends. I had made a great mistake, and must certainly apolo- 
 gise. I was sure that I had made no mistake, and I reiterated the charge 
 more warmly, and with greater vehemence. The cards were thrown up, and 
 we all rose from the table. 
 
 " Caleb," said Temple, "you are very much to blame. However, I shall 
 not permit either of you to leave this room until the matter is cleared up. 
 You have brought a serious charge against my friend. You are too hasty, 
 and don't understand the usages of society. This is a shocking breach of 
 good manners, and you must learn to behave better, or you'll get into 
 trouble. I don't know what strange delusion you are labouring under ; 
 but I will take my oath that Eoberts is as innocent of any desire to cheat 
 you as I am. He must have been mad if he had been so barefaced." 
 
62 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 * Mad, or rogue, Temple," I answered, nettled by the partiality which 
 he exhibited for Roberts, " he did it, and I tell him so to his teeth." 
 
 " You are a liar ! " replied the unreserved Roberts. 
 
 * I say this will not do," said Temple, interposing. " You shall not 
 brawl here. Stukelv. I request you at once to make an apology." 
 
 "Honour itself " sidled up to me, manifestly expecting my compliance. 
 
 " Temple, I can't, I won't. The apology, if apology could meet the case, 
 should come from him. I will swear to the truth of what I assert, and I 
 will not be bullied." 
 
 " Come, come, Stukely," said Temple seriously, " I shall not allow this 
 language ; we have been good friends, and I hope we shall remain so. 
 Therefore, hold a rein upon your tongue. I never permit strong expres- 
 sions, even in jest. It is difficult to draw a lme when the bounds of pro- 
 prietvare broken down. You understand me V 
 
 " Why do you persist, Temple, in believing his statement rather than 
 
 mine'?" 
 
 " Why do you persist in believing your own heated imagination in pre- 
 ference to your cool reason 1 Does it stand to reason, that before your 
 very eyes he would commit himself? Now, Berry," he said, turning to 
 Roberts's partner, " you are a gentleman." (Berry blushed.) " You would 
 not submit to the disgrace of telling a lie. I appeal to you. You must 
 have seen Roberts if he did this. I call upon you, in the name of our 
 long friendship, to speak the truth. Is there any foundation for this 
 charge ? Answer me upon your honour as a gentleman." 
 
 Berry blushed again, but not so deeply as before. At last, without 
 blushing at all, he replied— " Upon my honour as a gentleman, Mr. 
 Stukely is quite in the wrong." 
 
 " There ! " said Roberts, opening his eyes and elevating his eyebrows 
 after the fashion of innocent and injured individuals. 
 
 "There !" echoed Temple, "what would you have more?' 
 
 Believing that I could not have less in the way of satisfaction, I took 
 my hat, and, without another word, made my way to the door. Temple 
 followed me. 
 
 " Stukely," said he, "you are not in a condition to be reasoned with to- 
 
 ni S ht '" . , i • r« 
 
 " Temple," I replied, * you are mistaken. I never was cooler in my lite 
 
 — never more sober. You will find me no easier to be dealt with, in re- 
 gard to this business, to-morrow, or the next day, or this day twelvemonth. 
 I could not be deceived. I saw Roberts communicating with Berry, with 
 or without Berry's consent, for I hadn't time to fix him. I have always lost . 
 with Roberts ; indeed, I have never won at your table— the reason why is 
 now clear. Mind, I accuse no one but him. I have no right to do so ; 
 but he is a sneaking blackguard, and I will tell him so again. Do I talk 
 as if I were drunk V 
 
 " You certainly do not talk as though you were sober. You have spoken 
 a word or two, Stukely, that I must call to your memory to-morrow. _ I am 
 certain that you will be too glad to make every reparation for the insult 
 you have offered, not only to Roberts, but, by implication, even to me. I 
 will not take advantage of you now. I will speak to you after a night's 
 sleep, and if you are then prepared to tell the same story, and to take the 
 consequences, rest assured that no difficulty shall be put in your way. 
 Good-night." . 
 
 It was a frosty evening. There are some thoughts that protect the inner 
 man from all external chills. Mine were not of that character. Even the 
 prominent image of Emma receded before the contemplation of a duel, or 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 63 
 
 a set of duels, into -which I beheld myself on the point of being- trapped. 
 It was no agreeable vista ; but I saw no honourable way of escape, if the 
 alternative were forced upon me. One thing was certain — I would be 
 fooled no longer, whatever might be the consequence. If it were necessary 
 to establish my position at the muzzle of a pistol, better to run the risk, 
 better be shot at once, than have no peace of mind — than be made the 
 butt and sport of every knave and trickster. Emma would love me surely 
 not the less that I had asserted my manhood, and maintained its rights. 
 Was it not due to her that there should be nothing contemptible and 
 cowardly in the man whom she had honoured by her choice ? 
 
 How quick is thought ! Kestless and mysterious operation ! How it 
 leaps from pole to pole, and touches in an instant all the various chords 
 with which the human heart is strung — eliciting now celestial harmony, 
 and now discordant jangling notes of earth ! In a moment — oh, how well 
 do I remember it ! — I had reached my cottage gate — in a moment every 
 high and lofty fancy was disturbed! My mother's look, as she beckoned 
 me a last farewell, rose before my eyes, and started up a train of bitterest 
 reflection. One true friend, to have whispered one true word, would 
 have drawn me from the mesh that had entangled me. None was near, 
 and I was left to the protection of a seduced conscience. Maddened by 
 the conviction of my disloyalty, by the view of my true situation, which 
 blazed for a brief interval before my reason, as if light from heaven had 
 placed it there, the finest thread would have forced me back to peace and 
 happiness — no saving hand might help me. I lived to learn that when 
 we will betray ourselves Ave shall, and though the door of refuge stands 
 gaping in our front, we rather turn aside, and, with deliberation, pass into 
 perdition. 
 
 As I took my breakfast on the following morning, revolving in my mind 
 the liabilities of the day, I was disturbed by the arrival of a visitor. A 
 young lady entered my apartment at the same instant that a maid-servant 
 announced her. It was Emma— in great trouble and distress. Her eyes, 
 red from weeping, were still suffused with tears. 
 
 As soon as we were left together, I ran to her side. 
 
 "What is the matter V I asked in great alarm. 
 
 " 0, Mr. Stukely ! " replied the lady, indulging in a fresh burst of tears, 
 " what is it you have done 1 You have rendered me the most miserable 
 of women. Why, oh why, did you call forth an interest in this aching 
 heart, to surround and agitate it so soon with terror and alarm V 
 
 " Dearest Miss Fitzjones, I implore you to compose yourself. I really 
 don't know what you mean." Emma would not compose herself, and I 
 was rendered very uncomfortable. 
 
 "Mr. Stukely," she continued, "do not disguise the matter. I, have 
 heard it all. You have quarrelled with Mr. Roberts, that desperate man, 
 and he has challenged you, or is about to challenge you, to fight." 
 
 "Well, what can I do, Emma?" I replied. "If he challenges me, I 
 suppose I must meet him. I don't know much about these affairs, but I 
 believe that is the usual course." 
 
 "Do not talk so, Mr. Stukely. You wish to break my heart." 
 
 I seized her hand, and imprinted on it an ardent kiss, in order to assure 
 her that I wished no such thing. 
 
 " Believe me, dearest, dearest Emma, I would lay down my life to serve 
 you. Advise me in this business. What ought I to do ? What shall I do 
 to dry those tears, and make you happy V 
 
 " Why did you quarrel with him ]" 
 
 " Because the rascal cheated me." 
 
64 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Are you sure of it ] Is it impossible for you to have erred?" 
 
 " Ah ! I see, Emma. Your cousin has told you that I am in the wrong. 
 He did not behave well to me last night." 
 
 " Mr. Stukely," said Emma, colouring slightly—" do not, I beseech you, 
 call Mr. Temple my cousin any longer." 
 
 "Has he ceased to deserve the title ?" I enquired. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Stukely, mine is a history that would move a heart of stone 
 to pity. One day you may hear it. You may deem me then less worthy 
 of your love— not less an object of your sympathy and compassion." 
 
 " Miss Eitzjones," I replied, moved by her melancholy tone, " I have 
 read of such cases. I can partly guess your cause of sorrow. You have 
 been left to the charge of your relative, and you have not experienced the 
 brotherly affection which your dying parents looked for with confidence at 
 his hands. Possibly he has dissipated your fortune, your little sub- 
 stance. Ah! Emma," you do not know me. You cannot know the inten- 
 sity of my passion, if you deem that I shall love you the less because I 
 take you penniless. The time may not be distant when a husband's love 
 shall make amends for all." 
 
 " Let us change the subject," said Emma, drying her tears. " I wish to 
 spare you from these men. Are you morally certain that there was ground 
 last night for your suspicion?" 
 
 " I will swear it." 
 
 "And will you not retract your words?" 
 
 " No, Emma — not until you bid me." 
 
 " Then, dear Mr. Stukely, I do bid and entreat you. You must not run 
 into this dreadful danger. " You might have been— I do not say you were 
 — mistaken. Is it right to sacrifice a life upon such a doubt ? And a life 
 will be sacrificed — for Roberts and all those men are deadly shots. If he 
 were to kill you — if blood " 
 
 The lady could not proceed. Her apprehension dissolved in tears— and 
 her tears choked her utterance. She sobbed in my arms. 
 
 " Dearest maiden," I exclaimed, whilst I pressed her to my bosom, " let 
 me be worthy of this noble heart ! " 
 
 And then the door slammed open— and James Temple rushed in — his 
 face pale, his lips frothy with rage. 
 
 He cried out, running up to me at the same time, with his fists clenched, 
 " Accursed betrayer ! Double, double villain!" 
 
 I held the furious man at arm*s length, and Emma Eitzjones screamed 
 out and fainted. 
 
 " What do you mean. Temple ? " I asked in great affright. 
 
 "What!" answered he. What! do you ask me what? Look at the 
 partner of your guilt, Is this your boasted friendship ? This your ho- 
 nour ? This your simple-mindedness ? Oh ! what an adder have I 
 nourished in my bosom!" 
 
 " Temple, be not mistaken. It will be well with you if your conscience 
 stands as free as mine is now in all that touches that young lady. Look 
 into your heart. Ask it how it has performed the duties that your rela- 
 tionship, your tie of blood, imposed upon you ? Whence do those tears 
 flow but from your neglect — her cousin's cruelty?" 
 
 The lady recovered— raised herself from the chair— tottered across the 
 room, and vanished. 
 
 " Why is she here, you smooth-faced hypocrite ?" 
 
 " I am not bound to answer that. I am no hypocrite. In due time, I 
 should have told you all. My purpose was honourable— I have no reason to 
 blush for the feelings which I this moment entertain for your fair cousin." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 65 
 
 "My fair cousin? Stukely, you have played your part naturally, and 
 yet not well enough. You cannot impo.se upon me by this deep game. 
 My fair cousin ! Cousin ! oh, most plausible villain !" 
 
 " Yes, cousin ; is she not I " 
 
 " No man, Stukely, unless he were lost to all principle and manly feel- 
 ing, would stoop to this behaviour. I ask you one question. Would you 
 have me think you an ass, an idiot, a dolt, a fool] Are you a child in 
 leading-strings 1 What are you ? My cousin ! Oh ! you are very simple 
 or very keen." * 
 
 "Is she not your cousin?-" 
 
 " No ! " roared Temple, in a voice of thunder. 
 
 "Why have you led me to believe, then, that she was? Why have 
 you called her cousin?" 
 
 " No, Stukely, this will not do. It is very convenient to be thought a 
 greenhorn at times ; but you may presume upon your credit, and then the 
 trick smells. A boy of twelve years would have no excuse for shutting 
 his eyes against conviction. The fact stared you in the face. You have 
 known — it is useless for you to deny it — you have had a hundred oppor- 
 tunities of remarking the delicate connexion that existed between that 
 lady and myself. You have taken advantage of our intimacy to seduce 
 her affections. You have poisoned her mind. You have violated the 
 rights of hospitality. I received you as a friend and a brother — you have 
 repaid me like a midnight assassin." 
 
 I was about to reply, but he stopped me. 
 
 <e I want no explanation— no words. There are offences so black, so 
 heinous, that no satisfaction can meet them. I ask no satisfaction. You 
 are below my consideration. Had the lady been my wife I would have 
 winged you. I will not now enable you to be called a gentleman by 
 placing myself in the condition of your adversary. I repudiate and scorn 
 you. Take the lady, and may she find in you a warm and faithful friend." 
 He paused for a second, and then continued — 
 
 "One word more before I leave your hateful presence. I came on 
 Eoberts's business. After what has happened, I promise you that he will 
 treat your paltry accusation with all the seriousness it merits. Both it 
 and you he thoroughly despises. There is but one step more in baseness 
 and depravity. Take it, and crown your villany. Desert and throw upon 
 the world the poorand credulous object of your designs. You have ripened 
 the seeds of corruption in her heart — laugh at her — turn her adrift— and 
 let her reap the fruit in misery and prostitution." 
 
 Mr. Temple said no more. He departed : and I stood horrified and 
 aghast. A cold perspiration hung about me, and the earth seemed rapidly 
 to sink. I paced the room to save myself from falling. 
 
 I repeated his words — oh, what dreadful words to use to me ! Surely, 
 surely, I did not deserve them ! I endeavoured to gather together all the 
 past. I vowed, if I could discover anything to justify this terrible abuse, 
 fie should have the benefit of that discovery ; and I would on my knees 
 demand permission to explain away his false suspicions. If not, I felt I 
 could not bear to live without some satisfaction for this tremendous insult. 
 " What opportunities have I had," I asked myself, " to notice this ac- 
 cursed connexion ? None— no, not one." But I remembered, all at once, 
 the smiles and half expressions which had escaped him when he mentioned 
 Emma's name, or referred in an especial manner to his cousin. These 
 hints, which I had invariably taken as flattering intimations of her regard 
 for me, were evidently intended to warn me of her character. Other little 
 matters — trifling, scarcely worth noticing — corroborated this idea as soon 
 
 P 
 
66 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 as the idea was started— and I was carried to the verge of madness. I 
 could not reproach Temple. I pitied him — and cursed myself. I had 
 indeed heen a child, a fool, an idiot, it was too true ; but no villain — no 
 betrayer. Blinded I had been by passion — ignorant beyond excuse ; but 
 I was free, thank God, from criminal attaint ! In the broad day I could 
 assert and prove my innocence. What should prevent me 1 Spurred by 
 the consciousness of unstained integrity, I rushed from my dwelling to 
 Temple's cottage. I reached it quickly — the desecrated temple — alas, 
 how different did it look ! Kobbed of its beauty by some fell enchant- 
 ment ! My heart failed me as my trembling foot ascended the accustomed 
 stair. Should she be there ! I could not look upon her with an unkind 
 eye — I could not meet her with an unblushirjg cheek ! Stung and embold- 
 ened by Temple's hideous charge- — I crushed my fears, and ever}' thought 
 of tenderness— and walked boldly on. I entered the apartment; and 
 there alone, weeping bitterly, sat Emma. I glanced around for Temple, 
 then hesitated — stopped. What should I do 1 She did not raise her eyes 
 — she knew that I was present — her sobs grew louder. My heart pleaded 
 wildly for the helpless woman, and I could not reason with that treacherous 
 heart. It softened and subdued me. Oh, I loved her still — passionately, 
 dearly loved her — loved as I could never love again ! 
 
 " Emma," I said, " tell me, where is Temple V 
 
 " Gone !" she replied, without moving. " Gone for ever !" 
 
 "What, left the university'?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered — her eyes still fixed upon the earth. 
 
 "Emma," I exclaimed, with an instinct of alarm, "may God bless you, 
 and forgive me. Farewell ! " 
 
 I had summoned resolution to be virtuous. I departed. As I de- 
 scended, I heard a loud and fearful woman's scream, and at the same time 
 a? heavy fall — I ran back with the greatest speed. The poor girl had 
 fainted. I raised her from the ground — she breathed hard — and bled pro- 
 fusely from a wound she had received in falling. She was once more in 
 my quivering arms ! 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, 
 August her deed, and sacred be her fame ; 
 Before time passion all those views remove ; 
 Fame, wealth, and honour ! what are you to love ? 
 ****** 
 
 Oh, happy state ! when souls each other draw, 
 When love is liberty, and nature, law. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Once upon the inclined road of error, and there is no swiftness so tre- 
 mendous as that with which we dash ad own the plane, no insensibility so 
 obstinate as that which fastens on us through the quick descent. The 
 start once made, and there is neither stopping nor waking until the last 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 67 
 
 and lowest depth is sounded. Our natural fears and promptings becoma 
 hushed with the first impetus, and we are lost to everything but the 
 delusive tones of sin, which only cheat the senses and make our misery- 
 harmonious. Farewell all opportunities of escape — the strivings of con- 
 science — the faithful whisperings of shame, which served us even as we 
 stood trembling at the fatal point ! Farewell the holy power of virtue, 
 which made foul things look hideous, and good things lovely, and kept a 
 guard about our hearts to welcome beauty and frighten off deformity ! 
 Farewell integrity — joy — rest — and happiness ! 
 
 I commence this period of my history with the avowal that Emma Fitz- 
 jones became my acknowledged mistress — I, Caleb Stukely, that lady's 
 acknowledged protector. I was conquered by her direct appeals and my 
 own oblique notions of justice. Could I desert the unfortunate being who 
 had become a castaway through my blindness and passionate importunity ; 
 who had gladly sacrificed home and subsistence when she responded to 
 the ardent affection which I had poured into her womanish and sensitive 
 heart 1 These questions, differently expressed perhaps, she asked wildly 
 and imploringly, when, more than once, I tore myself in sad confusion and 
 perplexity from her fascinating presence. Then the prophecy of Temple, 
 that I should throw the erring Emma upon a cruel world, tingled in my 
 ears, not the less dreadfully in consequence of a threat of self-destruction 
 which she calmly uttered, and whose fulfilment she bade me instantly 
 expect, if I deserted her. She clung to me, hung upon my arm, and, looking 
 up, pierced me with her full black eye. I could not conceal from her that 
 it was difficult to disobey the natural wishes of a young and beating heart. 
 But then the guilt ! Alas, alas ! the sense of guilt was fee'd and bribed 
 away almost before it rose against me. Emma accompanied me to the 
 farm-house. 
 
 He who is delighted with " small profits and quick returns," will as- 
 suredly find his account in the pursuit of unlawful pleasure. We had 
 lived together in our snug but guilty habitation for about twenty-four 
 hours, when the immediate consequences of my rash step were brought 
 boldly before us. It was evening ; a cold and cheerless one. The snow 
 was falling heavily without, and our chairs were drawn close to the comfort- 
 able fire. Bewildered as I was by the strangeness of my new character, I was 
 yet proud of my possession. Her beautiful black eyes still dwelt upon me 
 with a fond expression, and she smiled bewitchingly, as she patted my hand, 
 now held confidently in her own. The susceptible mind ever contrasts the 
 external inclemency with its own merciful enjoyments. The snow drop- 
 ped in large flakes against the window, and I spoke with lively gratitude. 
 
 " How thankful we ought to be, dear Emma, for being housed on such 
 a night as this ! Many a poor deserving creature is without a roof 
 to-night, to shelter him from the pelting snow ! This cheerful fire, too ! 
 What a blessed thing it is, is it not V 
 
 " It is indeed," said she, drawing her chair still nearer to mine, and 
 snuggling very close. 
 
 " I never can look upon wintry weather, Emma, without a dread of losing 
 all my friends. It is very strange, but it has always been so, and I cannot 
 help it. I do not know how other persons feel, but on a dreary snowy 
 clay like this, I fairly tremble with the fear of being left at last desolate 
 and friendless in the world. "We seem to want more sympathy from one 
 another when the elements become our enemies." 
 
 " But is it not the same in summer V 
 
 " No, dear. Love abounds in summer. A thousand voices speak to us 
 beneath a summer sky. All things cheer and animate us. In the midst 
 
 f 2 
 
68 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 of so much life, I could live alone, at least I think so now, blithe, social, 
 and contented, without one human friend," 
 
 ""What! without one?" asked Emma, archly looking up, touching my 
 cheek in playfulness. 
 
 " Did I say without one 1 I meant with one — one only, Emma." 
 
 But the tenderest dalliance, even on a winter's evening, and by a sea- 
 coal fire, will not supply the place of tea. I rang the bell, and then we 
 chatteci on. 
 
 "And how do j'ou like the cottage, Emma? You will make the old 
 rooms look very pretty, will you not ?- ' How these neat flower-pots charmed 
 me when I first saAV them ! Ah me !" 
 
 "Did you really like them V 
 
 " Oh, exceedingly ! You will teach me to make them, and I shall be 
 an apt scholar." And then I pulled the bell again. 
 
 " You will find the people here, my dear Emma, most attentive and kind. 
 Mrs. Bates is such a simple-minded, motherly person ! It is quite an 
 amusement to listen to her quaint manner. She will make you very happy, 
 I am sure. We shall both be very happy — always — shall Ave not?" 
 
 " Jf you cease to love me, Caleb, shall I be happy then 1 " 
 
 " Oh, bless you, that can never be ! " and I kissed her hand to convince 
 her of the impossibility. " Do you believe, Emma, that lovers are born 
 for one another, or that they come together by chance ?-" 
 
 " I believe that it is not possible to determine." 
 
 " It would be a great satisfaction, though, if Ave kneAV we couldn't help 
 ourselves. Nobody could blame us then " 
 
 Emma sighed, and trifled Avith the corners of her handkerchief. I 
 stopped short, and pulled the bell again Avith great rapidity. 
 
 " Dear me ! Why don't they ansAver ]" 
 
 I was very soon ansAvered. After a short interval I pulled the rope more 
 violently than ever, and, Avhilst the bell was still sounding, Mrs. Bates 
 herself walked in. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Bates," said I, with a familiar smile, offered as a set-off to 
 the clamorous ringing, " I thought you Avere all dead." 
 
 The expression of Mrs. Bates's countenance Avas anything but simple or 
 maternal. She had evidently Avalked in wound up for mischief. I 
 gathered as much at a glance. She stood at the door, and holding the 
 handle for protection or support, there waited my commands Avith a froAvn- 
 ing silence. I tried the soothing system. 
 
 "Won't you walk in, Mrs. Bates'?" 
 
 "Mr. Stukely," replied the landlady Avithout any further hesitation, "you 
 will please to leave my house to-morrow morning. You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself, you ought, you Avicked man ; for you are a man, and 
 no gentleman, I can tell you." 
 
 I began to perspire again. Here Avas the old story. Everybody felt 
 that he had a right to insult me. I Avas contemptible in the eyes of the 
 lowest. Scarcely could I recover from one assault before another knocked 
 me down again. There Avas no repose. What must Emma think ] and 
 what could I say in reply to this attack but 
 
 " Mrs. Bates, you forget yourself." 
 
 "I wonder you don't blush, Mr. Stukely," continued the woman, "for 
 treating a AvidoAv in this way. I have children of my own, sir." 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Bates, I am aware of it — tAvo very amiable little girls." 
 
 " And a pretty example you are setting them, too, by bringing that 
 creature into the house ! The OAvdacious, impudent hussy ! Oh, you 
 woman !" 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 09 
 
 " Mrs. Bates," I said, feeling yen- dry in the mouth, and getting flurried, 
 "what do you mean by woman ?" 
 
 " A pretty pair you are," proceeded the artless Mrs. Bates, u to ring a 
 virtuous woman's bell in this fashion. Nobody answers it here, I can as- 
 sure you. For twenty years I have let lodgings, and all that time I have 
 trusted in the Lord, and never did such a thing as this happen to me. As 
 true as I am here, if it didn't snow as it does, you should both of you pack 
 this blessed night. It was well for you, ma'am. I wasn't at home yester- 
 day when you arrived, for I would have slapped the door in your face, as 
 sure as my name's Bates. You nasty sluts are the cause of hall the misery 
 in the world. I'd give something to know how many men you have 
 brought to the dog-s before you took up with this poor young man." 
 
 Emma raised herself from the chair, and her eyes flashed fire. She at- 
 tempted to speak, but she sat down again, and fell a-weeping. 
 
 " Mrs. Bates," said I, ready to cry mvseif, " 111 thank vou for mv little 
 bill." 
 
 "Ah, you may cry," she continued, still addressing Emma, "you are, all 
 of you, ready enough to do that. It is I who ought to cry, to think that 
 my house should be turned into a French caravansary ! If I knew where 
 your mother lived, as sure as your name's Stukely she should hear what 
 kind of company you have taken to. This is the second and last night 
 that either of you sleep under this roof, and if you don't think proper to 
 budge, we'll see what they can do at your college to make you. Yes, you 
 deceitful crying cretur, you sha'n't go on with none of your wickedness 
 here. Why don't you go to service like an honest woman, and work for 
 your bread as you ought]'' 
 
 Emma shook her head, as it seemed to me, in agony. 
 
 " You needn't nod your dickey at me, ma'am. It would be much more 
 becoming if you cut them flaunting curls off. But that wouldn't do for 
 your victims, I reckon. It's all very fine for you to dress up and strut 
 about in silks and satins, but you'll find nobody here to dance afcer your 
 tail. My daughters are members of a congregation, and I should like to 
 catch e'er a one of 'em demeaning themselves with a strumpet. What- 
 ever you want to-night, you'll just get for yourselves, mind that, and the 
 minute you have had your breakfast to-morrow, march is the word. Cry ! 
 Yes, cry yourself honest and virtuous, and you'll do yourself some good." 
 
 And so saying, Mrs. Bates walked off, slamming the door, and mum- 
 bling as she went about the uselessness of communicating with her any 
 longer by means of the bell. I could say nothing to any good purpose, 
 and therefore held my tongue. Emma rose, and drying her tears, said, in, 
 a convulsive whisper, 
 
 "Let us leave this house at once." 
 
 " No, no," I answered, " we can't to-night, dear Emma — it's out of the 
 question. Wait patiently until to-morrow, and I'll easily get lodgings 
 elsewhere. What could we do in such a night as this ! Hark at the 
 wind !" 
 
 " Do you hate me, Stukely V 
 
 " Oh \ Emma, don't madden me by asking the question. What a 
 horrible person that Mrs. Bates is ! Howl have mistaken her character J 
 Don't be unhappy, there's a dear creature. Think of something else. This 
 is certainly very unfortunate. Dear me ! But you must have your tea ; 
 that will refresh you." [I was about to ring the bell again.] " Oh, that's 
 of no use ! Stay. I'll go down-stairs myself;" and so I did. I pro- 
 ceeded to the kitchen, where sat Mistress Bates, the servant, and the two 
 daughters, members of a congregation. I entered it unassumingly enough ; 
 
70 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 but the moment I appeared, Mrs. Bates, who was reading aloud to the 
 rest, closed the book, turned her face to the fire, and her back upon me. 
 The others followed her example. I walked like an outcast to the grate, 
 took my kettle, and carried it into the parlour. I returned, got possession 
 of a teaboard, filled it with the implements of tea, and departed as modestly 
 as before. As I ascended the stairs my ear was arrested by the voice of 
 Mrs. Bates. She had opened the book again. I caught her first words — 
 " And behold there met him a woman in the attire of an harlot, and subtle 
 of heart." I waited for no more. 
 
 Cheerless and sad was the remainder of this evening. We referred little 
 to Mrs. Bates, and not at all to the native eloquence which she had dis- 
 played ; but the latter had left upon us both a miserable weight, difficult 
 indeed to throw away. In battles of the tongue, what an advantage does 
 virtue give the combatant, or the known want of it in his opponent. Weak 
 in all other things, let him be strong in this, and wealth, honours, know- 
 ledge, worldly condition, all yield to him in the conflict. They bend, 
 succumb, and bow in spite, and by the very power of the sign he carries 
 in his front. How had this vulgar woman crushed and humbled us ! How 
 had she hurled us from our social seat into the depths beneath her, and 
 how she spurned us as she trode us down ! And what resistance could 
 we make % What could we do, conscious of the loss of our best security ? 
 No longer erect, but crouching and trembling with the perception of our 
 moral nakedness, what could we do but be ashamed, submit, and bear with 
 blushes and in silence % True to my pitiful idiosyncrasy, in this instance, 
 as in all others of the like nature, I was moved to sorrow and self-reproach, 
 not so much on account of my delinquency as for the exposure and insult 
 to which I had been so mercilessly subjected. This was the gnawing 
 worm, compared with which the sin itself slept in my bosom harmless. 
 Wretched as I felt, I tried hard to rouse Emma, and to draw her thoughts 
 from the disagreeable event over which they still brooded — but with little 
 success ; and no wonder. The soul must be at rest itself before it can 
 communicate true peace to others. The night grew more and more bois- 
 terous. The gusty wind came rushing and moaning, carrying in its teeth 
 hail, rain, and sleet, which it flung against the casement, and then went 
 howling onward. There was a grumbling in the chimney, and we sat 
 silently listening to it, whilst our candles burned unsnuffed and dismally. 
 The fire itself, that had blazed and scolded with a true English energy at 
 the beginning of the evening, sickened at length, and would not be re- 
 vived by any means. The foodful coals turned into poison — and destroyed 
 it. And so "closed upon us the first day of love's young dream ! 
 
 Emma had indeed received a shock, but I pitied and loved her the more 
 for the insults she had borne. She retired to rest, and it was long before 
 she ceased to sob, and was able to forget in sleep the smarting wound that 
 rankled in her heart. My own uneasy mind was too much agitated with 
 the business of the coming morrow, to admit the entreaties of tired nature, 
 or to wish for the deceitful and temporary repose that sleep could at the 
 best afford. " Now that Emma rests," I thought, u is the time to scheme, 
 to look resolutely at the approaching enemy, and to prepare against him. 
 When we are turned out to-morrow, whither shall we go V I had flattered 
 Emma with the idea of obtaining lodgings in the morning without trouble 
 or delay. In my cooler moments I felt how valueless was such a hope. 
 The people in the town must receive us, if at all, in secret, and at their 
 peril. Their ruin would be the consequence of a discovery. Why should 
 they stake so much for me ! It was absurd to ask it. Then, no doubt, 
 they were all, like Mrs. Bates, strictly correct and pious, and would be 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 71 
 
 scandalised at conduct -which circumstances had not only vindicated in my 
 judgment, but had rendered absolutely magnanimous and "worthy of com- 
 mendation. My plan must be to fix myself, for a time at least, away from 
 Cambridge, in some small town safe from university control, where pos- 
 sibly I might find a standard of morality less unpliant and severe than 
 that -which dogmatised at home. AVhat should prevent this very needful 
 step 1 Ah, here came down the thick and troublous clouds, shutting out 
 the fair and purple distance ! What could prevent it but one hard im- 
 pediment, combining, swallowing up in one, all other hindrances — an awful 
 want of wherewithal, that world's monster whom we struggle to possess, 
 and, when possessed, so many struggle to cast off again — that sweet com- 
 paniou, whose melting look no mortal being can withstand, whose bright 
 presence opens all avenues to pleasant places, and whose glitter reflects 
 a lustre upon the dullest — that touchstone that tests the worth of women 
 and of angels — that quintessence and elixir whose drops of virtue trans- 
 form the beggar to a prince, the ignorant to the supremely wise, the vaga- 
 bond and the despised to the welcomed and the well-beloved ! This 
 gigantic power I needed now, needed before I could progress an inch. I 
 had parted so freely and carelessly with my cash in Temple's rooms, that 
 notwithstanding my father's liberal supply, I was left, with my increased 
 expenditure and the new claims upon my purse, almost penniless. If 
 turned into the street — and could I flatter myself that we should not be] 
 — I might, with care and pinching, provide for seven days' meat and drink 
 — further than this I could not go. The oftener I revolved this serious 
 predicament, Avhich every passing hour rendered more alarming, the more 
 nervous and thirsty did I become, the more stupid and puzzled as to the 
 mode of extrication. Apply to my parents again I could not. I had al- 
 ready received a sum considerably in advance of my stipulated allowance. 
 Had this not been the case, since my association with Emma all desire of 
 communicating with my home had entirely vanished. At the beginning 
 of our intimacy, my thoughts would wander thither in spite of every effort 
 to control and keep them back ; but very soon, with their own free-will, 
 they ceased to feed upon a pastm-e so noxious and unkindly. AVhat but 
 bitterness could the contemplation of that once-cherished home now yield ] 
 I turned away from it, grateful perhaps that I could do so without a scruple 
 or a pang. But what was to be done for money ? At the end of one short 
 week I must explain to Emma my poverty, my state of bankruptc} r . I 
 would perish rather than make the mortifying revelation. What, indeed, 
 would she then think of the selfish upstart who had reduced her so rapidly 
 from affluence to want ! I planned and thought, and pondered and designed, 
 and turned in bed and sighed, and drank great draughts of water to 
 appease my fevered throat ; but at the second hour of the morning, a rude 
 and undigested heap of schemes floated along my brain only to annoy and 
 plague me with their crude improbabilities. At last and suddenly a cold 
 sweat and a giddiness came over me, such as I imagine the culprit may 
 experience upon the eve of execution, when in the dark and lonely night 
 he works himself to frenzy in the attempt to realise his horrible condition. 
 What principality or power of darkness at this fearful moment brought to 
 my view a face and form seen but twice before, and yet, once seen, never 
 to be forgotten, I cannot tell. The occult relations of the invisible spirits 
 of air with our poor senses, leave to us only facts to certify of their exist- 
 ence, no clue to trace them out. When every hope was gone, and every 
 door seemed closed against me, when I sank sickened with the weight of 
 thickening apprehensions — then, at this moment, did the acceptable and 
 dirty face of Mr. Solomon Levy dance before my eyes, and bid me raise 
 
72 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 my head and flee to him for succour. Oh ! never had a clean face looked 
 so touching and compassionate ! Never had beauty borne so tender and 
 so kind a brow ! The mouth, it promised help as plain as mouth could 
 speak. The eye, it winked in pity, as no eye but his could wink, and every 
 wrinkle of that olive cheek twitched with spasmodic sympathy. I caught 
 at the nocturnal vision with the wild clutching of a drowning man. I 
 could not question the wisdom of the good Providence that had vouch- 
 safed it for my consolation and support, and I vowed to profit by the visita- 
 tion. Resolving to visit my ancient friend at the first convenient hour of 
 day, and to put to trial the sincerity of his early protestations, by implor- 
 ing his assistance, without an inkling of disappointment or suspicion of 
 refusal— I dropped at once to sleep ; so quickly and so easily are the turbu- 
 lent waves and boisterous winds, whose fury threatened never to be chained 
 and silenced, lulled and overcome. 
 
 I was an early riser in the morning, but Emma was up before me. I 
 found her dressed for departure, and packing up her clothes. She was 
 agitated in her work ; every action showed her great anxiety, her desire 
 to flit. Her quick and nervous movements told of the scourge that 
 threatened at her back, and urged her forward. I prepared the breakfast 
 apparatus as on the night before. I poured out the tea, and then bade 
 Emma share our well-earned meal. 
 
 " No," she replied, trembling with ill-suppressed passion, " nothing here ; 
 not if my life depended on the crust ! Let us begone." 
 
 "It is useless, my dearest Emma, until we 'have a place to go to. If 
 we leave this now, we may wander about for the rest of the day." 
 
 " Better to wander through the world for ever than be housed with this 
 unfeeling woman. I cannot stay." 
 
 " No/shall you— but do taste a little food. If you will, I'll go directly 
 and procure good comfortable rooms for you. Mrs. Bates will allow you 
 to remain until I return, and you can then remove quietly at your leisure." 
 
 " Go then, I pray, at once. Stukely, I cannot eat," she added, as I put 
 the loaf of bread before her. " Don't ask me, I implore you. Oh, if you 
 love me, remove me from this house ! " 
 
 She paced the room in great excitement, and I thought it expedient to 
 depart without further reasoning. In truth I had much to do, and little 
 time was there to spare. The morning was raw and cold. I drank off a 
 glass of very strong brandy, (a healthy habit recommended and introduced 
 by Temple.) and without delay proceeded on my errand. At the foot of 
 the stairs I found Mrs. Bates sitting in expectation. 
 
 " Well," enquired that lady, " are you off 1 ?" 
 
 41 Mrs. Bates," said I, actuated by a sudden thought, " you are, I think, 
 a Christian 1" 
 
 "I should say I am," answered the meek dame ; "what then?" 
 
 " Is it the act of a Christian to cast her fellow-creatures into the street V 
 
 " Come, none of that, sir ; that's nothing to do with Christianity. Are 
 you and your miss ready to gol" 
 
 " W e are not." 
 
 " Very well, that's enough. Sarah," she bawled out, " bring here my 
 bonnet and shawl." 
 
 " Stav, Mrs. Bates. I am this very moment going to procure apartments. 
 I may meet with some at once, or 1 may have to seek them for an hour or 
 two. All I ask of you is to give me this day clear, and I promise you 
 before nightfall we will leave your house. I will not believe that you can 
 deny me this one favour. The accommodation to me will be very great, 
 and I cannot say how grateful I shall be for your kind permission." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 73 
 
 ( There was nobody present to witness my descent, and I could not pos- 
 sibly fall lower in the estimation of Mrs. Bates.) 
 
 " Never mind the bonnet and shawl, Sarah," cried the softened landlady, 
 countermanding the previous order. "I'll show you," she continued, 
 turning to me, " that I am a Christian. I'll give my consent to your 
 stopping until dusk, but not a minute after — so now make as much haste 
 as you can." 
 
 Without returning to inform Emma of the reprieve, I made the best of 
 my way across the marshes into the damp and foggy town. Desirous 
 above all other things to obtain a temporary loan from Mr. Levy, I 
 hastened first to that good gentleman's abode, reserving other business 
 until success with him should decide my future conduct. 
 
 Before I parted with Mr. Levy in the stage-coach which carried us in 
 company to Cambridge, that worthy personage had favoured me with a 
 pressing invitation to his house, giving me at the same time to understand 
 that many grand advantages were likely to accrue to me from his ac- 
 quaintance. Well do I remember his emphatic words : " Yy do I live, 
 Mr. Shtukely, in this vorld of trouble? — only to oblige my friends." 
 Many valuable commodities, he assured me, that had fallen into his 
 possession by some mysterious agency, were offered to his chosen circle at 
 priees just low enough to make them gifts, without causing the pain that 
 is associated with a gift's acceptance. Wine, liqueurs, brandy, and tobacco, 
 with an enlarged benevolence, he kept to cheer the jaded" spirits of the 
 over-worked and studious ; and money, that source of so much evil, was 
 valuable to him only when it might help the needy, or carry the incon- 
 siderate but generous prodigal over some big and pressing difficulty. 
 Hard to conceive, as my past experience had made so pure a character, 
 still, in visiting Mr. Levy uoav. I was prepared to meet a man above the 
 common herd. From Temple I had gathered something of his munificence 
 and open-heartedness. Once or twice when Temple had imagined that 
 my funds were low, and when I had lost an amount of some importance at 
 his gaming-table, he would enlarge upon the liberality of his friend, and 
 recommend me to apply to him for help, informing me that he had ever 
 stood his, friend in need, and that I might reckon on his good faith and 
 secrecy. When I compared this nobleness of soul with his poor habitation, 
 and especially with his own mean and foul exterior, I could not but be 
 confounded with the contrast ; yet proud of human nature, too, here 
 offering for our imitation a spirit of good, a self-denying saint, renouncing 
 for the benefit of mankind the commonest enjoyments of the world. 
 Luckily I had never needed this good man's help ; therefore, perhaps, I 
 had never called upon him, but often had I passed his dwelling, once in 
 the company of others, and on that occasion he was lolling at his door, 
 negligently attired. Noticing my approach, he started back and dis- 
 appeared, but soon returned again accompanied by a lady, somewhat ill- 
 looking, and severely marked with small-pox. He smiled and nodded, 
 and pointed to me with his little finger. " That's the dear boy," I heard 
 him say — and as I passed at length his hospitable door, he threw upon me 
 a fond expression of that lively eye, a probing look of love unutterable ! 
 Such was the man — such rather did I deem the man — whose heart I meant 
 to touch, of whose good help I stood in direful need. 
 
 I stood before his house, a low, ill-shapen den, a cynic's cell, the cavern 
 of misanthropy— any place but the abode of generous Timon. It was 
 neither private house nor shop, yet both. A doorway and a single window 
 of moderate dimensions were all that met the eye. In the latter nothing 
 was exposed to view, or, if it were, you might not see it. Like the great 
 
74 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 proprietor, it boasted of its dirt. Mud, dust, and filth were heaped upon 
 it. A curtain made of green stuff, and hung with rings upon a bar, meant 
 to secure the dwellers from the gaze of passers-by, impended uselessly, for 
 the well-protected panes forestalled its office. The entrance was a dark 
 and narrow passage, which (the street door standing open) scared you off, 
 or, as the case might be, invited you within. In the present instance I 
 went forward without more observation. At the extremity of the dim 
 avenue, I groped my way a little to the right, until a door prevented 
 further progress. At this I knocked involuntarily, for my foot struck 
 against the boards before I knew that I had reached it. The door was 
 opened instantly. 
 
 Many strange sights have I been privileged to see. Reader, behold the 
 strangest. 
 
 In one corner of a crowded room stood Mr. Levy in dishabille. Faintly 
 indeed have I described him in his best attire. How shall I paint him 
 now ! Levy, thou art gone, and numbered with thy fathers. Posterity 
 can never do thee justice. Thy manes never may be appeased. Pardon 
 me, thou noble piece of earth, that my pen limps and falters in thy deli- 
 neation. Oh, for a quill of photographic power, to fix thee in thy evanes- 
 cent passage, to rescue from the greedy throat of Time that form and face, 
 that hair, that eye, that goodly but unclean array ! Levy in dishabille ! 
 More I cannot say. In the lowest depth it was the deeper still — the dirty 
 Levy dirtier yet— the spicy spiced ! Before him was a Hebrew book ; 
 upon his forehead, exactly between his eyes, a small square piece of 
 leather-covered wood (so it appeared to me), kept in its position by a 
 leathern thong, which running through a loop was carried round the head 
 and tied behind. His left arm was exposed. Around it some dozen times 
 was strapped another thong, similar to that about his head. His coat was 
 off; his vest unbuttoned; over the once white shirt he wore a curious- 
 coloured garment, formed of two square pieces of blue cloth, one hanging 
 down before his breast, the other to his back, and both attached by means 
 of two long slips of tape connecting them. At the extremity of the four 
 corners were long fringes of white worsted, fastened in small knots. The 
 fringes in the front were in Mr. Levy's grasp when I walked in, and started 
 with amazement at the novel spectacle. Let me stand stricken with sur- 
 prise whilst the reader looks around him. There, by the hearth, over that 
 pan of hissing oil, fork in hand, stands the ill-favoured lady that you wot 
 of — she of the pitted face, no meaner person than the mistress of the house, 
 Levy's wedded partner. Her cheek is scorched before the crackling fire, 
 but her gown, tucked up and pinned, is safe from conflagration. See how 
 she darts upon the thrice-divided sole, and with artistic stroke turns now 
 the head, now the tail, and now the middle piece, dogging the boiling oil, 
 and escaping with a bob so cleverly the scalding sputter. And there for 
 twenty years hath stood, as regularly as Friday came, this indefatigable 
 cook frying her fish, not to be devoured savoury and warm, as fish upon 
 the sixth day falls into the pious stomach of the Romanist, but to be laid 
 out with ceremonial care, in pride of parsley, and safely locked away till 
 Sabbath morn — when, cold and crisp and unctuous, it comes forth to 
 grease and mollify the Levite's heart, and haply entertain him with a fit 
 of biliousness. Miss Esther Levy at the table sits, herself unwashed, 
 washing her brother with a disinterestedness that the young urchin, cuffing 
 and kicking, scarce appreciates. Rebecca, second born, is busy with a 
 book, no doubt a pleasant one. You cannot see her face ; but her head, a 
 mass of spiral papers, rolls with impatience at the little Levy's struggling 
 cries. There in a bed lie two, the youngest of the group, emerging out of 
 
MR. LEVY AT HOME. 
 

CALEB STUKELY. 75 
 
 childhood— prattling- innocents ! Their time for cleansing has not yet 
 arrived. How prettily do they beguile the time with that small pack of 
 cards, playing at all-fours and mariage, three games for a half-penny, 
 lisping at' intervals a wee incipient execration as fortune changes,, or as 
 juggling fails. But. last of all, behold the father's pride, Levy's son and 
 heir, his better self— his youthful Prince of Wales— on whom the parent's 
 mantle must descend— in whom the father's brightest hopes are fixed. 
 His body is twelve years old, his head a hundred. There is more know- 
 ledge of" the human creature— of the impure gross part, that lies hidden in 
 the soul's corrupted sink— written and engraved in that precocious cun- 
 ning cheek, than twenty ordinary men can boast. His father's pride ? oh, 
 rather say his fear; for never did nature mould in human flesh a coun- 
 tenance so portentous ! Mark him, as he sits apart from all his brethren, 
 counting the clay marbles which he himself has made — brushing the metal 
 buttons that he' has raked up everywhere, and every one of which he 
 means to sell anon amongst the little boys in school, to which he is daily 
 sent, with great advantage to himself, and greater credit to his master. 
 My sudden entrance caused a slight intermission in the various doings of 
 this interesting family: but the "beneficent head addressed me without 
 delav. and the waters flowed again in their accustomed channels. 
 
 "Yell, Hannah, who'd a thought it, eh] This is a honour. But I 
 alwavs said he'd come at last. Sit down, my dear — I shall be done 
 directlv. Here's a shurprise ! " And taking the book into his hand, he 
 mumbled out some Hebrew words, then rubbed the fringes round his face, 
 and finished by kissing them with fervour. I was embarrassed at the un- 
 accountable behaviour. " Perhaps I am disturbing you," I said ; " I'll call 
 some other time, sir." 
 
 " Not at all," was his reply, " you don't disturb me in the least. I knows 
 it all by heart. I'm only saying my prayers." 
 "Indeed, sir!" 
 
 "Yes, dat's all. How's Mr. Temples 1 Have you seen hhn latelv ]" 
 Before I answered, he was deep in the Hebrew book again. Xow he 
 counted quickly the straps upon his arm, and repeated a dozen cabalistic 
 words or so with a loud and rapid voice. The little gamblers, in the mean- 
 time, quarrelled at their game, and sadly interfered with the sacred oc- 
 cupation : a Christian's patience couldn't have held out for ever. 
 
 * Vill you two be quiet there," the father cried at last, " or shall I come 
 and make you] Hannah, vy the devil don't you take them cards avay]" 
 "Vot's the good]" answered Mrs. Levy from the fire; "you know as 
 veil as I do, Sol, you'll give 'em back the minute after." 
 
 " Vill I ] " said the husband, leaving his manual without further cere- 
 mony. " Then you'll see, my dear." Forthwith, he rushed to the bedside, 
 and 'snatched the cards from both the trembling children ; then he be- 
 stowed a blow upon the head of each— which, as might be expected, set 
 them roaring. Unaffected by their cries, the pious man returned to his 
 devotions, and proceeded as before. His compliance with the law was 
 evidentlv irksome. In a few minutes he stopped again. 
 
 " How long is it, Mr. Shtukely, since ve travelled in the stage-coach 
 together]" 
 
 " About eighteen months, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed the old gentleman, " how fast the vurld goes ! "—which 
 serious observation no doubt recalled him to his duty — for he seized the 
 book again, and lost himself for a few minutes longer. But the morning 
 was inauspicious. He was doomed to interruption. Miss Esther, be it 
 known, was worn out at length by the unpolished sample of Mosaic that 
 
76 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 she was brightening up. Like the living block from which he was cut off, 
 he was the slave of hydrophobia — he Avould not be washed. 
 
 " Father," said Esther, in a tone of real despair, " I wish you'd speak to 
 Aby. I can't do nothink with him. He has fit me till I'm sick " 
 
 " You, sir," bawled out the harassed parent, " do you vant a licking the 
 first thing this morning'?" 
 
 " No," answered the boy, in as irreverent a voice as ever filial throat 
 cast up. 
 
 " Then don't wex me, my boy, or you'll catch it at once." 
 
 And he did " catch it at once." I was still looking intently upon Mr. 
 Levy's curious trappings, when a loud blow, followed by a louder scream, 
 compelled my attention elsewhere. 
 
 " Vot's the matter now 1 ?" shouted Mr. Levy, almost beside himself. 
 
 "That sarves you right !" exclaimed his good lady, addressing the juve- 
 nile above referred to, now lying at her feet kicking furiously. " I caught 
 you, did I ? My back isn't turned a minute before the villain has picked 
 off every bit of brown in the dish. You won't maul the fish, my dear, 
 again in a hurry." 
 
 All the family seemed horror-struck at the unholy pilfering, but Mr. 
 Levy himself was choked with just rage. " If you don't take avay the 
 rascal's share to-morrow morning, Hannah, you and I shall quarrel. Dat 
 boy, Mr. Shtukely," continued he, still neglecting his orisons, " dat boy, 
 sir, vill come to the gallows, if his mother and I don't live to see it. He 
 has got a nateral idea of shtealing that breaks my heart to think of. He's 
 booked for Newgate, though I say it : " — and Mr. Levy, with a heavy sigh, 
 pursued his prayers, and did not speak again on worldly topics till he 
 brought them to' a close. Once more in ecstasy he wiped his visage with 
 the fringes, and kissed them passionately ; and, last of all, he turned his 
 face towards the wall, bowed to it with reverence repeatedly, and beat his 
 breast with force and sound that would have pleased a stethoscopist's ear. 
 
 " You have nothing to say pertikler, I suppose]" asked Mr. Levy, tak- 
 ing from his head and arm the leathern straps. 
 
 " A few words, if you please," I answered nervously. 
 
 " Oh, sartinly, my dear ! Ikey, undo the shutters." 
 
 Ikey, the eldest boy, reserved and silent hitherto, furbishing his buttons, 
 looked hard at me, and left the room without a word. 
 
 " Veil follow, if you please," said Levy shortly afterwards; "it's up the 
 vone pair stairs." 
 
 " Vot do you think of Ikey V asked the fond father, as we searched our 
 way in darkness up the staircase. 
 
 " He's a very quiet boy, sir." 
 
 " Ah, a deep un ! Just vot I should have been at his age vith a eddica- 
 tion ! I meant to have named him after me, if it hadn't been 'gainst the 
 religions. Vill you believe, I wouldn't mind dropping Ikey this blessed 
 minute in the streets of Turkey ! He'd make his fortune anyvheres." 
 
 We reached the sanctum, a small and really elegantly-furnished room. 
 From the centre was suspended a pretty silvered chandelier — a Sabbath 
 lamp, as Mr. Levy termed it. Young Ikey had ensconced himself at the 
 table, and showed no symptoms of departure. 
 
 " And now," said Mr. Levy, placing on his nose a pair of iron spectacles, 
 " vot is it you vant, my dear ? You don't happen to be out of vine ? I've 
 got some port — oh!" (and he smacked his lips and swung his head, to 
 express a praise too huge for utterance). " Dat isn't good port at all, Ikey, 
 is it? Vot did it cost V 
 
 "Fifty-nine and six," answered the boy-man immediately. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 77 
 
 " And vot do I sell it for V 
 
 " Sixty," said he, just as readily. 
 
 " I came, sir," said I, rather confounded as the time for explanation ap- 
 proached, " to solicit your aid in a different way. The truth is, I have 
 overdrawn my allowance from home, and I require a little help to carry 
 me over the quarter. If you will he good enough to advance me a loan — 
 say for three months — I shall feel deeply indebted to you, and but too 
 glad to show, to the extent of my power, my gratitude for such obligation.'' 
 This was only a portion of the speech that I had prepared upon the road. 
 The rest of it, the ornamental and best part, I could not get out. The 
 small Levy turned up his knowing eye as soon as he heard the word loan, 
 and planted it steadily upon me, to my very great shame and annoyance. 
 The father was silent a while. 
 
 "How much might you vant, Mr. Shtukely ]" asked the old man, after 
 his musing. 
 
 "What's the use of }"Our asking]" shrieked the young monster. " You 
 know, father, you haven't a shilling in the house, and there are those three 
 bills that were returned the other day." 
 
 ~No medicine could have caused the awful abdominal pain that was 
 brought on by this sudden announcement. Oh, what would become of 
 poor Emma, sitting expectant at home, ready to be turned out of doors ?- 
 What would become of me and my projects'? I felt the blood leaving my 
 cheek. Levy perceived it, and he was instantly touched by the sight. 
 
 " Yell, for all that, Ikey," he added, " vc must see vot ve can do. If I 
 ain't got money myself, I dare say I've got a friend vill help us at a pinch. 
 But, my dear," continued he, " vot have you been doing to get into this 
 mess?- It's alvays the vay. Nobody comes to Levy till he's kicked to 
 him. You know vot I said in the coach. You should come to me before 
 — and I vould have been a friend and a father." 
 
 "I wish I had, sir!" 
 
 " Veil, that's gone by, and it's no good fretting about that. How much 
 do you vant ] " 
 
 " How much can you spare, sir'.*" 
 
 "Shpare !" exclaimed Mr. Levy, returning the question. " Ikey, give 
 me my bill-book." Isaac took from his pocket a bunch of keys — selected 
 one — opened the table drawer — examined a book — closed the drawer — 
 locked it up — put the keys in his pocket, and resumed his former position, 
 in about the tenth of the time that I have taken to tell of it. He was the 
 quickest and yet most methodical little imp in existence. " There," re- 
 sumed the older head, pointing with his small finger to a mass of names 
 and figures, whose connexion I neither could nor cared to comprehend. 
 "There you see. At three mouths ninety-four pounds accepted by Lord 
 Velvetcap, due September 6th, noted, returned. Look here, too, wetting his 
 finger, and leaving a large smut on a leaf as he turned it over, "same day 
 sixty-eight pounds ten, accepted by Smattwood, payable at Tinpennys, no 
 orders, returned ; and Thomas, the day after, fifty pounds two. Vot 
 do you think a man has to shpare when he's upset in this way ? Ikey 
 tould you the truth. I have nothing at all ; but tell me pretty near vot 
 you vant ; then I'll see the friend that I mean, and let you know in the 
 course of an hour." 
 
 "Do you think you might manage a hundred pounds for me, sir?" 
 
 Levy jumped. " Vy, vot the deuce have you been about to vant sich a 
 sum all atvonce? I von't deceive you, my dear ; I don't think I can 
 manage nothink of the kind." 
 
 I showed signs of uneasiness, and walked about in a state of commotion. 
 
78 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " My dear boy," he continued, " it's no use being nervous. Dat von't 
 get you the money." 
 
 I was in great distress — "wrought to intolerable mental torture, as I re- 
 flected on my situation. " Oh, this is terrible ! " I exclaimed (to myself, 
 as I thought). 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Mr. Levy, in a tone of passive acquiescence ; " ve 
 know it's always terrible ven ve vant cash and can't get it ; and you seem 
 to vant it rayther bad too just now." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I do, sir. If you can help me in any way, I implore 
 you to do so. I must borrow the money of somebody." 
 
 "You must, must you']" said the old man looking at Ikey, who was 
 looking at him. " Very veil, you had better take a valk in the cool for a 
 little, vile I run to my friend. I'll be back between this and ten." 
 
 " Oh, sir, I can never sufficiently thank you ! " 
 
 " Yell, never mind now. You've nothink to thank me for yet ; and 
 vot's more, I can't promise you much. Go and valk for an hour, and then 
 come and see me again." 
 
 I departed from the singular abode in an overwhelming state of anxiety 
 and dread. What could I do during this hour of fearful suspense? I 
 couldn't return to Emma until I was furnished with money, or at least 
 had procured lodgings for our temporary sojourn. Oh ! I was very wretched 
 as I walked one street after another, looking at my watch at intervals of 
 five minutes, astounded and hurt at the sluggish pace with which its hands 
 crawled on. A nasty irritating rain, too, came drizzling down, taking a 
 mean advantage of my misery, beating in my face, and spitting in my eyes, 
 whichever way I turned. How cordially, when they please, can the ele- 
 ments adapt themselves to our internal circumstances ! Twenty minutes, 
 like minutes sauntering on a holiday — twenty lazy minutes had elapsed, 
 when " Lodgings to let," hanging on a polished knocker, stopped me in a 
 quiet narrow thoroughfare. What better could I do than try my fortune 
 here ? I gave a modest gentlemanly knock, and smiled most courteously 
 upon the ancient lady, who came " when I did call for her." Nothing 
 could be more assuring than the curtsy she yielded in return — deceitful 
 promise, realising nothing ! A dozen houses did I visit afterwards, a dozen 
 times was expectation balked. The truth could not be hidden, and it was 
 wise to look at it complacently. Money must be got, and for the present 
 we must leave the town. I watched the latest second of the hour expire, 
 and then rushed back to Levy's. Father and son were sitting in the same 
 well-furnished room. My judge and jury both were there. I came for 
 sentence ; trembling and like a criminal did I await it. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Shtukely ! " commenced the elder, with an ill-omened shrug, 
 " this is a most unpleasant business." 
 
 Death was the verdict, and I drooped immediately. 
 
 "Tell me, couldn't you vait a month — three veeks, for the money?" 
 
 " Indeed I cannot, sir." 
 
 '"It's impossible, eh?" 
 
 "Quite, oh quite." 
 
 "You are positive of that? You are sure you von't alter your mind 
 directly, and say you can put it off for a bit?" 
 
 I shook my head. I was arriving fast at desperation. 
 
 " Veil, you see this is a thousand pities, cause, in a month's time, I 
 could lend you the money myself vithout fee or revard, and it vould be a 
 treat to oblige you ; but if you von't vait, I can't help it." 
 
 "Have you seen your friend, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; but you know vot friends are ven you put your nose 
 
CALEB STUEELY. 79 
 
 into their pockets. He lias got the stuff ; but he doesn't like to part villi 
 it. Kow, listen to me. You know your own business of course ; but take 
 my advice, don't borrow the money at all. If you are determined, in 
 shpite, I'll just tell you vot my friend vishes, and then you can do as you 
 please. In the first place, you must know he has entrusted the money to 
 me. and here it is if you come to his terms." 
 
 Oh, refreshing spectacle ! Oh, luminous coruscations ! Fifty guineas, 
 at least, did Mr. Levy draw with one grasp from his pocket, and scatter on 
 the table. Water to a thirsty soul upon the plains of Araby — what is it to 
 golden guineas glittering before the straining eyes of gaunt necessity?- A 
 mountain tumbled from my breast as I surveyed the precious coin. With, 
 a smirking grace I waited Mr. Levy's further explanation. 
 
 " His terms is this — but mind, I varn you, do vithout him if you can : — 
 He'll lend you note, this minute, the money you desire; dat is, a hundred 
 pounds. Seventy in these bright goolden guineas, and thirty in the finest 
 port that ever vas. He'll charge you five per cent., 'cause that's the law, 
 and then a something for commission. You'll give your bill at three 
 months for the sum, and make over to him, for security, your furniture, 
 and books, and vatch. Xow, there you've got it — dat's the most hell do. 
 As for myself, you're velcome to my services. I shall make no charge for 
 them. If you like to give Ikey a trifle for hisself, I shall make no objec- 
 tions." 
 
 Ignorant of the forms of business, I requested Mr. Levy to repeat this 
 complicated history. I understood it by degrees, and saw at length, in 
 full, the grievous sacrifice I was called upon to make. I stood still and 
 hesitated. 
 
 " The vine, you know," said Levy, " is as good as money, for you must 
 have that. Shtill take my advice, and let him keep his guineas to his- 
 self." 
 
 " It is a horrible alternative," thought I, still undecided. 
 
 " And now, my dear," continued Mr. Levy, " I have just a vurd to say 
 upon my own account. You must settle this business von vay or the 
 other. I have thirty mile to travel this pleasant morning, and I shan't be 
 back again for a day or two." 
 
 " You don't mean it, sir]" I said, wofully alarmed to see him walking 
 from the room. 
 
 " Yot I say, my dear, I alvays means ; that's the beauty of my character. 
 Ikey, fetch my hat. I am very sorry to leave you, but go I must. Good- 
 bye. God bless you. Think over his proposition ; don't be in any hurry, 
 and give me your answer ven I return. If you ask me, I say, don't take 
 the money — that's the best." 
 
 " Do you think your friend, sir, couldn't be persuaded " 
 
 " I^ot to-day, my dear. P'r'aps ven I comes back." 
 
 Mr. Levy was already on the stairs. In another minute he would disap- 
 pear, and then should I be without hope of succour. My unfortunate and 
 critical position — my wants — poor Emma — no lodgings— no home — all 
 this, and much more uncircumscribed misery, crowded upon my mind, 
 and incited me to yield to the demand : at the same time I was frightened 
 and shocked by the ruinous transaction, and I held back and fluctuated. 
 At length I heard a footstep in the passage. I leaped to the window, and 
 saw Levy depart from the house, and walk slowly on. Shaking with agita- 
 tion, conquered, hardly conscious of my acts, I knocked with violence and 
 quickly upon the glass, and beckoned the old man back. He returned, 
 and with tears in my eyes, and scarlet shame written upon my conscience, 
 
80 CALEB STUKEI.Y 
 
 I consented to the terms, and expressed my willingness to perform imme- 
 diately my part of them. 
 
 "Veil then," said Levy, "let's lose no time. I have wasted half a day 
 already. I shall be nicely out of pocket by the business. Ikey, vot's the 
 stamp? Three months, a hundred'?" 
 
 " Four and six," replied the devilkin with his hideous sprightliness, 
 " and twopence for the paper." 
 
 " Give him five shillings, and tell him to keep the ha'pence," whispered 
 the father confidentially, touching me familiarly with his elbow. 
 
 I complied with this suggestion. The stamp was brought, the note 
 drawn out, and I taught by old Levy to accept it. A memorandum was 
 then written by the ready Ikey, and signed by me, certifying that all 
 goods and chattels then in Cambridge and in my possession were, until 
 payment of the bill, not my property, but that of the blank gentleman 
 who had advanced the loan. In consideration of my not removing them 
 from college, he graciously permitted me the usufruct. Mr. Levy under- 
 took to see the wine safely deposited at my present lodging ; and the 
 charge likewise of my gold hunting-watch — my poor dear mothers gift — 
 how could I yield it so remorselessly ? and having given this to the boy to 
 lock away, he handed to me what he called "a statement of the job," and 
 with it sixty pounds, " the balance (!) of the bill." 
 
 If, instead of securing sixty guineas in this disgraceful manner, I had 
 earned six hundred honestly, I could not have skipped away from Levy's 
 door with greater speed and glee. Strange compound is the human 
 animal, acting so variously from the selfsame motives! Had I been sane, 
 not steeped in folly to the very ears, this miserable gold, wretchedly ac- 
 quired, pressing like lead upon my spirits, would have crushed them with 
 its guilty burden. Now, it elated me, and puffed me up with flatulent 
 unmeaning joy. " Symptoms," says the millesimal homoeopathist, " in the 
 disordered body, are removed by causes producing them in the healthy 
 one." Is it not so in fact with the diseased infatuated mind ? I neither 
 reflected on the past, nor flung one glance upon the future. With the 
 means of present enjoyment I flew to Emma, and released her from her 
 sad imprisonment. 
 
 At eleven o'clock at night, Emma and I, our luggage and our wine, 
 drove through the streets of Huntingdon. Upon the following morning I 
 left the inn at which we had passed the night, and endeavoured to search 
 out a home. Aided by a lie, I succeeded without difficulty. Emma was 
 introduced as Mrs. Stukely to the lady who received us. The latter was 
 very young, recently a widow, and the mother of a lovely girl, perhaps 
 three years of age. Her husband had been an officer in the Company's 
 service ; he had fallen in battle, fighting for his company and his bread, 
 gloriously in India. 
 
 The tranquillity of a day or two brought back the healthy tint to 
 Emma's cheek, and restored her wonted gaiety. She forgot her previous 
 affliction, and I remembered nothing but her adored and beauteous pre- 
 sence. In our apartment was a pianoforte. She taught me soon the 
 assuaging, humanizing power of music — poetry in sounds! Her taste was 
 exquisite, and the feeling with which she executed the most plaintive airs 
 awakened in my soul vehement emotions, undreamt-of capabilities 
 of delight. Her clear voice accompanied the penetrating tones, and to 
 their undefined wild intimations would associate and conjoin soft images 
 that through the understanding reached the heart, and melted it with 
 pity. Consummate bliss ! riveted to her side, and every nerve vibrating 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 81 
 
 with the touching sounds, what could the world afford to enhance felicity 
 — what could it snatch away to ruffle it ? 
 
 "Caleb," said Emma to me, having just concluded a short affecting song, 
 and still sitting at the piano (it was the fourth evening after our arrival), 
 "Caleb, there is a little air, a favourite of my poor mothers; you must 
 hear that, if I have heart to sing it. She instructed me in the words 
 before I could understand their meaning — when I could scarcely utter 
 them." 
 
 " Is your mother living now, dearest ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Emma, in a melancholy voice ; " she has been dead some 
 years, poor sufferer ! " 
 
 "Was she a kind, affectionate mother]" I enquired, rather startled as I 
 found myself entering upon such tender ground. "Did you love her 
 dearly?" 
 
 Emma burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 "Don't be unhappy, dearest Emma. I cannot bear to see you weep; 
 you quite unman me. Forget the past. My love shall make amends for 
 hers." 
 
 " You are very good and tender to me, Caleb. A mother's love is unap- 
 proachable. I thought I loved her much whilst she was with me ; but I 
 never knew my need of her till they closed her in the grave." She spoke 
 with passion, and again she wept. 
 
 There was a living mother also. Was one thought of her suggested by 
 this weeping girl ) And did the cruel wrong inflicted on that mother's 
 absent heart touch me with contrition and alarm ! We shall see. 
 
 Emma ceased crying. Throwing her smooth and shining tresse3 from 
 her forehead, she swept her fingers quickly along the keys, and with thrill- 
 ing strains gradually subdued her soul. 
 
 " Now, Caleb, listen to my dear mothers song." She sang as follows : — 
 
 THE MOTUER B GRAVE. 
 
 " The days are past, the early days 
 
 Of innocence and joy, 
 When tears would fill a mother's eye 
 
 With gazing on her boy ; 
 Tears that from the soul would rise, 
 
 Yet not for present sorrow ; 
 For when she wept, her loving eye < 
 
 "Was trembling for the morrow. 
 
 My mother sleeps ; her grave is green, 
 
 The aged grass is high, 
 And every blade when I approach 
 
 Is quivering with a sigh. 
 Then piously I do believe 
 
 That, where that grass grows wild, 
 My blessed mother's sainted soul 
 
 Is gazing on her child." 
 
 " Hark ! " exclaimed Emma, a3 she concluded, " some one knocks." I 
 opened the door, and admitted the little girl belonging to the landlady. 
 
 " If you please," lisped the fair child, " mamma sends up her compliments, 
 and will you go down-stairs to tea?" 
 
 "Do you mean me, dear Ann?" said I. 
 
 " No. Both of you. Mrs. Stukely too." 
 
 a 
 
82 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 "Are you sure of this?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! do come," she continued, pulling me by the coat, " or else 
 mamma will cry. Come, Mrs. Stukely ; tea is quite ready." 
 
 A more formal invitation was addressed to us a few minutes afterwards 
 by Mrs. Springdale herself, who followed her daughter into the room. We 
 readily accepted it, and were soon seated in her warm and hospitable par- 
 lour. Everything was very snug. A bright copper kettle panted and fumed 
 away upon the fire, speaking its honest welcome as plain as steam could 
 pour it forth ; toast and tea-cakes were heating on a footman ; a plate of 
 bread and butter thinly cut for company was on the table ; candles burned 
 brightly in shining candlesticks j tea-pot and cups looked conversable and 
 clean ; and the whole economy and tendency of the room most persuasive 
 and alluring ! A quiet, cheerful, comfortable home ! Ah, me ! how much 
 of life's true substance thou comprisest ! 
 
 " This arm-chair is for you, Mr. Stukely," said the gentle Mrs. Spring- 
 dale ; " I have put it near the fire on purpose. Mrs. Stukely and I will 
 chat together at the table." 
 
 (" Here's a difference," thought I, " to that abominable Mrs. Bates.") 
 " Then, Anny," said I aloud, turning to the child, " you must sit upon 
 my knee. Come and tell me all the news." 
 
 And in this affectionate style did we progress until the tea was over, 
 and the things were carried off. Then we all drew our chairs around the 
 love-dispensing fire, and for a season interchanged sweet and familiar talk. 
 Mrs. Springdale, with a sober sadness, communicated her short marriage 
 history. " Mr. Springdale was so heroic, and so high a spirit. He had 
 been educated for a surgeon, but his ardent nature was cabined and con- 
 fined in this employment. An opportunity offered to go abroad. He ac- 
 cepted it, and left his wife and child. He had scarcely landed before he 
 was called to action. His daring and impetuous temper led him to the 
 thickest of the fight. He fell, covered with wounds. It was a dreadful 
 death. Away from every friend — without a moment to offer up one prayer 
 to Heaven ! Oh, it was very shocking ! But he died in a noble cause— he 
 fell for his country, that was a great consolation to his widowed wife, as it 
 would be to his fatherless child when she grew up." And all this Mrs. 
 Springdale uttered in a very serious tone, but without extorting one tear 
 froni her eye. 
 
 Emma's notice had been attracted many times during the evening by a 
 small picture which, in an old wooden frame, was suspended in the centre 
 of one side of the apartment. I followed her eye as often as she glanced 
 towards it, but I could perceive nothing in the painting to merit such re- 
 peated observation. She at length addressed our hostess on the subject. 
 " Is that the representation of a church, Mrs. Springdale?" she enquired 
 carelessly, as she imagined. 
 
 " Yes," replied that lady, with a kind of half sigh. " You are surprised 
 that I keep so unprepossessing a picture hanging there by itself? I don't 
 wonder at it ; yet I wouldn't part with it, dirty and old as it is, for the 
 finest painting in the world. There are eight years of my life during 
 which I cannot recollect that there sprung up one painful hour. It was 
 all happiness. Eight years not embittered by one heart-rending or 
 gToomv reflection are something to boast of. That painting is a memorial 
 of them. Within a hundred yards of that church, the eight delicious 
 years were pissed." 
 
 "Where was it, may I ask?" said Emma, with increased interest. 
 "Were you ever in Kent?" inquired Mrs. Springdale. 
 Yes," answered Emma, the colour gradually leaving her cheek. 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 83 
 
 ■ Well, that's the parish church of , in the county of Kent." 
 
 Emma turned deadly pale. 
 
 Mre. Springdale did not remark it, and continued — " Until I was eight 
 years old, I lived in the little house that you see painted there in the 
 background." Both ladies rose to view the picture more closely, and I 
 followed them. " Up this long walk, and through the stile, did I regularly, 
 Sunday after Sunday, for five years, trip to the church, sometimes with my 
 mother, and sometimes with the maid, but oftenest with the good old 
 clerk, whose company I loved better than that of either. Do you observe 
 this tree, the old oak V 
 
 " Yes," cried Emma, interrupting her, and trembling with suppressed 
 emotion, " Marian's oak, as they called it." 
 
 " Why, bless my soul, you know it, you have been there !" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Springdale, starting round, and in the action upsetting the candle 
 which I held in my hand. " How very strange!" 
 
 " I spent some months in the neighbourhood," replied Emma, struggling 
 to collect herself, " and often visited this lovely spot." 
 
 * But did you ever visit the church V 
 
 " Often, very often." 
 
 " Well, how strange ! " repeated the astonished lady. " I wonder I 
 didn't see you ! I have been to the place, once or twice, since I first left 
 it. The last time I was there was the very year that the new clergyman 
 came, that tall, glum-looking parson, who frightened everybody out of his 
 wits. Oh, wasn't he a stern man! I never could bear him. I wonder 
 what has become of him, and of that meek-looking inoffensive woman his 
 wife?" 
 
 I watched Emma throughout this singular scene, and now I saw her 
 eyelid quiver as though a knife were on it. She was still mistress of her- 
 self. 
 
 "Marian's oak!" she repeated, in a mournful tone. "How well I recol- 
 lect the stately tree!" 
 
 " Yes, and so do I the hard seat round the hollow trunk." 
 
 " And old Adam, too," added Emma with spirit and fervour, drowning 
 the melancholy thoughts, whatever they might be, which this picture had 
 conjured up, in a brighter and a happier recollection, "the good old clerk 
 you speak of, Mrs. Springdale ; dear old Adam, attaching himself to the 
 helpless and the young, making the little inhabitants his peculiar charge, 
 and keeping them together like a flock, when they would otherwise have 
 gone astray. He was a brave old man. How he would gather them about 
 that tree, and tell them stories of his own distant boyhood, and teach them 
 games long forgotten and out of date. His was a second childhood, a 
 sound and healthy one, and spent in cheerfulness and love with children, 
 as it should be." 
 
 " Well," I exclaimed, joining in, " I do call this the most delightful oc- 
 currence possible. How very remarkable that you and Mrs. Springdale 
 should have been at this place together! If one were to read of this, we 
 shouldn't believe it." 
 
 "You must come to me very often, Mrs. Stukely," said our hostess, 
 " and we will talk over old times and scenes that are so interesting to us 
 both." 
 
 " Yes," rejoined I, "and you must find your way up-stairs, and take tea 
 with us too." 
 
 "Most happy," replied Mrs. Springdale. " We must become now very 
 good friends." 
 
 " Emma," said I, when we were again alone, " that Mrs. Springdale is 
 
 g 2 
 
84 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 a most charming person. How lucky we are to have encountered her. 
 You will become very intimate, and our time will pass as pleasantly as 
 possible." 
 
 " For your sake, dear Caleb," answered Emma, " I am truly glad of our 
 good fortune. With this kind woman I shall find a home, whilst you 
 pursue your studies still in Cambridge." 
 
 "What, dear]" 
 
 " Yes, Caleb, in Cambridge. Has it, not occurred to you that this is 
 your natural, most immediate duty 1 I am proud of your true affection, 
 grateful for your protection. Shunned and despised by all the world, 
 expelled, disgraced, I cannot forget how much I owe you. I should forget 
 it if I sacrificed your interest and happiness for ever." She paused. 
 " Stukely," she proceeded, " you saw that picture, that church. It is no 
 common accident that brought it this night before my eyes. I looked at 
 it, and almost forgot how vile a thing I am. I was once innocent, beloved, 
 esteemed. The natural direction of this heart was virtuous. AVhy its 
 course was turned aside, Heaven knows, not I ; Heaven, who has accumu- 
 lated in one poor soul the sin and punishment of generations. I will not 
 be so selfish as to keep you here. You must return to college, and reside 
 there during term. With Mrs. Springdale I shall be happy, as happy as 
 I can be when you are away; and writing often to each other will diminish 
 the pain of separation." 
 
 " You are a noble girl, dear Emma," I replied, " and we will talk 
 
 over this to-morrow. It is a great comfort to have so desirable a com- 
 panion, and I pray that you may now enjoy a little repose and peace." 
 
 " I trust we may ! " 
 
 Yes, but repose and peace, like other articles in great demand, are not 
 so easy of attainment. They who have earned them (if any earn them) 
 by lawful means, and intrepid perseverance, are seldom gratified with 
 more than the consciousness of having merited a recompense reserved for 
 angels. What the easily satisfied world regards as the repose of Error 
 and the peace of Guilt, are but the false coin of hell, with which the fiend 
 bribes us for an hour to forgetfulness and self-neglect. 
 
 About a week after this very satisfactory tea-party — and our intimacy 
 had advanced in geometrical progression ever since — I was met at the 
 street-door by an individual whose face was as familiar to me as my own, 
 but when, how, and where I had made its acquaintance, I could not at the 
 moment determine Not so the Face. It was a bluff and an impudent 
 one, and recognised me intuitively. It grinned and nodded, " Morning, 
 Master Stukely. How's the young 'oomanf' Horror! It was Mrs. 
 Bates's brother! And he bounced without ceremony into Mrs. Spring- 
 dale's parlour ! What could he, a market-gardener, want there] What 
 new threatening was this ? " Emma mustn't hear of it for all the world !" 
 I exclaimed, gasping with the dread of an impending storm. Our land- 
 lady was engaged "to tea" with us this very evening. "I am glad of 
 that," said I, Avith a weak attempt at consolation, " for if the lightning is 
 to fall, better to come at once than be flaming overhead." Emma had 
 made extensive preparations for her visitor. The finest gunpowder had 
 been bought for the occasion. The tea-cakes had been browned and 
 buttered to a charm. She was about to begin the toast, when a message 
 arrived from Mrs. Springdale, " Who was very sorry that she couldn't 
 come to tea ; she was very poorly, and had gone to bed." 
 
 "Poor dear!" ejaculated the unconscious Emma. "How very unfor- 
 tunate. Give my love," she said, turning to the messenger, "and tell 
 Mrs. Springdale that I'll see her in the morning." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 85 
 
 "Will you]" thought I, nearly dropping from the chair. 
 
 Ernrua rose an hour earlier than usual to pay the promised visit ; but 
 she did not see the patient, " who was not yet awake, and must not be 
 disturbed." 
 
 " It was very thoughtless of me to go down so early," said Emma ; " she 
 will be better after a sound sleep. A slight cold, no doubt]" 
 
 " I should say so." 
 
 "It is very sudden, though. She did not complain during the day; 
 she couldn't have felt the attack coming on." 
 
 I wish from my very soul that Emma could have had some hint of her 
 attack, which was evidently coming on with most tremendous strides. I 
 had not courage to tell her of the clanger. I trembled at the prospect of 
 another concussion — a fresh dilaceration of her scarce-healed heart. After 
 breakfast she proceeded again to Mrs. Springdale's apartment, and again 
 she was refused admittance. " Mrs. Springdale could not possibly receive 
 visitors. She was not equal to the fatigue." Emma resumed her seat in 
 our own room, with a chidden and dejected countenance. The servant- 
 maid shortly afterwards entered with a note addressed to me. It ran 
 thus : — 
 
 " Sir, — I have to request that you will provide yourself with other 
 apartments at your very earliest convenience. Your week will be due 
 to-morrow, and if you will then quit my house, I shall feel obliged. 
 The servant will render you any service in the removal of your luggage, 
 and in hastening your departure. I must decline any visits from the 
 lady; and I cannot, in conclusion, forbear expressing my extreme sur- 
 prise, that a gentleman should so far forget himself, as to attempt the 
 imposition of which you have been guilty. I am, sir, your humble ser- 
 vant, 
 
 " Mary Sprixgdale." 
 
 " P.S. — Tou will excuse me for adding that, if you have any regard 
 for your happiness, you will do well to leave the wicked and designing 
 person, who, from all I hear, seems bent upon your ruin." 
 
 Emma had taken the letter from the girl. As soon as the latter quitted 
 the room, she read it to me aloud. She faltered and lost colour ; but of 
 violent, passion, which I expected, and looked for with the most torturing 
 anxiety, there was not the least appearance. She closed and bit her lips, 
 and from their down- pressed corners she extracted the convulsed expres- 
 sion of a galled and wounded pride. 
 
 Habit hardens. Annoyed as I was by the complete disruption of the 
 small social circle in which I had forespoken so much real enjoyment, I 
 walked through the streets of Huntingdon in search of another place of 
 refuge, without any intense or visible emotion. I was, perhaps, partly 
 borne up by the unlooked-for absence of all passionate expression on the 
 part of Emma, attributing such absence to a growing apathy, and a dis- 
 regard for the world's opinion, which, in existing circumstances, were 
 much to be desired. In an obscure corner of the town, I detected a shy- 
 looking chemist's shop, a dismal house of drugs, that stood, ashamed of 
 its condition, away from the roadside, rather avoiding than courting public 
 observation. There are houses, as well as individuals, whose poor and 
 down ward-tending looks bespeak at once their loss of character, and an 
 utter hopelessness in respect of its recovery. Such a house was this. 
 From the side door I received the information that the private part of it 
 was to be let furnished, and that further particulars might be gathered 
 " from the pharmacopolist in the chemical laboratory." " Here, at least," 
 
86 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 thought I, "we may live without insult or disturbance: few enquiries 
 will be made respecting us, and the proprietor will scarcely stand on 
 trifles." I walked into the shop. 
 
 Behind the counter, beneath a miserable account of empty boxes, I saw 
 a man of middle height, very corpulent, very red, and, if the silent talk of 
 most expressive features might be trusted, very overbearing. He had a 
 full and fish-like eye, a low receding forehead, a thick abnormal nose, and 
 a mouth on which conceit had sat for so many years that it was a human 
 mouth no longer, but a triumphal arch of flesh, magnificent and broad. 
 His hair concluded in a bobtail — his hands were clasped behind him, 
 covered by his skirts. There stood before this mighty man a dozen miser- 
 able women, trembling beggars, diseased in body, heart-crushed, and 
 starved. A few were clothed, the majority were — not naked — it is the 
 most that can be said with truth ! The tatters of gowns which, when 
 thoroughly worn out, they bad first received and prized as treasures, hung 
 loosely about their bodies, and scarcely saved them from exposure. Over 
 the eyes of one, whom low and bad living had deprived of sight, there 
 was a deep covering of brown paper ; another, breathing hard, and owning 
 a face in which the claims of death were already written, sought a 
 temporary support from the plastered wall. There was a vacant chair 
 which she gazed on with a longing eye, looking alternately and most im- 
 ploringly at it, and at the ruler of the place, without whose gracious leave 
 she deemed it more than her life was worth — Heaven knows, it was very 
 little ! — to seat herself and take her rest. A third was lame ; all were 
 touched with some distemper that might be traced to the same melancholy 
 cause — to rife and pinching want. The apothecary, of whom the whole 
 number stood in manifest dread, surveyed his company with a haughty 
 ostentatious stare, that marked him at once for an impostor. He deserted 
 his patients as soon as he caught sight of me, supposing my business of a 
 more urgent character. I requested that the poor sufferers might have his 
 first attention. 
 
 " Oh, they can keep, sir ! " said the vainglorious man, " they can keep. 
 But as you please. No. 1, Jenkins, with the oculus." 
 
 An emaciated female here stepped forward. She had a livid mark 
 beneath her eye, the black and blue of a blow or fall. The apothecary 
 frowned, and peered at her mysteriously from many points of view. " Do 
 you know the art and science 1" he enquired, turning at length to me. 
 " I do not, sir." 
 
 "This is a treat, then, that you can't enjoy. I could admire it for ever. 
 A lovely colour ! — pity it should ever fade. The learned call it Ikey 
 Moses. It's a perfect case. How's your husband, Jenkins]" 
 The patient shook her head. 
 " Still suffering from alcohol ] — eh — speak out." 
 
 " He's very bad, sir," said the poor creature, and then entered upon a 
 long, sad history of domestic tyranny and dissipation. 
 
 " There's your aqueous liquid," exclaimed the chemist, interrupting her. 
 " Wash the part, bis vel ter quotidie, every now and then. Sevenpence. 
 Now, Mrs. Wiggins, No. 2. Here's a case, sir, that would have puzzled 
 Hippocrates. The doctor round the corner calls it acute Phlebitus. Bah ! 
 Stuff and nonsense. Bugbitus, just as likely." 
 
 Mrs. Wiggins took the place of Mrs. Jenkins, who had departed with, 
 her lotion. The present invalid was suffering from exhaustion — she was 
 famished. 
 
 " Now listen to the diagnostics/' remarked the man of science, pointing 
 to me with his extended arm. 
 " Wiggins, what do you feel?" 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 87 
 
 • v 0h, very sinking!" moaned the sufferer. 
 
 "Xo plethora?-" 
 
 " Xo what, sir V 
 
 " Oh, I forgot ! " said the questioner, blushing like a clever man at his 
 mistake. 
 
 " We must descend. Poor ignorama ! Don't you feel very full, Wiggins % 
 Stop ! Before you answer, think a little ; that's my plan of treatment." 
 
 " Indeed I don't, sir," answered the hungry wretch. 
 
 " Wonderful instance of self-delusion ! A fresh phenomenon. Mark it 
 down. Wiggins, you eat too much." 
 
 "Heaven bless you, sir !" exclaimed the woman with surprise. 
 
 " You do — don't say you don't. I must phlebotomise you into ab- 
 stinence ! What have you eaten to-day V 
 
 " Xothing, sir !" 
 
 "And yesterday?" 
 
 "Some bread and water, sir !" 
 
 The chemist paused — then with his thumb and finger slowly stroked 
 hi3 chin. 
 
 " This is remarkable. Symptoms cutting both ways. Who shall say it 
 isn't loss of appetitus ? Let us tack about. Xow, Wiggins, mark. You 
 don't sleep at night?" 
 
 " Very little sometimes." 
 
 " That will do— that's a symptom. Look at me. You feel you-don't- 
 know-howish ?" 
 
 " I think I do, sir." 
 
 " Come, Wiggins, none of that. You are sure you do. A sinking in 
 the stomach now and then — eh?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, continually." 
 
 " What— I've clenched it, have I ? The animal wants tone, sir. We 
 must wind her up. Wiggins, this is serious. We must draught you. 
 Take a haustus — that's Latin for a mouthful. Repetitur quotidie — repeat 
 it night and morning. One and twopence — get it ready." 
 
 " I'm not worth a single farthing, sir." 
 
 " Wiggins, you are an incurable. Physic's thrown away upon you. Go, 
 inhale the fresh and bracing air. Walker, Xo. 3." And Mrs. Wiggins 
 crawled away ashamed, and Mrs. Walker, Xo. 3, advanced to the bashaw. 
 In a similar manner he prescribed for all. To such as could scrape to- 
 gether the required pence, his medicines were a panacea ; the extreme 
 pauper was pronounced incurable, and was discharged accordingly. In a 
 little time the shop was cleared. The scene, however, had lasted long 
 enough to effect a gradual forgetfulness of my own condition, and to op- 
 press me with a lively sense of others' woes. 
 
 "Such is business," said the apothecary, addressing me, his only auditor. 
 " Xo time to lose in our profession. Patients must be healed, currents 
 calomel, as we doctors say. Wherein, sir, can I serve you ? To the last 
 page of the Pharmacopoeia you shall command me." 
 
 I told my business, and I thought the garrulous and offensive man would 
 never cease to praise his rooms and furniture. " His house was suited to 
 professionals — had been fitted up for his own private residence, with no 
 ulterior view to lodgers. Lodgers, as such, were his abhorrence. But he 
 was man — the social being in the creative scheme — unwed, and he longed 
 to feel society about him. As friends he would receive us ; not else. The 
 fee for the apartments was a secondary matter. He did not let to make 
 by them. He hoped that his high standing acquitted him of that. Thank 
 
88 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Heaven, who had made him so essential to his fellow-creatures, he was 
 above suspicion ! But he must have friends ; it was a human weakness, 
 and he submitted." The rooms were dark and low — the furniture most 
 mean — the rent unreasonably high ; but I agreed to take the place. It 
 •was a quiet home for Emma — that was all I needed. Having arranged 
 the terms, I left the shop, my spirits burdened, I knew not why — my mind 
 stirred up and troubled, I asked not wherefore. 
 
 The same evening Emma and I took possession. I had requested in the 
 morning that a fire should be lighted, and all things made comfortable, 
 previous to the arrival of the lady ; but as it often happens, where promises 
 are large and statement highly coloured, there was a falling off in the 
 performance. Mr., or, as his pauper-patients styled him, Doctor Weezen, 
 rated the servant child, (the sole domestic of the house, innocent of her 
 fourteenth year,) and scolded her for her neglect, in a harangue that would 
 have sounded better had it been delivered to a company of soldiers. He 
 then apologised to Emma, and told her that an establishment was the most 
 oppressive thing in life, and that domestic cares had well nigh been too 
 much for Socrates. 
 
 First impressions, whether true or false, are dangerous if unfavourable. 
 No after-knowledge, no wise experience, can efface entirely the sad com- 
 plexion that is spread abroad with the first shock of sensibility. Without 
 exertion, and in an instant, in a breath, the quick and heated fancy is 
 impressed. Years of endeavour will not wear away the form. When we 
 stepped into the cold and joyless rooms, Emma involuntarily recoiled. I 
 shared the impulse which had moved her, and was sensible that we had 
 made a downward step. Dismal conceptions filled my mind, at once dis- 
 turbed, distressed it, bore upon it with the force of incubi. I made an 
 effort to shake them off. They relaxed not. Incoherent apprehensions, 
 not to be disdained, mystical shadows though ye be, ye are the invisible 
 but certain harbingers of real and fast-approaching misery ! Gratifying as 
 the unconcernedness of Emma had been upon the receipt of Mrs. Spring- 
 dale's letter, I was very sorry to observe that her exemption from violent 
 emotion seemed not only likely to continue, but to merge, at last, into a 
 settled melancholy. For a fortnight we had occupied Doctor Weezen's 
 rooms, and during that time she made no effort to rally, evinced no desire 
 to be roused from the moody and desponding state into which she had 
 gradually fallen. Day after day she would sit, for a time needle in hand, 
 looking at, rather than pursuing, her work ; then she would suddenly put 
 it aside and muse, resting her elbow on her knee, her cheek upon her hand, 
 smiling perhaps, and so bitterly, that it chilled me to stand by and wit- 
 ness it. I tried every manoeuvre that affection could suggest, to divert 
 and cheer her ; but my office was a thankless one. One day, after I had 
 talked for half an hour, with a gaiety that almost choked me, from the 
 exertion which was required to force it up, she sat as gloomy and as silent 
 as ever ; and the only acknowledgment I got was a fixed stare, and a 
 pitiful shake of the head. 
 
 "Oh, dear me, Emma!" I said at length, with a truly miserable sigh, 
 " this is dreadful work. I shall go out of my mind, that will be the end 
 of it ; and if this is to last, I don't care how soon. Little did I think that 
 all our happiness was to end in this !" 
 
 " Are you unhappy, then 1 ?" enquired Emma. 
 
 "Ami! I never was so wretched in my life. I have given up every- 
 thing for you Emma, and " 
 
 "I know it!" she exclaimed, "and you repent it. Why have you not 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 89 
 
 said so before ? You believe that woman, and you hate me. Let me leave 
 you. Let the wicked and designing wretch depart!" And she rose from 
 her chair in great agitation. 
 
 " Emma, you are greatly to blame for talking in this way. Whatever 
 people may have said, I am sure I have always treated you with great 
 kindness. The harsh usage of others has made me love you the more." 
 
 "I would that I were dead!" she cried, "desolate outcast that I am! 
 Do not mind me, Stukely— do not listen to me. I feel that I am ungrate- 
 ful to you." 
 
 " Dearest Emma ! you are not ungrateful. I do not upbraid you. But 
 why should we have these interruptions to our happiness? If you will 
 but smile, and look cheerful, and live as we used at Mrs. Springdale's, 
 everything will go on well. I am sure, for this last week, my life has been 
 a burden to me. How can I possibly keep up my spirits, whilst you are 
 sad and mournful, and close your lips against me?" 
 
 "Dear Caleb!" exclaimed Emma, bursting into tears, which fell before 
 me like a refreshing shower, " return to Cambridge. Be happy. Leave 
 me. Let me go into the world — the cruel, cruel world, and beg my bread 
 from door to door, and be refused. Let me starve and die; but do not 
 let them say that I have been your ruin and destruction." 
 
 " You think too much of these things, dear. Let them say what they 
 please. Nothing can afflict me, if you will only be merry and gay. What a 
 pity it is we haven't a pianoforte here ! A little music would set every- 
 thing to rights — delicious music ! We must hire one if we can. Come, 
 smile and look bright, as you know how. There's a dear Emma ! " 
 
 " But about Cambridge, Caleb?" 
 
 " Well then, dear, I promise you, if you will put a good face upon mat- 
 ters, and become immediately the sweet, good-tempered Emma whom I 
 used to know, I will not let another day pass without fixing a time for my 
 return." 
 
 You have seen the sun, upon a spring day, breaking through the jealous 
 clouds which shut out the vault of heaven, and intercept the adoring heart 
 of man. You have seen, I say, and felt the power of the gush of liquid 
 light that made, for one brief interval, the sober earth to smile, and passed, 
 like joy, into the secret caverns of your soul. How transient is the gleam ! 
 How hastily do the murky clouds unite again, with more compactness 
 than before, and quench that joy and smile ! Thus evanescent, but with 
 such potency, did the sparkling eyes of her I loved, and madly loved, send 
 forth again its rays, to console and cheer me. Thus quickly did the 
 unwholesome vapours of her mind extinguish them. 
 
 Unable to remain in her presence not touched by her condition, and 
 fearful of adding to her melancholy by advice and entreaties which in no 
 way removed her cause of suffering, I left her on the following morning, 
 in a state of mind bordering on despair, and without knowing whither to 
 direct my steps. I walked mechanically into the laboratory of Doctor 
 Weezen. He received me very graciously, explained to me, with much 
 magniloquence, the properties and peculiar virtues of his medicines ; and, 
 after a most abstruse and learned disquisition on the healing art in general, 
 he told me that it was time to see his patients, and how proud he'd feel if 
 I would kindly bear him company. The doctor, as a man, I heartily dis- 
 liked—his skill and knowledge I regarded with contempt. I accepted his 
 invitation nevertheless, and did not scruple, upon our way, to beg a remedy 
 for an habitual gloomy state of mind. 
 
 " Or, as we should say, in technic parlance, ' a superabundance of black 
 bile.' I am afraid, sir, it's a case for Bedlam. It's not professional to 
 
MO CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 recommend the bastinado ; and yet there is nothing like a cudgel to cure 
 a melancholy. A dose or two I've known restore the mental equilibrium. 
 At Bedlam, it's the standard recipe. Is the patient young]" 
 
 "Not very old, sir." 
 
 " Then you have a chance of cure. When an old head gets dull and 
 flabby, tonics are thrown away upon it." 
 
 With similar profound remarks Dr. Weezen entertained me as we passed 
 from den to den. His patients were a most destitute and squalid troop, 
 holding life on terms that made it scarcely worth possession. Doctor 
 Weezen evidently thought so. His mode of treatment was in conformity 
 with this idea, and, more than any other thing, was calculated to lighten 
 speedily the burden of existence. Henceforward, I repeated daily my 
 visits, in company with the fussy doctor ; and daily did I witness scenes 
 of exquisite, unmitigated suffering, whose naked, horrid aspect would have 
 shocked and driven me back, had it not elicited, in mercy, a spark of 
 human fellow-feeling, by whose light I was directed into usefulness. Many 
 of the unfortunate needed bread more than physic ; and I supplied them, 
 as far as I was able, with the means of getting it. More than one poor 
 wretch looked at me with a vacant eye, doubtful of the act oi charity, and 
 took the offering without a word of thanks. The warm heart of bene- 
 volence had never taught them the language of gratitude, and they might 
 be pardoned if they were ignorant of its expression. 
 
 Privileged in being the instrument of good, and busy now from day to 
 day, I felt less acutely than before the continued mournfulness of Emma. 
 But time wore on. Returning from my walks, I met no glistening and 
 love-telling eye of welcome — no tongue to ask a hundred unimportant 
 questions — unimportant in themselves, but most significant of the ardent, 
 true affection. All was silence and despondency. The cause I knew not, 
 could not learn. Often I asked, and a repulsive sigh was then the only 
 answer. Could it be sullenness and a dislike of me? I saw no reason for 
 suspicion ; but my pride took fire, and a thought of anger started in my 
 mind — one smarting thought — it was the first, and love corrected and 
 suppressed it. But this moroseness was not the only change that had taken 
 place in Emma. Her health was yielding before the influences of this 
 cherished care, this ever-gnawing trouble. Within a month, her once 
 lovely countenance had undergone a transformation that confounded and 
 alarmed me. The delicate complexion, that fair, transparent hue, had 
 vanished. A coarseness had grown over and encrusted it. What sickness 
 could have effected the silent, hideous alteration] Her clear and lustrous 
 eye, that bewitching eye, in whose fairy cell had lurked the philtre that had 
 first enchanted me, had lost its brilliant sheen, had parted with its dignity 
 and power. " What illness of the mind," I asked again, " can rob the 
 organ of its purer part, leaving to us this heavy, dull, and watery orb]" 
 Her face was turgid — her slender and most graceful form encumbered 
 with a fast-increasing, unbecoming fulness. Daily, almost hourly, I saw 
 the gradual change, and stood amazed and horror-stricken. The longer I 
 gazed upon the fading beauty, the more offensive and unpardonable did I 
 deem her melancholy and unsocial manner — the more lively did I feel the 
 injury she inflicted — the greater seemed the sacrifice that I had made for 
 unrequited love. A second thought of anger started in my brain ; but 
 love was less awake to treason than before, and made no effort to destroy 
 it. 
 
 I sat alone one evening. Emma had retired to rest. I still reflected on 
 her odd behaviour, her unaccountable neglect. " For it is neglect," I said, 
 " and, worse than that, ingratitude. She is strangely altered in her per- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 91 
 
 son ! "Who could believe that this is Emma whom I knew three months 
 ago ? How fast does beauty fade ! But this is nothing — at least, it is very 
 little compared with her offence. She cannot be accountable for that. I 
 never loved her for her face alone. I am sure of it. I loved her rather 
 for — for — but it does not matter now, her treatment of me is intolerable — 
 and it has made me most unhappy. What have I not given up for her I 
 Ah, what indeed!" And I rose from my chair, and paced the room in 
 perturbation. " I must not think of it." A sudden rush upon my con- 
 science of desperate thoughts that had long been chained in sleep by 
 Passion, (now imprisoned and enslaved herself.) and whose violence was 
 all the stronger for the previous slumber, almost overthrew my reason. I 
 stood still with terror. " Good Heaven!" I exclaimed, " whither have I 
 been wandering] What will they think at Home? God! my father! 
 my poor mother ! She will break her heart. What will they think of 
 me ] I must go back to Cambridge. In a few days my furniture will be 
 taken from me if that fearful bill is not duly paid. Where can I get a 
 hundred pounds ?- What shall I do ? Emma, Emma ! have I deserved 
 that you should heap these coals of fire upon my head 1 I'll not permit 
 another day to close upon me without some step. What is best to do % 
 I'll write — no — I'll return to London. How unfortunate I have been! 
 Why have I been singled out for all this trial and affliction 1 Oh, that 
 delectable scholarship ! From the moment that I swore to have it, I was 
 doomed. I must do something. Let me think quietly. Shall I set out 
 immediately for Cambridge, or go home ? I haven't a single friend to 
 advise me. I never had a youthful friend like other boys. Everything 
 has been against me. Well, I think I had better go to Cambridge first — 
 see Levy, and then hasten to my father, and supplicate his pardon. I am 
 sure he will pity and forgive me, and I must do better for the future. I'll 
 pack up my things at once. In the morning, I'll take leave of Emma. 
 Ah, Emma ! What is to be done with her ? Poor creature, she must not 
 be cast away ! She shall suggest a plan. She has insisted upon my leav- 
 ing her. "What a comfort that it is her own request ! It would be mad- 
 ness to refuse compliance with it." With such vague talk I endeavoured 
 to discharge the horrible conceptions of my mind, and I at last succeeded. 
 Before I went to bed I collected all my movables, and made every pre- 
 paration for a departure on the morrow. " I am sure that I have concluded 
 wisely," I whispered to myself. " I feel so peaceful and so satisfied — my 
 heart seems so much lighter." I proposed to announce my resolution as 
 
 soon as we arose. The morning came, and then 1 thought it better to 
 
 postpone the momentous communication until the evening. The excite- 
 ment of the previous night had left me very nervous, and my courage 
 threatened to desert me. " One day can't make the difference," said I, " and 
 I shall be more comfortable by and by : when the shutters are closed, and 
 one is sitting by the fire, things are managed so much better. I can bring 
 out the subject by degrees, without the fear of startling her, and the risk 
 of ruining my scheme. Nothing shall prevent my quitting Huntingdon 
 to-morrow — that ia certain." 
 
 With the double object of paying a pour prendre conge, visit to my dis- 
 eased acquaintances, and of extracting vigour from the fresh and limpid 
 air, I left my lodging at a very early hour. The prospect of a speedy 
 termination of my present mode of life acted favourably upon my spirits ; 
 I talked with sprightliness, and briskly moved about, and was half per- 
 suaded that I had become a very virtuous character, and deserving of 
 much sympathy and praise. The invalids received a double portion of 
 their small alloAvance. I gave them in addition some excellent counsel 
 
92 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 (which might have been of service to myself) ; then, wishing them a quick 
 recovery, a richer and a better friend, I shook them all severally and 
 warmly by the hand, and left them to their dismal meditations. It was 
 late when I returned. I walked before the door some dozen times, to 
 gather round my heart the necessary stimulus. Having goaded myself 
 sufficiently with thoughts of duty— unkind treatment— altered nature 
 (taking particular care the while to shut out all incitements on the score 
 of altered beauty), I stopped at length, and walked softly up the staircase. 
 
 At the very moment of my entering the apartment, Emma, with a hasty 
 and disordered action, rose, as it appeared, immediately from the floor, and 
 sat herself with violence and precipitation at the table. She was greatly 
 agitated— her cheek was flustered— her eye glaring with a wild besotted 
 look. I was transfixed with terror. What ailed her'? I would have asked 
 the question ; but, as I moved towards her for the purpose, she set her 
 teeth together and repelled me with a horrible unearthly laugh. I glanced 
 beneath'the table to discover, if possible, the reason of her first strange 
 movement. For an instant, I burned with jealousy! She marked me, 
 and anticipating my design, darted thither, and crouched like one pos- 
 sessed. Quick as was her motion, she failed to conceal what, as it appeared 
 in sight, sickened and dismayed me. Half hidden by her sweeping 
 garments, there revealed itself— a bottle of the accursed wine received 
 from Levy ! What a history did it tell ! Frightful, harrowing exhibition ! 
 Miserable woman !— Debased beyond the power of recovery. Intoxicated 
 Lost! . 
 
 " Emma," I said, trembling like a leaf, " what is the meaning of all 
 this — this drink? " 
 
 "Drink!" she replied in a hysteric voice, " ay, sir, I learnt it of my 
 father. We have died of it for" centuries. It has killed a whole church- 
 yard of us. When did you ever hear of a sober Harrington] Never, 
 since the flood." And she screamed a madman's laugh. Mad in truth 
 she was. I sought to pacify her ; but she furiously repulsed me, vowed 
 she did not know me, and commanded me to be gone, to leave her presence, 
 and not disturb the banquet. When she found me still remaining, she 
 surveyed me with contempt, and then proudly paced the room, muttering, 
 as she went, about her station, and the disrespect that mortals paid her. 
 There was a vicious drift about her eye, which, as I met it, quailed and 
 frightened me. It spoke a malicious and determined will, and exposed 
 the exclusive deadly privilege of wine. Illustrious beverage ! The meaner 
 liquors only unfit us for exertion. It is your higher boast to ripen us for 
 crime!— Now it was that previous symptoms, mysterious and inexplicable 
 when thev arose, were interpreted and made clear. Now the shaking of 
 the hand," the loss of appetite, the sinking of the spirits, the general torpor 
 and depression of the frame, were traced to their disgraceful origin. Now 
 I beheld the insidious and tremendous power that had stripped and 
 triumphed over human loveliness. Seductive poison, most malignant 
 juice, thy victory was unequivocal ! I acknowledged it, and trembled. 
 
 The violence of Emma increased with every passing minute. She talked 
 and raved until she lashed herself to fury. My presence exasperated and 
 made hotter the brain that was on fire already. _ I could accomplish 
 nothing by remaining in the room. In a state of distraction I quitted it, 
 with the forlorn hope of effecting something by my absence. I hastened 
 to the " chemical laboratory" and threw myself into the arms of Doctor 
 Weezen with as much warmth and affection as if he had been my dearest 
 friend in life. Intense misery makes any one look amiable, especially if 
 any one can be of service to us. "Oh, my dear Doctor!" I exclaimed, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 93 
 
 " help me, I am a -wretched being." — " Sorry for you," said the chemist, 
 eschewing the embrace as politely as he could, " but I am as poor as Job 
 just now. How very odd! I was just agoing to ask you for the rent. 
 Patients falling off uncommon fast. This is very staggering, Mr. Stukelv." 
 
 " It isn't money that I want. My poor girl ! what can be done for her ? 
 She is in a dreadful state." 
 
 "Oh, bless my heart!" replied the gentleman in a different tone. "You 
 don't mean that. I had no idea it was so near. But. my dear sir, don't 
 alarm yourself, 'tis a very common case with ladies. Your first, I guess ? 
 Well, that accounts for your anxiety. You'll be quieter when you have 
 had a dozen." As the doctor spoke, Emma's foot was heard loudly and 
 quickly stamping overhead. There was a murmur of her voice — a rapid 
 walking up and down, and a violent slamming of the door. Then all was 
 silent. ''Awful hysteria, isn't it!" enquired the doctor, looking serious 
 and surprised. u But it is symptomatic. Nothing frightens me when I 
 know it is symptomatic. Don't you be frightened, my good young friend." 
 
 I waited half an hour with Dr. Weezen, determined, if "the noise was 
 heard again, to communicate the sad discovery, and to avail myself of his 
 advice in the emergency. But the clamour was not repeated. At the 
 close of the half-hour all was silent still. I promised the doctor to call 
 him up should his services be required ; the doctor promised me that 
 he wouldn't take off his boots, much less go to bed, and then I stole 
 timorously to my room again. The door was closed not locked. I gently 
 opened it, and entered. The apartment was in darkness. I called to 
 Doctor Weezen in a whisper for a light, which he brought, and then I 
 found that Emma had departed. I dare not say that an over-hasty con- 
 clusion which I formed — viz., that she had run away for ever — afforded me 
 a gleam of inexpressible relief! Our bed-room was on the second floor; 
 thither I proceeded. As I drew near, sounds reached my ear again, and 
 fell like cold and heavy marble on my heart. She had fastened the door, 
 was gabbling loud and incoherently, slapping her hands, and beating the 
 ground with her foot. In a word, she was madder than ever. 
 
 I sat upon the stairs before the bed-room door, bitterly regretting that I 
 had not been born an Israelite in the days of Pharaoh, King of Egypt, 
 under whose mild and benevolent policy the little Hebrew children were 
 destroyed as soon as they saw the light. " It is quite certain," said I, " that 
 I am the most unfortunate wretch in the creation. I am crossed in every- 
 thing. What a terrible upset is this ! Just hark at her ! Oh, dear, dear, 
 dear! it's a pretty business altogether. Any one but myself," I continued, 
 soliloquising, "would leave her this very night, and really she half de- 
 serves it. But that, I suppose, would be considered wrong. I owe a duty 
 to my parents certainly. Bless me, I wonder how they are ! What can 
 they think of my long silence ] Emma cannot have a claim upon me after 
 what has happened. I have a good mind to go." And I got up ; but at 
 that moment, Emma, seized with a sudden paroxysm, burst into tears, and 
 the voice recalled so many dear associations, was so very like the voice of 
 Emma in our early days of love, that the gradually hardening heart gave 
 way, and straight was malleable for anything. I resumed my seat. 
 During the succeeding hour or two, I knocked many times against the 
 door ; first softly, then harder, and at last with violence, but an inhuman 
 laugh or yell was the sole acknowledgment of my application. The 
 strength of the poor creature was, however, failing fast. The intervals of 
 repose were longer, her footsteps much less heavy, her exclamations not 
 half so forcible. I resolved to wait until exhaustion restored her reason, 
 and I could make her sensible of her mournful situation. It was about 
 
94 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 three o'clock that I made this final resolution, when I had become very 
 chilly and depressed with cold. It occurred to me that I could keep 
 watch better if I were more warmly clad. Accordingly, I procured my 
 great-coat from the sitting-room, covered myself with it and a yard or two 
 of thick stair matting, took my position once more upon the stairs, and 
 then immediately fell fast asleep. 
 
 I awoke about eight o'clock from a dream so dreadfully horrid, that the 
 satisfaction I derived from its being unreal actually reconciled me for a 
 time to my only less horrible and true condition. I did not hear a move- 
 ment in the house. Silence was in the bed-room. I tried the handle of 
 the door, and it yielded to the gentle touch. I entered, and on tiptoe 
 glided to the bed. Emma was sitting up awake. She cast upon me one 
 brief gaze of mingled grief and shame, and then the pale, debauched, and 
 haqgard countenance dropped in dejection on her bosom. She did not 
 speak ; I did not reproach her. For many hours she continued in a state 
 of mental numbness, and I was constant to her side. At length, towards 
 evening, she fixed upon me steadily her sluggish and cavernous eye. 
 clasped tremblingly my wrist, and in the low half- whispering voice of van- 
 quished modestv^ implored me to obtain for her a draught of wine. 
 
 " You know not what you ask for, Emma," I replied. " Bid me get for 
 you some deadly poison or a dagger. You might use both with equal 
 prudence. I might supply you with them with equal justice and humanity. 
 Ask rather for wholesome food. You have eaten nothing throughout the 
 
 "Wine, wine!" she repeated, in a tone of the deepest supplication, and 
 moistening with her tongue her parched and fevered lips ; " wine, Stukely, 
 or I shall die before your eyes !" and she squeezed my hand convulsively. 
 
 "Emma!" I exclaimed, "of all my misfortunes, this stroke falls heaviest 
 upon me. How you are changed ! what infatuation has led you into this 
 gulf of misery ? Emma, I think I see you, but I mistrust my senses. 
 My heart breaks as I sit beside you." I could say no more, for my throat 
 burned and was choked with emotion. 
 
 " Wine, Caleb ! there's a dear, Caleb. Wine, wine !" It was the burden 
 of her song :— say what I would, wine was my answer. All her ideas had 
 left her but this one. 
 
 " Whatever may be the consequence, Emma," I said, with seriousness, 
 "I will not comply with your request. I will not deliberately become 
 your murderer. I am punished sufficiently already. Compose yourself if 
 you can, and forget the past." She threw my hand away with an offended 
 air, and spake no more that evening. 
 
 Daily I vowed to leave her, and daily her condition gave desertion a 
 cruel and unnatural aspect. Hour after hour I waited for the smallest 
 proof of amendment, which should also be my signal for departure ; but 
 the change was still from bad to worse. From morning till night she 
 reiterated her intense entreaties, which I invariably rejected. Then, from 
 revenge or inability, she refused all nourishment, and very soon she grew 
 emaciated, wan, and deathlike. Another week passed by. Her hand 
 began to shake, and never ceased ; her muscles quivered, and a constant 
 tremor of the body moved the very bed with quick vibrations : now her 
 eyes were rolling with alarm, and now were occupied in an incessant vacant 
 watchfulness ; now they were fixed sternly upon me, and now they chased 
 about the room some phantom of the brain, and followed till they lost it. 
 What wonder if the reason took alarm, and forsook its frail and tottering 
 tenement 1 She no longer knew inj. 
 
 "Monster!" she cried out, shrinking from my touch as I approached 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 95 
 
 her, "would you till the helpless creature? would you sell her to the 
 dogs 1 It's a brave carcass. Ah, ah, ah, poor lad ! — Are you frightened ? 
 It won't hurt )-ou, but you mustn't kill, kill, kill!" She stopped, and 
 then proceeded in another strain : " Come, dear mother, the bells are 
 ringing. The folks are all ready for church. Look there, too — there's 
 dear old Adam hobbling as fast as his spindle shanks can carry him — 
 faster, faster, Adam, or they'll begin without you. What a gay Sunday it 
 is! For all the world, like a merry-making! But the sun shines," she 
 continued mournfully, "and that is so deceitful. The night is sure to 
 come now. Oh ! it would be a clever trick to steal the sunshine ! — Don't 
 talk unkindly to me, James — I meant no harm. You forget, Temple, 
 that I gave up everything for you. What, again!" she shrieked out 
 louder than ever, catching sight of me in the inconstant progress of her 
 eye ; " will this man never be gone ?- Ha ! have I caught you 1 — Hide that 
 knife; murder, murder — the fiend, the fiend!" And then she checked 
 herself immediately, fixed upon the ceiling an impotent and empty stare, 
 whilst heavy perspiration hung in pearly drops about her. 
 
 I had no power to move. I was fastened to the spot, and I looked upon 
 the poor maniac with a heart torn by conflicting passions. I was startled 
 by a voice. It fell upon my ears like a faint memory — like the haunting 
 spirit of a sound deceased — the spirit that loves to awaken slumbering 
 fancy. _ It touched me, and it glided on ; — what was its business now ?- 
 The voice was heard again, and with more distinctness than before. It 
 was the substance, and no shadow — the reality, and not the symbol. It 
 was louder yet ! It called my name. It is "accompanied by a footstep. 
 That voice, that step, and here! Earth, open your devouring jaws for 
 pity's sake, and hide me from my Father! 
 
 PART Y. 
 
 HOilE REVISITED. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Simeon Clayton, they may he light-hearted again before 
 long — they are young, and it is but natural ; but they will never be as they have 
 been : their eyes are opened this day, and they have learned what this world is 
 made of — sorrow and trial for the young ; and, for the old, aches and pains, as we 
 know full well, Simeon. God help us ! " — Paget's Tales qf the Village. The 
 Mourner. 
 
 It is a dull and dreary winter's day. The earth sleeps soundly, and on 
 her rigid face appears no smile, to tell that dreams of spring are moving 
 her with joy. The thick and heavy air hangs like a shroud upon her, 
 and a frozen silence reigneth everywhere. The blood of life is numbed, 
 and in the vegetable, as well as in the animal, performs its functions lazily. 
 It is a day when sunny light becomes a paradox — cerulean sky a pure 
 impossibility; when crimson flowers, and laughing trees, and purling 
 brooks, seem intimations from a poetic childhood, recollections of a 
 splendid and far distant country, when summer thoughts bring with them 
 shadowy recollections of a fairy land, pictures of time, and place, and 
 circumstance, that had their birth and origin in the immortal mind, and 
 
96 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 whose existence was first revealed to us in sweet and cherished books. 
 Winter is an envious churl, and it is difficult to realise the pleasant 
 summer time it he stand by. Snow, a month old, lies about in clumps 
 and patches, embrowned with age, hardened and coalesced by frost. Trees, 
 whose spreading foliage has sheltered many times, and shall again protect, 
 from heat and storm, the solitary wayfarer, stand defenceless now themselves 
 — dismantled skeletons. And yet how preferable their natural hybernal 
 death to the unwholesome life of yew-trees, that at intervals diversify and 
 make more hideous the melancholy road ; ever and anon starting upon 
 my path like wandering spirits doomed to carry on a changeless and 
 eternal life in a vast world of mutability ! 
 
 Nearly two years have elapsed since the Cambridge Intelligence dis- 
 charged me at Trinity Gate. The Huntingdon coach carries me slowly, 
 but too quickly, back to London. My university education is com- 
 pleted. My father is at my side. His cheek is very pale, and his brow 
 wears a settled sadness. He has sighed many times, (has he not wept 
 too 1 — Have I not watched it fall — the life-blood tear of manhood ?) but 
 he has not spoken. He is wasted, and corroding care has fed upon his 
 spirit. Ah! he is very ill, and I dare not ask how it is with him, and 
 why he languishes — the tongue of the criminal is tied. "We are not alone. 
 The coach contains another traveller, a man advanced in years, small in 
 stature, blessed with a countenance that is radiant with benevolence — his 
 grey eyes twinkle with delight, and he is restless in his seat. Frequently 
 the excited little man hurries to the coach window, looks into the road 
 with an averted face, and then returns to his place with a moistened eye, 
 or with a beamy smile illuminating the breadth and depth of his venerable 
 and social visage. Sometimes he attacks his nose, and coughs most ve- 
 hemently, to make us understand how cruelly he suffers from a catarrh, 
 and how little from the inundation of a mirth that will not be restrained : 
 sometimes he hums a tune, and accompanies the measure with his feet, to 
 carry off, it may be, through many and various channels, the impetuous 
 stream of gladness ever running from his heart. His tongue is at length 
 obliged to help in the dismission of the current. 
 
 "Bless him, bless him!" the gratified traveller ejaculated, and once 
 more referring us to his nose for an explanation of his words — " Bless the 
 dear boy's heart!" 
 
 My poor, cast-down father had not previously noticed our companion. 
 He looked dejectedly at him now as he spoke. 
 
 " Don't mind me, don't mind me," he continued ; "I am the happiest 
 man in the creation, but I am not crazy. Is that your son ] Pardon my 
 excessive rudeness." 
 
 " He is, sir," said my father. 
 
 " Then you understand all about it, and I needn't apologise. Listen to 
 me, my dear sir, for five minutes, and tell me if I am not the luckiest 
 man in the world — with the exception of yourself, perhaps —I am sadly 
 wanting in politeness. I married him this morning, sir. She is a lovely 
 creature. 
 
 " Is she V enquired my father mechanically, his thoughts being far, 
 very far from the speaker. 
 
 « Yes— no," replied the gentleman, " I don't mean that. His wife is 
 an angel — a love match — his old master's daughter. One of the right 
 school, sir. Are you a grandfather, may I ask ] I hope it is not an im- 
 proper question." 
 
 " I am not, sir." 
 
 " Nor am I, but I hope to be one ; and then my house won't hold me. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 97 
 
 If it's a boy, they intend to call him Jeremiah — that's after me, of course. 
 What is the meaning of Jeremiah]" 
 
 My father confessed his ignorance, and the happy man proceeded. " The 
 dear boy is five-and-twenty this very day ; and, as true as I sit here, he 
 has never knowingly caused me one moment's pain. I may never see 
 him asxain. It was hard to part with him. Don't you think so 1 ?" 
 
 " ( A good son maketh a glad father,' saith the proverb," replied my 
 father in a mournful voice. 
 
 '•'Yes," added the stranger quickly, "' and a foolish son is a grief to 
 his father, and bitterness to her that bare him;' that's a proverb too, al- 
 though it is not so much in my way as the other. I'll swear your pro- 
 verb's true," — and he rubbed his hands with glee, whilst my father 
 drooped. 
 
 " It is exactly ten years since I bound him apprentice to John Claypole 
 the brewer. You know him]" 
 
 Mr. Stukely shook his head negatively. 
 
 "What, not know John Claypole ] Oh yes! you do. You have seen 
 that fine house on the Godmanchester road. That's his. My boy will 
 live there soon. He deserves it. I have no notion of calling a man lucky 
 who works his own way up to fortune. My dear Jack ! who would have 
 thought that he'd marry that sweet child of Claypole's ! They are, though 
 I say it, the prettiest-mated birds that ever coupled. There's something 
 to look at, too, in Arabella — that's a curious name isn't it? — foreign, I 
 suppose — eh? Oh, dear me!" Now part of the little gentleman's joy 
 oozed in perspiration down his forehead, and he cleared it off, and then 
 continued, " I was saying something — oh yes! I bound him to his father- 
 in-law — not his father-in-law then, you know — that has only been since 
 nine o'clock this morning. 'Jack,' said I, when I shook hands with him 
 on the bridge ten minutes after his indentures were signed, ' Jack,' said 
 I, 'we are very poor, but you have gentle blood flowing in your veins — 
 don't disgrace us.' 'Father/ said he, 'I won't, depend upon it,' and he 
 gave me a grasp of the hand in return for my own, which I have felt ever 
 since, whenever I talk or think about the lad. It is tingling now — it is 
 really, sir — I don't romance ;" and now his joy checked his utterance, and 
 his handkerchief was busy with his eyes. My father listened to the old 
 man with earnestness, and his pale lip trembled. " When the child's 
 time was out, that's just three years ago, his mother was taken ill, and, 
 poor creature, died too soon. If you had seen the boy at her bedside for 
 one whole month " 
 
 "How many miles is this from Huntingdon]" enquired my father, in- 
 terrupting him. 
 
 " The last stone was twenty-three. Where did I leave off, sir ] Dear 
 me — How very warm it is !" 
 
 "And yet it freezes hard," rejoined my father. 
 
 '•' Do you really say so ] Ah, cold cannot freeze a father's heart — can it, 
 sir ] Well, his mother died, and then, John Claypole sent for me ; ' Jere- 
 miah,' he said, (his father was second cousin to my wife's uncle, so, being 
 relations, he always called me by my Christian name,) — ' Jeremiah, your 
 boy has two good qualities ; he speaks the truth and has an honourable 
 respect for ha'pence. I shall take care of him.' And hasn't he taken 
 care of him ] Hasn't he given him a share in the brewery, and a share of 
 his house, and his own daughter all to himself ] And hasn't the dear boy 
 taken care of his father, and made him comfortable for life ] And hasn't 
 his father seen him married this very day, and hadn't he better make the 
 best of his way home and die at once, because he can never be so happy 
 
 H 
 
98 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 again if he lives to the age of Methuselah ? I am so glad that you are a 
 
 lather, because you won't think me a fool for" the concluding words 
 
 were drowned in the handkerchief. 
 
 " You have much to be grateful for, sir," said my father, ready to weep 
 from a very different cause. " You are a happy man." 
 
 " ]So, sir ; I am three happy men. I think you will find that to be 
 correct, if you take the average. I trust I am sufficiently humble ; my 
 privileges are manifold." 
 
 That my feelings during this interesting scene were not of the most 
 agreeable kind may easily be supposed. During my long service with my 
 present worthy employer, I have had many opportunities of noticing the 
 behaviour of culprits on particular occasions, especially in the dock of the 
 Old Bailey, at those intensely pleasant moments when a communicative 
 witness enters upon an affecting portion of the said culprit's secret and 
 domestic history. When, on these occasions, I have seen the brazen face 
 throw off its metal, modestly avoid the public gaze, and languish gradually 
 upon the breast : then have I, likewise, seen the tableau vivant of poor 
 Caleb Stukely, pierced with remorse and shame, uneasy with the weight 
 of his own head, and eager to evaporate, in the coach that carried him 
 from Huntingdon. 
 
 The stranger grew more pleasant and loquacious ; my father a more at- 
 tentive listener. To me the latter did not address the shortest syllable. 
 Although sitting at his side, I was in effect as much withdrawn from him 
 as though an ocean rolled between us. He treated me with cold neglect. 
 If his new acquaintance referred to me — and he often did so to gratify the 
 parent's natural vanity, and to afford himself an excuse for a fresh recapi- 
 tulation of the merits of his own darling offspring — my father returned a 
 short, quick answer, and avoided discussion on the subject. I was indeed 
 abandoned, and I quailed before the just anger of a father, which divided 
 us now as surely as we had been united by his previous confiding and un- 
 bounded love. Once only had I ventured to speak since we entered the 
 coach ; and my father neither replied to me nor turned his face towards 
 me. For the first, but not for the last time, did the thought of self- 
 destruction possess my mind without alarming it. 
 
 We stopped for refreshment. My father did not enter the inn, but 
 walked slowly through the lonely street, the only one of the village in 
 which our coach halted. I followed him ; and when I overtook him, seized 
 his hand. 
 
 " Father, father !" I exclaimed at the same moment. 
 
 "Well, Caleb !" he replied, disengaging his hand, and in a passionless 
 voice. 
 
 " Speak to me, dear father !" I cried out. " Be angry with me. Upbraid 
 me. I can never repair the cruel wrong that I have inflicted upon you. 
 I deserve punishment. Do not spare it. I will bear it patiently, gladly. 
 But speak to me, for God's sake ! Speak harshly, reproachfully ; but do 
 speak !" 
 
 " Caleb," answered my father, moved by my importunity, and in a tone 
 of sorrow, " there are upbraidings and reproaches waiting you at home 
 that will fall upon you with pitiless violence. Bear them if you can. / 
 have no punishment to inflict. The hot iron is prepared. I can promise 
 you no mitigation of suffering. You have sown — you must reap ; there 
 is a retributive justice here. Good or evil deeds done in the flesh are re- 
 quited in the flesh. Gather yourself, then, and summon courage for the 
 penalty. You will pay it shortly." 
 
 It was late at night when Ave reached home. The shops and houses 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 99 
 
 •were closed. The streets of busy London were as tranquil as a field of 
 slumbering roses. The flickering lamps made darkness visible ; and a 
 heavy coach or two, at intervals, rendered silence audible. We rang at 
 the door of our habitation, and a strange man, with a lantern in his hand, 
 opened it. 
 
 "Who's that. Bolster?" enquired a loud uncouth voice, emanating ap- 
 parently from the shop. 
 
 "All right, master ;" replied the attendant, locking and bolting the 
 door, whilst my father proceeded to the parlour, and I went after him. 
 
 " Who are these]" I asked, surprised and alarmed at the presence of 
 these unexpected visitors; "what are these men 1 ?" 
 
 " Our masters, Caleb ; be grateful to them, and show them all civility : 
 we are here on sufferance." 
 
 " Dear father, what can you mean 1 Is not this our house 1" 
 
 " Our house is a large one— as wide as the world itself— it is roofed only 
 by heaven. This is the first reproach. I told you they would come 
 quickly. Our house Caleb 1 We are beggars, houseless, penniless, save 
 what they allow in charity. They are very kind. We must not seem 
 proud, or these men will get us turned out in revenge. I wouldn't care 
 for myself, but what would you do 1 Stay here a minute ; I will speak 
 with them." Saying these words, he opened the parlour door which com- 
 municated with the shop, and joined the individuals who were sitting 
 there. There were two; a small window permitted me to get sight of 
 them. One was Mr. Bolster — the gentleman who admitted us : the other, 
 I concluded to be the person whom he had honoured with the title of 
 superior. Both of them were dressed with the same elegance and taste : 
 and both were endowed with that intelligent cast of features which gene- 
 rally denotes a first-rate education, and an intimate acquaintance with 
 things in general. Their eyes had evidently been to school from earliest 
 infancy, and had learned all the languages. The other members of the 
 facial family had been brought up with equal care, were beaming with the 
 brightest polish, and had kept up steadily with the rapid march of civili- 
 zation and scientific knowledge. They were gentlemen certainly not in 
 danger of falling victims to their simplicity or worldly innocence. Mr. 
 Bolster decorated the lower part of a very stout and ill-defined person with 
 corduroy shorts, worsted stockings, and thick half-boots. His head was 
 divided from the rest of his body by a Belcher handkerchief which sup- 
 plied the place of a neck — a superfluous portion of " the form divine/' 
 with which Mr. Bolster had never been troubled. He wore a coster- 
 monger's coat, and a yellow waistcoat. He had a short and bristly head of 
 hair ; and in the centre of a low, flat, retreating, but by no means ugly 
 forehead, he carried a stupendous wen — an enlargement possibly of the 
 organ of benevolence or conscientiousness, if either of these sentiments lie 
 hereabouts in the human skull. The "Master" was tall and scraggy, 
 lacking flesh, but framed with bones of antediluvian form and structure. 
 His dress was of the same character as Bolster's, a thought fresher, perhaps, 
 in respect of colour — yet this might be a fancy suggested by the know- 
 ledge of their different conditions — but the expression of his countenance 
 was very dissimilar. Master and man had seen much of life, and you marked 
 them with a look for men of rare experience ; but the wisdom and the learn- 
 ing that had made Bolster merry, had rendered the principal sad and thought- 
 ful. The face of the former was stamped with a grin : that of the latter 
 veiled with grief. At the feet of the tall man crouched an unsightly dog, 
 remarkable for the mange, for leanness, and for his extraordinary resem- 
 blance to the gentleman who owned him. The two worthies were sitting 
 
 h2 
 
100 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 at a deal table before a roaring fire. A pewter pot containing porter was 
 in the grasp of the unhappy principal, and a clay pipe was at his side. 
 The table itself was ornamented with a quartern loaf, a lump of cheese, a 
 pack of cards, one candle, and a cribbage-board. The men rose as my 
 lather entered the shop, and Bolster greeted him with a cordial laugh, 
 whilst the master eyed him with sorrow and compassion. I could not 
 overhear their conversation. In a few minutes my father returned to me. 
 " The men will let us share their bread and cheese," said my father ; " it 
 is too late to purchase anything to-night, and there is nothing in the house 
 besides. You must be hungry, Caleb]" 
 
 "But what are these men to us, father] What wonderful change has 
 taken place in our home ! Where is my mother ]" 
 
 My father changed colour, and a spasm caught the muscles of his face. 
 " It is not my fault that you have not known of these matters before. 
 I have written to you many letters. I have sought you many times. I 
 have done my duty by you." 
 
 " Indeed you have, my dearest father ; and I have been ungrateful and 
 unfilial. Believe me, I will be wiser for the future. Eestore your con- 
 fidence, and trust me." 
 
 "The future! the future!" repeated my father musingly, "that will 
 hardly repair the past. We will have some talk to-morrow, Caleb. It is 
 a short history to recite, but a weighty one. We must not refuse these 
 good men's hospitality, or they will take offence ; and I tell you they may 
 get us cast into the street. It does not matter if I am thrown upon a dung- 
 hill. What would become of you ? I must think of that ;— ok yes ! I ought 
 to think of that." 
 
 "For the love of Heaven, I beseech you, my dear father, to explain 
 yourself more fully — what power have these visitors over you] What 
 right have they here? — what has happened]" 
 
 " Nothing, Caleb," replied my father, who seemed alarmed at my tone 
 and agitation ; " nothing. It happens every day ; do not be frightened ; 
 many better, wealthier men than I have suffered it, and have held up their 
 heads again, and have got rich and prospered ; — there is no disgrace in 
 bankruptcy." 
 
 " Bankruptcy !" I exclaimed, my blood curdling at the dreadful thought. 
 "Yes, bankruptcy!" reiterated my poor father, bursting into tears, 
 which would not be suppressed ; " it is too true, bankruptcy — shame — 
 dishonour — ignominy! Everything is gone; our name is blasted — our 
 home is snatched from us — the fair reputation, too, that has had no spot 
 or stain for centuries, is soiled and smirched. They might have spared me 
 this. Caleb, we are beggars, but this is least of all ; if there were nothing 
 else, they might take all, and welcome." 
 
 " Father, this is very sudden ; I left you thriving, and in the midst of 
 plenty." 
 
 " Yes, Caleb, and I left you innocent, and full of truth and promise. 
 You are right; it has been sudden. We do not, indeed, meet as we 
 parted." This was spoken with some bitterness, and I was immediately 
 silenced. 
 
 " Come, resumed my father, in a milder voice, " you shall take some 
 supper, and then go to bed ; all the news cannot be told at once. Pwe- 
 member, Caleb, we have not corresponded for months, and much may 
 come to pass in a single hour— in a moment. You shall know all to- 
 morrow. Do not let us keep the good men waiting ; they must be our 
 friends — come now." 
 
 He walked again into the shop, and I followed him. Ill prepared as I 
 
CALEB STUEELY. 101 
 
 was for eating, I dared not disobey him ; a preying sense of past unduti- 
 fulness robbed rae of free-will. Had it been left me, could I hare exer- 
 cised it in opposition to his wishes, when so much depended upon a 
 cheerful compliance ? The shop looked wretched indeed ; the walls were 
 stripped, and bales of merchandise were heaped upon the floor without 
 order or care : they were marked and lotted. The large iron cupboard, 
 whichmy father, for so many years, had nightly secured with double lock' 
 and whose creaking hinges had so often sung a lullaby to his cashbooks 
 and ledgers, stood open and deserted. The black shelves were empty ; an 
 open drawer displayed a few old banker's cheques, long since honoured, 
 now crossed and valueless. Every other thing had been carried off. The 
 shop itself, that was ever so neat and clean, and such a pattern of a place 
 of business, was disfigured with the accumulated dust and dirt of weeks, 
 and with the offscourings of shelves, whose tops had not been visited or 
 disturbed for years before. You might have searched through London, 
 and not found a place so well equipped and qualified for— the broken 
 heart. Mr. Bolster and his companion rose again upon our entrance ; a 
 slight addition had been made to the repast— there was a second pewter 
 pot ; in other respects the table was as before described. I sat down with 
 my meal already in my mouth— for my full heart was in it— and dared not 
 look upon my unhappy parent for very grief and shame. I had scarcely 
 seated myself when Mr. Bolster began to grin, and to exhibit various 
 sprightly contortions of his face, much more pleasing to himself than to 
 -me, who appeared to be the subject of them. He planted his laughing- 
 eyes upon me, and when I met them withdrew them suddenly ; not, how- 
 ever, before he was overtaken by a violent impulse to indulge himself and 
 laugh outright. The struggle between this natural force, and his acquired 
 notions of good behaviour, caused his cheeks to swell, and his features 
 to assume the lines and forms of a vast kaleidoscope. Somewhat offended, 
 I turned to his superior, whose head I encountered, oscillating mournfully, 
 pendulum fashion. Every movement carried with it a vote of censure— 
 a volume of reproof. I sat uneasy and silent between the tutelary geniuses 
 of tragedy and comedy, who presided over my unfortunate parent's once 
 prosperous dwelling-place. 
 
 "You have come from college, haven't you 1 ?" enquired Bolster with a 
 chuckle. " You finished your eddication just in time. I hope you have 
 taken your degrees. The governor takes his on Monday week, if the as- 
 signees is satisfied with his examination ; I should say he'll pass. He isn't 
 half so flat as he looks — are you, old gentleman?" And he handed my 
 father a plate of bread and cheese, and gently pushed the pot of porter 
 towards him. 
 
 "Do you think there will be any difficulty?-" asked my father anxiously, 
 and addressing himself to the chief officer. 
 
 The latter shook his head despondingly. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Growler, that's just the way with you," rejoined the lively 
 Bolster. " For pouring cold water down a fellow's back, I never found 
 your equal. You hadn't — oughtn't to have followed this here line of busi- 
 ness. Bankruptcy is too sewere for you ; every gazette as comes out I sees 
 an alteration in you. You'll fall a wictim to your own profession — mark 
 my words." 
 
 The principal looked at Bolster with an expression too deep for utter- 
 ance, and then concealed his face and feelings for some minutes in the 
 pewter pot. 
 
 " They surely will not distress me further," said my father ; " what can 
 they gain by it? I have given up everything." 
 
102 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Bolster winked, and answered, " In course you have. I never knew a 
 bankrupt yet as hadn't. And when you goes up for your degrees on 
 Monday week, and they asks you to surrender, you'll turn your pockets 
 inside out, and show 'em the dirty lining, and the farden you got in 
 change for the last half-pint, and take your oath you haven't another 
 farden in the world to make that a ha'penny, and kiss the book to show 
 there's no doubt about it, but that it's all quite true and regular— and no 
 mistake." 
 
 " I wouldn't hunt them in misfortune," said my father, " as some of 
 these men are following me. They'll persecute me to the grave ; it is 
 a dreadful thing to have a merciless creditor." 
 
 " Now," continued Bolster, " I have seen a good deal of this here sort 
 of life, and I don't mind them merciless ones at all. I like a savage to 
 begin with ; you tames him by degrees. It's your quiet and innocent boys 
 as I dreads ; them as was never in court afore, and cuddles the Bible when 
 they swears to their debts, and kisses it so werry hard. Them chaps 
 always looks as if they had walked into a place of worship, where him as 
 is most religious and kisses hardest gets best pay. Nothing less than 
 one-and-twenty shillings in the pound comes up to their belief; and ain't 
 they wilder than heathens when they diskiver it's only three-ha'pence? 
 Give me a fellow as is used to it, and knows the worst, and who blows at 
 the book a mile off from his lips, 'cause he's internally satisfied, that if he 
 presses it ever so close he couldn't press the dividend up to twopence.^ You 
 may do wonders with a chap as is resigned, but I'm blessed if there is any 
 moving one as is disappointed. That's my experience ; and now, young 
 gentleman, if you'll be so kind as to take the nightcap off that porter, I 
 shall be happy to wish the old gentleman safe over his troubles." 
 
 My father carried on a conversation respecting his affairs in an under 
 tone with Mr. Growler, Bolster, at the same time, initiating me into the 
 Eleusinian mysteries of the Court of Bankruptcy. Both gentlemen were, 
 as it is technically called, in possession of our house and its contents. 
 Their sympathies were clearly engaged on my father's behalf, and many 
 observations that escaped them, tended to produce the conviction, that any 
 office of kindness which they could perform for us consistently with their 
 duty, or, more accurately to speak, consistently with their safety and 
 with their security from detection, should on no account be withheld. 
 A species of paraphrase which Mr. Growler employed when he took 
 leave of us at the close of supper, placed this matter beyond all doubt. 
 " A man, Mr. Stukely," said he, " isn't accountable for what happens when 
 he's fast asleep— that's morally certain. Bolster and I are not early risers ; 
 we like to indulge— on a Sunday morning especially. You may have 
 noticed that the mornings are dark, I may say very dark. It is surprising 
 how much may be done before breakfast— are you aware that the inven- 
 tory isn't finished 1 It is a remarkable fact, that the stock in the parlour 
 isn't in the catalogue at all. I am not obliged to know everything ; I 
 mean to say, there's no law to make me. I hope I do my public duty 
 faithfully ; but in this free country every man has a right to enjoy his pri- 
 vate opinion — I have mine. Yours is a very hard case — I pity you— you, 
 Mr. Stukely." The last you he uttered with a powerful emphasis, and then 
 he stared at me with the same ill-natured sorrow as before, shrugged his 
 shoulders, sighed, and left us. 
 
 The look of things up-stairs was even more desperate and comfortless 
 than below. The furniture had been torn from every room. The largest 
 apartment contained a temporary bed made upon the floor, a small deal 
 table, and a solitary chair— nothing in the world besides. The room was 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 103 
 
 icy-cold ; and when my father entered it, holding hefore me his small piece 
 of dimly-burning candle, it seemed as if he were lighting me to a dungeon. 
 I slept with him that night. In the morning I reminded him of his pro- 
 mise, and prayed him to give me some account of my absent mother. 
 He desired me to accompany him to the room which, in their days of 
 prosperity, had been their sleeping apartment ; I did so. There was not a 
 moveable in the place. He locked the door, and opened a very small 
 cupboard which was in a corner of the room. He produced a hat covered 
 with crape to the very crown, and a man's suit of black clothes. I screamed 
 out, and dropped into his arms. "When I recovered, my father was bend- 
 ing over me with a countenance pale as death, but dispossessed of all 
 violent emotion. 
 
 "I would not put them on, Caleb." he said, in a voice of unnatural 
 calmness, " until you had been informed of the fact. She is gone. I am 
 here to tell it you. You are alive to hear it." 
 
 " Father," I enquired, "when was it — how — what was the cause ! Sudden 
 it must have been. Oh, let me know all ! Merciful Heaven, what a blow 
 is this !" 
 
 " Grief, grief, grief!" replied my father, repeating the words with a painful 
 emphasis ; '"' grief, such as only she could feel — blighting, withering anxiety 
 and distress. For whom ? For one who never cared to estimate the price- 
 less worth of her absorbing and unselfish love." 
 
 I shook, and my brain writhed with an aching sense of guilt. 
 
 '• Caleb, you are not unprepared for this — you cannot be. I warned you 
 of the retribution that would follow upon ingratitude, and a mad neglect 
 of one who lived only in the incessant pouring forth upon you of the 
 stream of a maternal love, boundless and overflowing. I cautioned you of 
 the danger of checking that gushing and too generous fount. I dreaded 
 the revulsion. I knew that death would follow — but not so quickly. I 
 did not calculate upon such astounding, such destroying speed." 
 
 " Father, do not sav so. You cannot mean it. It is not true. Did 
 I " 
 
 " Break her heart V he added quickly. u You did — may God forgive 
 you for it '. " 
 
 I fell upon my knees, and seized his hand, and wrung it in the extremity 
 of mental suffering. " Father," I cried out, " do you forgive me ! I have 
 been a guilty wretch indeed. I have committed a most dreadful crime. I 
 am her murderer." I stopped, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 " Xo, Caleb, I did not say that exactly," faltered my poor father. 
 
 " Oh yes ! I am ; and if I live for years — for ever — I cannot wash away 
 the infamy. I can never make my repentance known to her. She can 
 never behold the remorse and sorrow of my aching heart. She can never 
 forgive me. But do not you discard me. Father, I will never leave you ; 
 I will slave for your happiness and comfort. Don't cast me away ! Don't 
 think me unworthy of your love — below your consideration ! If we have lost 
 her — God, what a dreadful thought ! — if she is taken from us, how much 
 more do you need the sympathy and help of your own flesh and blood ! 
 You cannot understand all that I have suffered from your cold and crush- 
 ing silence. You would pity me if you did. I cannot live and bear it. 
 Dear father, I repent — I remember the past with bitterness — with shame, 
 with hatred of myself. Let me obliterate it by seiwing you obediently 
 and lovingly for the time to come — dearest father, let me !" 
 
 •' Say no more, boy," answered my father, returning my own trembling 
 pressure of the hand ; " say no more. She forgave and blessed you. I 
 must not be cruel. May I confide in you, Caleb!" he asked, after a pause. 
 
304 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " I cannot wonder that you hesitate to do so," I replied. " In truth, 
 father, I have given you no cause to trust me." 
 
 " But I will trust you, Caleb. You noticed the rude tone and manner 
 of the man to whom we owed our meal last night. I was not angry with 
 him. It is the mode they practise towards the broken down and ruined. 
 He meant no harm. Integrity and insolvency are, to these men's view, as 
 far asunder as vice and virtue. The bankrupt is a criminal — he is without 
 the social circle — an object to be stared at, despised and shunned; ban- 
 tered with for a moment, if you please, but avoided ever after. He has 
 ceased to be of the community — the life-blood has left him. You will 
 hear them, Caleb, talking of the bankrupt, as the living talk of a corpse. 
 That man may be excused; but the creditors, Caleb — men who in their 
 hearts know me better — accuse me of the vilest practices ; they taunt me 
 with the commission of acts impossible for me to conceive. Their losses 
 have made them demons ; they are infuriated at the consequences of a 
 blow which, as it fell, only grazed them, but lacerated and mangled me. 
 They are bent upon the destruction of my good name, and would make 
 that bankrupt too. Caleb, it must never be. We must work night and 
 day to clear away the heap of opprobrium beneath which they would bury 
 the precious jewel of my life. We will prove to them and to the world 
 that I am spotless." 
 
 "We will, dear father!" I exclaimed, burning with enthusiasm. 
 
 " You must do more, Caleb. Let me be proved innocent, as our sense 
 of justice would demand, as our hearts could wish : remember, to an 
 extent, I must die with a dishonoured name; with debts unpaid, obliga- 
 tions undischarged — leaving no means of satisfying them. This is a 
 stigma no energy can remove. If you wish me to lay down my head in 
 peace on my death-bed — soon I shall be called to do it, be it in peace or 
 trouble — if you wish my spirit to be happy when my body is at rest, make 
 me one promise now. Promise me to strive, to labour in every honour- 
 able waj to realise a sum sufficient for the payment of these debts. If 
 jou are in earnest, God will prosper your exertions, and the memory 
 which I leave covered with disgrace shall assuredly be made honourable 
 again by you. Can you promise this to me 1 ?" 
 
 " Father, I beseech you to dictate the solemn promise in the terms you 
 deem most fit, and I will make it cheerfully." 
 
 " It is enough," he said, " and I rely upon you." 
 
 The very same day, my father and I commenced an investigation of 
 his accounts preparatory to a statement of his affairs, which was to be 
 produced at his forthcoming examination before the officers of the law. 
 He set about the task with the vigour of youth, and with the spirit and 
 life which he had ever infused into his business transactions. In the pro- 
 secution of the exciting employment, its disastrous nature was forgotten, 
 and he daily rose from his long-continued labours, as satisfied and rejoiced, 
 as if profit, reward, and honour, were to be the result of all the patient 
 toil. And were they not to be % What gain, what recompense, what dig- 
 nity could his upright and manly understanding acknowledge superior 
 to those which would follow the acknowledgment and publication of his 
 unblemished character 1 ? I knew nothing of accounts; but I was happy 
 beyond expression in the mechanical work which I was enabled to per- 
 form, and in the steady application which was so gratifying to my untiring 
 parent. Many times, in the casting up of a long line of figures, a sudden 
 thought of my poor dear mother would check the upward progress of my 
 pen, dissipate the carefully accumulated numbers, and mingle drops of 
 sacred water with the dry and hardened ink ; but the inspiriting and in- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 105 
 
 cessant occupation saved me from many bitter reflections, and tended to 
 break the fall of a calamity, which otherwise I could ill have borne. My 
 father was fairly roused by the advancement and extent of our labours, 
 and he displayed an exuberant, an almost childish gladness in the pursuit 
 of his object, that permitted not the intrusion of extraneous thoughts. 
 He spoke not of my mother: but my faithful adherence and unflinch- 
 ing constancy drew from him the most fervent expressions of affectionate 
 gratitude. " I was a noble boy — he forgave me everything— he was sure 
 that I would keep my plighted word. God would prosper my exalted 
 efforts, and we should all three meet again in heaven — reunited." After 
 we had been a few days together, he could not bear me to leave his sight. 
 If circumstances called me away for a few minutes, I heard him, abandon- 
 ing his work, move immediately from his seat, walk impatiently about the 
 room, and at last hasten to the door, and there listen for my return : if it 
 were postponed for a minute longer, he either called my name repeatedly 
 and anxiously, or himself sought me, wherever he thought me most likely 
 to be found. 
 
 Our work was at length completed, and nothing could exceed the trans- 
 port of my poor father when he contemplated and devoured with his eyes 
 the long-expected and remunerating result. A lucid statement of all his 
 affairs during the seven years preceding his failure was given in a few 
 pages, and references were made from these to his books, in such a man- 
 ner, that, in an instant, any single transaction during the entire period 
 could be arrived at, and then subjected to the severest inquiry. His 
 balance-sheet, in which his losses were accounted for, and were shown to 
 proceed, not from improvidence or fraud ulency, but from the sudden and 
 unlooked-for fluctuations of a foreign trade — from the insolvency, in fact, 
 of other parties — he gloated over with an admiration and pride that con- 
 trasted strangely with the deep feeling of mortification and shame with 
 which he had a few day3 before dwelt upon his social degradation. He 
 carried these papers about with him as a protection and passport against the 
 rude enquiries of enemies and strangers, as though he deemed himself unsafe 
 without them, passing through a land of calumny with the universal eye of 
 suspicion constantly upon him. Little need be said of the gala-day — for such 
 it was to him — on which he underwent the close scanning of his creditors, 
 and passed with honour through the fiery ordeal. One circumstance con- 
 nected with it cannot, however, be omitted. It has to do with Mr. Levy. 
 Like all other dreaded things that sooner or later arrive at their full growth, 
 my unfortunate bill of a hundred pounds came gradually and safely to 
 maturity. Mr. Levy, in his own phrase, " sought me high and low," and 
 not finding me, at last proceeded to assert his claims upon my goods 
 and chattels. The tutor of the college contested the good man's right; 
 the latter held up the strong arm of the law, and plea and counter-plea 
 had been briskly fired, when my fathers failure saved further shots, by 
 carrying the settlement into other hands. The creditors opposed the 
 claim of Mr. Levy upon the ground of my minority, and my consequent 
 inability to contract the debt. That worthy gentleman met the general 
 opposition with a poetical invention, beautifully conceived, but somewhat 
 badly executed. When I entered the room with my father upon the day 
 of his examination, three objects caught my notice. The first was Levy, 
 pere, sitting upon a stool, and biting his nails with much anxiety ; the 
 second was young Master Isaac, sitting near him, loaded with account- 
 books to his chin ; the third was a dark-visaged gentleman, made in the 
 same mould as Levy senior, looking very shrewd and cunning, but taking 
 some pains to invest his features with a veil of unconscious innocence, not 
 
106 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 thick enough to answer its design. As I passed the youthful Ikey, my 
 shins were favoured with a violent kick. I turned upon the boy, and 
 the young fiend was feigning sleep upon a ledger. All other questions 
 being disposed of, Mr. Levy's claim was last to be considered. His name 
 was called, and my old friend rose. 
 
 " Give me dem books, my boy," were the first accents of that well- 
 known voice. 
 
 " Stay ! " said a perk and new-fledged barrister, employed to grapple 
 with the well-trained Levy — " Stay, we may dispense with books." 
 
 " As you please. I vants to prove my lawful debt. You needn't try to 
 bother me ; I've got my vitnesses." 
 
 The plea of minority was then advanced. The learned gentleman spoke 
 mysteriously, and rather episodically, for about an hour, and concluded by 
 saying, that the bankrupt's son being an infant, the chattels in question 
 had been de facto the chattels of the bankrupt, and were now de jure the 
 chattels of the assignees, they themselves being the locum tenentes of the 
 creditors at large. Having uttered which words he resumed his seat with 
 a smile of content. Mr. Levy begged permission to introduce a very 
 credible witness, who had been present when the bankrupt's son had dis- 
 tinctly averred that he was twenty -five years of age, upon the faith of 
 which statement he, Mr. Levy, had at length raised the loan, and now 
 relied upon the satisfaction of his claim. His witness was desired to 
 appear ; Master Isaac stood up, and my hair stood on end. Ikey, however, 
 was not in a good humour. 
 
 " How old are you, boy?" enquired the lawyer. 
 
 " I don't know," said the imp. 
 
 "Oh, indeed! Perhaps you'll know something else. What is an 
 oath?" 
 
 " Why, nothink at all to si'nify. 
 
 " Oh, it isn't, isn't it ?" enquired the lawyer with great acuteness. " This 
 is your witness, Mr. Levy, eh? Oh, oh ! ha, ha! Now, mark and listen, 
 boy. If an oath is nothing to signif}-, what is it not to signify ? " The 
 gentleman adjusted his wig and gown, both of which had been startled 
 out of their propriety by the previous display of his eloquence. 
 
 "Oh, that's all very fine, mister!" replied the impertinent chip of 
 Mosaic ; " come to the point, and let us swear. You'll believe me then ; 
 and if I don't, you won't." 
 
 "What's your name, my sweet youth?" asked the lawyer, very politely. 
 
 " Isaac Levy," responded the boy. 
 
 " And do you think, Isaac Levy, that there is such a place as hell?" 
 
 "Oh, don't I neither?" returned Ikey, with quickness. "Wag, where 
 do you think all the lawyers go to ?" 
 
 The counsellor stopped, and forthwith enquired whether more was 
 needed to prove the ignorance of the witness in respect of the awful 
 nature of an oath. He was answered in the negative, and young Ikey 
 was dismissed. Mr. Levy, by no means discouraged, stepped forward, and 
 explained how he had taken all possible pains to secure his debt ; that he 
 had even sent a gentleman to London, to announce to the bankrupt the 
 sum he intended to advance his son, that the bankrupt had sanctioned the 
 loan, and was aware of the security that had been taken. The respectable 
 gentleman who had waited upon the bankrupt was now present, and pre- 
 pared to take his oath to these facts ; and when he had done so, Mr. Levy 
 fervently hoped that " nobody vouldn't vish him to be kept no longer out 
 of his rights." This witness was summoned to the box. Levy's double 
 briskly jumped into it, and my father's grey hairs became ten years whiter 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 107 
 
 "with surprise. The witness nodded in an affectionate manner to the 
 bankrupt, whom, I need not say, he had never seen before. 
 
 Unfortunately for the persevering Levy, it was proved that my parent 
 was five hundred miles from home at the time of the transaction. Whilst 
 a "witness was in the act of showing this beyond all doubt. Levy, finding 
 the atmosphere too close and oppressive, took the opportunity to enjoy a 
 little fresh air. Ikey and the books sneaked after him. The dark gentle- 
 man, less nimble, waited just long enough to be detained and given into 
 custody, upon a charge of wilful perjury. 
 
 True it is, that my father was dismissed with honour, but not less true, 
 without a penny in the world. His stock, his furniture, his all, were dis- 
 posed of by public auction. His house passed into strange hands. He 
 stood naked in life, with the juice of forty years' industry and mental 
 energy drawn from him. After all his buffeting with the waves of fortune, 
 to have advanced not one inch towards the haven he aspired to — it was a 
 gloomy thought ; — to be hurled back upon the stony shore, hacked and 
 torn, old, powerless, and spent — that was harder still ! But he did not 
 murmur. He was subdued and humble. Patience was left him yet : he 
 had preserved it from the general wreck ; it identified him with his former 
 self. Beyond it, what was there now remaining of the once cheerful and 
 successful merchant ? }[y father had now to look about for a place of 
 refuge. He secured a small ill-furnished attic in one of the city's narrow- 
 est lanes. I had strongly urged him to rent an apartment away from 
 London — in one of the suburbs — at a distance from old scenes and painful 
 recollections ; but he would not be persuaded. K This will never do," he 
 §aid ; " we must strangle . in the birth, not nurse and strengthen, these 
 cowardly apprehensions. I love the city's noise and bustle. I should die 
 at once away from it." "When my father had placed into the hands of his 
 creditors, amongst other things, the gold watch he had worn for half a 
 century, the latter was immediately returned to him. He converted it 
 without delay to money, reserved a few guineas for our most pressing 
 wants, and handed the residue to me, for the purpose of buying at the sale 
 of his furniture a few matters that had belonged to my mother, the idea 
 of losing which had cost him sharper pangs than the real loss of every 
 other earthly thing. When he left me to take possession of his poor 
 lodging, I hastened to the auction. 
 
 Gentle, happy reader — happy in the endearments of your sweet fireside, 
 sustained in gladsome confidence by the bright smiles of your abiding 
 household deities — if you have suffered to creep and twine about your 
 heart the things of home — if with you they have grown old, and with your 
 strength have gained a mightier hold upon your ripe affections — if the 
 mysterious spirit that links the human soul with dumb and lifeless things, 
 hath made and kept you one, beware the cruel hour of separation. So 
 sure it comes, so sure you yield a vital portion of yourself no surgery can 
 renew, no time can reinstate. How my blood crawled and my flesh 
 winced, as the irreverent hand of strangers tossed and turned about the 
 articles of furniture which I had known, revered from infancy ! how their 
 rude and heartless merriment, provoked by the appearance of some curious 
 and much-cared-for relic of my dear mother's, stung me with a mingled 
 sense of sorrow, shame, and anger ! how their inhuman observations fell 
 like iron on my heart and crushed it ! A number of school-books were 
 offered in one lot for sale. They had been mine when I was under the 
 care of the good clergyman. How familiar were their well-used backs, 
 scrawled and scribbled over, and what a fair scene for a moment did they 
 evoke, carrying me back to the holidays of life, and permitting one passing 
 
108 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 gleam of joy and innocence undisturbed to stray across my soul — too 
 soon to vanish ! " Pity/' exclaimed a vulgar, ever-talkhig huckster, the 
 merryman of the party ; " pity the old man didn't read his books a little 
 better! He should have kept at school a few years longer." And he 
 laughed at his own coarse wit, which many of the company praised highly. 
 I could not execute my commission, but left the place inflamed with 
 indignation. 
 
 I joined my parent in his new abode, and discovered him bending over 
 the fire, busy in the preparation of our dinner. It consisted of a few 
 potatoes ; and amusing would it have been, under any other circumstances, 
 to listen to the arguments which he employed to recommend the very 
 homely meal. " He could have procured a richer dish, had he not consi- 
 dered the paramount importance of attending to the health. We were now 
 idle — the simplest diet gave strength to those whose bodies suffered no 
 expenditure — stimulating food induced derangement and disease — we 
 could ill afford to pay the doctor now. Prevention of malady was the 
 point he aimed at; we had never regarded this sufficiently before. It 
 was time to look about. The Arabs lived on rice. In truth, the finest 
 creatures in the world were the most moderate." Such were the observa- 
 tions that he poured, by way of relish, over the scanty and otherwise ill- 
 seasoned fare. I agreed with him most cordialty, and I was then " a boy 
 of rare wisdom for my years, and undoubtedly on the high road to for- 
 tune and success." Ah, poor father ! why, in the height of all thy pane- 
 gyrics, rise from the table, and shuffle so quickly to the window] Why 
 hum those ineffectual notes ] Why so secretly extract that handkerchief, 
 and carry it to thy cheek '? In spite of thy shrewd reasoning, is it so 
 difficult to bring conviction home ? Thy case is not a novel one. 
 
 The desperate state of our affairs had not as yet plucked my courage 
 from me. I saw the necessity of labouring for my livelihood, and pre- 
 pared myself immediately for employment. There were but two of us : 
 surely with health and reason I could do something for our support. I 
 could become a clerk — a teacher in a school ; there was nothing which I 
 would not gladly undertake to render the last days of my father smooth 
 and peaceful. I communicated my intention to him. Whilst he did not 
 object to my determination, he evinced no pleasure at it. " I do not see 
 the necessity of your leaving me, Caleb," he said ; " I can hardly spare 
 you, and I think we have enough to live upon." 
 
 " We have four guineas in the world, father," I replied, " which will last 
 us about as many weeks." 
 
 " Is it so?" he asked with a confused and vacant air. "True, true, I 
 had forgotten — they have taken all." And, having cause for tears, he 
 smiled. Melancholy omen ! 
 
 I walked into the world with confident steps, sanguine, fortified with 
 youthful freshness. It was a smiling morning of early spring, and buxom 
 and glad as the whole earth appeared, leaping from cold and lethargy, 
 there existed not a more cheerful and ardent nature than mine, when it 
 looked abroad, throbbing with hope and satisfaction. I could not doubt 
 that there were many in the world as ready to secure my services, as I 
 was willing to make the offer of them. Sure I was that I had but to pre- 
 sent myself as a candidate for employment in the vast market-place of 
 human industry, in order to be greedily accepted. The days of early 
 spring are not remarkable for length, and yet many hours before the sun 
 had dipped into the west, all my brilliant expectations had, by degrees, 
 declined, and waned, and quite expired. Brighter than the sun at noon 
 were my views at daybreak; darker than the sun at midnight were my 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 109 
 
 hopes at eve. Nobody would hire me. I returned to our poverty-struck 
 habitation more depressed than I had ever been, with a keener sense of 
 our abandoned helpless state than I had ever ventured to conceive. IsTot 
 the less deeply did I feel our sorrows when my father met my dejected 
 countenance with wild expressions of delight. A child may gambol by 
 its mother's corpse. Innocence forgives the inconsistency, and we are 
 grateful that the gloomy thought of death is all too ponderous for the 
 infant soul ; but when the man shall laugh at human misery and the wrath 
 of Heaven, be sure his direst woe is that which moved him to his mirth — 
 insanity is there. 
 
 My father was busy with pen and paper when I returned from my un- 
 successful wanderings. At his side was a dish of tea, that had been pre- 
 pared, apparently, some hours before ; near him an uncut loaf of bread ; 
 close to the fireplace was his tea-pot ; the fire itself was out. A candle, whose 
 wick had not been snuffed since it first was kindled, burned on the table 
 with dull and sullen aspect. Around him, and on the ground, were many 
 papers, written, blotted, and scrawled upon. He greeted me, and extreme 
 enjoyment played in even- feature ; but he checked himself and me, held 
 up his pen to compel my silence and arrest my progress, lest the motion of 
 my tongue and feet might disturb and baulk the fit expression of some 
 luminous idea with which his mind seemed big. He wrote some passages 
 in haste, and then he stopped. " "Well, Caleb," he began, his aged eyes 
 sparkling with unusual animation — " you have failed. I am sure of it. 
 Your looks tell me so. You will not desert your father?" 
 
 " I have indeed failed," I answered. " 1 have been most unfortunate." 
 
 " No, Caleb, not when you know all. You are fortunate, very fortunate. 
 You will say so too. Shut the door, lad. I have such a secret to commu- 
 nicate !" I obeyed him, and he beckoned me to the table, and placed his 
 finger slowly and solemnly upon his papers. "A mine of wealth !" he ex- 
 claimed ; " we shall be richer than ever." I was about to take the papers, 
 when he detained my hand. "Not yet, not yet, Caleb. You must promise 
 not to divulge what is written, until everything is secure. It is all for 
 you. I shall not live to have the fruition, but you will. I have tortured 
 my brain to make you rich. I am very sorry that you hesitate to promise 
 me. It is wrong of you, Caleb ; but you will be the sufferer — not I." 
 
 " Your request is a law with me, father," I replied. " I will do as you 
 bid me." 
 
 " Of course you will," he added with a cunning laugh. " We are not so 
 foolish in this world as to fly in the face of our best interests. That is 
 very clever of you, Caleb. There, feast your eyes upon the golden pros- 
 pect." He placed triumphantly a sheet of paper in my hand, and bade 
 me read from it aloud. The characters were very large, and had been 
 written with an unsteady pen. I read the following announcement : 
 " The secret discovered, or, transmutation no dream, showing the method of 
 converting the inferior metals into gold." "Yes — that's it, that's it!" he 
 ejaculated, rubbing his hands— " that's the title! It came to me this 
 morning. I have got the process in my head, but I cannot make it clear 
 on paper. You are a scholar, Caleb — you shall help me. It's a simple 
 operation, and cannot fail. When we have written it out, we'll begin. When 
 I was a boy. Caleb, I dreamed that I should keep my carriage. I thought 
 I had lost it when they tore our bed away— who wouldn't have thought it 
 then] But the dream's out now. Your mother was a rare believer in 
 old dreams. Ask her what she thinks of this." 
 
 Many slight inconsistencies in my father's conduct had alarmed me a 
 few days previously to this sad outbreak ; but I was not prepared for what 
 
110 CALEB STUKELY 
 
 I witnessed. Overcome with astonishment and grief, I remained silent, 
 imploring inwardly the avenging hand of Heaven not to spare me, but to 
 hurl me quickly into the general ruin to which our house was doomed. 
 
 "You see, Caleb," continued my afflicted parent, "that you are not al- 
 lowed to leave your father. You were obstinate, but a miracle has stayed 
 you. Why I have been chosen from the millions of mankind to penetrate 
 this long dormant mystery, I cannot tell now; but even this will be 
 revealed in its own good time. In the meanwhile we will show ourselves 
 mindful of our privileges. Who knows but I am sent to purify the world 
 — to enrich it first, and then to free it from pollution 1 ?" He ceased not 
 here, but advanced from one diseased imagining to another, soaring higher 
 and higher in absurdity, as his hot and eager fancy rioted in liberty, 
 until at length, caught and entangled in a maze of images, he stopped, 
 failing to extricate himself, unable to proceed. I dared not leave him 
 again. Had I desired it, he would not have permitted my departure ; but, 
 on my own part, I deemed it wrong to abandon him to the perverse 
 guidance of an irresponsible judgment. His days and nigbts were passed 
 in the working out of his great idea, as he denominated it, and nothing 
 might interfere with its steady prosecution. I, who was destined to profit 
 so largely by this discovery, was not permitted to stand idly by. " It 
 would be," he said, " contrary to every law of nature, and against all 
 notions of justice, to think of passiveness. The harvestman must use his 
 sickle, or he cannot reap." Accordingly, I remained, day after day, and 
 hour after hour, at my poor fathers side, sometimes writing from his dic- 
 tation, and delighting him by attempts to clothe in language that might 
 be understood, ideas which were not intelligible in themselves, and some- 
 times copying, in a clear and legible hand, tbe many pages which he had 
 composed during the long and silent nights, whilst I was sleeping. It is 
 unnecessary to say that his incessant labour yielded not even the blossom 
 of a wholesome fruit. Idle repetitions, the continual evolving of a few 
 thoughts, through whose dark covering of mysteriousness might with diffi- 
 culty be traced the kernel of a simple and well-known truth, were the 
 produce of all his brain-work; and yet, for this, rest, air, exercise, and 
 needful food, were but too gladly sacrificed. He continued his employ- 
 ment until the last guinea which we could call our own reminded me of 
 the inevitable destitution towards which we were fast advancing. I com- 
 municated our condition to my father, in the hope of eliciting one rational 
 intention, if he still held one, with respect to our proceedings. 
 
 "Is it the last indeed]" he asked. "How wonderful are the ways of 
 Providence ! We have the means of support up to the very moment 
 when we can part with them. Our last guinea will hold out a week longer, 
 and then we shall be ripe for action. This day week, Caleb, shall be an 
 eventful day for you. You will remember it with reason to the last hour 
 of your life." 
 
 My father spoke the truth. It was a day never to be forgotten. It 
 stands by itself, flowing like a turbulent river through the plain of my 
 existence, connecting and dividing the life that has followed since, with, 
 and from, the life that went before. He had taken no rest for many 
 nights preceding it ; and when it dawned, its first grey gleaming light 
 might easily have settled on his feverish brow without awakening there a 
 consciousness of its approach. His mind was swallowed up in his one 
 great purpose, and day and night, with their vicissitudes and fluctuations, 
 disturbed him not. He was above the common doings of the world. Do 
 we pity the poor lunatic, stripped of his wits, dismembered from the 
 social body, exiled and hid in solitary secret corners 1 Yes, but not halt 
 
CALEB STUKELY. Ill 
 
 so proudly as the poor lunatic, in his borrowed majesty, looks down and 
 pities and despises lis. The little method that Lad lingered in my father's 
 composition had entirely vanished. His intellect was running riot, and he 
 wrote and wrote on, without connexion, meaning, aim. He was bewil- 
 dered ; but he still blotted the paper, and was more persevering than ever. 
 I left him for a short time, in order to purchase our dinner at a neighbour- 
 ing shop. Upon my return, I discovered him sitting, as when I had left 
 him, at the table, pen in hand ; but his eyes were fixed, not upon his papers, 
 but upon the ceiling, and he appeared absorbed in thought. A thick sun- 
 beam, with its countless particles, danced from the ceiling to the floor, and 
 darting athwart his countenance, lit every feature up with white and paly 
 fire ; but it passed powerless across the madman's eye. That did not 
 shrink or move, but, like a star, shone against the luminous stream. My 
 father heard my footstep, but did not stir. 
 
 "Is that you, Caleb?" he enquired, in a gentle voice. 
 
 " Yes, father," I answered, " and I have brought you a dish that you are 
 fond of. You must be ready for it." 
 
 "Bring candles, my dear," said my father in reply, "it is very dark. 
 Night has taken us by surprise. Lights, Caleb, lights!" 
 
 I complied with his request. Throughout his illness I had taken pains 
 to gratify and soothe him, by a ready compliance with his wishes. Why 
 should I not humour the new delusion ] Alas, alas ! it was impossible 
 to misinterpret the inefficient and endeavouring motions of his hand 
 w r hen I again approached him. ISTor candle, nor lamp, nor the blessed 
 light of heaven, could serve him more. "Whether the aged eyes of the 
 afflicted man had been bruised or injured in their recent bondage, or 
 whether suddenly the kind hand of Providence, with a wise intent, had 
 put a seal upon them, I could not tell. Blind-stricken he was, and — with 
 his reason gone — more helpless than a child. My poor heart fluttered as 
 I led him to his bed. Clustering woes had fallen upon me — it was hard to 
 stand the brunt. My dear father was patient and submissive in my hands. 
 He knew not the extent of his calamity. " He wondered why the night 
 had come so quickly — be wished that it would go, and leave him to his 
 work again." Having placed him as comfortably as I might upon the bed 
 which was nightly made upon the floor, I secured without delay the 
 assistance of a doctor. One, to whom I was directed, and who lived not 
 far from our lane, accompanied me home. He examined his patient care- 
 fully, and departed, promising to send the necessary medicine. I followed 
 the doctor to the street door, and, with much anxiety, asked if there was 
 any danger. 
 
 "From the blindness, do you mean 1 ?" he asked. "I could make your 
 mind easy if we had nothing to contend with but that. Unfortunately, 
 however, this blindness is the effect of even a more threatening mischief." 
 
 " He is very quiet," I responded quickly. 
 
 "Yes, I wish he were less so. I am very much afraid " 
 
 "Oh no, no!" I exclaimed, clasping my hands, and weeping bitterly; 
 " do not say that, sir — there can be no danger. It is so very sudden. You 
 have had similar cases, have you not]" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "And they recovered 1 ?" 
 
 "I must not deceive you. They have not." 
 
 " What shall I do, sir 1 ? If I lose him I lose all. I haven't another friend 
 in the wide world. This is punishment indeed !" 
 
 " I shall send the medicine at once," said the doctor, without noticing 
 my passion, " and I will see him again during the night. You will 
 
112 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 with him, of course. Don't leave him. Should he become much weaker 
 and appear to sink, let me know." 
 
 " Give me some little hope," I cried imploringly. 
 
 " You hear what I have said," continued the practitioner ; " don't forget. 
 Good-day." 
 
 And he left me marvelling at the insensibility of mankind. 
 
 I sat at my parent's side for many hours. In spite of the doctor's sad 
 assurances, I could not believe in the presence of immediate danger. I 
 would not believe in it. The streets were full of human voices and the 
 hum of busy life, when I drew my chair towards him, and surveyed his 
 pale and placid countenance. There was talking and bustling, without 
 and within, on the pavement under our window, upon the stairs in the 
 house, everywhere but in our own dark chamber of misfortune, where 
 silence, chased and affrighted from the world, kept company with sick- 
 ness. Now the lamps in the street were lighted, and the stream of life 
 was more distinctly heard, murmuring along. Artisans were returning 
 from their daily toil, gay and care-free. Bells were rung and knockers 
 hammered with scarce an interval of repose. What wholesome well-earned 
 food awaited the healthful appetite ! What welcome from loving eyes of 
 wife and children ! Happy labourers ! And now the hours of night came 
 on, and the feverish pulse of the great thoroughfare beat with diminished 
 force. By degrees the street became deserted — the crowds had disap- 
 peared — Silence had ventured forth again. How, at times, she was of- 
 fended and disturbed, you might plainly tell, when some belated and ex- 
 cited rambler pierced her modest ear with the licentious scream of wanton- 
 ness and inebriety ; but the repetition was infrequent, and ceased at length. 
 The heavy breathings of the poor blind man were soon the loudest sounds 
 of life. He neither spoke nor slept — his lips were moving ever, and he 
 drew and pressed them close, as though he thirsted. I did not deem it 
 necessary to send for the physician ; but I grew impatient, and often hur- 
 ried to the window to watch for his arrival. It was four o'clock ; the moon 
 shone beautifully clear, and graced our narrow lane with its full share of 
 silver light. I looked into the slumbering street, and ruminated on the 
 past. What a retrospect ! And what a future ! The history of a few short 
 months had been a fearful one. The history of the time to come, who 
 could decide, encompass that i Thoughts of my lost mother — lost to me 
 for ever — did not fail to come, and in the sweet serenity of night to thrill 
 me with emotion. I looked to the transparent sky — the homestead of the 
 pure — her dwelling-place, and, in the pang and conflict of remorse, 
 implored the Saint to pardon me. Since ten o'clock I had heard, at the 
 close of every half hour, the watchman's voice, chronicling the lapse of 
 time. Some dozen times his loud and chanting tone had returned upon 
 my ear, and then the voice had grown familiar as a voice that had been 
 known from infancy. So long it seemed since I had heard the accents 
 first, that I could scarcely fix their earliest beginning. With the announce- 
 ment of the decease of four o'clock, a coach and pair rattled up the lane. 
 It stopped before our door, and it discharged the doctor. He was in full 
 dress. A diamond ring glittered on his finger, and his clothes were re- 
 dolent of strong perfume. 
 
 " You haven't sent for me V he asked, as he brushed by me, and hastened 
 up stairs. 
 
 " I have not, sir," I replied. 
 
 " No — 1 should have heard of it. I have been at a ball, and I desired 
 your messenger, if he came, to be sent after me. How is your father 
 now]" 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 113 
 
 " I cannot perceive a change, sir — But you will see." 
 
 We entered the room together. My father was sitting up in Led. A 
 strange alteration had come over him. He was ghastly pale, and his 
 features were pinched up and angular. He drew his breath with difficulty. 
 
 "How is this]" enquired the doctor, running to his side and examining 
 his pulse. My father's lips moved quickly and convulsively. I imagined 
 that he endeavoured to pronounce my name. I traced the half formation 
 of the word, but could not catch the sound of it. The doctor released the 
 hand, and walked from the bedside. My father spoke. It was a last, a 
 straggling effort, and he succeeded. " Caleb, lights— lights ! — dark — dark 
 — dark !" — and he grew rigid, and he slipped from my embrace until he 
 lay motionless and dead before me. 
 
 Of all the calamities incident to our present state, (and their name is 
 legion,) there is none more exquisitely painful to the sensitive mind, than 
 that of being left in the world a solitary outcast, without a tie, without a 
 hope. Wo to the poor orphan, deprived of the head that considered, the 
 heart that throbbed for him ! wo to him when the goodly tree — his only 
 prop from childhood, against which he has reclined as against a rock that 
 never could be shaken — is struck at the root, falls, and disappears ! Let 
 him take the wings of the morning, and search through the land for a 
 spirit loving and watchful as that which is flown, upon whose willing 
 bosom were so lightly borne his solicitudes and sorrows, and all the weight 
 of anxious care he cast without a thought there. Father and mother ! 
 Holy names, with claims which are so seldom understood and recognised 
 until the desire and power to meet them can no longer serve us. Nurse 
 of our infancy — instructor of our boyhood — adviser of our youth — friend 
 of our manhood — staff and support throughout — what is not comprehended 
 in your relationship ! How much do your children owe you ! Let them 
 answer as they sob at the deathbed, and learn their loss in feeling what 
 they need. As I held the cold hand of my deceased father, how many 
 cruel deviations from filial duty rushed to my mind, crowding one after 
 another upon my memory, which I would now have given my right hand 
 never to have been guilty of. What tribulation I might have spared him ! 
 Now an unkind word spoken in impatience many years ago, and forgotten 
 as soon as spoken, started to remembrance, stinging me with remorse. 
 Why had I not implored forgiveness for that word before] What sorrow 
 may the utterance of that one syllable have caused him, falling on his 
 warm heart, and rankling there ! What profited my burning tears of 
 penitence ] — the eye was closed, the ear was shut ; there was no avenue by 
 which to reach him now. " Oh yes ! " I passionately exclaimed, dropping 
 on my knees, " there is, there is ! — if the departed soul, bursting, as I have 
 been told, its earthly house, ascends at once to heaven, surely he is at this 
 moment there, and is accessible by prayer. Father," I continued, weeping 
 amain, "I supplicate thy pardon for the past — I repent my numerous 
 crimes committed against thee here. Turn not thy spirit from me. Let 
 it accept in mercy the contrite offerings of a broken heart." A knock at 
 the door interrupted the extravagant devotion. Two women, who came 
 to perform the first offices for the dead, entered the room with a slow step, 
 and whispering. I shall never forget the chill that crept through my frame 
 when I heard them refer for the first time to " the corpse." Such isolation 
 was expressed in the word — the reality of death was so apparent in it — it 
 marked so distinctly the abstraction of all human relations, and separated 
 so emphatically my poor father from every living thing! The crawling 
 worm was now a nobler animal than the motionless and rigid man. I had 
 beheld the previous day's decline, I had seen the earth go gradually to 
 
 i 
 
114 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 rest. Another day was in its birth. The early labourer went forth again 
 refreshed and cheerful. He whistled as he passed my window. What 
 thought had he of my bereavement 1 What single heart, of the number- 
 less thousands that were about to congregate again, would beat with pity 
 for my loss? with sorrow for my melancholy lot] Not one! There was no 
 sympathy for the beggared orphan. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 MY MOTHEK'S LETTER. 
 " Once more unto the breach ! " — Henry V. 
 
 For a week I remained in the chamber of death, the undisturbed com- 
 panion of the breathless body. The face was leaden-hued, but a smile 
 adorned it still ; and the blow" that had extinguished life had restored the 
 ancient and appropriate calm, which, many days before, anxiety and disease 
 of mind had carried off. At the week's close they buried him. Oh ! 
 Earth, thou art the enemy at last. It is thou who swallowest the treasure, 
 never to give it back again in a form that we may recognize ; thou who 
 dividest us from the beloved, more truly and emphatically than the great 
 adversary of life himself. I knew not half my loss, nursing and beguil- 
 ing it from day to day at the bedside. There I might yet survey— there 
 I had still possession of my father. A new relationship had sprung up 
 between us ; and morning and evening, and at mid-day, blessed intima- 
 tions of heavenly comfort were gathered upon my knees, reconciling me 
 to the spirit's absence, whilst the human throbbings of my heart were 
 stilled and cozened by the palpable presence of the decaying frame. Cold, 
 cruel, pitiless earth ! — deaf witness of my cries, cutting me off from him, 
 my last and only friend, holding him in clammy and in fixed constriction 
 — what cared you for the wild agony of the outstretched eye, staring upon 
 the narrow spot that covered him ! — what for the frantic and incoherent 
 exclamations that expressed a loss and separation never felt but once in 
 all their fullness, and never yet made known in human speech] 
 
 It was dark when I walked from the churchyard. I departed when the 
 night permitted me no longer to distinguish the few sacred feet of soil 
 from the thousand patches in which I had no interest. I returned to our 
 abject lodging — never so abject, never so miserable, never so desolate as 
 now. I had no wish to remain its tenant any longer. I passed a woful 
 night there— now starting from a hideous dream, that clung to me through 
 all the hours of sleep — now waking with a piercing cry, and now with eyes 
 filled with bitterest tears ; and in the morning, without delay, I took a 
 willing leave of it for ever. The few valued memorials of my dear mo- 
 ther, which my father had snatched with such eagerness from the wreck, I 
 had been most reluctantly compelled to dispose of even before his death. 
 We were penniless when the physician first visited us. The payment of 
 his fee, and of the small arrear of rent, reduced the sum obtained for these 
 precious relics io something like one guinea. The possessor of so much 
 treasure, 1 stood now in the world alone, without a wish or hope, without 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 115 
 
 a purpose or an aim. The daily diminution of my fund soon filled me 
 "with uneasiness and alarm, urging me, ineffectually enough, to think of 
 some reasonable mode of obtaining my subsistence. Again I passed from 
 house to house soliciting employment, and again I returned to my new 
 and cheerless home, disappointed and chagrined. Stranger than anything 
 seemed this difficulty of obtaining hire for services that were oBered at 
 any price the purchaser would afford. How had the thousands of well- 
 dressed and busy individuals whom I encountered at every turn, with 
 happy and industrious looks — how had they contrived originally to fix 
 themselves in their present lucrative positions'? What secret power of 
 accomplishing their wishes did they possess, which I had yet to learn"? Or 
 was it, in truth, that every profitable hole and nook in the mighty city 
 was filled up — pre-occupied and secured] I could not explain my misfor- 
 tune, but I still wondered at it, and still was doomed to bear it. At 
 length, and at no distant period, my purse was exhausted, and I was com- 
 pelled to procure my food upon credit, and to live on trust in my one 
 small ill-furnished room. I had been careful, so long as my means per- 
 mitted it, to pay my rent punctually at the close of every week. The 
 landlord of the house, a labouring man, himself living in the parlour, had 
 always treated me with great civility in consequence, and few words had 
 passed between us. Whether it was that this good gentleman, during the 
 week which I had permitted to pass away without the usual settlement, 
 had observed a falling-off in my manner of living — had remarked that 
 two scanty meals, and oftener one, had served me through the day — and, 
 with such data, had arrived at a knowledge of my real position ; or, whe- 
 ther the landlord in the same exigency adopted one line of conduct 
 towards all his tenants without favour or reserve, I was not able to deter- 
 mine. Certain it is, that three days of a second week had not elapsed 
 before he deemed me worthy of a visit. I was glad to see him, and so I 
 told him ; but he spoke his business without returning my salute. 
 
 " Look'e, Mr. Stukely," said the man of rooms, " I don't mean no 
 offence ; and if I am plain-spoken, I am none the worse for that. You 
 owe me one week's rent — next Monday you'll owe me two. If you have 
 no likeliwoods of paying me, only say so like a man." 
 
 I blushed and could not speak. 
 
 " If you are regularly done up, you had better owe me a fortnight than 
 four months, I can tell you. Speak in time — it's all I ask, and then I 
 sha'n't be hard. You are out of work, I see]" 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 "And are likely enough to keep so?", 
 
 "Yes," said I again. 
 
 "And you haven't got a blessed farden?" 
 
 I nodded in the negative. 
 
 " Of course — as nat'ral and as reg'lar as the rule of three. It's Pill Gar- 
 lick's luck again — it's just like me — I'm in for it again. Now, young fel- 
 low, we'll make short work of this. If you pays on Monday — well and 
 good — and we goes on again like friends and pitchers ; if you can't, tip 
 me the key, give me the room, take yourself off, and I'll cry quits, and 
 give you a bob to begin life again. If you haven't the stuff, it's plain you 
 can't give it ; but I'm blessed if it's a good speculation to keep on at the 
 price. You are done up, you see. Now, I ain't just yet, and don't want 
 to be." 
 
 There was a man, a member of Trinity College, to whom, during my 
 residence in the university, I had, in more ways than one, rendered signal 
 service. He knew it, at least in prosperous days he had acknowledged it, 
 
 I 2 
 
116 CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 and had evinced a willingness to make a suitable return. Even as my 
 landlord spoke, his repeated grateful recognitions returned upon my me- 
 mory, and I decided in my difficulty to implore from him a temporary 
 loan of money. Satisfied that from such a man I could not meet with a 
 refusal, I replied to my landlord in the following terms : " I am very grate- 
 ful to you, Mr. Thompson, for your kind offer. I trust I shall not need to 
 take advantage of it ; but rest assured, you shall suffer no further trouble 
 or loss upon my account. It is true, I am not in a condition to pay you, 
 nor am I in the way of earning a single halfpenny. But 1 do believe sin- 
 cerely that I have a friend who will not see me want. I will write to him 
 by this night's post, and request his answer by return. He will remit me 
 immediately more than sufficient to discharge your debt. Should he fail, 
 although I have no fear of such a thing, I will go, as you require, on Mon- 
 day next, or, if you wish it, on an earlier day." 
 
 " No, no," answered Thompson, eagerly, " not before. I'm a man of my 
 word — I'm devilish sorry for you — that's the truth ; for I am sure, by the 
 way you talk, you have not been used to this here sort of thing. You 
 have had an eddication, too, I can see ; but, let me tell you, it's deuced 
 hard upon me. Here, I have a wife and ten children, and my old woman's 
 always going to bed ; and here have I five-and-forty pounds a-year to pay 
 for this ramshackled dungeon ; and here are my lodgers invariably paying 
 me five shillings in the pound — never more than one week out of four ; 
 and here's the tax-gatherer a-coming before I know where I am ; and 
 here's wages at the shop coming down, 'cause business is slack ; and here's 
 clothes to buy for the young uns ; and the doctor to pay for missus ; and 
 the baker, with bread a-rising, 'cause there's a war. No, I pity you, Mr. 
 Stukely ; but we must take care of ourselves. I sha'n't worry you ; but 
 if you can't get the money — God knows it's very hard to get any now — ■ 
 just give us the key to let in them as can. You had better see what you 
 can do— try and get work — don't depend upon your friends — friends is a 
 misery to a fellow. I never knew 'em to give — they are the chaps as 
 takes. Try what you can do for yourself; and as I said before, if you can't 
 do nothink at all, wait till Monday week " 
 
 " Until Monday," said I, interrupting him. 
 
 "Don't interfere. I know very well what I said — wait till Monday 
 week, an' welcome ; and then, money or no money, hand us over the key, 
 and do the best you can — that's what we must all do at last — and there's 
 an end of it." And saying these words he slapped his hands with some 
 violence on the table, and departed immediately. Not until he had 
 reached his own room did I discover that the slapping was a species of 
 legerdemain, performed for the purpose of placing half-a-crown upon the 
 table for my benefit, but without my knowledge. I proceeded to my 
 letter, a sceptic in respect of the tales which I had so often heard touching 
 hard-hearted landlords. I did not conceal the state of my affairs from 
 my good friend, Myddleton. I explained to him that my father had died, 
 and had left me in the world penniless. I pictured to him my present 
 terrible situation — related to him the scene that had taken place with 
 Thompson, and conjured him by the friendship which had formerly ex- 
 isted between us, not to desert me at a moment when a little help might 
 prove my very salvation. I was moderate in my demand. I asked the 
 loan only of ten pounds. I could not fix the time of repayment, but I 
 solemnly engaged to return it as soon as I obtained employment, and 
 became master of the sum. Every term that might move a feeling heart 
 to pity and to help — every appeal that friendship might receive and 
 humanity respond to, I unhesitatingly employed. With some anxiety and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 117 
 
 interest I waited for the returning post. A hundred times before I had 
 heard the postman's distinguishable knock, and little thought of the ac- 
 cumulated joy and misery of which he was the unconscious messenger. 
 Now I honoured him for the dignity of his high office. I learned the 
 usual hour of his entrance into the street, watched his arrival, and accosted 
 him as soon as he appeared. Quickly, and somewhat angrily, he turned 
 
 his letters over, and found not one for Mr. Stukely. Was I satisfied 1 
 
 Oh no ! I was sure that he had passed the letter over — What was to be 
 expected from the impatient motions of a testy man 1 He would come 
 to my letter in its usual course, and I must wait, like other folks, quietly 
 at home for its reception. Ah, I was right — there was the delicious double 
 knock ! I rushed to the street door. The letter was for Mr. Watkins on 
 the second floor. Two mornings passed. The postman was as punctual 
 as the sun. I performed the same excited part. I met with like success. 
 Monday came. I thought no more of Myddleton, but I cursed myself for 
 writing to the man. I was preparing for departure — whither to go, I 
 neither knew nor cared. Reckless with regard to myself, I determined 
 upon living no longer upon the charity of Thompson. Hark ! the double 
 knock again. Well, let them attend to it who are to profit by the sum- 
 mons — not I. What's that 1 Surely, that's my name. Hollo — stop there ! 
 
 Thompson met me halfway on the stairs — There it was indeed — I 
 
 knew the hand — oh, shame upon me ! ungrateful and impatient ever — I 
 had done injustice to the noble Myddleton. I broke the seal with vehe- 
 mence. The letter was a long one — but there was no enclosure. Let us 
 read. I read as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Stukely — I have long thought it to be my fault that our friend- 
 ship and correspondence closed with our residence in Cambridge. I feel 
 obliged to you for breaking the ice, and I do sincerely hope that we shall 
 now occasionally hear from one another. I should say that you were not 
 a little surprised some months ago upon seeing in the papers that I had 
 
 been ordained by the Bishop of ; and rather curious to know how 
 
 the matter had gone off, and where your friend was fixed. I'll tell you 
 all about it. Our old friend, Cripple of Corpus, who, you will recollect, 
 went out at the commencement of your second and my third year, was 
 directed by Archdeacon Heavysides to look out for a curate. Cripple, of 
 course, recommended me, and kindly prepared an application, which I 
 copied out and sent. I was immediately accepted, and the Arch, hoped I 
 would come down directly, look at the parish, and be introduced to the 
 Bishop. I went — stayed up a week, and when I got home again, I had 
 just ten days and a half to read my divinity up, and get into training 
 before I could come to the scratch. However, everything turned out re- 
 markably well ; Cripple put me up to the viva voce, and told me the 
 Bishop's favourite authors. As for the Bishop, I don't exaggerate when I 
 say he is one of the most gentlemanly men in the world — very kind and 
 considerate, as I have reason to know, and one of the most simple-minded 
 (Cripple calls it spoony-minded — but you know Cripple) men on the 
 bench, or off it either — and very good-looking as well. I can assure you 
 it is a very comfortable thing to have examinations over, and very glad 
 was I when my ordination was finished. It is a very affecting service, and 
 the sermon is awful. Chancellor Scollups preached it. Next thing to be 
 done is the priest business, and then all's over. I am as yet only a deacon. 
 Thank Heaven that's the last examination ! and then sha'n't I breathe 
 like a gold fish ! By-the-bye, perhaps you don't know that that word 
 priest is a contraction or presbyter, afterwards prester, and then priest. I 
 don't much like the word, because there's a black-looking rascal enjoying 
 
118 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 that title, and a bristly head of hair, who walks about all day long trying 
 to annoy my flock. A cunning dog he is ! He has built a large school, 
 and directly our church is over on Sunday he opens the doors, and de- 
 livers his lectures. Never mind. We are all right. The church was 
 never better attended, and the opposition keeps up an excitement. But 
 I'm sorry to say there's much to be done, especially as there is only one 
 to do it, and that's me. There is no end to the parish, and some of the 
 people won't know the only way to be saved, which is by coming to church, 
 and so I am upon the everlasting run from morning till night. But ' nil 
 nisi labori,' as the ancient Komans have it. I preach once every Sunday. 
 Last Sunday I preached for the pagans in Australasia (you'll find Asia in 
 any of the maps). The collection was very good, £2 Is. Oid., 7s. Qkd. of 
 which were in coppers, which Archdeacon Heavysides says, in one of his 
 sermons, he prefers seeing to gold, which I can't understand at all, and 
 think must be a misprint ! Heavysides and the Bishop, between our- 
 selves (don't mention it to any one), don't pull very comfortably together. 
 Heavysides says that the R. C. Church is the true apostolic. The Bishop 
 says it's no such thing, but neither more nor less than ' the man oj sin,' 
 and there I agree with him. Heavysides has got some queer notions, as 
 you see above, touching the coppers. Oh ! didn't I just give the priest a 
 dig the other day ! I gave out in the pulpit that I meant to preach, wind 
 and weather permitting (for we shut up sometimes in the winter — it is 
 so piercing cold), a sermon on the text, 'Be not deceived.' I winked at 
 the same time to the congregation, and pointed to the schism shop, 
 which you can see from the church, giving them to understand pretty 
 well what I meant. Well, the next day, who should call in but Bristles 
 himself, and he presses my hand, and smiles, and says he has paid me a 
 visit just to explain the liberal terms upon which he means to carry on 
 his school — 'most liberal terms/ cries Bristles — 'no religion whatever — 
 reading, writing, and morals — that's all.' Then I fired at him right and 
 left, till he looked like a fool. — - 1 hope/ says he, ' we shall be friends.' 
 ' What ! ' says I, ' friends with the Beast 1 — no ; thank you, sir — nothing 
 to do with you — come out of Babylon, will you?' ' Oh ! you are for con- 
 troversy, are you?' says he; 'very well then, my lad :' and then we went 
 at it till the fellow foamed at the mouth, and the nasty wretch spit in my 
 face, when I thought it time for a gentleman to bring the discussion to a 
 close, which I did, by ringing the bell, and ordering him out. He's what 
 they call in France, a perfect Jesuit. — Wishing that our correspondence, 
 now recommenced, may long continue, — 
 
 " Your faithful friend, 
 
 "Tom Myddleton." 
 " Coldblows, Hampshire. 
 
 " P.S. — By the way, the account you give me of your circumstances is 
 very shocking, and you have indeed been very much afflicted — I needn't 
 tell you to be very careful of yourself. I wish sincerely that it were in 
 my power to assist you even with a trifle. The poor in our parish would 
 surprise you, and as for charities, they are beyond belief — so I won't de- 
 scribe them. What a delightful thing it is to "feel, as Archdeacon Heavy- 
 sides says, that we are chastened for our good, and that it's all wise and 
 proper ! Oh, do think of that, my dear fellow !" 
 
 Thompson shortly made his appearance, but there was no need to in- 
 form him of the contents of this choice epistle. He read the pith and 
 postscript in my dejected countenance. I could not conceal my agitation 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 119 
 
 and the swelling tears that would not be kept down. I proceeded in 
 the packing of my one small trunk. 
 
 " Stay the other week," said Thompson bluntly, but evidently feeling 
 for my situation. 
 
 " Why should I] I shall be no better off than I am now, and you have 
 lost enough already. But I will pay you, Thompson, when I can — depend 
 upon it." 
 
 " But you can't go into the street, man — that's impossible. You'll get 
 into trouble, or be doing something — Bless my soul, it seem3 strange you 
 can't find employment ! What's your profession]" 
 
 How could I answer ! 
 
 " Don't be ashamed to tell me. P'raps you are a dancing-master. The 
 last lodger as had your room was, and I catched him one morning dancing 
 off afore breakfast without paying his rent — so 'I boned his fiddle for the 
 money. I've got it below, if it's any use to you." 
 
 I was still silent. 
 
 "Haven't you got no relations]" 
 
 This abrupt question brought to my recollection a packet of my poor 
 mother's papers, which, in the midst of my grief and remorse, I had com- 
 pletely forgotten. In this packet was a letter, written just before her 
 death, to a cousin at Birmingham, enclosed in one to myself, solemnly 
 enjoining me, should I ever stand in need of advice or assistance, to for- 
 ward the former to the prosperous relative whom she had passed some 
 time with in her early days. So earnestly and imploringly did she make 
 this request, that at any time I should have felt it a sacred duty to comply 
 with it; but now, when I found myself reduced to the last extremity, face 
 to face with gaunt poverty, the welcome remembrance of this letter came 
 upon me like a gleam of sunlight, illumining my spirit, and reanimating 
 my sinking soul. 
 
 " Relations, Thompson ! " I exclaimed. " How could I have forgotten 
 my mother's cousin at Birmingham V' 
 
 •■' Xow, there's where I find fault with you !" he exclaimed. " You 
 don't seem to know what you are about. Is it possible that a man without 
 a penny in his pocket should have his wits about him no better than a 
 child J Why don't you go to them at once 1 If they are your own blood 
 they can't see you starve." 
 
 u I'll write to-night." 
 
 "Ah! there you go again. Write! What's the use of writing] It's 
 just the way with all of you. Talk of the misery of not being able to 
 read or write ! I'm blessed if it ain't a privilege. There's many a fellow 
 will put upon paper what he'd be ashamed or afraid to say like a trump to 
 your face." 
 
 " That's all very good, Thompson ; but how am I to reach Birmingham 
 penniless, as you justly describe me] I must write to them. At the same 
 time I will forward my mother's letter 3 and beg them to send me money 
 sufficient to convey me to them." 
 
 " Then, I can tell you, you'll do no good at all. Catch Brummagem 
 sending money to buy himself an encumbrance. He'll make a hundred 
 and fifty excuses to keep you away. I know the world better. First and 
 foremost, you must find your way down to your uncle, or whatever he is. 
 Tell him you have come, give him the letter — say plump ' you are starv- 
 ing,' set yourself down, and let him kick you out if he can. You are 
 willing to work, and he must get you employment. I think I might 
 manage it now. You'd be glad to travel by waggon, wouldn't you]" 
 " Yes, had I even the means for that." 
 
120 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Well, but suppose I could find 'em. Or suppose I have a brother who 
 takes the waggon to Coventry, and suppose we could get you first there, 
 and afterwards to Brummagem, without any money at all. Finish your 
 packing, and just let me have a word with the missus." The energetic 
 Thompson departed, but quickly returned with Mrs. Thompson this time 
 in the rear. " They had settled my business," said Thompson, " with ease. 
 His brother would start for Coventry that night — he'd take care to secure 
 me a place in the wain, and he'd lend me a crown to buy provisions. If I 
 got into work, he'd expect to be paid — but if I had still my old luck, why, 
 he shouldn't be ruined though he gave it to me. Isn't that right, old 
 woman ]" he asked in conclusion. 
 
 "Quite right, Thompson!" was his good lady's reply;" and do, for 
 goodness' sake," she exclaimed, appealing to me, " give me those shirts to 
 put tidy before you set out. There isn't a button on one of them. Oh, 
 Thompson, what stockings too ! Your relations will think you have been 
 herding with heathens. Do give them here." And Mrs. Thompson dis- 
 ordered my trunk, and took possession of everything. 
 
 I joined these real friends at dinner : I partook of their tea. At night, 
 when his labours were over, Thompson threw my trunk on his shoulders, 
 and walked at my side to the Bull's Head, in Holborn. There we found 
 the waggon lighted up, and ready for moving. There, likewise, we found, 
 less ready, the waggoner himself, whip in hand, smock-frocked, and drinking 
 stirrup-cups indiscriminately with every member of the establishment. 
 No time was to be lost. My introduction was short. Thompson whis- 
 pered a word into the ear of his brother, packed me into the waggon, 
 forced into my hand a bottle of cordial, and a lump of cold meat, then 
 desiring me to write how I got on, he bade me take care of myself, and 
 wished me a hearty good-night. 
 
 My heart knocked at my breast with grateful emotion, as I watched 
 the noble-spirited labourer running through the streets back to his own 
 home— his genuine palace — where his wife and little ones, conscious of his 
 worth, proud of their possession, awaited him with joy and sweetest expec- 
 tation. " Happy dispenser of light and warmth, richer, in spite of all 
 your daily cares, than you can dream of or can understand, may Heaven 
 forget me, if I forget this sympathy for a stranger, tbis help that you can 
 ill afford to take from those whose hope of life, whose bread, depends 
 upon your sinewy arm!" Heavily the waggon issued from the yard into 
 the crowded thoroughfare, and tears, which none but the Invisible might 
 see, in deepest thankfulness to that humble man, passed down my cheek 
 — stopping my utterance. Why, ah why, to embitter and poison that most 
 healthful stream, came driving upon my conscience noxious recollections 
 of the irremeable past] Why returned upon my memory, with all the 
 freshness and vigour of a new existence, scenes of a former time, that 
 mocked me, whilst they forced me to consider and to contrast them with 
 that in which I acted now ] 
 
 W hat was the claim of this poor man — found but yesterday — great as I 
 acknowledged it to be, compared with that wbich I had recognised in her — 
 the beloved giver of my life — my lost and sainted mother? In what pas- 
 sionate terms had I expressed my illimitable love when she was about to 
 loose me into the Avorld unwillingly from her arms] What vows of en- 
 during reverence and duty did I not invoke the Heavenly One to witness, 
 consecrating every syllable with tears more plenteous, hotter, and more 
 innocent, than I had now to shed ! How had I realised the abundant pro- 
 mise] Where was the fruit of all this goodly sowing] Sad, sad, and over- 
 whelming recollection, dragging the crimson to my face, marking with 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 121 
 
 derision and contempt every burst of fancied sensibility, every tear of 
 visionary gratitude ! Truly, I had learned a lesson never to be forgotten, 
 and in my loneliness I conned it over, and closed my lips, and ceased mv 
 tears — convicted, humbled, and disgraced ! 
 
 Loud was the clink of hammers, and louder the noise of anvils, as I 
 sought my way through the close and narrow streets of Birmingham, seek- 
 ing the dwelling-place of Mr. Chaser. Busy were the looks of mortals, 
 and business-like their gait. Men with brawny arms, plated with thick 
 coats of dirt, met me at every turn, whilst higher mortals, full of bustle 
 and assurance, jostled along with a perking pride of industry staring on 
 their brow, that carried shame and terror to every idler on whom it chanced 
 to fall. Idlers, in truth, there were very few. Indolence and pleasure were 
 expelled from the streets, which were taken up entirely by an intense and 
 concentrated assiduity, real in many instances, but assumed in not a few. 
 As I walked through the close streets of Birmingham for the first time, I 
 could have imagined — and without taxing my imagination largely —that 
 I was once more trudging along the familiar ways of my own beloved City 
 —dear in spite of — perhaps, because of all that I had suffered in it — of 
 all that I had lost and left there ; but an accurate observer could not fail 
 to be impressed with the conviction that the imitation was defective, the 
 assimilation incomplete. London, mighty London, gigantic, incomparable, 
 and unapproachable, scarce noticeable was Birmingham's thin and thready 
 current contrasted with the overwhelming flood that I have seen pressing 
 along thy narrow, deeply-fretted channels ! Inferior was the place in all 
 respects. The very handicraftsmen were a less clean and neat, a paler and 
 a sadder race, than that I had left behind me. Mr. Chaser, my mother's 
 cousin, was the owner of a foundry, situated in a smoke-dried lane. Attached 
 to the works was a small house, in which resided the proprietor and his 
 family. I reached the door, surveyed it for a moment, and sighed with 
 apprehension. I touched the bell, and my heart palpitated when I heard 
 it tingling through the house. The bell was not answered. For a quarter 
 of an hour I stood expectant, lacking the courage to ring again. At last 
 I ventured. At the close of another quarter of an hour, and after a third 
 appeal, the door was opened. A young man, pale and sickly-looking, 
 stood before me : he was in his shirt sleeves. His hands and arms were 
 smeared with patches of dirt, and his face, from which perspiration was 
 falling thickly, matched them. His eyes were of a light blue colour, and 
 deeply sunk in his head. He fixed them on the ground, from which fact 
 you might possibly infer that he was modest and bashful, if the sinister 
 and villanous expression of the rest of his features did not prove him at 
 once to be as whiteliver'd and vicious, as he was blue-eyed and whitefaced. 
 
 "Did you ring before 1 ?" he enquired in a surly tone, and without deign- 
 ing to look at me. 
 
 "I did," I answered with some hauteur; "and I desire to speak with 
 your master." 
 
 " What do you mean stupid, by master?" was the elegant reply. "Here, 
 come," he continued. " Curse the door— this is how half the work gets 
 spoilt. He may find somebody else to be porter, or else a better man to 
 stand at the forge. Well, come in, can't you } Who are you i "What's 
 your business!" 
 
 "Does Mr. Chaser live here?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, of course he does — you know that as well as I do — didn't you 
 say just now you wanted to see him? — why, what the devil do you mean?" 
 
 With these words I was ushered, or rather pushed, into a room that 
 opened into the passage, and was within a few yards of the street door. 
 The pale-faced youth departed. Who was he ? " Surely not a relative of 
 
122 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Mr. Chaser's 1 His son, for instance 1 Oh, Heaven forbid ! I had scarcely- 
 time to notice two red-coloured prints upon the wall — representations of 
 Industry and Idleness — before a heavy footstep warned me to prepare for 
 the bodily presence of Mr. Chaser himself. My pulse leaped higher and 
 higher as the affecting moment of our interview drew near. How de- 
 lighted he would be to receive me ! He had never seen me before. Twenty 
 years had elapsed since he last beheld my mother. How he would grieve 
 to hear of her death ! How bitterly would he regret the angry words 
 which had passed between him and my father, giving rise to the family 
 quarrel which followed so soon afterwards — severing them entirely from 
 one another. A fat, unshaven gentleman walked in, and I retreated invo- 
 luntary a pace or two. He also was without a coat. An air of unmitiga- 
 ted vulgarity pervaded the whole man, and I prayed internally that the 
 fleshy bulk constituted Mr. Chaser's foreman. He spoke — the accent was 
 provincial — ''Well, young man, and what do you woant with me V 
 
 " Mr. Chaser, sir VI asked, too well assured already. 
 
 " Yes ; you've hit it," he answered with a grin. " I are Chaser, and I 
 are awful busy, too, so I'll thank you to make haste." 
 
 " You are connected, sir, I think, with a family of the name of Stukely," 
 (I looked in vain in Mr. Chaser's eye for some glad token of acknowledg- 
 ment,) "lately resident in London 1" I continued in dismay. 
 
 " Well, and whoat of that, my man ] If you have any claim on that 
 there estate, you should see the assignees. I can't help you. I haven't 
 seen the man for twenty years, and I doan't know nothing on his affairs. 
 My only wonder is, he warn't in the Gazette a score of years ago — a sleepy- 
 headed, obstinate, old stupid ass." 
 
 "I am his son, sir," I answered quickly — trembling with indignation. 
 " He is in his grave — you must not speak so of him." 
 
 " Whoat ! " he exclaimed, seemingly surprised, but laughing very loud, 
 " be you the chap as went to college to be made a parson on, and to learn 
 extravagance, as if they didn't teach it fast enough at home 1 Nice no- 
 tions them for working people ! I say," he added, tipping me what I sup- 
 posed to be the true Brummagem wink, " it was hardly fair upon the cre- 
 ditors to be filling your pockets up there when he knew he was a-going to 
 break. I've heard it all. We are not asleep, you see. And so the old 
 man's dead ! But he has taken care of you, I reckon]" 
 
 "I do not understand you, sir." 
 
 " Oh, doan't you V said he, looking very cunning. H Well, then, perhaps 
 you'll tell me whoat you have come to ask of me?-" 
 
 "Nothing," I answered, determined at that moment, if I died after- 
 wards of want, not to become indebted to Mr. Chaser for a sixpence. 
 
 " Noathing 1 — that's queer at any rate. Well — your mother's dead, I 
 hear. A pretty match she made of it at last! I toald her how it would be 
 — and so did everybody else. A good woman, too, was Mary. I loiked 
 your mother. Many a frolic I are had with her when we were youngsters. 
 She was a tenderhearted creature. I wonder she never wrote to me ; but 
 if she had, I dare say I shouldn't have answered her, for I hate writing, 
 and I couldn't bear your father." 
 
 Disgusted as I had become in this short space of time with Mr. Chaser, 
 his affectionate remembrance of my mother extracted all viciousness from 
 the aversion with which I looked upon him. Furthermore, his mention 
 of my dear mother's name recalled her last few lines to me — her latest 
 wish — and I felt that I dared not withhold the letter from Mr. Chaser's 
 hands. In many things I had crossed the nearest wishes of her heart. 
 The only compensation that I could offer to her memory was a compliance 
 with her strict injunction. What if a shrinking sense of vexation and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 123 
 
 of shame irritated me, and sought to hold me back ?- What if, in en- 
 treating aid from such a man, I suffered pangs far more severe than any 
 the wide and open world could inflict upon me] It was reasonable and 
 just. The retribution had commenced. It was proper that I should 
 suffer. I placed the letter on the table. 
 
 "And whoat do you call that there]" enquired Mr. Chaser, as I did so. 
 
 " A letter from my mother, addressed to you, sir, and written many 
 months ago." 
 
 "And whoy, in the name of goodness, didn't you send it by the post be- 
 fore ! That's cheap and expeditious like." 
 
 " Read it, sir," I answered. 
 
 " Noa, do you read it to me. I should loike to hear a college chap. 
 That must be foine — cut on." 
 
 I was sick at heart ; but I performed my penance faithfully, and read on. 
 It was a long epistle ; such as I expected it to be. First, it reverted, and 
 most feelingly, to the distant days which they had passed together, nur- 
 tured and brought up under one roof — but soon it flew to its main object, 
 that of securing for me a home when my own should have passed away. 
 She implored her cousin to receive me, and informed him that her death- 
 bed would be made easy by the assurance she would have in her last mo- 
 ments of his ready agreement with her wishes. 
 
 ""Well, I are glad of that, at all events," said Chaser, when I had 
 finished. 
 
 "Of what, sir?" I enquired. 
 
 " Of her dying easy and assured ; because whatever happens now can 
 make no difference to her. I doan't see what I can do for you. My lads 
 have done their schooling, and I are too old to learn myself. You put up 
 for a schoolmaster, I suppose]" 
 
 " I think, sir, I could teach the rudiments." 
 
 " Can you make a pair of breeches V 
 
 "A pair of breeches !" 
 
 "Yes — boots, or anything that's useful] You doan't expect me to keep 
 you like a gentleman at college, do you] The lads are wanting clothes. 
 If you were a tailor, now, you might have the job." 
 
 " I am willing to work, sir," I replied, " and am ready to learn ; and I 
 come to you only in obedience to my mother's commands. If you can 
 help me, and wish to help me, a little ridicule, and a few harsh words, 
 shall not prevent my accepting a favour at your hands." 
 
 " I doan't know what you mean by that exactly. I suppose it's sarce. 
 D — n it, beggars shouldn't be sarcy, any how !" 
 
 My acquaintance with Mr. Chaser would at this moment have been 
 brought to an abrupt conclusion, if the sudden appearance of a lady had 
 not permitted the train of angry words, that had already taken fire on my 
 tongue, to go out without explosion. The lady was finely dressed ; she 
 presented a marked, and I thought at first a favourable, contrast to the 
 two male beasts with whom it had been my unlucky fate to engage on this 
 eventful morning. She was bedizened in a highly coloured gown, and a 
 pink turban adorned a reddish head of hair. Her person was short and 
 thin, and she had a small face with pinched-up features. Her mouth was 
 very small indeed by nature, but art was reducing its dimensions daily. 
 Could she live long enough, the time would arrive at length for its closing 
 up and disappearance altogether. It will have been observed that in the 
 language and deportment of the gentleman, there had appeared a slight 
 uncouthness, an utter absence, in fact, of the polished ways and forms of 
 life — those smiling agents, who, on the shortest notice, so courteously and 
 so ably occupy the place of friendship — herself too sacred for undis- 
 
124 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 tinguishable mixing in the world. This obvious fault it was the lady's 
 anxious effort to improve. Her method was a pretty one. As I have said, 
 she screwed and drew her mouth into the smallest and genteelest shape, 
 and words fit only for a lady's lips struggled through it, cut and polished, 
 and qualified for ears as royal as a queen's. What could display high 
 breeding better than such a mouth and such speech ? True it is, that in 
 the process of refining, some words were clipped and maimed, shorn of a 
 few proportions. But much might be forgiven where the intention was 
 so good as Mistress Chaser's. Was it her fault that V and W would still 
 play masquerade upon her tongue — that Feal was Weal, and Jfashing 
 Fashing ? Was she to blame if some independent and unnatural H would 
 at momentous periods be absent without leave ; and could she be answer- 
 able if he appeared again just when absenteeism was most devoutly to be 
 wished ? How willingly would she have kept the unruly alphabet in order, 
 had it been permitted her ! What but an obedient alphabet did she need, 
 in order to become a perfect model of good manners and elegant deport- 
 ment ? Mr. Chaser introduced me in his own offensive manner to the fine 
 lady, and took his leave immediately, informing me, as he departed, that 
 it was very plain I could be of no use to him — there was nothing I could 
 do in the shop, and therefore he could be of no possible service to me. 
 He thought, as I had travelled from London on purpose to see him, that 
 I might as well stay that day to dinner ; if I did so, he promised to in- 
 troduce me to as fine " a set of cheaps as had ever grown out of loins, 
 though every one had earned his living since he was ten year old, and 
 ne'er a soul of the lot had ever been to college." He grinned and left me. 
 
 The plaited lips then opened slightly, and a few syllables escaped them. 
 "You are, I presume, the relative of Mr. Chaser?" 
 
 " My mother was, ma'am," I replied, waiving all personal claim to that 
 high honour. 
 
 "He is a noble character, is he not 1 ? The true John Bull — the English- 
 man. There is no hart about him — none at all." 
 
 " Very little, ma'am, I think," I answered, most sincerely. 
 
 "You have been introduced to Master William, have you not 1 ?" 
 
 " I have not been so fortunate." 
 
 "He told me that he had spoken to you." 
 
 " I have seen no one, ma'am, but Mr. Chaser, and the man who came to 
 the street door." 
 
 " That man, as you design him, was dear Master William. He is our 
 eldest boy — and is at the head of the 'rough' department." 
 
 "Where then presided Mr. Chaser 1 ?" thought I, at once smiling from 
 the very depths of my misery. 
 
 " You shall see all the boys at dinner, Mr. Stukely. As Mr. Chaser 
 said in his queent way, they are as fine a set of children as ever you be- 
 held." 
 
 "Have you many of them, ma'am?" 
 
 " I have Aeight." Every one superintends one department — so that all 
 our eyes is always on our men." 
 
 I began to think of my prospects, and to consider my next movements. 
 I spoke mechanically to Mrs. Chaser — hardly aware of my questions, or 
 conscious of her replies. 
 
 "Have you any daughters, ma'am 1 ?" I asked, for want of a better ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " One, Mr. Stukely — Miss Eliza. She is now at ome for the olydays. — 
 Do you hear that ? — listen ! " 
 
 "What ma'am?" 
 
 " The dear at her piano. Miss Eliza is twelve years old — she will be 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 125 
 
 quite accomplished. She has a fortune from my father of her own — quite 
 ^independently of Mr. Chaser. She is a parlour boarder, sir."' 
 
 "No doubt, ma'am." 
 
 " You shall see her, Mr. Stukely. She is a simple-minded creature — 
 all life and nature. I will call her — Miss Eliza — Miss Eliza!" bawled 
 the good lady from the bottom of the stairs. 
 
 There was a loud giggle in reply, and nothing more. 
 
 " She is such a timid creature. I must fetch her — Pardon me." 
 
 The lady curtsied and vanished from my presence with a dignity which, 
 cut up in little, would have furnished handsomely a dozen families. For 
 a few minutes I stood in active expectation of the threatened visitation. 
 It did not come. By degrees I ceased to look for it, and at last I let it 
 pass from my remembrance altogether. My mind had weightier thought 
 to bear, and it came with fearful pressure. "What was I to do] — whither 
 flee next for help? The last, the only hope, was dissipated. The anchor 
 to which I had fondly held, dreaming of stability and security, had slip- 
 ped from my clutch, and had cast me hopelessly adrift. I felt the hot 
 blood mounting to my cheek and brain, as I took courage to look with 
 steadiness upon my isolated, desperate condition. The room grew too 
 confined ; it was with difficulty I breathed, and I rushed into the open air. 
 11 Never," I vowed, " should that inhuman door be closed again upon me." 
 
 But I walked afterwards for three hours through the long streets of the 
 strange town, and again and again I found myself before the only dwell- 
 ing that contained human creatures who knew me, to whom I could speak 
 — and I was inclined to ring the bell again — to obtain admittance— ask 
 advice — seek aid. Twenty times, pride, anger and disgust interposed to re- 
 strain my steps, and to protect me against further insult — if not from fur- 
 ther suffering and sorrow. Weakness, inclination, the fear of starvation, of 
 a horrid death from hunger — these were in the opposite balance, and I was 
 content at length to submit to new mortification — to deeper self-abase- 
 ment. The man had asked me to his table. "Who knew what would arise 
 from such a meeting — what sparks of generosity and tender feeling might 
 be elicited from the social board? It was due to my poor mother to make 
 one more attempt. This idea had not occurred to me before. I was glad 
 to find it rising thus to check the dangerous tendencies of my evil pas- 
 sions — passions that ever repay indulgence by treachery and betrayal. 
 Emboldened by the instigation of a virtuous principle, sustained by its 
 presence, once more I visited my relatives. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 FRIENDS AND RELATIONS. 
 
 Sir Giles Overreach. — " We worldly men, when we see friends and kinsmen 
 Past hope, sunk in their fortunes, lend no hand 
 To lift 'em up, but rather set our feet 
 Upon their heads, to press 'em to the bottom." 
 
 A New Way to Pay Old Debts. 
 
 It was twelve o'clock at noon when I again breathed the smoky but 
 grateful atmosphere of my relatives' habitation. The dinner party which 
 I had been invited to join was already assembled, and at once, and without 
 ceremony, I was admitted to a private view of the complete and graceful 
 
126 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 group of Chasers. It is proper for me here to state, that the obese brass- 
 founder — Chaser, senior — was a man of wealth. He had ten thousand 
 pounds in cash, of which a parental government kindly took the charge, 
 thereby relieving him from much solicitude and many restless nights, and 
 for which he held securities, the most secure that could be found ; the foun- 
 dry and the dwelling-house had long since become his own ; that unobtru- 
 sive row of houses in the adjacent alley that bore the burden of a line of 
 workshops, and contained a little world of petty renters, were content to 
 call him owner ; and in the main street opposite, a good-sized house or two 
 just raised and hardly finished, were indebted to him for their existence. 
 Nor were these all. Three miles from Birmingham, where smoke and 
 dirt were not, but in their place a broad expanse of sky, a wholesome air, 
 hedges, trees, and shrubberies, there was a field of rising ground, and on 
 the hillock's centre were springing up the solid glories of a suburban 
 palace. Here, likewise, the teeming forge of Mr. Chaser supplied the 
 mind and muscle, the stone and brick-clay, that were engaged in rearing 
 to its height the noble structure. Whether the opulent owner proposed 
 to end his days here, or built his castle on speculation, and in the way of 
 business only, I cannot sa} r .. Such particulars as I have communicated to 
 my worthy reader, 1 learned from Thomas, the intelligent ostler of the 
 Sun, at which I had slept ; and the inference I drew from the good 
 news was, that notwithstanding all the grossness and vulgarity of my man 
 of metal, he enjoyed a laudable relish for those choice palatable delicacies 
 of life which he could so well afford to purchase, and which after all are 
 not to be despised by poor and hungry men. With this consoling, ani- 
 mating thought, and with an appetite roused and sharpened by long exer- 
 cise, I approached his table. 
 
 I entered the long passage, and passed into the small kitchen at its 
 extremit} 7 , and there, in various parts of it, sat, stood, reclined, and lolled, 
 the interesting family. Dinner had commenced, and all were eating. A 
 deal table, relying upon three legs placed at unequal distances from the 
 centre, being small, was appropriated, as was just, to Mrs. Chaser and her 
 spouse. Under the shadow of a door, and in a corner, seated on a stool, 
 knife in hand, I caught the figure of the blue- eyed youth — the eldest son, 
 and supervisor of the rough department. As great men carry their busi- 
 ness-habits into the retreats of life, so did my ancient friend appear to 
 adorn the domestic hearth with graces borrowed from his peculiar occupa- 
 tion. Still uncoated, and still covered with black honours conferred upon 
 him by the smithy — still turning his pale and inauspicious countenance 
 from your gaze, silent and unobservant he sat, reducing to their original 
 elements a monstrous hunch of bread torn from the loaf, and an endless 
 surface of fried bacon, ravished from the flitch. Reclining against the 
 above-mentioned door, and similarly employed, was a youth by a year or 
 two the junior of my friend. His face was, like his brother's, white, but, 
 unlike his, good-humoured. The heavy monotony of beans and bacon was 
 relieved, on the part of this young gentleman, by a lively exhibition of 
 grotesque grimaces, performed apparently for the improvement and delight 
 of invisible spectators in the yard aforesaid. A bench was fixed against 
 the wall. Here sat in company a pair of juvenile Chasers; in company as 
 respects their bodies and the swallowing of the beans, but as to conversa- 
 tion, friendly exchanges, and the like, as far asunder as the poles. One 
 dish supplied the two. They ate with little modesty or reserve, each 
 against the other — both against time. One boy, the last male Chaser, 
 present, had a seat at the dresser with Ebenezer, the apprentice — a strange 
 lad, of whom I shall have to speak at some length hereafter. This hope- 
 ful twig (not Ebenezer, but his messmate) diversified the moments by 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 127 
 
 mischievous attempts to rob the poor apprentice of any little comfort that 
 he could get in such a family, and from such a meal. Now he called his 
 attention to some curious phenomena in the room, and took the oppor- 
 tunity to dig a fork into his bacon, and so hone it. Now he acted with his 
 feet certain evolutions beneath the table, causing the boy to writhe, to 
 stoop, to rub his legs. Then vanished from his plate beans by spoonsful. 
 The victim said nothing, but bore the molestation with a meekness 
 amounting to a fault. Yery sorrowful he looked, and intimate with 
 trouble. The canker had already galled the early promises of his spring 
 — if the promise flower can ever shoot and grow in poverty's unsunned, 
 neglected garden. There is little more to be noticed in this exclusive 
 dining-room. " Miss Eliza" sat upon her father's knee, over against her 
 mother. The young lady was the latest produce, and being on that ac- 
 count the best beloved, was, according to a sound philosophy, neglected, 
 spoiled, and ruined. Her hair was very red, her face freckled, and her 
 behaviour froward and most insolent. She assisted her parent's degluti- 
 tion by a constant pulling at his whiskers ; and her parent submitted to 
 the infliction without a murmur, like a wise man as he was, in the pre- 
 sence of one greater then he. With joy be it said, as with unbounded delight 
 I remarked, that the overbearing Chaser himself was but a humble sub- 
 ject in his own house, under the despotic government of his own wife. 
 An appropriate servant-girl professed to clean some dishes at a sink. I 
 did not believe her. Yet charity hopeth all things, and is therefore 
 bound to hope that even the dirtiest person, and the blackest water, and 
 the foulest sink, may contrive, between them, to achieve a miracle. There 
 -was little ornament in the room except upon the ceiling. This was taste- 
 fully decorated with hams and sides of bacon, which were, no doubt, greatly 
 improving in flavour under the treatment of sundry flies and blue-bottles, 
 who passed the summer months here, and gave their best attention to the 
 food in question. 
 
 Nobody thought fit to notice me. Before I had time to say a word, the 
 eldest son rose from his seat and sighed. " That's done," said he, and then, 
 without another word, departed. " Hollo there, Bill ! " cried the father, 
 calling him again, "how get you on] Do you want me, lad]" 
 
 " Xo," replied the son. " I've set the men on Brownlow's work. They 
 won't be done afore to-morrow at dinner-time." 
 
 " What have you done with Gruel, Bill V 
 
 " Gove him the sack," said Bill, " on Saturday night. I see'd how it 
 was with him. He's going to break up all at once like Skivers did, and 
 then we should have another wife and family hanging on again for months. 
 I wasn't a bit too soon with Gruel, I can tell you. He's in the horspittle 
 by now." 
 
 " Yery well, Bill," said Mr. Chaser in a voice of contentment. " Any- 
 thing else]" 
 
 " Yes, very well indeed, my dear," added Mrs. Chaser herself, u and very 
 careful of your father's interest ; but recollect, Master William, you have 
 not yet said grace, and how often have I told you that no blessing can ac- 
 company our best actions if we neglect " 
 
 "Oh, bother!" cried Bill, interupting her, and taking his leave at the 
 same time. 
 
 A general laugh succeeded. All bore a part in it but the sad apprentice. 
 When it subsided, Mr. Chaser was polite enough to turn to me. 
 
 "There, sit down, lad," said he. " Take that seat of Bill's. What has 
 kept you all this time ] I was in hopes — I was afeard, I mean, that you 
 had gone home again. Wanted to look about you, eh 1 I say, Molly ■ 
 
128 CALEB STU.KELT. 
 
 " Oh ! " shrieked the lady, trying very hard and ineffectually to blush. 
 " Fie, Mr. Chaser, fie ! Remember, we are not alone. Mary, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Well, Mary, my dear, is all them beans gone % Is that there bit of 
 bacon cold] because if it ain't, just give it to the boy, and if it are, let 
 Susan brile another rasher." 
 
 " It's not quite cold," said the imaginative and economic Mrs. Chaser. 
 
 "More it ain't!" exclaimed her husband, planting the back of his fat 
 hand upon it to be convinced. " There, enjoy yourself a bit," continued 
 he, putting the savoury morsel into my hand. " You must be rare and 
 hungry. Fill your belly, and then I'll hear all you've got to say." 
 
 A bright remembrance of a delicious day passed in Cambridge, spent 
 in honourable toil, when the unknown future was arrayed in all the 
 apparel of a gorgeous fancy — stole suddenly upon me. The feelings of 
 that day — the soft contentment, pure satisfaction — the fond and pardon- 
 able pride — the feelings and the incidents of that day, vivid and clear, 
 were here in Chaser's kitchen. How, why, or when they come, who shall 
 tell me 1 They pierced, and penetrated, and left me quickly as they had 
 come, with the warm blood gushing from my stricken heart. 
 
 I held my plate in silence, sitting on the stool, surveying the cold 
 bacon, but for the moment thinking of nothing less. 
 
 "Oh, it isn't good enough, isn't it?-" said Chaser, looking at me all the 
 time. "I don't doubt you are used to better, but don't despise your 
 wittles. What, ain't you done yet V he exclaimed, turning upon the ap- 
 prentice. " Ebenezer — this won't do, my lad. Come, missus, call upon 
 Ebenezer for his grace." 
 
 Ebenezer's knife and mouth were in juxtaposition. 
 
 "Now, Master Ebenezer, if you please," said his mistress solemnly, 
 " put your knife down. ' For what,' Go on." 
 
 Poor Ebenezer dropped his knife, and mumbled something very indis- 
 tinctly about his "thankfulness;" for what, or to whom, it was impossible 
 to gather. He also took his leave. 
 
 There is no arguing with a healthy and determined hunger. It has no 
 moral perceptions. Offended to the quick by my cavalier and disdainful 
 reception, incensed at the free and easy mode of Mr. Chaser, his domi- 
 neering behaviour and address, I vowed internally to taste none of the 
 food that could be offered to me with a better grace. But an internal 
 vow ! Heaven help it in a struggle with an internal growl! Snow before 
 the meridian sun ! a syllabub before a giant ! I hated Mr. Chaser, I hated 
 his family, I hated the meanness and depravity of human nature, my own 
 nature, myself; but I devoured beans and bacon with avidity, and having 
 finished them, and appeased the animal craving, I became vexed and 
 miserable indeed. Long before I had concluded my repast, three Chasers 
 made a simultaneous rush to the sink, where, turning on the spout which 
 admitted water, they participated in one short and incomplete ablution. 
 Six hands, of different size and shape and colour, were thrust under the 
 tap, catching what liquid they might in the general melee. A second 
 rush towards a family jack-towel, suspended on a thundering roller behind 
 the kitchen door, and more startling than the first by reason of that 
 roller; and a third rush, out of the room and into the open yard, com- 
 pleted with a fine effect another act of the performance. Very gratifying 
 to my vanity, and nattering to my feelings, was the marked attention of 
 my young and new-found relatives. 
 
 Of the male offspring there remained now in the room only the face- 
 tious performer on his own face— evidently his father's favourite. There 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 129 
 
 was an air of independence and low assurance about this youth the 
 
 result of an unlimited and fatal indulgence — that was offensive iu the 
 highest degree. His enviable privilege it seemed to banter and expose 
 to ridicule the venerable author of his existence — favoured child ! The 
 sire's ambition and vain pride it was, to be the subject of the hopeful's 
 sallies — sapient father ! If, on my arrival in Birmingham, I had enter- 
 tained a hope of becoming the book-keeper, clerk, or accountant of Mr. 
 Chaser, and if, even whilst sitting on the stool and swallowing my dinner, 
 that hope at intervals still stole forth, faintly and indistinctly glimmerino• 
 it was effectually extinguished during the short conversation that was 
 now about to take place. 
 
 " Well, Tom," said Mr. Chaser, smiling. 
 
 '•'Well, old gentleman," replied the son, smiling also. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " continued the father, struck comical by the repartee, 
 and laughing outright. 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha ! rejoined the son, imitating him, and laughing outright 
 also. 
 
 " Don't, Tom, don't ! — there's a good fellow," cried old Chaser, im- 
 ploringly, and shaking all over ; " take care — don't — I am so full ! " 
 
 " Well, I won't, old gentleman ; but I say, do tell what's-his-name here 
 [a polite reference to me] that story about you, and mother, and the band- 
 box." 
 
 "Master Thomas — Master Thomas!" interposed Mrs. Chaser, frowning 
 a reproof. 
 
 " Ah, that's right ! Molly, stop him — do. Let my wit ties settle, Tom." 
 
 " Come, go it, father," continued Tom, urging him on, and taking no 
 notice of his mother's remonstrance. "Begin at the old place — ' When 
 missus and I was a-courting.' " 
 
 "Did you hear me, Master Thomas'?" enquired the lady, in a louder 
 tone. 
 
 " She ■persuades me one day to walk into a hay-field," said Tom, pro- 
 ceeding in the narrative. 
 
 "How can you sit there, laughing, Mr. Chaser]" asked Mrs. Chaser, 
 very angry indeed, " encouraging your son in this family exposy .-'' 
 
 " Oh — oh — oh ! " groaned Chaser, in convulsions. 
 
 "Now Molly's wind, was none of the best," continued Tom. 
 
 u Miss Eliza, Miss Eliza !" exclaimed Mrs. Chaser, with feelings wounded 
 to the quick, but still with all her dignity, "'leave your parent's knee this 
 minute. I cannot suffer you to breathe this tainted atmospear. Mr. 
 Chaser, I am shocked at your behaviour. Miss Eliza, come." Exeunt 
 Mrs. Chaser and Eliza. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Chaser, wiping down his forehead, "I are puffed for cer- 
 tain. We have put our foot in it now, Tom. Get along, } r ou dog, and 
 look to business!''' It was a talismanic word, and sobered Mr. Chaser 
 quickly. In a moment again the poetry of life was dissipated, and he 
 was the brassfounder and the proprietor of the suburban mansion. " I 
 are not going to be bamboozled by Uphill any longer. Have you wrote 
 him to say so, Tom]" 
 
 Merry and jocose as was Master Tom, even in his ill-regulated mind 
 joking was held subordinate to the important consideration of "the main 
 chance." 
 
 " Haven't I, though \ " he said, in answer to his father's question. " I 
 wish you had seen the letter." 
 
 "What did you say to the thief]" asked the parent, working himself 
 up to an intense hatred of the unfortunate Mr. Uphill. 
 
 K 
 
130 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 • Oh, the humbug ! I gave it him veil," answered Tom, stirring up 
 the caldron of unholy passions. " His bill's due on Monday ; he offered 
 fifty pounds to meet it, and the other fifty in a fortnight's time. I told 
 him we had done that for him once afore, and wasn't going to do it again. 
 If he couldn't pay regularly he shouldn't buy the goods, and, as he had 
 bought 'em, he must bide the consequences. If he failed to pay the bill 
 on Monday, the lawyer must certainly have a touch at him on Tuesday." 
 
 " Did you say, Tom, that I was out of pocket by the whole trans- 
 action'?" 
 
 " Leave me alone for that. In course I did." 
 
 " It was very lucky, Tom, we got him to take that old metal off our 
 hands when we renewed his bill. We should never have sold it else. It 
 wasn't worth the price of carriage, and he paid for it handsomely." 
 
 " Yes, you can't grumble there, I think, old gentleman — something like 
 a hundred per cent., I reckon." 
 
 " Did you write to him that I hadn't a sixpence of ready money in the 
 house, and that lots of bills were coming due on Tuesday V 
 
 " Why, to be sure I did. I wrote the usual thing, only with a little 
 more of spice for the occasion." 
 
 " What have you done with the five hundred pounds as was remitted 
 from America this morning'?" 
 
 " It's in the desk." 
 
 " Then pay it, Tom, at once into the bank. We've got nothing to pay 
 away this month, have we'?" 
 
 " Nothing but the wages." 
 
 " What's our next job, Tom V 
 
 " Oh, don't break your heart — I've lots to do ! There's no fear of rust 
 in this house. I ain't begun the books yet, but them's soon done. There's 
 only two months to enter up. Why did you ask % " 
 
 " Nothing pertikler. I want a pipe, Tom." 
 
 Tom directed his steps to a cupboard, one of the innumerable conve- 
 niences Avith which this small kitchen was crowded. From it he drew 
 forth a well-used clay pipe, and a home-made box of burnished brass con- 
 taining the tobacco. 
 
 " I say, father," he said in a half whisper, lighting the pipe which he had 
 previously filled, " do tell the Londoner here your wonderful story about 
 mother and the bandbox." 
 
 " Get out, you rascal ! " replied his father, threatening to throw a plate 
 at his head. Tom caught his father's hand, caused the plate to fall to smash, 
 and then with an extraordinary grimace performed especially for the occa- 
 sion, took instantly his leave. Theie was no doubt of this lad's being the 
 genius of the family, and head of the literary department. If matters had 
 worn a more favourable aspect, and my reception had been of the most 
 satisfactory nature, the only situation that I could possibly fulfil in this 
 establishment was already occupied by a principal, the possessor of powers 
 which I might in vain attempt to emulate or acquire. There was no home 
 for me with Mr. Chaser; and, alas, alas! there was no home forme in the 
 wide and populous world. I rose from my seat. 
 
 " What ! are you off?" enquired Mr. Chaser, in a voice that fully ex- 
 pressed his wishes in the matter. 
 
 "I was thinking, sir " 
 
 " Well, don't hurry for a minute. I'll hear all you have got to say. 
 What is it you expect ? What are you fit for % Now let's hear all about 
 it." Mr. Chaser fixed himself cosily and comfortably in his chair, crossed 
 his legs, puffed his pipe, and prepared himself, with a true patronising air, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 131 
 
 for anything I had to communicate. I sat down again, and after a despe- 
 rate struggle with my better self, I resolved to take my opportunity, and to 
 engage all the energy I possessed in one last tremendous effort to move the 
 man to succour and befriend me. I coughed, and hemmed, and took the 
 necessary measures for a long oration — my auditor was all attention. I 
 felt that my only chance of prevailing with my antagonist was by com- 
 pelliug his mind to dwell upon the memory of my lost mother — by speaking 
 of their early intercourse — by calling up a point in his existence when his 
 soul was fresher — his heart less fortified by the bulwarks which an edu- 
 cated selfishness — miscalled worldly wisdom — had set up against mankind. 
 I spoke to him of her many sorrows, the untimely loss of all her offspring, 
 her fears, anxieties, and endless watchings at my infant cradle. I spoke to 
 him of her unbounded love, her self-denial, and her long-endurance. I told 
 him how she had ventured her little all of earthly happiness to secure my 
 affection, that was her right — my present and eternal good, which she lived 
 to forward — how she had lost her venture, and how the loss of it had beg- 
 gared, ruined, and destroyed her. " In obedience to her command, sir, I 
 have come to you," were my concluding words. " In compliance with the 
 desire that strove in her heart., when every other worldly wish was disre- 
 garded or dismissed. Disobedient in many things, I obey her last injunction. 
 I appear before you, recommended by her dying breath, and by the memo- 
 ries which attach you to the departed. I am no idler. I would not depend 
 upon your charity for my daily bread. It is in your power, no doubt, to pro- 
 cure me employment in this large, busy town. Your influence must be, 
 from your position, important ; I ask, entreat you, to use that power, to 
 employ that influence, for the child of your lost friend and cousin — once 
 beloved and cared for, according to your own acknowledgment. You shall 
 find me but too glad to labour for my existence in any condition of life. 
 Do not think that I have gone through the burning fires of the past with- 
 out some puriiying — some improvement. To toil and to sweat is the uni- 
 versal lot. Happy am I to be set free with no harder punishment. Put 
 me in the way of an humble, honourable independence — it is all I ask — 
 and I will thank and bless you." 
 
 For the first few seconds, Mr. Chaser hearkened to my recital with great 
 respect. Then he altered his position in the chair, turned his back upon 
 me, and listened apparently with an attention rivetted to every word. I 
 noticed the refreshing change; I perceived that I had struck, at length, 
 a human chord — my heart leaped at the brightening prospect, my tongue 
 took courage, and warmed with animating sounds. Soon the pipe was for- 
 gotten, and it dropped neglected on his knee, whilst his big head fell sadly 
 on his shoulders. What ! had I reached and shaken the old man's heart 
 of iron, and did the favourite pipe give place so readily to my poor cause? 
 Oh ! force of natural eloquence, not to be resisted by the mightiest when 
 thou comest on the wings of passion and with the strength of Truth ! I 
 concluded my address. — The man was vanquished. He did not move a 
 limb— a muscle — he did not breathe. Was it shame for his previous un- 
 deserved and cruel treatment of me % — was it sorrow and remorse that held 
 him thus silent and breathless % Had I set bleeding afresh some ancient 
 and half-cicatrized ulcer of the mind 1 ? Was conscience still so tender in 
 this rough-hewn case 1 I had indeed achieved a victory, not more glorious 
 for the conqueror than advantageous for the conquered. I had no more to 
 say, but I stood still, ready to reap the rich reward of my success ; and for 
 some minutes Mr. Chaser kept still likewise. "Intense and profitable 
 moments for us both," thought I. Mr. Chaser at length breathed softly. 
 
 k 2 
 
132 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 I waited for his words— none came, but he breathed again. " What," said 
 I, secretly, " are the pains and tortures of the body, compared with the 
 throes and agonies of a stricken conscience ! What may be his sufferings 
 now !" Still he drew his breath, and still he sat motionless. I approached 
 him, and held out my hand. He did not take it. I was deeply moved ; 
 I walked across the kitchen and placed myself before him. I had scarcely 
 
 done it, when I was startled, terrified, by a snore ! Mr. Chaser was 
 
 indeed fast asleep— and had been so, there was no doubt of it, ever since 
 he had arranged himself in his chair, and had turned his back upon me 
 and my resistless eloquence. 
 
 The shadow of my form crossing the closed eyes of the sleeper— awoke 
 him. He muttered some words with a confused apprehension of the 
 passing scene. Then he looked about him, surveyed the kitchen generally 
 but obscurely with half-opened eyes, and called upon me "just to repeat 
 that there last word again." 
 
 "■ Which word 1 ?" I asked, sick — most sick at heart. 
 ' " About your mo— ther— go to bed— wish good-bye "—and the eyes were 
 covered gently over by the lid, and he bobbed his head, and was fast 
 asleep again. 
 
 With a fiercer desire to suffocate the snoring brassfounder than had 
 possessed Hamlet when his hands itched to shorten the prayers of his 
 over-pious uncle, I dragged myself away from the temptation. Leaving 
 immediately the hall of "feasting, I directed my steps towards the manu- 
 factory. Here were life and animation truly. Workshop after workshop 
 I passed through, [meeting a hundred creatures in my progress, too busy 
 with their hands to grant their eyes one passing glance at the intruder. 
 In every room there was a Chaser, securing the respect and homage due to 
 the unconscious spirit reposing in the kitchen, and which otherwise might 
 have been suspended — so inconstant and disloyal are the masses ! Few 
 words were thrown away, and fewer moments lost. Each workman felt 
 the uncomfortable influence of the evil eye that fell upon him — that fixed 
 him to his work, and kept him hammering in spite of all his struggles for 
 rest and breathing-time. The youthful Chasers were present in a twofold 
 character. Ostensibly they presided over the different departments of the 
 factory, to labour with the men as labourers. Really they were so many 
 spies, noting the various proceedings, compelling silence, enforcing con- 
 stancy, marking down defalcations. How accurately they performed this 
 division of their task, the workmen themselves acknowledged with wonder 
 and dismay as Saturday night arrived, and with it the acceptable settling 
 time. If, during the short interval of social relaxation, my young friends 
 had found nothing to say to me, I could hardly expect them to be very com- 
 municative during the severer hours of business. They permitted me to 
 pursue my road without the smallest greeting or acknowledgment of my 
 presence. One room contained a regiment of young girls who were 
 engaged in the higher branches of the service. Their office it was to 
 finish and furnish the last touches to the work, which had become brighter 
 and cleaner as it gradually descended from the rough hands of dirty 
 Master William. Over this youthful corps Mrs. Chaser herself sat in 
 authority. An awful silence prevailed. The little burnishers and lac- 
 querers held their breath, and the mistress had enough to do to watch 
 that none escaped them. As I proceeded, the lady bowed her head with 
 much solemnity. Another room completed the survey. It -was the 
 counting-house — a small square chamber, filled with drawings and designs 
 carved in wax or cast in plaster. Here was a desk and one high stool. 
 
THE ATTENTIVE LISTENEK. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 133 
 
 Here sat smoking a pipe, in humble imitation of his parent, the facetious 
 Tom. A jug* of small-beer was before him ; the ashes of his tobacco were 
 strewed upon the open books. He was the only lazy man in the establish- 
 ment — true, he was the only genius. A smile was on the countenance of 
 Master Tom. This was no compliment to me ; his face Was never serious. 
 The counting-house conducted to the street. I snuffed the fresh invigo- 
 rating air blowing through the open door. How glad was I to feel again, 
 the generous element about me ! I was not so thoroughly deserted as I 
 deemed. I had my health, my liberty, and oh, above all, I was sensible 
 and alive to the beneficent operations of a bounteous and all-healing 
 nature. I heard the buzz of human voices. Hope whispered delusively 
 in my ears, and promised more than I could ask. I listened eagerly to 
 her promptings, and rose superior to my fate, and to the scorn these men 
 had thrown upon me. I departed. ''Good-night!" exclaimed the clerk, 
 deridingly. I turned upon him, but he met my enquiring gaze with a 
 grimace that set me laughing, and I could not be angry. I encountered 
 Mr. Chaser as I passed up the alley. He beckoned me into his house, but 
 it was only to dismiss me from it more formally and decidedly. He did 
 not hesitate or blush to acquaint me that he had considered the matter 
 over very seriously, and had come to the conclusion that he could not help 
 me — that was one word for all. As for being security or recommending 
 me, why he knew nothing of me, except that I had been to college, and 
 broke my mother's heart, which were two things against me, and therefore 
 he couldn't be responsible, and so that point was settled. If my father 
 had sent me to him when I was young, and if many other circumstances, 
 too tedious here to mention, had taken place, why then something very 
 satisfactory would have been the consequence, and he would have per- 
 formed wonders in my behalf; but as he had not sent me when I was 
 young, and as the particular circumstances had not come to pass, why of 
 course it was impossible to relieve my urgent wants— to put a crust of 
 bread into mv starving throat. This was all very natural, reasonable, and 
 easy to be understood. " Take my advice," said Mr. Chaser, ^kindly and 
 in conclusion, proffering his counsel, " go back to London. You are sure 
 to get into something there : but here there's a dreadful feeling against 
 you college chaps. We don't want gentlemen in Birmingham. We can't 
 afford 'em. Go back again, and get your living where you are known. 
 If you stop here any time, missus told me just to say, that she hoped 
 vou wouldn't come hanging about the factory. Laziness is horrid catch- 
 ing, and you'd only be ruining the boys, and do yourself no good,^for 
 we shouldn't give you the least encouragement. Do you understand?" 
 
 " Oh, perfectly !" 
 
 " Well, then, I've nothing more to say, except " 
 
 " Now, father, don't be all day," exclaimed a voice from a workshop 
 window, distinguishable as Master William's. 
 
 " Coming, lad, coming ! There, go about your business," he added, 
 with impatience. " You are upsetting the whole house. Get on, get 
 on !" and so saying, he moved towards the door, urging me at the same 
 time most unceremoniously before him ; in short, and without concealing 
 the fact — kicking me clean out. 
 
 Bewildered, distressed, humiliated, and scarcely knowing what I did, I 
 involuntarily pursued my way out of the hateful town. I passed into the 
 suburbs, intending to walk until my rising passion should be dissipated, 
 when, if my reason were yet left me, I would take myself once more 
 home. " Home I home !" "l repeated the word till I shrieked, franticly 
 
134 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 laughing. Home for me? — "With whom 1 ? With the good fellow, upon 
 whose bounty I had already lived until the food which I meanly gathered 
 at his board stuck in my throat, refusing to be swallowed, held there by 
 shame and self-abhorrence 1 Was it to him that I could now return ? No 
 — welcome starvation rather ; and, if it must come, death on the highway. 
 Should I persevere, assert my natural rights, and put again to trial the 
 soft and sympathetic heart of Mr. Chaser ? Yes, to be again thrown into 
 the street with vulgar insolence and brutality ! Truly that were worth the 
 attempt. Irritated to a degree that admitted not of subjugation or con- 
 trol, I increased my pace, trembling from head to foot with anger and ex- 
 citement, and repeating my grievances aloud as to a multitude. Schemes 
 that might never be reduced to practice, were invented by my hot imagi- 
 nation — the only faculty of my mind that could exert itself ; and this let 
 loose, became delirious with its freedom — and one after another was dis- 
 posed of as impracticable, wild, and useless. Still I walked forward, and, 
 with my back upon the city, experienced at least a sense of freedom. For 
 three hours I did not slacken my pace. Eeaching, however, a roadside 
 public-house, almost dropping from fatigue, I craved permission to rest 
 my limbs. It was granted me, and the eye of the landlady followed me 
 with suspicion into the tap-room. There I sat, wondering what I should 
 do next. Everything I possessed was on my back. I had no ties like 
 other men to bind me to a particular spot of ground : I acknowledged no 
 preference for any — the loveliest of nature's heaven-begotten scenes of 
 earth. Generous fields, ripe with the sustenance of life, wherever they 
 might be, in whatever quarter of the globe, were now for me to seek, and, 
 if I found them, there would I recognize my father-land. " And I will 
 wander," I continued, " until I reach them. I cannot be deserted entirely 
 by my God. I shall find a haven yet. Punishment I deserve — I have re- 
 ceived; but He is not a God that persecutes unto the end, and who 
 delights in vengeance. I will not falter. Yet have I not read," I asked 
 despondingly, " of poor and famished men, brought to the pass in which I 
 find myself, carrying their inefficient prayers to man, screaming for bread, 
 receiving in its stead a stone ; then lingering on and sinking, till the 
 friendly hedge receives them, where they die, less pitied and regarded 
 than men's dogs 1 It is a horrid death. Heaven, let it not be mine ! " I 
 wept bitterly, for tears were as companions, soothing my griefs. The pain 
 was less acute, assuaged and softened by the water drops. I thanked the 
 landlady, and set out again. I did not proceed a hundred yards before a 
 fresh suggestion darted across my brain. I would go at once to London. 
 "If help is to be got," I said determinedly, as if I needed energy and 
 emphasis to persuade myself, "London is the likeliest place to meet 
 with it ; and if I die, where is the fitting place for me to lie but near 
 the pauper grave of my poor father ? Oh, father ! " I cried out, burst- 
 ing again into wild emotion, "could you have foreseen this dreadful 
 hour— could you have witnessed this completion of your darling plans 
 — what would have been your grief! Heaven was gracious when it 
 carried you to peace — and to oblivion of the world. And my dear mother, 
 where is she with her thousand anxieties — her indefatigable cares— her 
 fears — her mother's love ] What would at this moment be the expression 
 of that watchful eye, that in her dear one marked so carefully the earliest 
 shadows of some approaching ailment 1 ? How terrible would be the violent 
 motion of that heart, that shook and trembled at the boy's shrill cry of 
 joyousness ! " These were sickening, maddening thoughts ; and, like a 
 madman, I ran along the road, seeking to fling off and to escape the in- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 135 
 
 tolerable load. Night came on, bringing with it a louring sky. Black 
 clouds gathered overhead, and tracked my way. At length, they burst, 
 and rain poured down in torrents. Wet to the skin, and shuddering with 
 cold, 1 continued my journey. 1 was no longer violent — I did not weep. 
 I felt that I had reached the height of my calamities ; and once upon the 
 summit of bleak misery, as on the naked mountain tops, there is rest, 
 silence, intensity, and breathlessness. My road brought me to a farm- 
 house. It was a rural palace. A fire was burning in a large sitting-room, 
 and its cheerful blaze made visible a dozen happy creatures who formed 
 a circle round the family hearth. A halo of rich light surrounded them. 
 Beyond them, in the room, all was darkness. It was the delicious hour of 
 unutterable felicity — who cannot call it to remembrance 1 — when the good 
 fire, made sacred by our affections, pours forth a stilly joy that winds into 
 the soul, rendering other light an irksome glare and a profane intrusion. 
 Sweet notes of music caught my ear as I passed the door — some home 
 melody, with power to represent the unruffled peace that dwelt within. I 
 hurried on. The night was growing darker — the storm more violent ; the 
 wind howled fearfully, and the rain fell as though the flood-gates of heaven 
 were opened, for a second time, upon a doomed world. A new impulse 
 moved me. I would return to the farm-house, and crave permission to 
 sleep there — in some barn or outhouse, in any hole where a friendly roof 
 would cover me from the pitiless fury of the elements. No sooner thought 
 than done. I knocked at the door, and begged to see the owner of the 
 house. He appeared ; a portly man, with a rubicund face that seemed 
 aware of the soul's integrity, and made it apparent in every look and fea- 
 ture. It was a face that I could trust, and i asked for shelter, convinced 
 that my petition was already complied with. The farmer heard me, and 
 took no time for thought. "Ay, ay, lad," said he ; " it won't do to turn a 
 Christian into the storm, just after bringing the beasts comfortably out of 
 it. What an awful night it is ! I should be sorry to have my dog in it. 
 Here, Willy," he cried out, " take this youngster to the old blue room ; 
 make him a fire, and give him supper — and — do you hear 1 ? — dry his 
 clothes for him, or we shall be hanged for murder. There— follow the 
 boy," he continued, addressing me, " and get those things from your back 
 as soon as you can." 
 
 " It must have been an angel," said I to myself, as I sat before a crack- 
 ling fire, enjoying a wholesome meal, and clad in a shepherd's dress, with 
 which the good farmer had supplied me, whilst my own was growing dry ; 
 " it must have been my guardian angel that whispered in my ear, and 
 gave me courage to turn back. I should have trudged on in spite of every- 
 thing, and died perhaps before morning. I shall never forget this kind- 
 hearted creature. Oh, that I could acquire influence and wealth only to 
 display my gratitude to the few whose ready hands have drawn me from 
 perdition !" Whilst I was thus dreaming, the farmer himself stepped 
 into the room. I rose. 
 
 " Never mind, my lad," said he, motioning me to be seated, eat away, 
 eat away. You are very welcome. I have only come to see how you are. 
 They'll make a bed for you directly. The men breakfast in the morning 
 at six o'clock, and you are quite at liberty to join them. Make yourself 
 comfortable. They are as much at your service as if they were your own. 
 All I have to ask you is, that, for the sake of those that come after you, 
 you won't run away with a blanket or any other paltry thing in the room, 
 as the man did that I gave a bed and supper to last year. My missus has 
 just reminded me of it, or else I had forgotten all about it. It isn't worth 
 
136 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 your while ; for, in the first place, stolen things never do a man good ; and 
 secondly, it isn't the thing, and, as I said before, isn't fair to those who are 
 as badly off and more deserving than yourself. I don't mean you," he 
 added, perceiving me changing colour. " I mean such rascals as the fellow 
 I speak of." I assured my benefactor that he had nothing to fear from me, 
 and that misfortune had not yet made me indifferent to honesty. 
 
 " I believe you/' he answered, — " I could tell it by your looks ; but my 
 good lady has seen so much of the world, and has been so deceived, that 
 I don't wonder she is suspicious a little, and looks about her. Don't mind 
 what I have said — finish your supper, and get a good night's rest, and 
 thank God we have been able to afford you both." 
 
 The farmer departed, and if he did not sleep soundly, it could not be 
 that he had not earned repose, or that self-reproach disordered and dis- 
 comforted his pillow. 
 
 Existence is a history of contrasts and dissimilitudes. Without us and 
 within, sunshine and cloudiness vary with the hour. Sorrow is set off 
 against delight; enjoyment is heightened by misfortune. Our cup of 
 life has mixed ingredients, and the draught is oxymel. Strengthened 
 with a hearty breakfast, and cheered by the return of smiling weather, I 
 resumed my travels, gladdened and encouraged. I did not remit exertion, 
 nor lose confidence, for many hours. Arriving at length at the outskirts 
 of a large city, I halted, and directed my eyes in search of a temporary 
 resting-place. Before an ancient-looking inn, the only house in view, and 
 at a low table, five or six men were seated; by turns talking, laughing, 
 smoking, drinking, but principally occupied in discussing the merits of 
 an old newspaper. Bold with my success at the farm-house, I resolved to 
 appty to this company for succour. Their looks were, upon the whole, 
 good-humoured, and time and place were promising. I had hardly yet 
 acquired the beggar's needful strength of heart, and I advanced towards 
 them with a meek and hesitating step. Drawing near, I overheard one — 
 the loudest and most disputatious of the party — arguing with vehemence 
 a contested point in the debate. Catching sight of me, he did not pause, 
 but pointed to me with his finger, and fixed upon me the general atten- 
 tion. " Now, there's a fellow," he continued, as if pursuing his discourse 
 — " he's another of them ; till you rid the country of such locusts, you'll 
 do no good at all. We are eaten up by vagrants. To jail with them, say 
 I, or transport 'em, sir, at once. I have got a way of treating them." I 
 checked immediately my further progress — and went quickly forward on 
 my journey. 
 
 I cannot torture myself by a minute recital of the wretchedness which 
 accompanied me during the five following days. I cannot, even in my 
 age, look back upon that horrid scene, and not be affected with something 
 of the pain I felt in passing through it. One day I lived upon a portion 
 of bread given to me by a charitable baker ; and on the same night I slept 
 in an unguarded stable, whither I had crept at nightfall, unperceived by 
 any one. A second clay I begged alms upon the road, and submitted, for 
 a few pence, to the most cruel and degrading insult, and reproaches too I 
 Ah, every one was liberal of these ; these were to be obtained unasked ; 
 reproaches for being an idler and a beggar — for not labouring, as I should, 
 for my support ! One gentleman I found most bountiful in this respect, 
 and prodigal of invectives. He was the master of a fine white house and 
 ornamental garden. In the latter he was promenading with much stateli- 
 ness when I ventured to solicit his assistance. He started back in great 
 affright, and looked upon me with a killing frown. High iron gates pro- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 137 
 
 iected him from violence or assault, and, conscious of his advantage, he 
 "was bold to overbear and bluster. " Why doesn't the able-bodied rascal 
 get to work, and not annoy the public in their houses ] It would be more 
 becoming, fellow." 
 
 "It would indeed, sir," I replied, "and much more grateful to the 
 miserable wretch before you. Perhaps you'll give me work, sir]" 
 
 "What does the blackguard mean?" 
 
 "Or kindly tell me where I may obtain it]" 
 
 "John !" cried the gentleman to his servant-man — "here — go fetch the 
 constable. This man will murder me. Look how the monster grins. A 
 pretty thing to insult a householder on his premises. We've stocks, thank 
 God, for beggars ! " — And with this denouncement he strutted off. 
 
 Two nights I spent in the open air, gathering what sleep and rest I 
 might at the foot of a large tree. The fourth night, suffering from extreme 
 cold, benumbed and aching in every joint, I crawled to a brick-kiln, 
 hazarding my life — too worthless to be taken — for a little healing warmth. 
 
 I reached at last my destination — reached it, broken down, crushed in. 
 body and in mind. I had become thin and wan from prolonged anxiety. 
 A fever was upon me, and my feet were sore and swollen. The first feel- 
 ing that I experienced on entering the metropolis, was one of vexation and 
 vain regret that I had come so far, at such a cost, without a single object 
 to allure me. "Fool that I am!" I exclaimed, "why did I not wait 
 patiently in Birmingham] Something might have turned up there. I 
 am certain of my fate in London." So tossed and beaten was my unsettled 
 and afflicted mind ! How had it held its seat so long ! 
 
 It was on a Sabbath-day that I found myself again in the great city. I 
 was master of a few pence, which I had received early in the morning, 
 passing through the village of Highgate. 
 
 Parched with burning thirst, and having no appetite for solid food, I 
 made my way to a public-house, where I purchased and drank off a draught 
 of ale. There, sitting to rest my tired and harassed body, I took up me- 
 chanically the newspaper of the day. It was a print that ministered to 
 the morbid cravings of distempered minds, filled with the weaknesses and 
 vices of mankind, dressing depravity and corruption in gaudy robes, to 
 spare the eye from dwelling on their loathsomeness. It was the poor 
 man's intellectual food. Fit reading for the child of immortality, with 
 his one short day of preparation, dragged from the mercenary hold of 
 worldly traffic ! How full of consolation to the bruised spirit toiling for 
 the crust, his eye for ever on the earth — his first and last, his only home 
 and hope ! How ennobling to the human understanding ! — how worthy its 
 transcendent scope and grasp ! Here was a column of recorded offences, 
 softened down to look harmless and attractive — here one of indecent 
 jesting — here coarse disloyalty — here witty blasphemy — and here a string 
 of cruel and cold-blooded sophisms — the devil's rhetoric, goading the 
 needy, the helpless, and the ignorant, te discontent, rebellion, and de- 
 struction. But there was another column yet. In it, the broken-hearted, 
 the world-weary, and the desperate, might find the sure and easy way of 
 vanquishing their care. Here they might see hardihood, alienated from 
 true valour, rushing upon its fate, and courting death with most unnatural 
 zeal. It was the suicide's own column. I read with avidity the accounts, 
 gathered from every province in the kingdom, of those gallant men who, 
 ground by circumstance, escaped her tyranny; with their own hands 
 severing the boDds that held them. I was transported with the more ro- 
 mantic and highly finished pictures imported from foreign lands, where 
 
138 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 the prurient mind and pen are unrestrained in warm delineation. From 
 these, I knew the faith and constancy of lovers, who, divided in life by 
 cruel destiny, pressed to each other's breast, leaped united into darkness 
 and the grave ; the gambler's recklessness — he who, trying to overreach, 
 was himself deceived, and, losing all, staked at last his soul's best hopes 
 for temporary forgetfulness and peace. It was a dangerous study in my 
 present season of trial and desertion, and I continued it until a resolution 
 to live no longer, and to perish by my own impious act, informed me that 
 I had nothing more to learn. Death appeared here not a grim spectre, as 
 I had been accustomed to regard him, but as a good angel, coming with 
 healing on his wings to conduct the weary and the worn to blissful and 
 eternal quiet ; and ah ! did not I long for repose, and release from suffer- 
 ing, as the hart panteth after the water brooks ! I put the journal aside, 
 and departed from the public-house nerved for the fearful deed. " What," 
 I asked myself, " what, what have I to live for 1 The love of life, deemed 
 paramount in the heart of man, is extinct in mine. My affections are 
 with the dead — and I will join the dead in death." I walked to the river- 
 side, and coolly and deliberately marked on a bridge the spot from which 
 I would cast myself into the water that very night. " No one," thought 
 I, "shall witness the fact — no officious hand shall drag me back to misery, 
 and, when I rise again, no creature will recognise me, and none will be 
 able to aver that I did the deed myself. Thank Heaven, then, I have but 
 one more day to live ! " My fever increased, and thirst became again in- 
 sufferable. My skin was dry and hot, and my body now burned with heat, 
 and now was chilled with cold. My mind was preternaturally calm. I 
 drank more ale, and then I visited the two churchyards where lay in en- 
 viable sleep the authors of my life — that miserable life, whose flame was 
 burning rapidly to the socket. "Ah, me!" said I, contemplating the 
 humble sod over my poor father, after having spent a long hour at my 
 mother's graceful monument. " What a difference even in graves !" Who 
 questions the universal power of wealth 1 Who says it may not purchase 
 immunity from sickness, and the ills that flesh is heir to"? True, it can- 
 not. But if in this brief sojourning it takes from them the poignant 
 stings that indigence inflicts — and removes some portion of the bitter 
 from the cup that all must drink, its claim to honour and regard is not to 
 be contemned. Well do I remember the gratefulness with which my 
 father spoke of his partner's funeral — how he thanked God that he had 
 been able to bury her with decency and respect, and to place over her 
 dear head the sculptured structure and the engraved memorial ! " He could 
 not have lived," he said, " to see her loved remains dishonoured." What 
 had been his own fate 1 Had I not lived to witness the violation of his 
 sacred corpse 1 Had I not seen it, in its thin deal case, mingling in a row 
 with a dozen pauper coffins, over whose tenants the one divine service, 
 hastily performed, was all too long and tedious for the ill-paid minister of 
 God 1 Had I not seen coffin after coffin carried to the remote and well- 
 defined portion of the ground, distant from putrescent respectability and 
 the aristocracy of worm's food ? Had I not seen, too — oh ! dreadful spec- 
 tacle — shell piled upon shell, plashing in the watery earth — the topmost 
 not reaching to the water's thick and mudded surface ? Yes, I had seen 
 all this, and more, and gazing once again upon the grave, the melancholy 
 scene was re-enacted, and my own dark purpose was confirmed. 
 
 It was six o'clock in the evening when I entered the street in which I 
 had dwelt from my birth, until I left it to reside in Cambridge. A foolish 
 desire to look upon the old house, and to take leave of it for ever, pos- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. ] 39 
 
 sessed me, and had compelled me to retrace my steps, after having 
 arrived ibr the second time at the river's bank. A superstitious feeling, 
 inherited from my mother, prevailed over the reason that was left me ; 
 the visit presented itself to my mind in the form of a duty, and — strange 
 incongruity ! — I was afraid to destroy myself until I had religiously ac- 
 complished it. The church bells were tolling — calling the multitudes 
 who thronged the streets to prayer, and notifying to me the hour of my 
 departure. I continued still hot from fever, but my mind was wonderfully 
 composed. There was no tumult there — no disorder — no irregular mixing 
 of ideas. I was aware of everything that took place. I could reason — 
 and, listening to a discourse, I felt myself able to reply to it steadily and 
 iully. If I crossed the road, and passengers encountered me, I stopped 
 suddenly still, bowed, and permitted them to pass on. " Surely," said I, " a 
 madman could not do that. He would not be alive to these refinements 
 of behaviour." I intercepted a gentleman on his road, and requested him, 
 with many polite expressions, to direct me to a neighbouring street. He 
 did so. I answered him again. We parted. It was another instance of 
 my sanity. I endeavoured to recall to memory the events of the last 
 few years. They rose without an effort — one after another — in regular 
 succession. Who should say that my intellect was not as bright as sun- 
 shine ?- 
 
 I passed a dissenters' chapel. Many persons, men and women, were 
 hurrying into it. It was a large square building — looking like a theatre, 
 and the folks were crowding about the place like playgoers. A small 
 knot of young men prevented my moving forward. One of them spoke. 
 " Come, old fellow," said he to his companion, * let us go in — only for the 
 fun of the thing." He entered the chapel, and the rest followed. I, 
 scarcely knowing what I did, went immediately after them. 
 
 PAET VIII. 
 
 THE TRANSITION. 
 
 It was a congregation vast of men, 
 
 Of unappendaged and unvarnish'd men, 
 
 Of plain unceremonious human beings. 
 
 Polloh's Course of Time. 
 
 There was a pouring in of people, and the large chapel was -soon filled 
 in every part. The place was singularly constructed. Its form was square, 
 as already notified : its altitude was very great, and the staring, naked 
 walls of white deceived the eye, and rendered the height still greater and 
 more striking. Against one only of the four sides was fixed a gallery — 
 this was opposite to the pulpit ; it descended far into the body of the 
 building, and might contain, perhaps, five hundred persons. The desk 
 was placed in the centre of the chapel, at an unpleasing elevation—dis- 
 agreeable at least to my disordered senses. An aching at the extremities 
 of the body, such as the giddy-headed have experienced looking down 
 
140 CALEB STUKELY, 
 
 from mighty cliffs into the sea, I felt acutely, turning my eye upwards 
 upon the preacher, separated as he was from every other person, and top- 
 pling as he seemed with every movement of his body. I took a seat, and 
 marvelled at the individual and collective hurrying of mankind. There 
 was a slamming of doors, a rushing to seats, an absence of devout motion 
 and reverential quiet — all of which I had been taught to regard as opposed 
 to the design and purpose of true religious worship. I had been accus- 
 tomed to remark in houses consecrated to the Almighty's service, a grave 
 adorning, a modest embellishment, sufficient to dignify without profaning 
 the sacred institutions. Here there was an ostentatious, fierce display of 
 nakedness and discomfort. The very seats were of the coarsest wood, in- 
 nocent of paint, scarce acquainted with the plane. Instead of the enclosed, 
 well-cushioned pew, with decent lining and convenient hassock, and its 
 neat array of bibles, prayer-books, psalters, here were pens and boxes, 
 many, it is true, shut in and appropriated to the owners, but the greater 
 number exposed as coops for animals. These, in their narrow confines, 
 never huddled closer than did the multitudes, who sought with eagerness 
 and obtained scant standing-room in the enclosures. Habituated to deem 
 most decorous and godly the solemn and universal bending of the knee, 
 nothing could appear more strange than the heterogeneous and indepen- 
 dent acts adapted here by individuals. In one place, a group of six, 
 wrapt in meditation, standing up, directed their looks towards the preacher. 
 Next to them, another cluster, meditating likewise, rudely turned their 
 "backs ; some were bending to the left, some to the right : some stood bolt 
 upright, some curved their bodies. A few looked to the gallery or the 
 ceiling : their antipodes cast their eyes upon the ground. The Avhole 
 were praying, or appeared to pray : not one was on his knees. Such were 
 a few of the marked peculiarities that I could not fail to notice, during 
 the two hours that flew away whilst I participated in the excitement of 
 the congregation. The members were chiefly of an humble class ; they 
 were unfashionably attired, but their looks were marked with bold and 
 most expressive character. The chapel was inconveniently thronged long 
 before the arrival of the preacher ; and when he at length appeared, the 
 crowded floor, the lighted lamps of oil, the unwholesome and commingled 
 odours, were enough to suffocate and kill him. He ascended the pulpit, 
 and then, as if magically, the din of voices, the unsettled fluctuations of 
 the thousand bodies, the whispers, coughs, and ceaseless humming, were 
 chained and silenced. A breathless quiet instantly prevailed. I turned 
 my restless eye at once upon the minister. He was a tall and graceful 
 man ; his cheeks were ashy pale, and his small and deep-blue eye potent 
 even to witchery. iSTo wonder that the multitudinous human sea was 
 lulled to deathlike breathlessness under its bright influence. And what a 
 voice ! sweet as heavenly music, and powerful as melodious. He looked 
 around him, and he uttered a few words ushering in the short prelusive 
 hymn. As one heart, the countless congregation was touched ; and as 
 one man, it rose to proclaim and peal aloud the glorious song of praise 
 and adoration. What stirring sounds ! piercing far into the depths of 
 my desponding spirit, and eliciting tumultuous joy in the darkest caverns 
 of despair. Chords of sensation — new, strange, and undefinable — were 
 clanging in my soul ; and a thrill, now hot, now cold — a wild intoxication 
 — a glad delirium — possessed me, and constrained me even to tears. I 
 rose with the crowd, and held the rail before me for support — a needful 
 effort! How calm and passionless was the preacher, with the heated 
 sounds of enthusiastic piety burning at his ears! How meek, subdued, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 341 
 
 and holy was his countenance! What a contrast it presented to the illu- 
 minated and excited looks of that united band of choristers, I could not 
 choose but fix mv gaze upon him, coveting his undisturbed and gentle 
 bearing. Happiest of men, I judged him. The loud and solemn strain 
 -vvas finished. With the last lingering accents the minister arose, and im- 
 mediately you might imagine that an angel floated through the building, 
 so perfect was again the stillness. And then he prayed, offering on high, 
 with earnestness and fervour, sweet incense for that holy place ; and truly 
 the children there brought a willing offering to the Lord, every man and 
 woman whose heart made them willing to bring. Groans of self-conviction, 
 loud affirmative responses, accompanied the speaker throughout his heart- 
 felt supplication. Did he implore his heavenly Father to suspend the fire 
 that every moment threatened to consume his children's obstinate accu- 
 mulated guilt— then did the loud "Amen" pass like a watchword through 
 the suppliant troop, borne from stricken soul to stricken soul on sighs of 
 heaviest misery. Did he change the theme, revert to the munificence and 
 mercv of his Maker, and give glowing expression to the teeming sense of 
 gratitude— how quickly did the combined, reverberant, and passionate 
 "Hallelujah" crown the minister's thanksgiving! Oh, whither had I 
 come] What phantasm flickered before my poor bewildered brain, amus- 
 ing it with shadows, and detaining me from death, the grave, and longed- 
 for, lasting peace 1 My mind tottered. God help me !— in an instant I 
 was unconscious of rnywhereabouts— ignorant of my state— self-oblivious. 
 My head burned, mv throat was hot, my tongue parched. 1 stared wildly 
 about me, and with 'my mad looks challenged the devout worshippers on 
 either side. Suddenly an irresistible impulse to laugh aloud seized and 
 tormented me. Mv judgment— the lunatic's entangled judgment— sug- 
 gested the impropriety of self-indulgence, and then raged the hot conflict 
 between eager irrepressible desire, and notions of high decorum ; notions 
 not the less inflexible because tinged with the delusive hues of a tempo- 
 rary insanity. Almost choked with the mad strife, I resumed my seat, 
 with my handkerchief thrust into my mouth to check and smother the 
 unseemly cacbinnation. Then a glimpse of reason, like passing sun- 
 shine, stole across the clouded intellect, making manifest to consciousness 
 my miserable state, and plunging me deeper and deeper into the abyss of 
 wretchedness. My cheek blazed with' shame, and now thoroughly con- 
 vinced that I was no longer master of myself— that I was really given 
 up to the demon who held men's minds in thrall— I buried my face in my 
 hands, and would have given worlds to escape the searching gaze of eyes 
 which my strange conduct had invited. " Oh, I am mad ! I am mad !" I 
 repeated to myself. " I can never look up again— I can never meet their 
 looks— what will become of me]" There was a rustling in the chapel. I 
 heard it, but I dared not glance around me. The minister had ceased. 
 The prayer was at an end. Silence prevailed again ; and again it was 
 broken by notes louder than ever, gushing from the overflowing hearts of 
 faithful worshippers. I permitted the shrill tones to pass into my ears, 
 and to stir my soul to elevated thoughts ; but jealously I kept my eye in 
 darkness, as though the lightning waited only for the first half-venturing 
 look to strike the orb with blindness. Cold perspiration poured from my 
 forehead, and my fevered hands were moistened. The storm of voices 
 subsided, and once more, silence most intense. " It is the stillness of the 
 spring morn," thought I, dallying with fancy in my gloom, '-when the 
 commotion of elements gives place to calm unspeakable. V» hat next] 
 Oh, celestial accents! That voice is gliding over the turbulent spirit, 
 stilling the waters. Good thought, good thought !" 1 whispered to myself, 
 
142 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " worthy to be written down. Christ stilled the waters, so likewise his 
 ambassador— bright idea !" He pronounced his text. " This my son was 
 dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found." He spoke of the 
 Father, the parent of that son, and warned his listeners of the debt of 
 love his children owed him. " Brethren," said he, his voice growing tre- 
 mulous with compassionate entreating — "Brethren, we must love our 
 God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind. It is the 
 great commandment. Yea, love him with all the ability, with all the 
 faculties, with all the intensit} r , and with all the illimitedness of the living 
 soul within us. Our love must be as pure, as boundless, and as lofty, as 
 the heavenly spirit breathed into us by God at the beginning, and partak- 
 ing of his own bright essence. All love less extensive than that of your 
 own soul, born for immortality— less thrilling than that of your entire 
 heart, which throbs and responds with natural emotions, and is, as it were, 
 the very throne and sanctuary of human attachments — less exalted than 
 your own mind, that sublime principle that thinks and acts, reasons 
 and directs— all love less extensive, less thrilling, and less dignified 
 than all these combined, is unworthy of God, and criminal in man. I 
 tell you of the commandment — and oh ! is it come to this, that we must 
 be commanded to love the God who created us ; who endowed us with 
 powers only inferior to his own ; who called into existence, for our use, 
 the lovely and ever-fruitful earth ; who arched the blue canopy above us, 
 and gave the sun to warm, the moon to lighten our abode ; who has pro- 
 vided for us enjoyment here, and bliss incomparable hereafter] If we 
 were not lost, lost beyond the reach of any redemption — of any, save one 
 — would not the overflowing mercies of God lead naturally to a longing, 
 a panting, an ever-thirsting desire of love — love that would be satisfied 
 with nothing short of its full expression — love that would admit of no 
 comparison — love that would be equalled only by that transcendent and 
 surpassing love that streams from God to man 1 ?" 
 
 " Ah ! " I exclaimed, pressing my closed eyes with force against my palms, 
 " rave on, and bring if you can the warmth once more into the fleshy heart. 
 Mine is of stone !" A murmur, significant of sorrowing acquiescence, 
 passed through the assembly as the speaker paused. My heart knocked 
 palpably against my ribs, tossed Avith excitement within me and without. 
 A short interval of quiet, and the minister continued his address. He 
 applied himself strictly to the illustration of his subject, dwelling with 
 fearful emphasis upon the guilty progress of the prodigal — tracking him 
 from the first light footfall of indiscretion, until he met with him at last 
 deep-buried in depravity and corruption. " Fathers ! " he exclaimed in a 
 melting tone of pity — " earthly fathers, are you not here this night bewail- 
 ing the cruel lot of such a one ? Does the history disclose no picture 
 engraven on your souls, which the thin and filmy veil of time scarce covers'? 
 The earliest prattle of the fair young innocent rings sweetly in your aged 
 ear ; but whither are gone the fond, fond hopes you reared, as the dear 
 creeper clung about your knees'? Have you forgotten yet the hour of 
 leave-taking '? You have not — you who remember well the big, cold shadow 
 that crawled along your spirit — darkening it with fear and dread, more 
 miserable to bear than heaviest present sorrow. You saw the new-fledged 
 bird fluttering and fleeing from its nest — and, losing sight of it at last, 
 you stood silently weeping. You gave the boy your blessing — and a limb 
 was torn from you when you looked around, and found yourself alone. 
 How little did you dream of disloyalty and betrayal ! Who would believe 
 that the strengthened love of years should be forgotten and disregarded in 
 an hour — that the counsel of the firmest and the dearest friend, his requests 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 143 
 
 and supplications, should be cast away, and whirled like chaff before the 
 wind !- But the time is short, and the son has reached a far country — his 
 substance is wasted — be riots — he is a curse and not a blessing to the 
 motber that bare him." No accompanying sounds issued from the congre- 
 gation. The minister for a second forbore, and then a deep, half-smothered 
 groan, forced its passage from one poor wretch's stricken bosom. " The 
 flesh will quiver where the pincers tear." From head to foot I shuddered. 
 " Now, now, to rush away, and drown in the deep waters the grim spectres 
 that oppress my heated brain ! " Alas, I could not move ! A spell prac- 
 tised upon me, and shame, a threefold shame, heightening with every 
 passing minute, fixed me like marble to the spot. "Poor prodigal !" con- 
 tinued the preacher, " his own most bitter enemy, breaking the parent's 
 heart, but parting for dross with his own immortal soul, spending and 
 wasting in wantonness and harlotry, till the bitter famine comes, and he 
 must sink in dismal want ! Behold him feeding the swine of the stranger 
 — yearning for the husks they eat, whilst no man living will give to him. 
 Oh, pity him — pity the prodigal in his misery ! " The hot scalding tears 
 rolled down my cheeks. I closed my ears with my hands, but the words 
 had already reached my heart, and it bled and bled on. " Then cometh 
 surely and speedily the terrible hour of retrospection, bringing with it 
 pangs and groans and pitiable regrets — to many, impotent and vain as 
 the idle summer air. Sinking with famine, starving for a crust, he 
 remembers how many good and humble in the world have bread enough 
 and to spare, whilst he perishes with hunger. And shall he perish] 
 Yea, now and eternally, with no accuser, no judge, more vindictive 
 and cruel than his own guilty conscience." The roof of my mouth 
 was dry and clammy. I tried to moisten it with my hot tongue, 
 and to think of the water-side, and the forgetfulness and quiet that 
 awaited me there ; but the vision would not come, and the minister's 
 words were a flaming sword before my eyes. " I have spoken to you of 
 the impenitent, the hardened, and the lost. But the mercy of God is 
 boundless as his kingdom, and all are not left to the mercy of a seared 
 and sinful conscience. Grace abounds — and shall snatch some even from 
 the jaws of the fatal gulf. Hark ! What moving tones are those which 
 fall upon your ear ? Whose remorseful tears make soft the earth's hard 
 pillow, and melt the contumacious heart ?- It is the prodigal — and it is 
 the clank of fetters that you hear falling from his soul, and setting it at 
 liberty. He will arise and go to his father, and will say, ' Father, I have 
 sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be 
 called thy son.' Oh, happy son ! — infinitely happy father ! — moved to 
 compassion — with the fount of natural affection flowing unrestrained — re- 
 ceive him with thy open arms, take him to thy bosom, and consecrate 
 repentance with thy kisses. Thy son was dead, and is alive again; he was 
 lost, and is found — eat and be merry. Are there none here thi3 night 
 carrying in their guilty breasts a load of sin that will not bear the light 1 
 What machinations, what secret plots, what offences against thyself, thy 
 neighbour, and thy God, are rankling even as I speak ? How long shall 
 impenitence prevail — when will you seek forgiveness from the Father? 
 Awake, thou that sleepest — awake, ere the last sleep of all o'ertakes thee, 
 from which it were bliss unspeakable, and better, never to arouse again 
 than rise unsanctified. Look there ! — Behold the usurer depositing his 
 treasure at the golden shrine — prodigal of the love he owes to God, and 
 showering.it into the lap of Mammon; and there again — the adulterer 
 and the drunkard, with no loftier aim than the gratification of the animal 
 craving — no higher love than the love of their own ignoble dust — meanest 
 
144 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 — most selfish — least generous of prodigals ! And oh, look here — follow 
 me with your eyes, and mark yon trembling wretch — sure of pardon, and 
 yet too cowardly to ask it — loving death rather than life— sin rather than 
 virtue— Satan in preference to God. Shall I read his thoughts? Come 
 forth, thou that shunnest the day, and courtest the dark night for thy 
 foul purposes ! Weak and helpless man, stand forth ! Dost thou love 
 darkness and the grave so well that thou wilt barter heaven for them, and 
 with one timorous act renounce for ever thy inheritance] I tell you, 
 though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow, though they 
 be red as crimson they shall be as wool. There is no guilt that mercy 
 cannot reach — no crime that repentance cannot wash away — no state 
 which the grace of heaven cannot remedy. Fear not, poor child, to 
 throw yourself upon the willing clemency of your Father ! Fear nothing 
 but the desperate suggestions of the Arch-Enemy of man ! " 
 
 The eye of the preacher was upon me ; I felt it passing through my 
 frame — curdling my blood — startling my spirit. I had no power to keep 
 back. I could not withhold my own excited gaze. It was drawn — dragged 
 from me — by a sorcery that it were to no purpose to oppose. Gradually, 
 and blushing to the forehead, I raised my eye upward ; and there, like a 
 bright star, shone full and most benignantly upon me the blue and lus- 
 trous orb. I had no longer a sense of shame. It had passed away like a 
 vapour beneath the holy light. The hand of the minister was extended 
 — the finger pointed to me. I listened with transfixed attention. " I am 
 here this night," said he, " with authority and with the means to save 
 you from perdition — you sinner — you who would court destruction, and 
 with your own hand seal your eternal fate. Believe not that a violent 
 death shall put an end to the natural consequences of a violent life. Mad- 
 man, it renders them more terrible, more painfully acute. The woes of 
 him have not begun who seeks to end them in a self-dug grave. The 
 bitterest tears of earth are honey-drops compared with those he sheds 
 beyond it. Take courage. Repent — and be a man worthy your immortal 
 destiny and future glory. Flee from the Tempter. I warn you that even 
 now, this very night, this very hour, this very moment, for the vilest of 
 mankind, for the poorest of self-condemned and trembling sinners, there 
 is hope — there is joy — there is pardon, if he will seek it with a contrite 
 spirit from the Father of men and King of kings. ' The sacrifices of God 
 are a broken spirit ; a broken and a contrite heart, God, thou wilt not 
 despise.' I tell you this not without authority, I speak with the voice of 
 my Master. Before me are my credentials. Scorn them and be lost — ■ 
 believe and be saved." He ceased, or, if he continued, I heard no more. 
 I shook with wonder and alarm. I was satisfied that I had been the sub- 
 ject of a miracle — the more convinced of it, as I attempted to collect the 
 various circumstances which, growing one upon another, had gradually 
 brought me into my present situation. " Here," thought I, " is the hand 
 doomed to pluck me from the consuming fire — the hand that has been 
 fore-ordained from all eternity for that benevolent and gracious object." 
 I could not be deceived. The sermon had been preached for me. It met 
 my case. The preacher's eye singled me from the innumerable congre- 
 gation ; and at me— to my very heart, he aimed his barbed weapons- 
 wounding me — lacerating me — but striking only to save. The heavy 
 sweat poured down my cheeks, and I smiled — half conscious of my doings 
 —most gratefully upon the minister. He marked me with close atten- 
 tion, or I grossly erred. I clasped my hands— and internally thauked 
 God, my eyes dropping the while tears of extreme rejoicing, for the pe- 
 culiar love which he evinced towards me. "Yes, yes!" I exclaimed, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 145 
 
 "" I will repent — I will throw myself before my Father ; I will not destroy 
 myself, but I will snatch my soul from hell." A new song of thanks- 
 giving, the last hymn of the service, sung with new fire and louder accla- 
 mation, diverted for a moment the current of my thoughts— but added 
 fuel to the flame that had been kindled. A stranger placed a book in 
 my hand. I joined in the inspiriting anthem, and with a louder voice and 
 stronger emphasis than any other, I invoked celestial pardon — for pardon 
 and repentance were the subject of the song. The ceremony was con- 
 cluded. The assembly dissolved, as it had come together — in crowds. 
 The minister prayed in silence, amidst the tumult of the break ing-up. 
 I gazed upon him, and dreaded the arrival of the fast-approaching minute 
 that would move him from my sight. My soul clung to him as the anchor 
 clingeth to the ground. He was, indeed, a friend newly found, and worth 
 a world to me. I needed his presence for my support, and without him 
 I feared to meet again with horrible suggestions, and the destroying eyes 
 of the Tempter, which I could feel glaring at my back. The chapel was 
 empty — every individual had left it. Still with entwined hands I stood, 
 eagerly looking at the preacher. Slowly he descended from the pulpit, 
 and not observing me, passed into the vestry. Instigated by an impulss 
 that defied resistance, I followed him immediately. He was alone — and 
 he turned his mild countenance feelingly upon me. I burst into a flood 
 of tears, and falling upon my knees, implored him to make good his 
 word, and to reconcile me to my God. 
 
 PART IX. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF EMMA FITZJONES. 
 
 How read we such sad scenes ? As sent to man 
 In perfect vengeance ? No : in pity sent 
 To melt him down, like wax, and then impress 
 Indelible, death's image on his heart, 
 Bleeding for others, trembling for himself. 
 
 Young. 
 
 My poor overtasked brain reeled with agitation, and I sank motionless 
 and senseless at the feet of the minister. I remember to have been raised 
 — to have heard a few kind words of consolation and encouragement — to 
 have been carried by gentle and considerate hands to a coach— and to 
 have passed at once into a sleep of long forgetfulness. I call to mind, also, 
 the moment of breaking from the bondage of a heavy torpor. I lay in bed 
 in a strange room, and no creature was near me. I knew myself to be 
 awake ; but a difficulty of fixing my thoughts to one point satisfied me 
 that consciousness was darkened with disease. A book lay upon my 
 pillow ; it was the Bible. I took it up, and attempted to read. It was in 
 vain. I experienced an acute darting pain at the temples, and the words 
 flickered and glanced about the page. I replaced the book, and courted 
 sleep again. This time, however, she came not — the throbbing in my 
 head increased, and gradually the most poignant sensations harassed my 
 exhausted frame. I would have kept quiet ; but although I grasped the 
 
 L 
 
146 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 sheet and pillow for security and support, I was sensible of locomotion — 
 of being carried through the world — dragged forward without the power 
 of checking the still increasing speed. I had no fear. A wild enjoyment 
 accompanied the impetus, and a satisfying confidence that I should at 
 last be deposited, wherever it might be, in safety. I gave myself up to 
 the impulse more and more, until I experienced a recklessness of feeling 
 that gave velocity to the wings, and intenseness to the power, that whirled 
 me along. Then a flush came over me, and a dry heat swept throughout 
 my frame, resting in my throat and my cheek, filling me with dread of 
 suffocation and a speedy death. What ailed me I Was it fever — was it 
 inflammation making its quick and fiery way straight to the seat of life 1 
 And where was I — who had taken charge of me ? To whom was I in- 
 debted for the care that had been taken of me — for my present lodg- 
 ment, and for the soft bed that received and eased my aching bones 1 
 
 " A small table was at the bedside, and upon it a watch, a few bottles 
 of medicine, a pair of spectacles, some needlework, and an open book. I 
 could hear nothing but the ticking of the watch, and this sounded pain- 
 fully loud in my ears ; white dimity hangings were drawn partially 
 around the bed, and curtains of the same material extended along the 
 window, and kept the room in comparative darkness. I attempted to rise 
 for the purpose of admitting light ; but my head swam giddily, and my 
 weak limbs gave way beneath me. I lay panting from the effort, w : hen the 
 door of the chamber softly opened. A tall and stout elderly female 
 entered on tiptoe. She wore a high, matronly cap, and w r as in other 
 respects soberly attired. She said nothing, but, taking her seat at the 
 table, fixed the spectacles on her nose, turned over the book, and com- 
 menced reading. 
 
 " Good lady," said I, in a faltering voice, "tell me, where am IV 
 
 " Oh, thank God ! " she exclaimed, quickly taking off her glasses ; 
 "don't worry yourself, young gentleman — you'll soon be well now, and 
 dear Mr. Clayton w r ill be so happy. Take a glass of lemon drink. You 
 mustn't excite yourself." 
 
 I drank the refreshing draught with avidity, and blessed the charitable 
 hand that gave it. 
 
 " I am sure you'll get on very quickly now. I only wanted you to re- 
 vive; but I must go to Mr. Clayton and the doctor directly. He told me 
 to fetch him the moment you woke up. How do you feel now 1 " 
 
 " Oh, weak, madam — very weak ! My heart beats heavily against my 
 breast, my head is unsteady, and I burn w r ith a scorching heat." 
 
 "Ah, yes ! I know very well what it is. I have often had it — it's just 
 like it. Your heart beats, and you are all over in a burn. I know it's 
 very bad — poor young gentleman ! Bless me, I thought you were never 
 going to wake again. It's the horrid bile you have got. They'll give you 
 something to take it off. Are you thirsty 1 ?" 
 
 "Yes, constantly." 
 
 " Ah, to be sure, that's it ! It's going about, but it isn't dangerous. 
 Don't talk — and keep quite still. You don't mind being left alone ? I'll 
 not be longer than I can help. If you are tired, you can read the book a 
 little." 
 
 The lady left me. I spent a weary hour in an endeavour to compose 
 myself ; but my fever rose higher and higher, and I grew restless and 
 irritable. The elderly lady returned, accompanied by a doctor. 
 
 The latter immediately felt my pulse. 
 
 "Has there been any shivering, nurse 1 ?" he enquired, turning to that 
 personage. 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 147 
 
 " Oh, a great deal, sir : and he has got that nasty burning pain ! My 
 poor dear husband, that's dead and gone, had just the same before he 
 died." 
 
 " You are warm, sir, are you not ?" 
 
 " My cheek is on fire ! " I replied ; * my brain is hot ! " 
 
 The doctor sat at my bedside for a few minutes ; then prescribed some 
 medicine, and retired, enjoining the nurse to preserve the strictest 
 silence. 
 
 " Do not let him speak, nurse. Exclude the light, and keep the room 
 perfectly tranquil. I shall see you in the morning, sir. Mind, Mrs. 
 Dolby, he mustn't say a word." 
 
 "Oh, leave him to me, sir ! " answered Mrs. Dolby. " I'll take care of 
 him, poor gentleman." 
 
 The kind lady donned her glasses, and once more took up her book. 
 
 I turned languidly towards her, and found her little occupied with the 
 volume, but mumbling some words to herself in a species of mute 
 whisper. 
 
 A sharp pain across my brain caused me at the same instant to wince, 
 and to moan deeply. 
 
 •'•"What's that?" enquired Mrs. Dolby, and removing suddenly her 
 spectacles. 
 
 " My head, nurse — my poor head ! " 
 
 " Oh yes ! I know ; it flies about. It's rheumatics. It'll go all over 
 the body. Poor Mr. Dolby was a martyr to the pains. It's a kind of 
 stitch, isn't it? Now, I should say, your heart's a little better — am I 
 right ? " 
 
 " It doesn't beat quite so fast, perhaps," said I. 
 
 " No, I am sure it doesn't. Oh, bless you, I have seen so many of these 
 cases ! There's poor Mr. Williams over the way at No. 5 — ah, I shouldn't 
 wonder if I am called up to-night to lay him out — his wife's a poor help- 
 less thing enough, and would no more know what to do with a corpse 
 than a new-born infant — she has sent here twice this morning to know if 
 I should be in the way — poor man, he can't last above a day or so ! Well, 
 I've known him to have the rheumatics so bad, that in the course of ten 
 minutes he has had a pain in every limb of his body. It has begun in 
 the great toe of his right leg, gone up his side, down the left leg, and out 
 of the other great toe at last — made a regular revolution. But you mustn't 
 talk so much. Dr. Meadows says you are to be kept perfectly quiet." 
 
 A dry burning sensation oppressed me, and I called for drink. Before 
 I could swallow it the heat had passed away, and I shuddered with cold. 
 
 " That's the lemon drink ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dolby. " It will do that at 
 times ; but your stomach must be dreadfully out of order. The fact is, 
 you have had one of my old attacks, and it will take its own course. It's 
 more alarming than dangerous. Well, I'm truly glad he didn't order 
 leeches. I couldn't touch a leech to save my life. I have hated the sight 
 of them ever since my dear husband bled for six hours without stopping. 
 Folks say they are harmless. I never could believe it. But you really 
 mustn't be allowed to talk so much. Now, try and go to sleep." 
 
 1 made the attempt, but during the long dark night I was a waking 
 sufferer. In the morning, overcome with lassitude, and yielding to the 
 potent drugs which I had taken, 1 dropped into a thick and heavy sleep. 
 After the lapse of a few hours I again awoke, and the fierce grasp of dis- 
 ease seemed for a period withdrawn. I received a second visit from the 
 physician. He observed me attentively, and addressed Mrs. Dolby. 
 
 "Nurse," said he, "\?e are better." 
 
 l 2 
 
148 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Quite a different creature, sir. May he take a little nourishment %» 
 
 " Yes, a little, but a very little. Something very simple." 
 
 " Some beef-tea— or a mutton chop done rare ?" 
 
 " Not just now, nurse," said the doctor quietly. * Some gruel, if he 
 wishes it— nothing better for the present." , 
 
 " Well, you know best, sir, of course : but when dear Mr. Dolby s leg was 
 
 The doctor took his hat, and was about to depart— but I beckoned him 
 back. 
 
 " Where is my benefactor T I asked, my frame trembling with newly- 
 awakened emotion, " where is the good minister?- " 
 
 " Not a word," said the physician, assuming an air of mild authority, 
 and placing his fingers on his lips. " You shall see him when you are able 
 to bear the interview, and that time will soon be here. He is anxious to 
 see you, and 1 shall not keep him away longer than is necessary for your 
 safe recovery. He takes a warm interest in your welfare, and I shall 
 gratiiy him with the news that I am enabled to communicate this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 The heart of the beggar was fluttered, and the tears burst from the 
 grateful fount. " There," continued the physician, " I have done wrong. 
 We have already spoken too much. You are weaker than you think. 
 Quiet is absolutely necessary for your safety. Nurse, do not let him utter 
 another svllable. Good-bye, my friend— God bless you !" 
 
 "Certainly not!" ejaculated Mrs. Dolby. "Oh, he's a clever man is 
 Doctor Meadows !— Don't you think so, sir]" 
 I nodded in the affirmative. 
 
 " It's a thousand pities he doesn't marry. All my ladies long to have 
 him, and if he'd take a wife to-morrow, I'd undertake to pay the expenses 
 with confinements. The poor about here will have no one else ; and I can 
 tell you, though they pay nothing at all. they are more squeamish and 
 particular than any. Now, do keep quiet— there's a dear young gentle- 
 man," continued Mrs. Dolby, alarmed because I turned in bed ; " we must 
 mind the doctor, or we shall do no good at all. Let me read to you a bit." 
 The scrupulously exact nurse commenced the didactic history of a con- 
 verted Somersetshire lad. Before she had proceeded far, the distressing 
 symptoms of my intermittent fever returned upon me with their earliest 
 force. I could feel the hot suffocating flush creeping through my frame, 
 and extending to my heart. My thoughts grew restive, and would not be 
 fixed. AVild conceits, the immature creations of an overfretted mind, 
 crowded into existence one upon another ; and the quick blood, driven 
 from its seat, beat like a hammer in the artery. Another weary night of 
 continual motion and distress— another never-ending period of bodily 
 pain and mental torture. In this state I remained for a week— compara- 
 tively placid and at ease during the first hours of the day — but becoming 
 the subject and the slave of fierce tormentors as the day waned, and the 
 black, the horrid, and the dreaded night advanced. Morning, noon, and 
 night, I endeavoured to chase away the diurnal visitants with noxious and 
 disgusting drugs ; but whilst my frame shook beneath their operation, the 
 demons were still unscared, and still haunted as obstinately as ever the 
 tottering house of flesh. How and why they deserted it at last, I know 
 not ; but a day arrived, and they had flown, carrying with them from my 
 very bones the marrow and the juice of life. I was cast upon ni\ back 
 drained of every energy, exhausted and spent. Nature, however, left to 
 her own beneficent will, was not slow to repair the violent inroads of dis- 
 ease. Awhile she looked about her to survey the injury, and then — at 
 
CALEB STUKELY. ]49 
 
 first with unperceivcd and mild appliances, but soon with manifest and 
 vigorous power —lost not a moment in the restoration oi the citadel. The 
 physician had been a faithful friend, and Mrs. Dolby not useless at the 
 bedside of the patient. Hers must have been a life of suffering and trial. 
 Not a pang did I experience during the progress of my malady which she 
 did not realise, and could not tally to the exactly corresponding pang that 
 she had felt some twenty years before— not a symptom had I that was un- 
 known to her— not a medicine did I swallow whose efficacy she had not 
 tested. For every groan and throe she gave a formal cause— for every 
 change of feeling a satisfactory explanation. In truth, many acute sensa- 
 tions and much uneasiness difficult for their victim to define, though hard 
 enough to bear, she could immediately unravel and expound, and, if you 
 pleased, trace to their first germ and origin. Greatly she respected the 
 apothecary and the physician ; but she was not forgetful of the nurse's 
 higher claims to veneration and regard. She was aware how onerous were 
 her duties and how boundless ought to be her learning ; and, rather than 
 confess her want of knowledge in a single point, she was content to be sus 
 pected of an universal ignorance. 
 
 1 gathered from Dr. Meadows the history of the last few days. It was a 
 short one. Whilst in a state of insensibility, I had been conveyed to my 
 present lodging at the instance of Mr. Clayton. That benevolent man 
 had provided for me medical attendance, and the all-powerful aid of Mrs. 
 Dolby. He had engaged to discharge every expense that might be incur- 
 red, and had requested that nothing should be left undone that was neces- 
 sary for my restoration and comfort. 
 
 " He is an old friend, I presume V said Dr. Meadows. 
 " He is the kindest and the best of friends," I replied ; " but until the day 
 he brought me here I was a stranger to him. I never saw him before. You 
 do not know how much I am indebted to him. I know and feel what he 
 has accomplished for me. Twice he has saved my wretched life ; but he 
 has done much more than this. I can never repay him, but his reward 
 awaits him elsewhere." 
 
 " He will come to you to-morrow," said the doctor; " he has desired me to 
 tell you so. But do not excite yourself. You are touchwood and tinder, and 
 may yet spoil all that has been done for you. You must behave better." 
 
 The morrow came, and at an early hour I received a visit from my bene- 
 factor. He approached my bed with a soft and careful step, took my hand 
 in silence, and looked upon me with tenderness and compassion. I pressed 
 his hand to my lips, and wept upon it, for my full heart would else have 
 burst. 
 
 " Thank you, sir— thank you, sir ! " I endeavoured to articulate. 
 _ " Say no more," replied Mr. Clayton, very gently. " God has been mer- 
 ciful to us both. Compose your mind, and think, for the present, only of 
 improving the talent that has been restored to you. Your health is now 
 the first consideration. When you have recovered that, we shall find many 
 opportunities to revert with pleasure and improvement to the past. I will 
 read to you now." 
 
 I need scarcely say, that I took an early opportunity to acquaint him with 
 every incident in my career. I concealed nothing. My errors and my 
 guilt I revealed to him as freely as the remembrance of them occurred to 
 my own mind. I conducted him through my various fortunes, my temp- 
 tations, and my trials ; and told him how at last I had been checked by his 
 admonishment, stung and startled by his denunciations. 
 
 Time sped on golden wings. Daily my affection ripened towards my 
 friend, daily his regard and love for me increased. One, and one considera- 
 
150 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 tion only, stood between me and consummate happiness; but that, alas ! 
 existed to mar and to embitter every moment of my too blissful state. I 
 still lived upon the bounty of my preserver — was dependent upon him, 
 not only for every high and intellectual enjoyment, but for my daily food 
 and raiment. In the possession of strength and vigorous health, I was an 
 idler and a hanger-on. "I will no longer," I exclaimed, "be a burden to 
 the good man, preying daily and hourly upon his substance ! I will not 
 suffer evil tongues to whisper calumny against me, as they surely will, 
 nor — much greater punishment to bear — permit one unkind, unworthy 
 thought against me, to harbour in his own generous and gentle mind ! I 
 will thank him upon my knees for the past, and seek elsewhere a home 
 for the future." Speedily I made my intention known to Mr. Clayton. 
 
 "Whither would you go]" enquired that gentleman, when I had 
 finished. 
 
 " I cannot tell, sir," I replied ; " I will seek employment." 
 
 * And not finding it at last — what then V 
 
 " Oh, I shall be successful ! I do not doubt it." 
 
 " Do not deceive yourself, young friend : / doubt it much. We forget 
 in health the pains and trials of our previous sickness. Prosperity loves 
 not to remember her former sad companion, pale misfortune. Throw 
 yourself once again upon the world, friendless and unsupported, and 
 again you sink. We must not think of it. I must not allow it. Believe 
 me, I have not thought little of your future plans, and I have hoped to 
 help you effectually. In one quarter I believed myself to possess influence 
 and interest. I employed them on your behalf, but found them less 
 efficient than I had supposed. I was disappointed, and, for your sake, 
 grieved. It is a common occurrence, and should not dishearten us. I 
 have turned my view in another direction : this time, I trust, with a better 
 chance of success. But if we fail again, history* and experience teach us 
 not to despond at the outset of our attempts. Time is before us — why 
 are you so eager to forsake me]" 
 
 " Dear Mr. Clayton," I replied, " my heart is full with the warm recol- 
 lection of your bounty. I cannot think for an instant of your generosity 
 — your charity — and not feel that heart bounding with grateful emotion. 
 But my conscience tells me that I do wrong in remaining longer here. I 
 am wretched and uneasy. I am restored to health, able to work, and I 
 have no right to rob you of your means." 
 
 '- Indeed you have not," replied Mr. Clayton with a smile, " and far be 
 it from me to encourage so felonious a proposition. But we are not ac- 
 customed to say that they are robbed who freely part with what they have ; 
 much less they who, for their money, ask and obtain their money's worth. 
 Have I not purchased your convalescence % Do I not see a living soul 
 snatched from uncertainty and peril, brought back from darkness and its 
 terrors, to light and all its blessedness ? So much I proposed to myself, 
 so much I have gained. I believe I have — God be praised for it ! Would 
 you deny me the pleasure that I have bought at such little cost ] Would 
 you refuse me the satisfaction and delight that moves an aged heart with 
 something higher than mere earthly bliss]" 
 
 I knew not what to say. 
 
 " No, my dear friend," he continued, " this head would scarcely lie easy 
 on its pillow, disturbed with doubts and fears respecting you. Willingly, 
 I am sure, you would not give me pain ; unwillingly you shall not, if I 
 can help it. Eeconcile yourself for one week longer to your present 
 situation, or, at the latest, two. If I am not mistaken, fortune will do 
 something for us in the meanwhile. Your ambition is not at war with 
 
CALEB STUKELY. ]51 
 
 your happiness, and consequently gives us a chance of satisfying its de- 
 mands. Selfish as "we all by nature and of necessity are, I believe that I 
 can resign you when the proper time arrives. Come when it may, I 
 shall be honest enough to confess that it is still too soon." 
 
 I returned the affectionate pressure of the good man's hand, but my 
 overloaded heart forbade a single word. 
 
 " Pardon me," continued Mr. Clayton, " if I revert to other matters. I 
 will not tell you, that to give you one unnecessary pang would be a bitter 
 thought to me. You are already convinced of that." 
 
 " Speak on, sir." 
 
 * I have not forgotten the history of your connexion with that unfortu- 
 nate woman whom you met in Cambridge. You told me that you left her, 
 as you believed, on her dying bed. Have you seen her since V 
 
 " I have not, sir. My father remained but one day in Huntingdon. 
 His short stay enabled him just to see the poor girl placed safely in the 
 infirmary. On the evening of that day I attempted to take leave of her. 
 She was still delirious, and did not recognize me. Her glazed eyes shrank 
 from me when I approached her, and she screamed as before, ' the fiend, 
 the fiend ! ! ' It was a miserable sight !" 
 
 "And what news of her from that time V 
 
 " Alas, sir ! I acknowledge with shame that my proper misfortunes, my 
 own deplorable state, have made me — I dare not say indifferent to her 
 fate — but not so careful in respect of it as indeed I ought to have been." 
 
 For the moment Mr. Clayton said no more. In a few days, however, 
 the subject was resumed. Before a fortnight had elapsed we were both on 
 our way to Huntingdon in search of news of the castaway. 
 
 "We arrived in Huntingdon late at night, and went immediately to an 
 inn. Mr. Clayton, fatigued from the journey, retired to rest without de- 
 lay. We were within a street of the residence of Dr. Weezen. My cu- 
 riosity prompted me to enquire after my old friend, and I sought our 
 landlord for that object. In answer to my question whether he knew a 
 gentleman of that name living in the town, he placed a county newspaper 
 in my hand, bade me turn to the report of trials, smiled, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 " What is this ?" I asked. 
 
 '•'Manslaughter!" was his reply, "and within an inch of murder. I 
 was on the jury, and I think I saved his life. It is more than he ever did 
 for fellow-creature yet." 
 
 " What has he done V I asked again. 
 
 " Read," he replied ; " killed a youth that never offended him." 
 
 " Ah ! " I exclaimed, " I was afraid that it would come to that. He 
 was a desperate adventurer." 
 
 " Eead his defence," continued my informant ; a youll find he is a de? • 
 perate fellow altogether. As for talking, the lawyers were a flea-bite to 
 him. ' Science,' he told the judge, ' would revenge upon his tyrants the 
 fate of her disciple.' He spoke his mind to judge and jury." 
 
 " How did he accomplish the dreadful act }" said I. 
 
 " By what he called the hot-water cure. He had made many dis- 
 coveries — this he considered his last and best. He boiled his patients. 
 For the last six months, whatever the disease, he put them in a cop 
 per. For cold or fever, fullness or consumption, in his own words, 
 * he simmered them.' It brought, he said, the sickness to a crisis. If it 
 would stand the boiler it would stand anything, and science couldn't 
 reach it. The poor boy was skinned — he had cast his slough as clean as 
 any serpent." 
 
152 CALEB STUEELT. 
 
 "And his punishment'?" 
 
 " You'll see it all there. Five years' imprisonment. His shop's shut 
 up, and the mortality amongst the poor, I am thinking, will be much less 
 in Huntingdon for the next five years at least." 
 
 " Did you ever hear of a young man and female whom he had lodging 
 •with him some eighteen months ago?" 
 
 "Never. I knew nothing of the man himself until this affair was 
 blown about." 
 
 I thanked the landlord for his news, wished him good-night, and retired 
 to rest myself. I dreamed of Emma Fitziones, and was once again driving 
 with her rapidly through the streets of Huntingdon. 
 
 Early on the following morning my travelling companion and I visited 
 the infirmary, and requested an interview with the matron of the institu- 
 tion. A lady dressed in a black silk gown, armed with a noble bunch of 
 keys, and matronly in all respects, received us. Mr. Clayton spoke to her. 
 " I come, madam," said he, " to learn something of the fate of a poor 
 girl who many months ago was admitted into this establishment. Her 
 name is Emma Fitzjones." 
 
 " If you are a professional gentleman, sir, and know anything to her 
 advantage," said the matron, interrupting him, " I can only say that I 
 am very sorry she is not living to enjoy it. She has been dead some time, 
 poor creature ! " 
 
 " The punisltment of mine iniquity was accomplished." The words of 
 the matron struck leaden-heeled upon my soul. To have had no share in 
 the past— to have forgotten it for ever— to have been freed from the 
 manacle that linked me to the fortunes of the departed— w.bat would I 
 not have given 1 
 
 "I am not, as you suppose, connected with the law," said Mr. Clayton ; 
 "we came to be of service to the deceased. We would have been her 
 friends. We arrive, unfortunately, too late." 
 
 The matron turned her eyes toward me as my companion spoke, and 
 shame, or whatever it might be, gave me the pallid aspect of a criminal. 
 I could feel it on my cheek. 
 
 " Surely you are not Mr. Stukely V enquired the lady, suddenly, causing 
 me in every joint to tremble. 
 
 " Yes, madam, that is my name," I faltered. 
 
 "Heaven bless me!" she ejaculated, "this is " She hesitated, 
 
 stopped — burst into tears, and hurried from her seat. " Pardon me, gen- 
 tlemen," she continued, sobbing—" it was so sudden — it brought so many 
 things to mind. She died in my arms." 
 
 '•'You know her history'?" said Mr. Clayton. 
 
 " Every letter of it," answered the matron. " I would have given a 
 hundred pounds, sir," she added, speaking again to me, " if 1 could have 
 seen you before she died. It would have been a comfort to the poor 
 Magdalen. I sent to Cambridge, and was referred to London. I wrote 
 to you there, but my letter was returned to me with 'gone away' written 
 on its cover." 
 
 " She died penitent then V 
 
 " Oh, indeed she did, and like a lamb ! She recovered from her dread- 
 ful disorder, but her body was very weak, and her mind sadly distressed. 
 She never recovered her strength, nor did she wish it, poor sufferer!" 
 continued the matron, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, " longer 
 than to enable her to make her peace with God, whom she had so much 
 offended. I have a remembrance for you, Mr. Stukely, which I promised 
 faithfully to deliver to you if ever the opportunity offered. It was only 
 
CALEB STUEELY. 153 
 
 the day before she died that she told me how satisfied she felt that one 
 day you would come to see her, and that you were then detained by cir- 
 cumstances you could not overcome." 
 
 " Her last hours were very happy?" I asked, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Yes, certainly her last ; but there were many passed in bitterness of 
 spirit — in fear and self-reproach. At first her state was very pitiable ; 
 she had nothing to hope from the past — everything to dread from the 
 future." 
 
 At this moment a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. The 
 business of the day had commenced, and the presence of the matron was 
 required in twenty different places. Food for the healthy as well as for 
 the sick must be supplied, and the good lady must administer the rations. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said the matron, " that I must leave you now. 
 When do you quit the town?" 
 
 "Our mission is fulfilled," I answered, "we have nothing more to da 
 We shall return to-night." 
 
 " Let me see you for an instant before you depart," said the lady, "and 
 wait one moment now." She left the room in baste, and shortly came 
 back with a sealed packet in her hand. It was addressed to "Mr. Stukely, 
 London." " She bade me place it in your own hands. It was all she had 
 to leave you, and she was sure you would not think less kindly of her on 
 account of its contents. I repeat her dying words. And this is the re- 
 membrance that I spoke of." 
 
 I took the packet, and returned with my friend to our inn, having en- 
 gaged to see the matron again previously to our departure for London 
 that evening by the mail. I had nothing to say upon our road. My mind 
 was busy with scenes which my late interview and familiar streets brought 
 painfully to view. Time mis-spent, wickedly spent, and fruitful in lament- 
 able events never to be improved, never forgotten — this was the heavy 
 thought that pressed upon my spirits, and kept me silent. My companion 
 likewise abstained from talk; he it might be with consideration and 
 design, and to permit the salutary working of that thought upon the 
 heart and conscience of the offender. 
 
 I lost not a moment, after we had reached our room, in possessing my- 
 self of the enclosure. Mr. Clayton would have retired : but I begged 
 him to remain, and to witness the last communication of the unfortunate 
 being in whose fate he had taken so kind an interest. I broke the black 
 seal oi the parcel, and found an ordinary school writing-book. Upon the 
 cover was written, in a clear lady's hand, the following words — " To Mr. 
 Stukely, in memory of the writer;" and on the first page, in the like 
 handwriting, this announcement — " The sad history of Emma Harring- 
 ton." With the same feeling, and at the same moment, we drew our 
 chairs to the table. I placed the manuscript in the hands of Mr. Clayton, 
 and he read aloud to me the following narrative. 
 
 Theee is only one vice of which it can be truly said that it is the parent 
 and begetter of all other vices — that it dooms its subject to destruction, 
 certain and complete, and drags into the inevitable ruin every tie and 
 every soul connected with the slave and victim of the lust. It is the vice 
 of drunkenness. For centuries the tenure of this consuming passion has 
 been the miserable inheritance of my race. I trace it up to the first dis- 
 coverable shoot of the unsound tree — the canker is coeval with its origin. 
 The patrimony descends to me, and there, I thank my God, becomes 
 extinct ! The purpose for which it was originally attached has been 
 accomplished. The grievous sin that brought upon generations the 
 
154 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 punishment incurred, perhaps, by one, has paid its last instalment —justice 
 is satisfied — and the avenging hand is withdrawn. 
 
 Dear Stukely, pardon the unhappy wretch who united you to her fate. 
 I know not at this moment what, in addition to my own crimes, I have to 
 answer for on your account. I am ignorant of your affairs. They tell me 
 you were forced away by the same hand that placed me here. Oh, it was 
 a benevolent hand that did as much for both of us — that checked you in 
 your career of error, and lightened the guilty burden of one who has 
 already too much to cast before the throne of her offended Maker. 
 "Could it have been his father 1 ?" I often ask myself. Oh, yes! it must 
 have been — who else ? And you are now restored to his arms — he has for- 
 given you, and you are happy. You will return to Cambridge, prosecute 
 your interrupted studies, and assume that position amongst men to which 
 your acquirements and your warm and honourable spirit so well entitle 
 you. Ah ! would that I could be assured of all this, and that my ears 
 might take in the welcome sounds before they close for ever on the world. 
 But, in the meanwhile, I will believe it, and seek to pacify the murmurs 
 of a never-silent conscience. I have done you great wrong. It may be 
 irreparable — although I trust not — fervently, fervently. If I can make 
 you no proportionate amends, such as I can I will. You shall be told my 
 miserable history— you shall read it, and then not curse the source and 
 author of your woes. It is a testament due to the living. Read it, dear 
 Stukely, and forgive the dying Emma. Read it for your sister's sake, if 
 you have one that looks to you for protection and support. 
 
 I was born in the winter of the year 1780, and my birthplace was a 
 lovely spot in one of the midland counties. My father was a clergyman of 
 the established church ; his name Harrington. I need scarcely tell you 
 that the name Fitzjones was assumed at a later period of life, when my 
 own conduct suggested the propriety of adopting it — not in order to keep 
 disgrace from our family name, but to save it from an addition to the 
 infamy that was attached to it wheresoever it was known. My father had 
 lost his parents at an early age, but he was left, with a handsome fortune, 
 to the care of his uncle — himself a man of influence and of great wealth. 
 Fortunately for the children of the previous holders of my father's lands, 
 the property had been entailed, and so far in bulk secured from the des- 
 perately mad extravagance that attends so constantly on drunkenness. 
 My father, on the other hand, when he became of age, obtained absolute 
 possession. How he used his privilege you will hear. At the age of 
 twenty-three, my father quitted the university, and returned to the roof of 
 his ancestors, and shortly afterwards his uncle procured for him, by pur- 
 chase, a benefice in his native parish. A man less suited to his profession, 
 less endowed with the qualities of heart and mind that are essential to a 
 just performance of its duties, never, in a fit of recklessness or bravado, 
 thrust himself into the sacred office. But let me do him justice. Thrust 
 himself he did not. I have heard that before he went to the university he 
 remonstrated with his uncle against being forced into a trade, as he 
 termed it, in which he took no interest, and for which he had no taste. 
 His fortune he considered ample for his desires, and study or reading of 
 any kind was irksome and annoying. His guardian, however, was a man 
 who did not well brook contradiction. He was a rude, severe, and vulgar 
 man. It was his boast that he had in his youth swept the shop and 
 cleaned the windows of the house, from which, in the prime of his man- 
 hood, he had retired with a hundred thousand pounds. He had resolved 
 to have my father educated for the church. " There had never been," he 
 said, " a bishop in the family ; with money, he knew, anything might be 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 155 
 
 done in England, and he had made up his mind to see him on the bench." 
 He left my father to choose between compliance with his wishes and the 
 prospect of a noble inheritance, and non-compliance without a farthing. 
 My father at length capitulated on terms. He undertook to become a 
 parson on three conditions. In the first place, he was to enter the univer- 
 sity as a fellow-commoner; secondly, it was not to be expected that he 
 should read ; and lastly, his uncle was to provide him with a handsome 
 living, and take all trouble off his hands. Uuder such happy auspices he 
 proceeded to the seat of learning, subscribed implicitly to the Thirt}--nine 
 Articles, and entered upon a life of riot and debauchery which ended only 
 with his own career. How he underwent the necessary ordeal of an 
 examination you may understand. I have heard him many times boasting 
 of his success, and vowing that, during a period of three years, he bad 
 only read as many books in twice as many days. He took his degree — he 
 was ordained — he became a parish priest. Two years after his ordination 
 he met with my mother, a delicate and lovely girl, the daughter of a 
 farmer in the neighbourhood, and a man of great worth and respectability. 
 
 My father saw my mother, and the impression made upon him at their 
 first interview, by her innocence and beauty, decided her future fate. He 
 was madly in love with her, and in spite of the strong representations 
 of his uncle, who had already provided a wife for him after his own taste, 
 within a month be asked ber in marriage. My dear mother — all weak- 
 ness, love, and duty then, as she was ever — obedient to the will of 
 her father, accepted him as a suitor, and gave her hand and her heart 
 wholly to a man who never learned their value. Stukely, this heart has 
 been distressed and wrung— you know it — when I have called to mind 
 that mothers wrongs. I mourn no longer. I go to join her where she 
 is at peace. Angels, who love the patient and the suffering, protect a 
 kindred spirit, and cherish it in heaven ! She was a stranger amongst 
 men. She consented to become bis wife. His uncle disinherited bim for 
 the act, and the nephew never afterwards pardoned my mother for the 
 crime. 
 
 My father's character gradually developed itself after this crisis in bis 
 life. Forsaken by his uncle, it was expected that he would retire from an 
 occupation that had never been pleasing to him, and which had been fol- 
 lowed only in consequence of the understanding already referred to. But 
 be did no such thing. He held his incumbency, and discharged bis obli- 
 gations. Thrown upon his own resources, he was not slow to avail him- 
 self to the full extent of the help they could afford bim. For a few years, 
 he persevered in a line of conduct that won for him the good-will and 
 regard of the world, and so effectually, that they were withdrawn with 
 pain and reluctance at a later period, when his fogrant and undisguised 
 behaviour rendered him unworthy of either. He was attentive to the 
 poor, and mixed with the powerful and the ricb in bis cure. Mildness 
 and humanity characterized his demeanour with the former : servility and 
 cringing his intercourse with the latter. These were the out-door sacri- 
 fices imperiously demanded from his selfishness: home and its devoted 
 victims paid the penalty in bearing tyranny and persecution. 
 
 A year after her marriage, my mother brought into the world my bro- 
 ther Frederick. I wa3 born two years later. "We were their only 
 offspring. I was five years old when I became aware, for the first time, 
 that man and wife, though linked together by the strongest chains, may, 
 at the same time be wholly distinct and separate from each other. It 
 was not without alarm, even at this tender age, that I felt the burning 
 tears of my mother falling upon my neck ; nor, whilst she hung over me, 
 
156 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 her voice half-stifled, murmuring in distress my father's name, did her 
 accents fall upon my infant ear in vain. Her maternal heart was over- 
 flowing: with love for me. She could not tell how much she loved dear 
 Frederick and myself, and my little heart beat deeply for them both. 1 
 could not bear to see her cry. No loss in my little but important world 
 could give me half the pain that I experienced when I beheld the habi- 
 tual sorrow of my mother. 
 
 The habit which I have already mentioned, as belonging by a cruel 
 necessity to our family, developed itself in my father's case in very early 
 youth. It was encouraged and perfected at the university. This vice 
 added strength and bitterness to every bad quality that he possessed. 
 Cruel and overbearing at other times, when under the influence of strong 
 drink he became a furious madman. Surprising as it may seem, this 
 man, upon whose head no day closed during which he had not treated my 
 mother with violence and harshness that were intolerable as they were 
 unparalleled, could, once beyond his own gates, adorn his lip with smiles, 
 and assume a garb of Christian kindness and consideration. Open to the 
 grossest flattery himself, he was a sycophant in the most extensive sense 
 of the word ; and by the poor and necessitous, whose affection and good 
 word are ever to be gained at a price, and amongst whom he scattered in- 
 discriminate alms in the terror of his conscience-stricken moments, he was 
 spoken of as a man who was preparing for himself, by charity and good 
 works, "an incorruptible crown of glory that fadeth not away." 
 
 My dear and patient mother— forbearing and patient under injury as 
 she was herself tender and inoffensive — bore her wrongs but too meekly. 
 Although worn out with grief, she never complained. At home, Ave knew 
 nothing beyond the tears and sighs, and drooping countenance, which 
 were not to be hidden. Indistinct were the ideas which these enabled me 
 to form respecting the cause of all her affliction. Both my brother and 
 myself were studiously kept at a distance from the rooms occupied by 
 our parents, and our sleeping-room was far enough from theirs to prevent 
 our hearing anything that passed after they had retired to bed— alas ! not 
 to rest! 
 
 It was my mother's custom to come into our nursery every morning 
 before breakfast, to read a portion of Holy Scripture, and afterwards to 
 kneel with us in prayer. My father never accompanied her. As I grew 
 up, I was struck on these occasions by the change which had taken place 
 in her appearance during the night. She had evidently been robbed of 
 sleep. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face wan and pale, her hand 
 dry and feverish. For months, these symptoms continued, and the poor 
 victim became weaker and weaker, more and more sorrowful. 
 
 The events of one morning are deeply engraven on my memory. 
 Childhood and its joys ceased then. Knowledge came to me to perplex 
 and grieve. I had reached my seventh year. My mother came to pray to 
 her children as usual. Her Bible opened at the 5th chapter of St. Paul's 
 epistle to the Ephesians. She was very wretched, and she proceeded in 
 her task with a thin weak voice. She came to the words, " Be not drunk 
 with wine, wherein is excess;" and my brother looked up to me, as her 
 lips quivered and her pale hand trembled. She had not selected the les- 
 son ; but one more appropriate she could scarcely have chosen. " Hus- 
 bands love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave him- 
 self for it. . . Be that loveth his wife loveth himself. For no man ever 
 yet hated his own flesh; but nourisheth and cherisheth it." She had not 
 spoken the words before, completely overcome by the violence and rapi- 
 dity of her feelings, she burst into a flood of tears. The Bible dropped. 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 157 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, and then passionately sobbed and wept, 
 as if her heart were falling to pieces, and as I had never heard man, 
 woman, or child sob and weep before. I was frantic ; but little Frederick 
 looked upon my poor mother in silence, and knit his brows, and clenched 
 his infant fist. 
 
 My mother, however, soon recovered herself; and then, without looking 
 at either of us, or uttering one word more, she left the room. Frederick 
 ran after her; but when she perceived him, she quickened her steps. He 
 was too nimble for her, and when she reached her own room, he was at 
 her side, and they entered it together. He was flushed, and looked wildly 
 at her. For a moment, he seemed as if he knew not what to do or say. 
 At last, he threw himself into his mother's arms, and cried — 
 
 " You hate me, mother ! You hate me, I know you do !" 
 
 "What do you mean, Frederick?" she asked. 
 
 "Why," said he, "you are ill, and are in great suffering, and you keep it 
 to yourself, and never speak to me about it." 
 
 " I am quite well in health, Frederick," she said, endeavouring to com- 
 pose herself, and to satisfy him. 
 
 " Oh no, you are not !" he answered ; "if you are, why do you cry so? 
 You make me wretched, you do. It will kill me soon, and you will be 
 sorrv for it then." 
 
 "For what?" asked my mother. " Tell me, dearest heart, what shall I 
 do to make you happy 1 ?" 
 
 " Let me know what father says to you," he replied quickly, and in a 
 different tone. " I am sure you don't love me, or you would have told me 
 before. Why don't you let me take your part]" 
 
 "Frederick," said my mother, "you know I love you dearly; and that 
 much of my little share of happiness on earth depends upon you, my sweet 
 boy. I am sure of your affection, too, for you have ever been most dutiful. 
 You have never once disobeyed your mother. Ask me no questions, dearest, 
 which I cannot answer. I shall soon be well again. I am only weak. You 
 have always attended without a murmur to your mother's bidding. You 
 will do so now. Return to the nursery, and take no notice of what has 
 happened. I have behaved very ill at prayers. It shall not occur again. 
 Go, dear boy." 
 
 Frederick would have made some reply, but my mother held up her fin- 
 ger with an air of kind remonstrance, and he said nothing. He departed 
 without another syllable. I encountered him on the stairs, where, taking 
 me by the hand, and urging me forward, he exclaimed in a^tone of vexa- 
 tion and suppressed anger, " Come, Emma, mamma doesn't care for us. 
 If she is ill again, I sha'n't mind it at all. It is nothing to me." And a 
 tear started to his eye, and his little lip quivered, giving the lie to every 
 word he spoke. 
 
 The day passed on, and nothing more was heard of this occurrence. 
 About eleven o'clock at night, I was frightened out of a deep sleep by a 
 tapping at the door of my bedroom. I was terribly alarmed, and the more 
 so in consequence of the previous disturbance at prayers, which had fur- 
 nished me with an endless series of distressing dreams. My name was 
 called in a low, sharp whisper, and I crept from my nurse's side to listen 
 at the keyhole. I accomplished this without waking her, and then I sum- 
 moned courage to ask the name of the intruder. 
 
 The voice of Frederick answered me, still whispering. 
 
 " It is Fred," said he ; " come with me, Emma. I have found it all out." 
 
 " Found what out, dear ]" I answered. 
 
 "About father and mother. Don't wait, but open the door quietly, and 
 
158 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 come as you are. Ion mustn't wait to dress yourself; if you do, we shall 
 
 be too late." 
 
 I opened the door noiselessly, and discovered my brother in his night- 
 dress, holding in his hand a rushlight, secured in a wire gauze shade. 
 "What is it all about, Frederick ?" I enquired anxiously. 
 " He is killing mother, I am sure," he replied. " I have listened at the 
 door for the last hour, and you can't think how he is talking, and she is 
 crying, just as she did this morning. Don't you be a coward," he added, 
 taking my trembling hand, " but come with me, and just whisper as I do." 
 He led me on tiptoe towards the sleeping apartment of our parents. As 
 he approached it, he walked more carefully, and at last he stopped. 
 "Hush !" said he ; "There— do you hear?" 
 "No !" I answered, " I hear nothing." 
 " Well, wait a moment. There again." 
 
 " No, Frederick," I said, " it is nothing at all. I shall go back again." 
 " You are deaf, Emma," he exclaimed hastily, and in anger ; and he ap- 
 plied his ear again to the door. " Now," said he, " don't speak a word. ^ I 
 hear him. He has called her some name, and she is crying quite loud." 
 
 He drew me close to his side. We held our breath, and listened for a 
 time with strained attention. A burst of anguish from the lips of my 
 poor mother, and then long and piteous sobbing succeeding it, as thunder 
 does the flash, startled me, and sent me clinging into my brother's arms. 
 
 " Yes, that's it !" he said, " I heard it before for an hour together. Hush ! 
 listen !" My mother was weeping amain, loud and unrestrained, and the 
 words that struggled through her tears reached easily our ears. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Harrington," she exclaimed, "think of the children ! 
 What will become of them? You are killing me. Sobbed night after 
 night of my natural rest, treated as I am by you through every hour of my 
 existence, I look for nothing else than speedy death. It could not come too 
 soon, but for the dear children. What will become of them when I am 
 sacrificed?" 
 
 " Give me the brandy, wretch !" said my father, in a thick gruff voice. 
 "No more to-night, Harrington," she answered, "you can scarcely stand 
 now. Pray, get to bed. For the last four nights I have not taken off my 
 clothes ; I am sinking with fatigue : do show me a little mercy." 
 
 "Mercy, you infernal !" 
 
 " What does that mean?" asked Frederick sharply, and pinching my 
 arm with excessive agitation. 
 
 " I don't know," I answered weeping, and crushing my tears at the same 
 time ; " but let us go to bed again — I am afraid to stay." 
 
 " No, I shan't go," said Frederick ; " you may if you please. I shall 
 wait here. Go : I shall not come for you again." 
 
 " Oh, Frederick, I couldn't leave you for the world ! What shall we do?" 
 " Keep quiet," said my brother, " and hear all we can." 
 "Why the d— 1, woman, am I kept here?" roared my father, mad with 
 liquor. " Will you give me brandy, or shall we set fire to the house 
 again?" 
 
 " Oh for the love of Heaven, Harrington, do not repeat that trick ! In 
 another instant, and we should have been burned to death." 
 
 " Burn ! " was the husband's reply : " it would have been a good day's 
 work for me if you had burned, roasted, and rotted, before I ever met with 
 you. Haven't you been the cause of my ruin ?" 
 " You are raving." 
 
 "I am neither mad nor drunk. If you haven't ruined me, tell me what 
 has become of my uncle's property ?" 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 159 
 
 " This is the old story. Harrington. You tell me of this hour after hour, 
 as if I could have prevented what has passed, or repair it now. Am I to be 
 always blamed for the harshness of your own relative ? I warned you of 
 your risk, and wished you to consider well the step " 
 
 " Oh, none of your cant here ! It sickens me to hear you. Where is the 
 brandy, I say V 
 
 " I have locked it away. You have had more than enough to-night. This 
 hand, Harrington, shall never do you so much wrong as to offer you the 
 burning poison whilst you are in your present helpless situation." 
 
 " Give me the key. I say !" cried my father, kicking the chair from under 
 him, as we supposed, for we heard it fall with violence, and himself stamp- 
 ing and reeling on the floor. There was a short scuffle and a moment's 
 silence, then a shriek from my mother, and a guttural noise proceeding, it 
 might be, from strangulation. 
 
 "Oh, Fred, Fred!" I exclaimed, giving free egress to my gushing 
 tears, " what is that — what has happened ' Mother is dying." 
 
 Frederick made me no answer. The bedroom door was not locked. He 
 opened it with violence, and entered the apartment. I followed him, cry- 
 ing aloud, and shaking from head to foot with terror. It was a melancholy 
 scene. My mother sat at the end of the bed, white as its draperies, sighing 
 convulsively and wringing her hands. My father Avas before a raging fire, 
 whose flaming coal was piled high into the aperture of the chimney. My 
 mother was attired as in the daytime, but her head was uncovered. The 
 cap which had adorned it was consuming in the fire, having been torn 
 from her and cast there by my father, who now contemplated its destruc- 
 tion with the drunken chuckle of an intoxicated fiend. My mother, as 
 soon as she perceived us. and could recover from' astonishment, rushed 
 eagerly towards us, and placed herself between us and my father. 
 
 " Oh, my poor, dear children !" she exclaimed at the same moment. 
 
 " What do they want here ?-" bellowed my father, staring wildly first at 
 my brother and then at me. 
 
 " Go to bed, dear Frederick," said mv mother, imploringly, to the little 
 child. 
 
 " I sha'n't," he answered, his pretty cheeks swelling with rage and un- 
 natural excitement. * I shan't go, if you don't go with me, mother." 
 
 '•'What !" exclaimed the drunken man, rising with difficulty from his 
 chair, and preparing himself evidently for violence. 
 
 "Oh go, go, dear !" cried my mother, clasping her hands, and looking 
 most entreatingly on Frederick. " Go, before he murders you !" 
 
 "What do you mean by that, wretch?" said he, seizing her by the 
 wrist. 
 
 His hand was scarcely on her arm before my brother flew at the aggres- 
 sor, like a young eagle on its prey. My father seized him by the throat 
 — my mother screamed, and ran between them. I called aloud to all, but 
 could not move for dread and apprehension. It was an awful sight — father 
 and child struggling together in active enmity, and with evil passion, hot 
 and unbound as it exists in devils. Search through the calendar of crime 
 — recall the sights that pall and sicken you, that send through every fibre 
 of offended nature the horrible chill of loathing — and confess that the 
 hand of the child, lifted against the author and parent of its life, sur- 
 passes all in fearful ugliness and depravity. Nature thus deformed I had 
 never seen before. I shudder and grow cold as I realise the monstrous 
 picture. I know not how the impious contest ended. Frederick was torn 
 from the iron grasp of his father, and carried almost insensible to his own 
 room. He had fainted, either from excessive exertion, or from the punish- 
 
160 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 ment he had received ; for my father had not dealt lightly with him. I 
 remember that my mother accompanied Frederick to his bed, and sobbed 
 piteously over him ; and I recollect well that the last glimpse I had of my 
 father, as I quitted his presence, was when he drew his chair savagely to 
 the fire, and sat there grinning at the goodly work he had performed. 
 Higher and higher he built his mountain of coal, and more fearful grew 
 the rampant flames. I can tell you little more. I awoke on the follow- 
 ing morning with every nerve in my weak body loosened and unstrung. 
 My limbs had burst the bonds that held them in unity and subjection, and 
 anarchy prevailed throughout my frame. My eyes rolled ceaselessly ; my 
 tongue leapt from my mouth, and, like an idiot's, moved along my lips : 
 arms, hands, and feet— every feature, and every muscle, were at liberty ; 
 and, whilst the freedom lasted, used it wildly. The fright of the previous 
 evening had fallen upon my system with a whelming shock, and the rest- 
 less dance of Saint Vitus was upon me. 
 
 This is the first tragic scene that I can remember — would it were the 
 l as t t — of a home made dismal and desolate by the withering presence of 
 one unholy vice. When my calamity was removed, and I recovered from 
 my illness, I learned that my brother was at a boarding-school, and -many 
 miles away. My mother had placed him there without the knowledge of 
 my father; and, notwithstanding the urgent and repeated requests of the 
 latter, she would not communicate to him the place of his residence. To 
 punish her, as he expressed it, for her persevering obstinacy, in a moment 
 of partial intoxication, and for a hundredth part of its value, he disposed 
 of a considerable portion of his inheritance, giving her to understand, at 
 the same time, that if this act did not bring her to obedience, he would 
 try what could be done by selling the remainder. It is hardly necessary 
 for me to say that the produce of this sale replenished the cellars of the 
 drunkard, and filled them to the very roof with the deadly elixir. 
 
 It was impossible for my father to persist in his vicious course without 
 attracting the notice, and bringing upon himself the open remarks, of men. 
 I have already told you, that for a few years he commended himself to the 
 world by his behaviour, and secured the favour and good-will of his pa- 
 rishioners, by flattering the rich, and acting offices of kindness on behalf 
 of the poor. But it became daily less and less easy for him to hide, 
 beneath the hypocrite's cloak, the corroding inroads of his master passion. 
 In spite of the folds, the ulcer was there apparent. Slight improprieties 
 of conduct were at first revealed, but to these were added, at a later 
 period, faults of a deeper dye. He had been found inebriated and insen- 
 sible in the broad day. He had spoken ribaldry and unmeaning jargon 
 at the bedside of a dying woman, to whom he had been called to admi- 
 nister the last sacrament. He had reeled to his pulpit, and had mounted 
 it with the aid of his servant; but, blindly intoxicated, and unable to 
 perform his duties, he had been afterwards carried from it and conveyed 
 to his home. These were facts which courted observation, and were passed 
 from mouth to mouth. The parishioners were scandalised, and the minister 
 was remonstrated with. He listened to the rebuke ; and then, it is said, 
 he W ept— so acutely did he appear to feel the cruel and unexpected im- 
 putation. He denied, with vehemence, the charge so eagerly preferred 
 against him by his enemies. He confessed, with sorrow, that he was a 
 poor afflicted man, labouring under a malady that brought upon him deep 
 mental suffering, bitter bodily pain ; but he defied the harshest of them 
 all to prove a greater sin against him. The impression, however, was not 
 to be taken from the minds of his accusers : but for the present they urged 
 no more. It was not long after this interview that a party in the neigh- 
 
CALEB STUKEI.T. 161 
 
 bourhood became known by the name of the "minister's men." It con- 
 sisted principally of the humblest individuals in the parish, and they con- 
 stituted themselves the champions and supporters of my fathers cause. 
 They waged war against any who hinted at his unhappy failing, and de- 
 manded on all sides sympathy for his bodily infirmities. Borne upon the 
 voices of these men, and placing, as he could with a motive strong enough 
 to incite him, a moderate restraint upon his passion, he contrived for a 
 short period to stem the tide of opposition, which, having once turned, 
 had never ceased to roll against him. But the demands of the tempter 
 were not to be suppressed, however they might be resisted or dallied with 
 for a season. Once more, and very soon, he yielded undisguisedly to the 
 engrossing lust — fresh delinquencies arose — sacrilege was repeated again 
 and again — murmurs grew to complaints — complaints to accusations, and 
 at length my father ceased to be the incumbent of his native parish. The 
 immediate cause of his retirement was an act of brutality perpetrated 
 against my unfortunate mother. He had, on this occasion, treated her 
 with more than his ordinary severity. He struck her in the most cowardly 
 and unprovoked manner. A maid-servant had witnessed the action, and 
 her indignatioD was aroused. She threatened and upbraided him, and 
 vowed that she would publish his conduct wheresoever he was known. 
 Upon the following morning she received her dismissal. Before evening, 
 the scene was circumstantially narrated to every creature in the parish. 
 My mother's wrongs were — if it were possible — exaggerated; her uncom- 
 plaining nature and her meekness— no representation could heighten 
 them — discussed and pitied. A few members of the congregation who had 
 signalised themselves throughout my father's career by their acknowledged 
 hostility, now visited their pastor, and represented to him the propriety 
 of an immediate resignation of his cure. They carried with them a written 
 statement of his proceedings during the past twelvemonth, which they 
 gave him to understand would be forwarded without delay to the bishop 
 of the diocese, should he refuse to comply with their demand, or hesitate 
 one moment in his decision. " It was in consideration of his wife alone," 
 they added, " that they had prevailed upon themselves to act so leniently 
 towards a man who had forfeited every claim upon their mercy and re- 
 gard." My father was abashed and cowed, and gladly accepted release on 
 any terms. He had never been a man of courage. "What man of courage 
 ever yet, by systematic cruelty, crushed and destroyed the fragile flower 
 that clung about him for support] What man of courage ever stained 
 his manhood by inflicting blows upon a weak and unoffending woman ? 
 It is the mongrel cur, and not the lion, that trembles whilst it snarls. 
 Dissipation had given to his hands the native motion of the heart. Those 
 shook from intemperance, as this from natural fear. He stood before 
 his fellow-men, the meanest, the most debased and cowardly of his 
 sex. Be sure he loved not my mother the better for the influence 
 of her good name, and for the mitigation of punishment that name had 
 silently effected. They departed in company — she, not sorry to forsake 
 an abode painfully associated with her history — he, poor shallow reasoner ! 
 regarding his wife as the cause of his misfortunes ; and with his hatred 
 against the miserable creature increased a hundred-fold. The living was 
 sold. With half the proceeds he purchased a three years' interest in a 
 benefice, the property of a youth, who, yet a minor, was prosecuting his 
 studies in the University of Oxford. The other half supplied him with 
 wine, his only food — with fresh fuel for the raging passion which had not 
 yet consumed him. It was his boast that he would live long enough to 
 
 M 
 
162 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 spend every farthing that he possessed. That he should die leaving the 
 means of subsistence to his wife and children, came not within the range 
 of possibility. He had resolved that it should be otherwise. To Kent we 
 now journeyed, sad pilgrims ! My brother was still at school. He had not 
 been permitted to return home since he quitted its roof. My mother was 
 terrified at the thought of another meeting between him and his father. 
 The latter, in every fit' of drunkenness, swore vengeance against "the 
 villain who had attacked him ;" and distressed to agony my poor mother 
 with a cold-blooded description of the modes he would employ to torture 
 and to kill him, when he should fall again into his power. Frederick had 
 often written from school, imploring my mother to receive him at home 
 for her protection; she would not listen to the request, but conjured him, 
 with every expression she could make use of, to remain contentedly where 
 he was, and not to add to the wretchedness of her condition. I have a 
 packet of her letters now before me. Scarcely a day passed that did not 
 find her writing to her son. She lived in constant dread of beholding him. 
 To have seen him cross the threshold, I do believe would have been fatal 
 to her. She was convinced that my father had resolved upon his death, 
 and an habitual presentiment satisfied her, that she should live to see the 
 horrible deed committed. I take up a letter at random. Eead the earnest 
 entreaty of the mother to the banished child — " Dearest, dearest Frederick, 
 my own sweet boy ! May I be quite certain that you will spend the 
 coming vacation at your school ] What books, what things may I send 
 to you for your instruction and amusement ?- Time will pass very quickly 
 with your kind Mr. Percival ; and the school days will so soon come round 
 again, and you will be with your old companions, and in their society 
 forget the trials to which you are unfortunately subjected. Oh ! it is a 
 sweet time of the year ! How I envy you — the gambols up and down hill, 
 and your pretty walks and daily pleasures ! And you are so well, too ! 
 What a happiness this is to me ! How I long to have you with me — you 
 know I do, and a day will come when we shall feel blessed with one 
 another ! But it must not be now. I feel so very easy when I am assured 
 of your absence — it is a very hard thing to say, and I could not say it, dear 
 Frederick, to any boy except yourself ; but you are so good and kind to 
 your mother, and would not give her pain for all the world. If you should 
 come to us, your father would be more unkind than he has ever been, and 
 he remembers well the last night that you passed with him. He speaks 
 of it often, and with much sharpness and severity. I can bear all that I 
 have now to suffer without repining, as long as I am sure that you are safe. 
 Think how comforting it is to make your mother happy in her mind, and 
 then I am sure you will cheerfully comply with all she wishes." Frederick 
 reiterated his importunities ; but he doated on his mother, and he ceased 
 to disturb her when he found his solicitations grieved and afflicted her. It 
 was shortly after our arrival at the new parsonage that we contrived to 
 receive Frederick on a visit of a few days. Business connected with the 
 living had carried my father to London for a short time. It was the first 
 interval of quiet that we had known for years. The house became on a 
 sudden a peaceful and a sweet abode — a receptacle for angels. You can- 
 not conceive, it is hardly possible to believe, that an alteration so sudden 
 and so perfect could have taken place. The change in my own spirit was 
 marvellous. I felt as if I had been imprisoned from infancy, fettered for 
 ages in a dreary dungeon ; and that for the first moment in my life I 
 walked about erect, in freedom and in light. My very features seemed to 
 relax in the improved reviving atmosphere. My brow became unknit — 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 103 
 
 my eye" dilated and sparkled with awakened animation. I tripped from 
 room to room, my unembarrassed foot scarcely conscious of the ground. 
 In every nook was peace — over the entire dwelling was expanded the paci- 
 fic and protecting wing of a heavenly and pure intelligence. All was 
 intense tranquillity. Yes, it is true, one human being, darkening with his 
 pernicious shadow a bright and spotless scene, makes paradise a pande- 
 monium. Timid as the fawn are the gentle deities of the domestic hearth 
 — a harsh word scares them, and makes a palace desolate. My mother 
 and I walked from the village in which we dwelt to meet my brother at 
 the market-town through which the coach passed, distant some four miles 
 from our home. It was a land of enchantment that we traversed— or the 
 earth had re-assumed its pristine innocence and glory. It was so ver v 
 fair ! Hand in hand we went along — the smile crept from my mother's 
 heart and ventured to her cheek. My grateful soul bounded with delight 
 to give the stranger welcome — my tongue grew voluble — my spirit was 
 drowned in inundating mirth. It was a moment to have died. Eagerly 
 I looked through the long street of the town for the arrival of the sta^e, 
 but more eagerly my mother. Active and nimble were my eyes and 
 feet— how much more hers ! It was not long before we caught sight 
 of his handsome face straining from the coach-window, at whose door 
 we stood impatiently. He had grown very tall. For years I had not- 
 seen him. He had reached his sixteenth year, but he looked four years 
 older. His features were noble and expressive. The character of the 
 Spaniard was impressed upon them rather than that of the English- 
 man. His glossy jet-black hair hung loosely to his shoulders. His com- 
 plexion was dark ; his eye black, sharp, and penetrating. An aquiline nose 
 gave to that eye a fiery keenness like unto the eagle's, and the glare was 
 not always easy to endure. When he took his mother by the hand, and 
 kissed her passionately in the public road, a crimson flush mounting 
 to his eyes expressed the stroke that her sad and altered countenance 
 had immediately inflicted on him; and, in truth, she was paler than 
 ever, with the confluence of many feelings battling in her bosom. We 
 returned to the parsonage together. He walked between us ; one hand 
 clasped lovingly my mother's— the other was around my waist. How 
 much sorrow and trouble did I forget in the sweet consciousness of a 
 brother's love ! — a brother newly found, noble in form as he was affectionate 
 and tender in disposition. How proud I was to be his sister ! and how I 
 listened to every word he uttered with the reverence and belief due to 
 superior wisdom and intelligence! I asked him a hundred questions 
 touching his pleasures and pursuits — causing interrogatory to tread upon 
 the heel of answer, until the latter halted, hopeless to keep pace. The 
 cares and the anxieties of adolescence melt before one ray of passing sun- 
 light—not so the deep corroding woes of maturer life. With my brother 
 I was gay and jocund, as though my couch from infancy had been a bed of 
 roses— had never been disturbed by hard and prickly thorns. iLy dear 
 mother wept as she proceeded, for the present happv moment reminded 
 her of the joy that she had lost, Frederick, at first all animation and 
 excitement, was fluent and cheerful in his talk; but he watched his mo- 
 ther till her blanched cheek and tearful eye silenced his tongue, and car- 
 ried heaviness to his heart. We arrived at our residence, and then my 
 mother, remarking the depression of Frederick, assumed a cheerfulness 
 that lacked serenity enough to cheat the shallowest observer. She smiled 
 and spoke to him of his master, Mr. Percival, and enquired whether the 
 quaint boy, of whom he used to send in his long letters such humorous 
 
164 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 accounts, still lived, and was still his chosen playmate. " You described him 
 
 so cleverly, Frederick," said my mother, " I hope you are still good friends." 
 
 " How long is this to last, mother]" he said, speaking in return to her 
 question, though not replying to it. 
 
 " What, child V she asked. 
 
 " Your miserable way of life. It is shocking to behold you. Are you 
 never to be released from your terrible situation 1 He will murder you." 
 
 My mother made no answer. 
 
 "I shall not return to school until something is done for your relief. 
 The father of one of my schoolfellows is a lawyer, and he tells me that 
 the law will help you." 
 
 My mother shook her head. 
 
 " Ah, but I know better ! " he replied ; " if for our sakes, if for Emma 
 and me, you will have courage to state your grievances, they will not suf- 
 fer you to be persecuted." 
 
 " The grave, Frederick, the grave," she said seriously, " is the only 
 friend that can interpose between me and your father. It is in vain that 
 I look nearer for help. The hand of the law is dull and sluggish when a 
 weak woman would raise it on her behalf. Man is jealous of the rights of 
 man. It is his right to use us as he pleases. He believes it is. We are 
 not ignorant of the fact when we resign our liberty, and throw our- 
 selves upon his mercy. I have been unfortunate. It is not so with all." 
 
 " I will confront him," said Frederick passionately, " and compel the 
 tvrant to be merciful. It is my duty, and I will do it." 
 " " No, you will not, Frederick," answered my mother calmly ; " you will 
 not forget the terms upon which this interview takes place — you will not 
 forfeit your word — you will not break your mother's heart. All this you 
 -will do— and more than I dare think of, if you act so rashly. You do not 
 require me to repeat now what I have said to you before a hundred times. 
 You must not— shall not see your father. There is nothing to be clone for 
 me. I must bear the inevitable yoke. Heaven will give me strength ; 
 for I have prayed, and found it. "There is one thing I cannot bear— it is 
 the disobedience of my boy. Your dutiful affection has sustained me in 
 the darkest hours of life. I have nothing to live for when that is taken 
 
 from me." 
 
 It was with appeals of this nature that my mother checked every at- 
 tempt on the part of my brother to remain at home until the return of 
 his father. He implored her to grant him permission so to do. He pro- 
 mised sacredly that he would not be violent or upbraid his parent— that 
 he would reason calmly with him — that he would speak respectfully and 
 like a son— that he would be satisfied to secure for her an amicable sepa- 
 ration, and peace for the future, without irritating him with references to 
 the past. It was in vain. No eloquence could conquer her — no entreaty 
 move her. She dreaded, with a horror that was not to be suppressed, an 
 interview between father and son ; and no pleading could alter her stead- 
 fast resolution to prevent it. Frederick remained four days with us. 
 After the first evening he made no mention of his father. My mother 
 put an end to his requests by telling him that it grieved and distressed 
 her when he spoke of her wrongs, and that she should be much happier if 
 he reverted to them no more. He was silent, and almost sullen from that 
 time. Twenty little artifices did my mother play to rouse him to good- 
 humour, and to satisfy him that she had spoken all in love, and not in 
 anger. But her success was little. He sat at home from morning to night, 
 moody and inactive, reading perhaps for half an hour— then holding the 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 165 
 
 book upon his knee for as lon^ a time — his eyes bent towards the ground 
 and his lips pressed hard and close together. When we had walked home- 
 ward after our first greeting, he promised me sweet country- walks and 
 pastime on the road such as 1 had never heard of. He had learned 
 botany, and he could tell me all the secrets of the little flowers, which 
 were revealed but to a chosen few who loved to gossip with them in their 
 lowly homes. All this he had forgotten. Air and exercise displeased 
 him, and he scarcely passed the threshold until he took his melancholy 
 leave of it, and journeyed back to school. I accompanied him to the 
 market-town, and saw him safely on the coach. 
 
 " Emma," he said at parting, " mother must take her own course. I 
 have obeyed her; I have not spoken to her again of father and his treat- 
 ment, and I never will if I live a hundred years. In twelve months I am 
 to leave school and to go abroad. I am glad of it ; I wish to be away ; I 
 am quite satisfied now of one thing — mother loves father after all, and she 
 cannot bear the thought of leaving him." 
 
 " Indeed you are mistaken, Frederick," I replied. " I know her better 
 than you do. It is for us that she suffers everything, and for your sake 
 alone that she keeps you from that wicked man." 
 
 " Well, I don't see it," he said recklessly ; " and I don't care. Good-by, 
 Emma. I wish I was dead, for I am tired of my life." 
 
 "Don't talk so, Frederick," I answered. li What shall I do if mother is 
 taken from us] I couldn't live with him an hour. I shall be thrown on 
 the world." 
 
 " Xo, no, Emma — not whilst I live. Don't mind what I say when I am 
 irritated. I am very irritable. You shall find me an affectionate brother. 
 I shall write to you directly I get to school, and oftener than I have done 
 of late." 
 
 " Oh, and do write to mother too, Frederick ; it will make her so happy ! 
 She thinks that you have gone away angry with her." 
 
 " Give her that kiss, Emma, and 'tell her it is no such thing. And take 
 that for yourself. Here comes the coach— God bless you, dear !— good- 
 by." So he departed. 
 
 On the evening of the same day my father returned to the parsonage. 
 His affairs had been arranged in London sooner than he anticipated. 
 Gloom pervaded once more the habitation; but we thanked Heaven that 
 the safety of Frederick was provided for. It would be tedious and offen- 
 sive to prosecute in detail the narrative of this wretched man. _ The 
 history of one day in the career of the drunkard, is the history of his life. 
 A circumstance at this period it is necessary, however, to notice. Fretted 
 and agitated by the violence of his demeanour on one occasion, I was 
 unable to repress my swelling anger ; and I spoke to him, in the bitter- 
 ness of my heart, as I had never ventured to address him in my life before. 
 3Iy words astounded him for the moment ; and they were so far useful to 
 toy mother, for they deprived her of his undivided abuse. He glared 
 sottishly at me for an instant, and then, raving at the top of his voice, 
 vowed he hated me as he had never hated any earthly creature, and that 
 he should live to behold me dropping a corpse before his very feet. This 
 prophecy did not frighten me. It was his hourly amusement to predict 
 some terrible calamity, which would involve his wife and children in irre- 
 parable ruin. To-day he would tell my mother that he had dreamed her 
 boy had been attacked and murdered. To-morrow he would fix a time 
 when she was destined to follow her daughter to the grave ; and the next 
 day, with an unmeaning look of mystery, he would tell her to beware of 
 2iim in such a month, for he had an awful mission to perform, and must 
 
166 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 fulfil it. Every new denouncement carried terror to my mother's breast ; 
 one after another burst like a bubble in the air, but the latest shook her 
 fragile frame as powerfully as the first. This the inhuman man well 
 kneAv, and knowing it, pursued the system, gloating at his success. I 
 laughed at his prediction; but from that well-remembered evening he 
 marked me for his victim. He could not suffer me in his sight, nor did 
 he permit me to be out of it. The foulest epithets were associated with 
 my name. Expressions which I had never heard, and whose signification 
 I did not understand, and, on enquiry, learned only to become more 
 ignorant and perplexed, were, without provocation, heaped upon me; 
 oath after oath was fulminated on my head ; and I ha,ve stood trembling 
 and aghast, listening to my father, wondering why the lightning that 
 destroyed the fruitful and the goodly tree, did not strike dead the man 
 that mocked his Maker, sported with his holy name, and laughed to 
 scorn his solemn precepts and commandments. Fresh trouble came upon 
 my mother in consequence of the new direction of my father's hatred. 
 Whilst she had been the only object of his violence and savage humour, 
 the blows had fallen silently upon her, and the anguish they elicited had 
 been borne without a murmur. You might read her history in the lines 
 that sorrow, in spite of her, had traced upon her pallid face — and but for 
 these, the patient martyr might have passed into her grave unsuspected 
 of a pang. It was not so when her child was doomed to share her punish- 
 ment. She saw me pining beneath the blight of an unnatural malignity. 
 She beheld precocious hatred, impious passion, swelling my unripe cheek, 
 staining my ill-instructed tongue ; and nature constrained from the mother 
 the wailings that had been overpowered and stifled in the wife. She 
 wept, she remonstrated, she begged, she upbraided ; but the new instru- 
 ment of torture worked well, too well for the employed to surrender it 
 so easity. Night after night passed in loud distracting brawls. It had 
 become impossible to escape from persecution. Until now I had been 
 spared the sight of his ferocious violence. I had heard all, but seen little. 
 My mother took care to banish me from the scene of her misery ; but 
 not the less on that account did I pass the long and weary hours of the 
 night at her chamber-door, shaking with fear, and expecting every mo- 
 ment to hear her dying accents. Never did I forsake my guard until 
 stupefaction had wrought upon the intoxicated man, and all was silence 
 in the house — all but the victim's heavy sighs, or it might be, her prayers, 
 choked by her hot, heartrending tears. I had found it impossible to 
 sleep until I could carry to my bed the assurance that murder had not 
 been committed. I had made the attempt many times ; but before my 
 head was on the pillow, a slight noise, real or imaginary, brought me to 
 my feet again, and sent me tremulous and apprehensive to their bedroom. 
 For countless nights I stood before the door, a lone and wakeful sentinel. 
 The early summer sun has found me on my watch ; the winter's howling 
 wind and dropping snow have been my long and cheerless visitants. I 
 was glad of my privilege and grateful to enjoy it, whilst she was ignorant 
 of my occupation. I do not think I could have borne the sight of half 
 her sufferings. I endured to hear them, deeming my proximity a gua- 
 rantee for her safety and defence. This advantage was soon denied me. 
 He followed me whithersoever I went. He lighted a fire in my bedroom, 
 quaffed his liquor there, and, between the draughts, railed and raged at 
 me, until the same expressions, repeated and repeated, fretted the mind 
 almost to madness. If I ran from him, he pursued me. If I stood still 
 and silent, he goaded till I answered. If I spoke, he stormed and foamed 
 until I held my peace. The persecution was intolerable. I sank beneath 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 107 
 
 it, and my poor mother, in her agony, looted around to find for her 
 second-born a second place of refuge. In the meanwhile my father still 
 performed the duties of his office. Flagrant as were his proceedings, they 
 were not known to their full extent beyond his own house. Few persons 
 in the straggling parish in which we were located, visited us. Whispers 
 could not fail tobe abroad, but they were indistinct, and the people were 
 not curious. Besides, my father was a generous man — generous as the 
 word is understood in the gross vocabulary of the world. Hodge, the 
 ploughman, " had never seen the parson's equal. Wet or dry, ii ever he 
 met with Mr. Harrington, he was as friendly as could be, and nothing 
 short of a quart had he ever offered him/' There was not a labourer who 
 had not profited by such questionable charity, and who was not ready, by 
 dav and by night, to do the clergyman good service. The innkeepers 
 were satisfied that "the parish had got just the man it wanted, and that 
 the Church would never be in danger whilst it had such clergymen for 
 props;" and the most censorious in the parish could only say, '• that Mr. 
 Harrington was no enemy to his bottle, and was, in othor respects, a very 
 jolly parson." Xow and then a tale would find its way from the parsonage 
 into the village, but so strangely altered as to be no longer recognised by 
 the subjects of it ; and, at such times, my mother fared but poorly in the 
 estimate of the parishioners. " She was to blame for answering my 
 father ; he was warm-tempered, but very good at heart ; he had ranch to 
 vex and worn* him— a sullen daughter at home, and a wild scapegrace 
 son exiled from the house. His wife should think of this, and not cross 
 him when he was ill at ease." These uere a few of the remarks appended 
 to each story, as accident or my fathers tongue — for he was cunning as 
 well as vicious, and could find advantage in being the bearer of his own 
 disgrace — carried it from our dwelling through the village. To all this, 
 it must be added, that, although he was never actually sober, it could not 
 be averred that he was always inebriated. During the earlier hours of 
 the day he was thoroughly master of himself, and with _ his grave and 
 serious' aspect might have challenged your closest scrutiny^ His con- 
 stitution was naturally very strong, and his system did not yield without 
 a struggle to the inroads of the poison. It had become necessary to his 
 existence to gratify, in every hour of waking life, the morbid cravings of 
 his appetite. With the earliest blush of day, a draught that would have 
 been a dangerous stimulant to others, was swallowed to soothe and tran- 
 quillize his frame. Dram was added to dram with fearful frequency, but 
 without any visible effect until late in the afternoon : but then he had 
 already shut himself up from the world, and the horrors of drunkenness 
 were exhibited only to those of whom he had no fear, and who had no 
 power to resist or avoid the cruelty that eternally accompanied rt Pte- 
 membering how a neglect of his former duties, or rather a profanation of 
 them, had caused his removal from his first cure, he took pains to dis- 
 charge to the very letter the obligations of his calling. He never absented 
 himself from the' pulpit ; he never approached it helpless from intem- 
 perance. The task did not call for much self-denial. Service was per- 
 formed but one day in the week, and but once on that day. For visiting 
 his flock, the majority of his congregation were boon companions, and he 
 was a welcome guest at all times. I have said enough to account for my 
 mother's isolated, pitiable condition, to explain the cold neglect that she 
 experienced, and to move you with compassion for her undeserved and 
 cruel fate. She found neither help nor consolation in man. She had not 
 asked it. She turned her thoughts and aspirations heavenward. There 
 they were fixed henceforward — there they were occupied, securing a 
 
168 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 resting-place for the bruised spirit that longed for its own bright, peaceful 
 home. 
 
 Let me not forget to say, that, besides my mother and myself, there 
 was another individual who had borne testimony to my father's mode of 
 life. This was no other than his own clerk — old Adam, of whom you 
 have heard me speak. He was upwards of seventy years of age when we 
 first knew him — a rare old man, primitive in his habits, simple as a child. 
 He was devoted to the Church of England, to his parish, to the parish 
 church, and to the church's minister. He honoured and revered them all. 
 They were the most important things of life — the only things — life itself. 
 A flaw in any one came not within the circumference of his belief. They 
 were infallible all. He had never travelled further than five miles beyond, 
 the vestry-door. Bible and prayer-book were his onty library ; the school 
 and little children, his choicest occupation and best friends. I loved 
 him dearly, and looked upon him as the wisest and the best of men. 
 My father considered him an idiot and a fool, unworthy of notice, and did 
 not hesitate to act before him precisely as if no one had been present. 
 Old Adam was a spectator during one of his wildest fits, and believed that 
 the last judgment was approaching, and the world hastening to its close. 
 The scene was repeated, and the old man hobbled away, flustered and con- 
 founded. For a third time it was his lot to yvitness his superior's degrada- 
 tion ; and he stood before him, unable to move and to speak, silently 
 weeping. It was with good Adam that my mother made her last effort to 
 attach to herself a friend and comforter. He passed much of his time in 
 the little churchyard, keeping it in trim, good order, and busy with the 
 trees and flowers which he had planted and tended for some years around 
 and about the last dwelling-place of his ever-respected friends. He had a 
 sincere regard for his mistress, and he pitied her distresses; but his venera- 
 tion for the Church and her minister had been too great to allow one syl- 
 lable of disrespect to escape him against the Reverend Mr. Harrington. 
 So it was yvhen we accosted him in his usual haunt, and my mother spoke 
 to him in confidence respecting her wrongs. 
 
 "I have long ceased, Adam," she said, "to think for myself; but I can- 
 not be insensible to my poor girl's sufferings. I owe it to her to take some 
 steps for our release." 
 
 "Oh, madam," he replied, "think of Mother Church — think of the 
 scandal and the shame ! I wouldn't have matters known, to be made clerk 
 of the cathedral itself. We should make wounds that we could never heal, 
 if we were to preach for ever afterwards. People are so much more apt to 
 find fault with yvhat the clergyman does ill, than to follow what he says 
 well. Folks who read little are very foolish ; and if a cobbler is hanged 
 for murder — as Anthony Potts was in the town yonder — they'll tell you 
 that cobbling is a wicked trade, quite unnecessaiy, and ought to be abo- 
 lished. So it is, madam, with a mender of souls. The cloth suffers more 
 than the man." 
 
 "Am I not justified in an appeal to the world? Does not my child de- 
 mand it?" 
 
 " I must own," said Adam, " Mr. Harrington is a little comical at times. 
 But don't you think it is his way. He means nothing. Couldn't some- 
 thing be done mildly, so as to keep the unfortunate business snug and 
 quiet 1 ?" 
 
 " Quiet, Adam ? Do you imagine that it is not the common topic of the 
 village? — that it is not known to every creature in the place?" 
 
 "I am sure it isn't, madam," he replied, "for I have taken too much 
 thought of that myself. I have silenced all complaints. I am a member 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 169 
 
 of the Establishment, and Heaven forgive me if I have gone a little to the 
 left in doing a member's duty ! I have said all you could have wished me 
 — even hinted — may I be pardoned for it — that he was delicate and weakly, 
 and liable to attacks — that he drank very little for the stomach's sake, and, 
 unfortunately, the least drop proved too much for him. I have said he 
 was a man of troubles, and easily excited — and that the anxiety he felt 
 for a rebel boy at school made him at times not conscious of his doings. 
 The people have pitied him. You could not have shown more sorrow for 
 him yourself than they have done — and only think what a load of re- 
 proach the Church has escaped, to say nothing of her ministering ser- 
 vants !" 
 
 " You have been merciful, Adam," sighed my mother. 
 
 " I have endeavoured not to mistake my duty, dear lady, and I trust I 
 have done no more than that. It is hard for me to say 'bear without re- 
 pining;' but if you will do so for the sake of the Church, whose child you 
 are, verily you shall have your reward. It cannot last for ever. We have, 
 all of us, our trials, and none may be perfectly happy here. ' Earthly 
 trouble,' as the hymn beautifully says — 
 
 ' Earthly trouble is the thong 
 To lash us all the saiuts among.' 
 
 Do not take Mr. Harrington's foible so much to heart. Let him have his 
 way, and — might I venture without offence to say it] — do not answer him ; 
 leave him when he is angry, and let pretty Miss Emma go away too ; for 
 the sight of one child may, in his dark moments, remind him of another 
 who does not deserve so well of him. Pardon me, madam, if I have said 
 too much." 
 
 It was with simple Adam as with the rest. He did not in his heart, for 
 he could not, as many did, look upon my mother as the source of all our 
 wretchedness ; but much, he believed, might have been avoided by a more 
 prudent mode of treatment. Alas ! it was a prudence that she would 
 gladly have acquired— but where was she to learn it?- Who could teach 
 the lesson that was to save the lamb from the knife of the slayer] 
 
 Friendless abroad — pursued with untiring barbarity at home — impaired 
 and wasted by bodily suffering and long anxiety on my account, God at 
 length had mercy on his child, and took her to himself. Her illness was 
 of short duration. She died. Be satisfied that I state the fact. The 
 horrible scene is never to be recorded. It was a winter's morning — three 
 o'clock had just struck. It was bitter cold. I had excluded my father 
 violently from the chamber of death, in which the clammy clay-cold 
 moisture of mortality was already rising. He struck at the door, stamped, 
 stormed- -called her a hundred hideous names — swore 1 cannot pro- 
 ceed. The sacrifice was accomplished. The gasping sufferer gave me her 
 last look — fonder and fonder it grew, as it retreated from the world — she 
 pressed my hand, and whispered, "He has killed me!" The whisper was 
 drowned in the ravings of the drunkard, who had yet to be conscious of 
 Ms victory — yes, his victory— for my poor mother was a corpse. 
 
 Mr. Clayton had reached this point in the melancholy narrative, when 
 a sharp knocking at our door startled us both. A man entered the room 
 in haste, and out of breath, enquiring for Mr. Stukely. He had been sent 
 from the infirmary. A patient, exceedingly ill, had requested to see me 
 whilst he was still able to make himself understood. The messenger did 
 not know the name of the individual, nor how he had become acquainted 
 with my present abode. _ He had received his instructions from the hall 
 
170 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 porter, and he thought he had heard that functionary say that the patient 
 was an aged person ; but of this he would not be quite sure. Puzzled and 
 wondering, I turned to Mr. Clayton. There was no time for delay, and he 
 recommended my immediate departure. Stopping the history of poor 
 Emma for the present, I accordingly set off— and the messenger, wiping 
 the heavy perspiration from his brow, followed immediately. 
 
 PART X. 
 
 THE HISTOKT OF EMMA FITZJONES CONCLUDED. 
 
 Orlando. — " Oh, good old man ! how well in thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world, 
 When service sweat for duty, not for need ! 
 Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
 Where none will sweat but for promotion : 
 And having that, do choke their service up 
 Even with the having ; it is not so with thee. 
 
 Adam. — " Master, go on ; and I will follow thee, 
 
 To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty." 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 When I reached the infirmary, a young man, standing at the street- 
 door, looking pale and anxious, took off his hat and bowed respectfully. 
 I recognized him as an old acquaintance ; but a difficulty of remembering 
 names, which I have experienced from childhood, and still suffer, pre- 
 vented my addressing him by his title. I returned his salute, and walked 
 on. He followed me up stairs ; and when we had ascended the first 
 flight, he touched me with an infirm hand softly upon the arm. 
 
 " You know me, sir — don't you 1 ?" said he. 
 
 "Yes, by sight, very well. What is your name 1 ?" ' 
 
 " I am Simmonds's grandson," he replied. " The old gentleman is dying 
 up stairs, sir." 
 
 "What!" said I, "poor Simmonds of Cambridge'?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the man, whom I immediately knew again. " He's 
 going, poor old man — very fast. How is he now, ma'am 1 ?" he enquired, 
 turning upon a nurse who passed us at the moment. The latter made no 
 answer, and proceeded on her way. "Oh, I am sure he is sinking!" he 
 continued, bursting into tears and yelling aloud. 
 
 "Don't you be a fool there !" thundered a voice from an enormous hall- 
 chair, which wanted only a few articles of furniture to render it a snug 
 box, fit for the retirement of a beadle or a porter in the evening of his 
 life. " Don't you be snivelling there, just by them wards! What do you 
 think patients is made of?" 
 
 " How unfeeling they all are ! " exclaimed the grandson. " Come this 
 way, if you please." We mounted another staircase, and arrived at a 
 large door. The young man was about to open it, when he stopped sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "It's no good/' he said; "I can't go in. I don't know what's the 
 
CALEB BTDKELY. 171 
 
 matter with me ; but I have come so queer all over me, that I can't move 
 a step." 
 
 "What are vou alarmed about]" said I. "Is Simmonds in that 
 room?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, and he is dying, I am sure. I can't bear to look at him. I 
 never saw a man go in my life ; and a man that's related to you, and that 
 one knows — oh, dear me!" and the grandson roared and blubbered 
 afresh. 
 
 " You are a coward," said I. 
 
 " Eo, I am not," he answered quickly. " I fought a man on Porker's 
 Piece double my weight, and licked him too. "This doesn't feel like 
 being frightened. It's an awful feel. Did you ever see any one die, sir]" 
 
 "Tell me — how did Simmonds get here? Does he know of mv com- 
 ingV 
 
 " Oh yes ! he sent me after you, sir ; but I didn't like to leave the place 
 any more than I liked to stop in it — so I gave the boy threepence to run 
 to your inn. By-the-bye, he owes me threepence; for I gave him sixpence, 
 and asked him to get change." 
 
 " Who told him that I was in Huntingdon?" 
 
 " I did, sir. I was sitting at the window in the ward, by his bedside, 
 when you and another gentleman went out at the street-door. I thought, 
 somehow, it was you, and yet you looked older a good deal than when vou 
 was up at college. But when you began to walk". I was satisfied at once ; 
 for you know you always used to stoop and swing your arms, and so you 
 did directly ; and then I called out to grandfather that I was quite sure 
 Mr. Stukely had just left the house. The bed-maker told me that you had 
 just been to the matron, and then grandfather made me run to her to get 
 your address ; and when I had got it, he told me to fly to you as fast as I 
 could, or he should be dead before I got back : and I really thought he 
 would, so I sent the boy." 
 
 " How came he here? Is he very poor?" 
 
 " Oh, not at all poor ! He has saved up a pretty sum of money, we all 
 know: but he has been very stingy of late, and wouldn't spend "a penny 
 on himself. Soon after you left Cambridge, sir, he came over here, and 
 has been leading a rum sort of random life ever since, going into one 
 cheap lodging after another — and never stopping in one longer than a 
 week at a time. He would never tell any of us what he wanted here. 
 Father thought the old gentleman was demented ; and so he sent me here 
 to look after him, afeared that he should destroy his existence, or even 
 make away with his money. I have been with him for the last two 
 months, but he almost starved me to death ; and I was thinking of going 
 back, when this terrible illness came upon him. I wanted him to have 
 the doctor at home, but he wouldn't think of it ; for he said it would cost 
 money — and he had none to spend. He made me apply for an admission- 
 ticket to this place, and here he has been since Monday week." 
 
 " Tell him I have arrived," I said. 
 
 " Oh no ! Go in at once— there's a good gentleman," replied the youth. 
 "He is very anxious to see you. I thought he would have jumped out of 
 bed with joy when I told him you had been in the house." 
 
 " But I may alarm him if I go in too suddenly." 
 
 "Oh no, no! I am sure you won't, sir — oh, pray, do go in! "he con- 
 tinued, shaking from head to foot with fear. " You'll find a nurse in the 
 room. Perhaps I shall be better in a little time. I'll wait here, sir; and 
 if you want me, call. Oh, dear me ! It's the house, I think. There's 
 
172 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 such a smell of sickness in it, that it makes your heart drop within 
 
 y° u -" 
 
 I opened the door without another -word, and entered a ward blled on 
 either side with beds, every one sustaining its own sick occupant. I 
 walked along the room, and passed the beds in order. Tn the last I dis- 
 covered the well-known countenance of my ancient friend — but how much 
 altered! There lay, indeed, poor Simmonds — every month that had 
 elapsed since our last meeting having fallen upon his aged head with the 
 weight and power of a twelvemonth. He had arrived at the outer gate — 
 the portals were opening, and Death waited to guide the paralysed old 
 man gently into the lovely land beyond. It was no leap for him, to whom 
 life had become already a load too heavy to be borne — an impediment, and 
 no upholder of the spirit, matured and unimpaired, and riper than ever 
 for its heavenly employment. There lay my good old friend — his hoary 
 locks, scanty and long, shading, as with a delicate and silver veil, the eye 
 that lacked its speculation ; there, breathing hard and quickly, but quiet 
 as a child that knows no sin — neither alive nor dead — he tarried for the 
 word that should command him hence, and find him not unwilling to 
 be gone. I hesitated for a time to break the slumber on which he 
 seemed to move so smoothly homeward ; and would not have committed 
 the unrighteous act, had not the sleeper breathed my name, and given 
 me reason to believe that my presence was still needed to bring perfect 
 peace to him who had arrived so near to it. I answered him, and the 
 dying man opened his eyes quickly, as the dreamer starts from his horrid 
 brain-world into truth and reality. I called him by his name, and told 
 him that his old friend Stukely was at his side. 
 
 "Poor lad — poor lad!" he gasped, and stopped for breath. 
 
 "Do you know me, Simmonds?" I enquired. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " he answered, staring into my face ; " the boy told me you 
 were here. How did you find me out?" It took him some time to say 
 as much as this. He ceased a dozen times to recover breath, and he spoke 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " Do not distress yourself, Simmonds," I said. " Give me your hand. 
 I will talk to you." 
 
 "The screen, the screen!" he exclaimed, drawing from the coverings 
 his dried up trembling hand, and pointing with a bony finger to the oppo- 
 site side of the apartment. 
 
 "What of if?" I asked, noticing the moveable partition which he re- 
 ferred to. 
 
 " Bring it here. They'll let you. They put it before the man that 
 died last night. It will be my turn soon. I want to speak to you. Why 
 need they hear?" 
 
 I communicated his wish to the attending nurse, and hi3 request was 
 instantly complied with. 
 
 "And now, sit down," he said, " and tell me — is it true 1 ?" 
 
 "What 1 ?" I enquired. 
 
 "Are you ruined?" he whispered. "Have you nothing left in the 
 world?- Did they succeed 1 ?" 
 
 " I have had my full share of worldly trouble since we parted, Sim- 
 monds ; but I cannot complain now." 
 
 " Where is your poor father?" he asked. 
 
 " In heaven, I trust, Simmonds." 
 
 " What !" he said, interrupting me. " His troubles killed him, then, at 
 last 2 Ah, I thought they would ! It was much for one man to bear." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 173 
 
 " Did you know my father, then 1 ?" How — when did you see him]" 
 
 " When he came to look for his runaway," replied the old man, who 
 gathered strength as he proceeded, possibly from the mental effort that 
 the reminiscence occasioned, or it might be only from the physical excite- 
 ment. " When he came for you, sir, time after time, waiting up two day3 
 this time, and three days the next, and then going back to London post- 
 haste, to prop his falling house, or to bury his poor wife, who took to bed 
 with her a broken heart — and never rose with it again. Poor gentle- 
 man !" 
 
 A fit of coughing checked the speaking man, and he motioned to me 
 eagerly for the medicine that lay at his bedside. I gave it to him, and he 
 said, murmuring to himself, 
 
 " Yes, that was the time ! " 
 
 " He was grieved, Simmonds, not to find me — was he not ? " 
 
 " Heart-broken, sir ! — like his wife ; but he was a man, and she a woman* 
 A man may live with a broken heart, but a woman can't." 
 
 " Simmonds, I had a loving father, and I behaved most cruelly towards 
 him." 
 
 " "Where did he meet with you at last 1 We scoured the country for 
 you, but could get no news at all. When he left me to go to London, he 
 went first to Huntingdon. He told me he would write to me. He never 
 did ; but I knew that he lived in the city, and so I travelled by the coach 
 to London. I had never been there before, and I was seventy-eight and 
 more. I couldn't find him in the city, and so I came back ; but I set out 
 for Huntingdon again, and here I have been, looking for you and him, sir, 
 ever since." 
 
 " How glad I am to meet you, Simmonds ! " 
 
 " Yes ; I heard two young doctor gentlemen yesterday, at the next bed r 
 laughing at me to themselves, and saying they were sure the old man 
 couldn't last the night out ; but something inward-like kept telling me I 
 shouldn't go till I had heard about you. Xow I am satisfied, and I don't 
 care how soon the Lord thinks fit to take me. My business is nearly 
 settled here." 
 
 " Tell me, Simmonds — can I do anything to help you]" 
 
 "How did matters turn out, sir, with your father? You'll excuse my 
 rudeness." 
 
 " As badly as they could. He died a ruined man !" 
 
 " And what, in heaven's name, are you doing, sir ]" 
 
 " I believe I shall do well. I have suffered much, Simmonds/ but my 
 prospect brightens." 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, Mr. Stukely. I don't mean any harm — but 
 if you would, sir " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Speak on, old friend," I said. " I am not so vicious as I have been. 
 You remind me that I have need of your forgiveness." 
 
 " You never wronged me, sir, in your life. I couldn't bear to see you 
 led awa}\ I have saved a little money, sir — it's very little — not above 
 ninety pounds. You wouldn't, would you ? — might I be so bold — I " 
 
 The poor invalid grew flushed and nervous in the endeavour to express- 
 himself, and his voice thickened, and the medicine was once more had re- 
 course to. 
 
 " Will you accept it, sir 1 ?" he said at length. " I have no further use for 
 it. I mean no offence, but I was bold enough to put it by for you. It is. 
 hardly worth your having, but it may be useful. Your good lather, sir, 
 was very kind to me." 
 
174 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " I do not thank you the less, Simrnonds, because at the present mo- 
 ment I have no need to take advantage of your kindness. I am not 
 wholly unprovided for. Heaven has furnished me with a friend who will 
 not easily desert me. Would that he were here now to witness your gene- 
 rous conduct !" 
 
 " But indeed, sir, the money is yours. When I heard it whispered in 
 Cambridge that you were quite undone, I put it on one side ; and I have 
 got it here, sir, under my pillow, all in bank-notes — tacked in my waist- 
 coat. Do take it ! — I shall die the happier for it." 
 
 I thanked Simmonds for his kind intention, but firmly declined to accept 
 his gift. Was there not one without who had a fair and legal claim upon 
 the grandsire 1 Had he not established it by a perseverance and self-denial 
 that had already threatened to give way, so difficult were they of endu- 
 rance? In any extremity, I would not have disturbed the grandson's 
 right. Now, I had not even the temptation to do him wrong. We spoke 
 together of my college days, and Simmonds recounted to me many a 
 touching passage in my father's short acquaintance with liim, that carried 
 to my heart the bitterest soitow and self-reproach — both how vain and in- 
 effectual ! The enfeebled sufferer soon overtasked his strength. At first he 
 paused, delayed, and stammered, then resumed without success, at length 
 ceased from exhaustion ! I placed his head upon the pillow, and held his 
 hand in mine. He breathed with difficulty. Yain were fresh attempts at 
 conversation. Life ebbed apace — his eye closed — he slept and breathed. 
 I sat at his side for an hour. He remained in the same condition. The 
 screen was removed, and air was permitted to flow with balmy softness over 
 the patient's cheek. What could it now do more than fan the death-fire 
 that was already kindled there 1 As I sat by him, the nurse advanced to 
 me. " The poor old man," said she, " slept in that way all day yesterday. 
 He may linger on for some hours yet. When he goes off, it will be as 
 sudden as the snuff of a candle, and about as quietly." I gave the nurse 
 my address, and told her that I would gladly remunerate a messenger who 
 should bring to me before nightfall, an account of the patient's state. If 
 he should rally and ask for me again, I hoped she would immediately re- 
 call me. She promised to do so, and I took my leave of her. At his place 
 near the door, I found the grandson, eating with apparent enjoyment, and 
 with much avidity, a mass of bread and cheese. 
 
 " Is he dead ]" he asked immediately. 
 
 " He is not." I answered. " He sleeps. Go to his bedside, and watch 
 him closely. You may lose him before you are aware of it." 
 
 " Oh I can't !" he cried out ; " I couldn't go into that room again for all 
 the world. Let alone grandfather, there's that fellow with the hairysip- 
 perless a bed or two off him. He's enough of himself to sicken a chap for 
 a week. I can't go in, sir, I couldn't to save my life." 
 
 " This is very unbecoming," I replied. " You seem to have a great deal 
 of feeling. It should teach you better things." 
 
 " It's no use talking, sir, he answered quickly and walking back a step 
 or two. " I have got a fright upon me, and I can't conquer it. I have been 
 overcome ever since the morning ; and I could as soon walk into my grave 
 alive as into that there horrid room." 
 
 " Very well, " said I, " attend to me, then. I am afraid the sun has risen 
 upon poor Simmonds for the last time." 
 
 " You think so — do you, sir?" roared the youth, interrupting me. " Oh, 
 dear me ! I guessed it — poor old man ! — I guessed it !" 
 
 ' Moderate your grief, and listen. Should he die to-night, you are his 
 nearest friend. Look under his pillow." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 175 
 
 * What !" he exclaimed, " afore he's buried ! Oh, bless your heart ! " 
 
 " When you please. But look in time — for there's a treasure which will 
 be your own." 
 
 " Why, what do you mean, sir]" he enquired, his countenance displaying 
 an awakened curiosity. 
 
 " Beneath his pillow," I continued, " he has placed his waistcoat. He 
 sleeps upon it now, and there, sewed up in it, are ninety pounds. You will 
 see the old man buried decently, of course. The rest of the money is 
 yours, to convey to Cambridge to your father." 
 
 " What !" said he, "grandfather got ninety pounds there ! — I thought 
 the old man had been saving up. What ! under his pillow, with all them 
 thievish nurses running in and out ! I am very much obliged to you in- 
 deed, sir — Oh, here's a chance I've run ! Why, ten to one, they have 
 grabbed it since you came away. I hadn't better lose a minute. If father 
 knew it, he'd break my head in two." 
 
 He said no more. He bounded from me like a deer. His painful affec- 
 tion was forgotten. The loathed chamber and the grisly occupants no 
 more thought of. Mammon had revealed himself in one bright comer. 
 What foul irregularity and odiousness cannot he adjust and dignify, or 
 render with a touch invisible ! Alack for human nature ! With the 
 rapidity of light the grandson flew to the grandsire's bed. With the vehe- 
 mence of natural love, I beheld him, as I quitted the place, smoothing 
 softly and with care — that grandsire's pillow. 
 
 It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when I was summoned for a 
 
 second time to the infirmary. At four o'clock poor Simmonds had been 
 
 pronounced in articulo mortis, and the attendant did not fail, according to 
 
 my parting injunction, to make me acquainted with the fact. It was little 
 
 that I could do in this extremity for the faithful gyp. The grandson sat 
 
 at the foot' of the bed, and held down his head for grief or shame. I 
 
 told the nurse that the youth was furnished with the means of providing 
 
 for his relative ; and he made no answer. I concluded therefore that he 
 
 had found his prize. Twenty-four hours afterwards Simmonds breathed 
 
 his last; and a purer soul never winged its timorous way upward to the 
 
 gates of heaven, doubtful of its right to enter there. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was evening before Mr. Clayton resumed the narrative of the unfor- 
 tunate Emma Harrington. I would gladly have postponed the task to a 
 more fit and suitable season. For one day, I had seen and heard enough 
 of human misery — for one day, I had had enough of chastisement ; but I 
 chose rather to indulge the wish than to express it. It was a sharp, cold 
 evening, and we placed our chairs on either side of a cheerfully-burning 
 fire. Candles were brought, and the hangings of the window closely 
 drawn. 
 
 "Shall we proceed?" asked Mr. Clayton. 
 
 I answered in the affirmative ; and he produced the manuscript, opened 
 it, and read. 
 
 I recount my history, and you believe it is a fable. You marvel at the 
 hideous picture, and deny it to be human. So did they all. You cannot 
 conceive Man the monster. You are proud of Humanity, and cannot suf- 
 fer the veil to be drawn, and the naked soul to stand in light. Stukely, I 
 ask not men to take for granted this miserable tale. I carry my appeal to 
 the bleeding heart of woman. There I found my claim to be believed. 
 Dreadful as is my fate, think not that it stands alone in the domestic his- 
 tory of despotism. Tyranny is unbounded when its sphere of exercise is 
 
176 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 circumscribed. Cruelty is unrestrained where no eye can watch its deadly 
 strokes ; and merciless it is, oh, rest assured, where its victims are the un- 
 complaining and the weak. A hundred and a thousand gentle sufferers 
 shall bear witness to the faithful record of my mother's wrongs, and find 
 in them the echo of their own uncredited and unheeded injuries. She 
 died, murdered by my father. I speak calmly and without passion. I 
 have no softer word to express the numberless acts of persecution beneath 
 which she sickened, drooped, and fell, — I passed the bitter night of her 
 decease with her, and about her bed. I was frantic. What was to be 
 done ? Whither should I go 1 I was dull, stupid, and confounded when 
 I ceased to rave ; and I stared at the dead body without a sigh or a 
 tear, passionless and unconcerned, as the pale object before me. For days 
 I had anticipated her death ; but now that it had come, my senses were 
 stunned. A tremendous blow had fallen — so tremendous, that the com- 
 mon emotions of Nature were superseded by a breathless tranquillity, 
 supernatural and intense. I could not think, nor attempt to view my new 
 position. And I felt no pain. The time for that had not arrived. The 
 smart does not accompany always the first infliction of the wound. The 
 shock precedes the pang by many an hour. There was a void at my heart 
 — that 1 knew full well. The aching, agonizing sense of loneliness — that 
 was yet to come. And my lather too ! the intoxicated maniac — he per- 
 sisted in his violence and tumult ; and remained hour after hour at our 
 door, execrating the poor inanimate thing that had been carried from his 
 clutch, and showering on my head a hundred fearful menaces. If he 
 ceased for an instant, it was to renew the clamour with redoubled vehe- 
 mence, and with still fiercer exclamations. I heeded him not. I neither 
 called upon him to desist, nor vainly sought to appease him by informing 
 him of his loss. Dreary, desolate, terrible night ! Millions of happy 
 souls were carried through thy hours in gentle and unruffled sleep. What 
 had I done as yet to be condemned to watch thy lazy, dismal progress in 
 that black chamber — at that most fearful season ? But the night passed 
 away — daylight had already gleamed — the angry man was silent. My 
 guardian angel profited by the moment — took pity on me, and closed me 
 in his arms. I slept. For an hour all was forgotten ; and the sleeper 
 wdiose eyes had shut in Paradise had not visions more glowing than my 
 own. I awoke to be for one moment ignorant of my bereavement — uncon- 
 scious of the scene that had been enacted not three hours before — fresh 
 from a heavenly dream did I awake, oblivious of the past, quiet, peaceful, 
 and happy. For one brief instant only did I stand on the bright emi- 
 nence, and breathe the grateful atmosphere. Down was I dashed, and with 
 one exertion of memory plunged into an abyss of misery — from which I 
 rise now— only now, Stukely, when my grievous sins are purged, and 
 pardon and felicity are secured. 
 
 The morning was already far advanced, and I knew not how to act. 
 The servants had in all probability acquainted my father with the disso- 
 lution of his wife. I feared to approach him. I considered, and resolved 
 to remain with the departed. The determination was scarcely formed 
 before my father himself joined me in the apartment. He looked alarmed 
 and agitated, and his hands shook with more than their usual trembling 
 motion. He approached the bed, and removed the covering from the cold 
 one's cheek. I chilled and sickened as he did so. I imagined that he 
 sighed. Could it be possible 1 ? I looked up at him — and believed that I 
 saw the dull eye suffused with tears. With my whole heart I hated him ; 
 but a gleam of sorrow and of pity passed across my spirit — and I forgot 
 the natural cruelty of the man in commiserating the wretchedness of the 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 177 
 
 slave. I thought not of his unnatural persecution. I remembered only that 
 he had been tempted and was lost. He replaced the sheet — walked to the 
 door, and bade me follow him. 
 
 " Come, Emma," he said in a subdued voice, and with a tone that fell 
 npon my ears strangely from his lips — " come to my room." 
 
 He departed, and I followed him. He closed the door of his library 
 npon us, and told me to be seated. I trembled, and complied with his 
 request. He sat down also, and pressed his face as tightly as he might 
 against the palms of his quivering hands. He removed them. I was not 
 mistaken — the stony heart was touched and softened he wept. 
 
 " Where is your brother, Emma 1 " he asked. 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 " Tell me," he continued — " where is your brother 1 I must know soon 
 —better now." 
 
 I burst into tears. 
 
 " You will kill him — you will kill him!" I exclaimed in agony, re- 
 membering my mother's ceaseless anxiety and fear, and dreading now 
 more than ever the interview that she herself would never have permitted. 
 " Do not ask me ; I must not say." 
 
 " This has been the cause of all," he said, in an offended tone. " Why 
 this secrecy and under-handed system ? She pursued it till she irritated 
 and made me mad ; and I have been driven to the wine when kindness 
 would have lured me from it." 
 
 It was false. It was the self-convicted criminal bribing his conscience 
 to be merciful. I did not dare to tell him so ; but I did my mother 
 justice, and rejected the excuse. 
 
 " "Where does he live V he asked again. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot tell you ! I must not if I would." 
 
 " Very well ! " he answered, rising from his chair, and walking quickly 
 about the room. "Very well — let it be so." 
 
 I rose likewise to depart ; but he prevented me. 
 
 " Stay," said he ; " you shall go to him. It is not necessary that you 
 should acquaint me with his place of residence. You shall go, Emma, and 
 tell him what has happened. He must be present at the funeral. You 
 can prepare him for that day — no one better. He is a violent boy, I 
 know ! '' 
 
 '•' What !" I ejaculated. " I3 he to come home, then ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied my father. "And you will see him previously, and 
 reason with him on the propriety of behaving well. We have had misery 
 enough. He is a fiery and ungovernable youth. I never liked his eye. 
 He never loved me. He was always an unnatural boy. You shall do it." 
 
 He moved nervously up and down the room, and spoke with excite- 
 ment, quickly and by starts. It was not difficult to detect the feeling that 
 was at work, and that compelled from his recreant heart every word that 
 he addressed to me. Fear overthrew him — the fear of meeting face to face 
 the child and champion of the unhappy wife. I had been deceived when I 
 attributed to him the expression of a nobler emotion. I rejoiced at my 
 discovery, and hoped that it might yet hinder an interview, the possibility 
 of which I regarded with affright. But I was mistaken ; my father 
 dreaded to meet his son — still more he dreaded to confront him unpre- 
 pared, and at any moment. Henceforward he must live in constant appre- 
 hension. Anything was better than this — and he resolved, therefore, to 
 see him at once on the best terms he could command, rather than leave 
 the meeting in uncertainty and environ it with peril. I was accordingly 
 commissioned to bring him once more home. A sadder business it had 
 
 N 
 
178 CALEB STUIvELY. 
 
 never been my lot to undertake; and gladly would I have declined it, if 
 the fear of something sadder still did not haunt me night and day, and 
 render the crisis the least of evils to endure. Before setting out, however, 
 on the unpropitious journey, I succeeded in extracting one promise from 
 my father. Without it, I had refused to execute his wishes — and this, and 
 any other, he would have granted speedily to ensure compliance with his 
 will. It was, that he would on no account, and whatever might be the 
 temper of my brother, use angry terms or violence towards him — that he 
 would receive him kindly — make no mention of his former conduct — and 
 permit him, the very day succeeding my mother's funeral, to return to 
 school, and to remain there until his future plan of life should be de- 
 cided on. 
 
 " It was a wise arrangement," said my father, " and should be 
 acted on." 
 
 The love of his miserable life, and the fear of losing it — the strongest 
 passions of the tyrant-coward's heart — rendered him capable of every act 
 that should give security to these. It was on the third day after my 
 mother's decease that I left the parsonage for my brother's residence. My 
 father gave me his company to the market-town, and his morbid anxiety 
 hardly prevented him from taking his seat with me in the coach. Pleased 
 would he have been to travel to the very school-gate, and to have waited 
 there for the result of our conference. I had never walked with him in 
 my life. The situation was a novel one, and no less novel than it appeared 
 unnatural. My feelings were shocked ; nature suffered a violation when 
 he offered me his arm — and my heart expressed its shame when I accepted 
 it, in the eloquent blood which it sent tingling to my cheek. Every joint 
 in my frame, every limb and feature, revolted at the act. My knees shook 
 — my feet crawled — and my face was turned towards the earth, as though 
 abashed, and hopeless to find sympathy and recognition in the bright pure 
 sky. To link my arm in that— oh, sickening effort, and impossible ! One 
 imperceptible touch, and I withdrew it again for ever. I was in the coach, 
 and I watched him closely as he sat in the parlour of the inn before which 
 the vehicle waited. He had already said Farewell, and wished me safely 
 back again. He had already, for the twentieth time, reiterated his earnest 
 wishes in respect of my brother ; imploring me to soothe and pacify his 
 boisterous and angry temperament, and to assure him of his father's readi- 
 ness to forgive all previous transgression. 
 
 " It was my duty now," he added, " to give my brother good advice ; 
 and he and I would be the better for it." 
 
 Not content with these parting words, he remained in his seat for a few 
 minutes, and then hurried to the coach again. 
 
 " Mind," said he whispering to me for the sake of privacy. " Mind, no 
 word, on either side, of what has happened. He returns directly — and no 
 unnecessary irritation. That's as we agreed." 
 
 I nodded to him in acquiescence, and he retired once more to the 
 room. There he resumed his seat, but rose again restless and unsettled, 
 and with eyes and lips moving unsteadily, as if distressed with anxious 
 thought. Then the sudden and loud smacking of a whip startled and 
 called him to the window — reminding him of the very few minutes that 
 were permitted him to convey whatever he might deem necessary to im- 
 press upon my mind ; and he held up his finger to fix my attention on all 
 that he had previously said, and looked pleadingly into my face until I 
 turned loathingly away. Another glance enabled me to view him seated 
 at a table, w r ith the ready companion of all his hours. The wine-bottle was 
 before him ; and his trembling hand conveyed glass after glass to his 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 179 
 
 lips, ■with fatal rapidity. At the end of a quarter of an hour, all our 
 preparations were complete. The luggage was secured — the ostlers and 
 other men had retreated from the coach — and the driver was mounting 
 his box. My father was again at my side. The men laughed as he ap- 
 proached me, heated as he had become with the drink, and wild in de- 
 meanour, and the coachman winked knowingly to the innkeeper, who 
 stood at his own wide door. I blushed to the forehead. The wheels 
 rattled on — for a minute my father kept pace with them — and, before 
 he desisted, I was able to collect enough to fill me during my journey 
 with alarm and wretchedness. 
 
 " Let the villain come," he exclaimed in the drunken burst of passion, 
 "and try to murder me again !" 
 
 It was noon on the following day before I reached the sweet village in 
 which my brother had passed so many years of his life. All was quiet 
 and pensive in that happy valley ; and I envied the ruddy and open coun- 
 tenances of its young inhabitants, whom the welcome sound of wheels had 
 brought speedily about us. Many a smiling girl stood there, naked of 
 foot, ill clad, worse fed, whose ripe affections no early blight had poisoned, 
 whose days of lawful and unmingled joy had passed unharmed through 
 every change of bud, of blossom, and of fruit. The face of one young 
 child beamed with ingenuousness and beauty ; she knew the house of Mr. 
 Percival. I made her my conductress. It was a holiday at the school. 
 The younger boys were in the play-ground, vociferating and labouring at 
 their games. The senior scholars had been permitted to walk abroad, 
 and were not expected home till evening. Amongst the latter was my 
 brother. I was invited by Mrs. Percival to remain in the house until his 
 return. But I hoped he would not be far from the school ; and the long- 
 ing that I had to see him more than half assured me that I should meet 
 with him. I went accordingly, in search. A gardener was at work on the 
 lawn. I stopped as I passed him, and enquired if he knew Frederick 
 Harrington. 
 
 " Do you see that, mum V said he, pointing to a jug of beer that was at 
 his side. 
 
 "Why]" I asked. 
 
 " Well, do you see it, mum 1 'Cause that's his'n. He is the only young 
 gentleman in this here school as knows what eddication is, and as larns 
 manners. Whenever Muster Pusseyval wants to enjoy hisself, and gi'es 
 the young gentlemen a holiday, Muster Harrington could no more pass 
 this here gate to go into the village without giving I a summut for luck, 
 than I could swallow it without drinking his health. I'm a-going to make 
 this here nosegay for him." 
 
 " What, for his sister V I asked eagerly, believing for the moment that 
 he had received some intimation of my coming, although I could not ima- 
 gine hoiv." 
 
 " Not exactly, mum ; but a wery near relation," and he winked coarsely 
 as he spoke, and grinned unmeaningly. 
 
 " Tell me," I continued — " where can I find him 1 Which way does he 
 walk]" 
 
 " P'rhaps, mum," answered the gardener, " you'll think I am romarn- 
 cing, but I mean neither more nor less than I am going to say. He's so 
 very industrious, that, whenever he goes out for pleasure, he always fol- 
 lows the plough. Now, what can you make of that ] Can you transmit 
 that ] " 
 
 I concluded the man was tipsy, and I walked on without further conver- 
 sation. 
 
 N 2 
 
180 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 He permitted me to reach the gate, and then he ran after me. 
 
 " If you really want Master Harrington," he said, addressing me, " I 
 can tell you where he is ; hut you mustn't split, mum, to the governor. If 
 you goes through the village, and turns down the lane at the end, you'll 
 come in about two minutes to a public-house. That there's The Plough, and 
 if you'll enquire for him there, why, there you'll find him. I shouldn't be 
 noways disheartened to drink your health, mum, on the same occasion." 
 
 Drink again ! Was the horrid word to ring for ever in my ears 1 Was 
 there not one spot of earth free from the enslaving passion ] The very 
 sound was cloying. I gave the beggar the means he asked, and turned from 
 him with disgust. But what had he said of my brother] Whither had he di- 
 rected me to go ? What could he mean by asking me to keep his occupa- 
 tion secret? "What was that occupation'? What, on such a fair invigorat- 
 ing day, could induce him to forsake the beauteous scene, in the midst of 
 which I stood elevated and exulting, in spite of all my care and misery ? — 
 so powerful for good, so very bright was all I saw ! What lure enticed 
 him to the alehouse — that nursery of crime — that grave of all the home 
 affections ] I had no leisure for consideration. I was already in the lane, 
 and the sign of the public-house was dangling from the low roof before my 
 eyes. The gardener had surely mocked me, and I asked for my brother 
 at the door of the unsightly hut, with no expectation of hearing news of 
 him. But I was deceived. The coarse proprietor of the house surveyed me 
 curiously, whispered to a clown who was busy within the bar, and then 
 nodded familiarly, telling me that the gentleman would soon be with me. 
 The lout mounted a staircase that conducted to an upper room, and in an 
 instant afterwards I heard a loud laugh that I recognised for my brother's, 
 notwithstanding the unusual and rough exuberance with which it was sent 
 forth. Then did I remember, for the first time since I had quitted home, 
 that he was as yet ignorant of our loss— that I had yet to impart it to him, 
 and to depress his gaiety with the most melancholy news that had ever 
 been conveyed to him. I endeavoured to summon courage for the task. 
 Again I heard the wild and extravagant laughter, but this time in felloAv- 
 ship with other tones of merriment, that proceeded from another glad- 
 dened heart. What could my brother Frederick want here] In another 
 minute he appeared at the top of the steps, followed by a youth of his own 
 height, and apparently of his own age. That youth was James Temple. 
 My brother was strangely altered. I had not seen him for eighteen 
 months before, and he had become a man. The ingenuous and handsome 
 countenance of which I had been so proud, had assumed an air that 
 startled and confounded me. The open and generous expression which 
 stamped on every feature the impress of a young, a glowing, and an ho- 
 nest heart, Avas gone; and recklessness, immodesty, licentiousness, and 
 turbulence, were mingled and concentred in the face on which I looked 
 with shame. He had risen from a game at cards, for he held a few in his 
 hand when he quitted the room above. Perceiving me, he threw them 
 instantly behind him, and a moment afterwards he was at my side. His 
 friend retired, and we were alone. 
 
 "What has brought you, Emma]" he asked at once, quickly — his eyes 
 glaring as he spoke. " It has happened, then — has it ] He has killed her 
 at last. Now, don't wait — don't go round about. Let me know the worst 
 without words." 
 
 " She is dead," I answered. 
 
 "The monster!" he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth, and clenching his 
 fist, reminding me of the violence of his childhood. " The villain ! he 
 shall answer for it. Now, tell me, Emma — did he use outrage ] Disguise 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 181 
 
 and conceal nothing. The law shall follow him to the grave— if it could, 
 follow him beyond it, and fix him in everlasting fires : by Heaven I 
 wouldn't spare him the smallest pang ! He shall feel it, or may I die this 
 moment ! I tell you again, Emma, attempt no hiding of his guilt. I shall 
 discover everything ; and, if it costs me my life, I'll have blood for blood." 
 
 "Oh, Frederick !" said I, interrupting him, and terrified at his passion; 
 " you cannot know what you say — how dreadfully you talk ! Your Bible 
 never taught you this." 
 
 '" My Bible !" he answered with a sneer that deformed his every feature, 
 and rendered fiendish the face that nature modelled from an angel's. 
 " Bah ! cant and priestcraft ! Talk of something else." 
 
 " I will talk of nothing else, Frederick," I returned, " until you have 
 recovered your reason, and cease this blasphemy. We have no friend left 
 us now but Him. Beware how you lose that friend — and draw down upon 
 your head the vengeance of an insulted Heaven ! " 
 
 "Heaven!" he replied, in no way softened by my appeal. "Heaven! 
 What have you received in the way of good from heaven, that should 
 teach you to be its warm defender ] Don't you be ignorant and weak 
 enough to be imposed upon hx all you hear. Why has Heaven permitted 
 my father to rob me of comfort, happiness, and peace of mind, since the 
 hour that I was sensible of life, and capable of enjoyment ] Why has 
 Heaven permitted him to persecute my poor mother for months and 
 years, until the persecution killed her ? Why has Heaven not separated 
 them before ] — and in separating now, why has Heaven destroyed the in- 
 nocent, and left the murderer to live and riot as he pleases ! Don't turn 
 away from me," continued he — " that's the way with all of you. Answer 
 me — let me know what can be said to this. I'll listen to reason, and to 
 nothing else. If Heaven has permitted all this, what is it better than 
 hell — what is your God " 
 
 " Frederick," I cried out, " I'll hear no more. I am too young to rea- 
 son with you; but my soul revolts at what you say. I want no other 
 argument to persuade me you are wrong. I will trust the rising indigna- 
 tion that spurns your reasoning with fear and shuddering, and cannot 
 tamely bear the violation you would madly perpetrate. Tell me — who 
 are your companions >- — what are you doing in this house ] You have 
 been reading impious books. Something has warped your better judg- 
 ment, and made shipwreck of your happiness." 
 
 " Do not talk dogmatically of things you do not understand," he said, 
 sarcastically. " Who taught you to call books impious ?- Have you ever 
 read them ] Oh, to be sure, there's no purity in them — no purity in any 
 book but that of which my father is the authorized interpreter — whose 
 doctrines he has taught and studied for so many years, with such advan- 
 tage to the world, and so much profit to himself! I wish you joy of my 
 father's book, and I hope you are pleased with its delegated minister. 
 Miserable humbug!" 
 
 I endeavoured for a little time to collect myself, and to get language to 
 express the feelings which were battling in my bosom. I knew him to 
 be wrong. I was satisfied that his reasoning was unsound, and that, in a 
 moment, an experienced mind could have hurled him with confusion from 
 his untenable position ; but I was distressed, grievously shocked, and 
 fiurry prevented thought. I had nothing to say, and, grieved beyond ex- 
 pression to find him triumphing where discomfiture should have abashed 
 and routed him, I could only weep, and weak as a woman, rely for elo- 
 quence in my tears. The cold and heartless lesson that he had learned, 
 
182 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 had not robbed me of his natural affection. He took me to his arms, and 
 sought to console me. 
 
 " Never mind these things, sister," said he, pressing my hand. " We 
 will never speak of them again. We have nothing to do with them. 
 Eight or wrong, they can never make me love you the less. I must be 
 everything to you now, Emma — brother, mother, and father; you may 
 trust me. Tell me of our poor mother. Let me hear everything con- 
 nected with her end — mind, Emma — everything. Why do you cry so?" 
 he continued. " I could not help speaking as I did just now. I will not 
 refer to the subject again. These abstract questions should not make us 
 miserable." 
 
 "Oh, Frederick!" said I, "that man has much to answer for. You 
 are to be commiserated. You have been thrown upon the world. You 
 have never known the value of a mothers hourly communications. You 
 have never listened to truth dropping into the ready heart from the 
 lips of love, that give a sanctity even to holiest things. You would not 
 think as you do had you been at home, and had that home been peaceful 
 as it should have been. You have depended from childhood upon the 
 purchased kindness of strangers. You have grown up as dear mother 
 often said, not as she would have trained you, but as Providence allowed 
 you. You will get older. You will meet with good and pious men, and 
 you will be more grieved for this unhappy way of thinking than I am now. 
 But what awaits our wretched father, who is the cause of all']" 
 
 " It may be as you say. To please you, I will think it may be. But 
 tell me, Emma — how fared it with poor mother'?" 
 
 Frederick received from me a circumstantial account of our home pro- 
 ceedings since he had last been with us. I had come to him with my 
 heart full of accusations and reproaches against the author of all our 
 woes ; and to his ready sympathy, of which I was sure, I looked forward 
 for my solace and alleviation. But the mood in which I had discovered 
 him, and the principles by which I found him to be actuated, suggested 
 another line of conduct, which the safety and happiness of us both ren- 
 dei-ed it incumbent upon me to pursue. There was no need to spur him 
 on to vengeance — it required not a heart-rending recital of our history to 
 inspire him with the desire of vindicating his departed mother's injuries. 
 Those injuries he had brooded over until a spark, a word, had become 
 just necessary to ignite the heated and long-cherished animosity. I 
 found it difficult to mitigate the conduct of my father. From what point 
 of view, indeed, did it admit of palliation] Still, against my very con- 
 viction, I was led on by the impetuosity of Frederick, until I beheld my- 
 self extenuating every fault of our common persecutor, seeking for ex- 
 cuses where the glaring and enormous guilt denied, even in the most for- 
 giving, a hope of pardon for the offender. The more my brother spoke 
 of revenge and retribution, the stronger did I plead for his intended vic- 
 tim — the warmer were my entreaties for forbearance, and oblivion of the 
 past. I put in a favourable light all that had passed, since the death of 
 our mother, between my father and myself. I told him of his sorrow 
 when she had gone, and his earnest desire to see his too long absent son. 
 I did not fail to add, that it was by his express wish that 1 had under- 
 taken my present journey ; and that, in spite of all that I had urged to 
 the contrary, he had resolved to have him home without delay. 
 
 " Who knows, Frederick," said I, " but that the melancholy death of 
 our poor mother may have struck terror and remorse into his soul, and 
 have startled him from the path down which he madly plunged year after 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 383 
 
 year! Let U3 hope that he has awakened to a sense of his wickedness. 
 We cannot mend what has happened. Ought we to prevent our happi- 
 ness for the future? Everything depends upon our conduct during the 
 next few days. Come home, as he proposes. Let it be on the day of the 
 funeral— you will mark him well on that day. If his sorrow is sincere, his 
 repentance genuine, neither of us can withhold our pardon to the sinner. 
 It will be our duty then to provide for our future peace and quiet. Should 
 he exhibit no true evidence of amendment— should he be the same ungo- 
 vernable tyrant, you need not remain with him another day. He has 
 promised to provide for you— until he does, you can still reside with Mr. 
 Peroral. If you love me, Frederick, and value my peace of mind, you 
 will put an end to violence and tumult. I am worn out with them. 
 Think not of heaping up the load of infamy and disgrace that has already 
 buried our good name beneath its foul deformity; no good will come of 
 that, to you, to him, to any of us. Level it, if you can, with the earth, 
 and let its existence be forgotten amongst men." 
 
 I repeated my entreaties, and I subdued and cooled his heated temper. 
 I received his faithful promise. He believed that I was right, and that it 
 was useless to avenge what never could be repaired. He would not seek 
 to do it. He would revisit home, as I had, requested him, upon the day 
 of the funeral. If his father was indeed as I had described him, he would 
 be silent with respect to his former conduct, and no syllable from his lips 
 should disturb the welcome and much-envied harmony. If it should be 
 otherwise, he would absent himself at once, and await at school the deter- 
 mination of his parent with regard to his future prospects. With this 
 understanding we separated— my brother returned to the school, I re- 
 mained at the inn, from which the coach set out that evening that was to 
 convey me to my home again. 
 
 Left to myself, I remembered that I had made no enquiry respecting 
 the emplovment which had called him to the public-house. I had not 
 spoken to "him either of his companion, who had left him as he caught 
 sight of me. I desired eagerly to be informed of these. In my heart I 
 believed that no good had drawn him to the hut, and a corresponding 
 •sentiment was entertained in respect of his friend and associate. I had 
 scarcely permitted myself to form the latter opinion, before a gentle 
 knock at the door of the room in which I sat, introduced to my presence 
 the very gentleman himself. He entered the apartment with a very mo- 
 dest demeanour, and bowed profoundly; then, somewhat confused, he 
 enquired if he had the happiness of addressing Miss Emma Harrington] 
 Colouring highlv, I answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " I have considered it my duty, Miss Harrington," he proceeded, " to 
 apologise for what must have appeared to you an unbecoming rudeness. 
 Before you leave us, may I hope that I am forgiven]" 
 
 He spoke in a sweet voice, and unhesitatingly, as one used to talk — con- 
 fidently and well. I did not understand him, and I blushed more deeply 
 than ever. 
 
 " Do not think ill of me," he continued, because you found me where, 
 in truth, my tastes would never have seduced me. Your brother has no 
 doubt told you Avhy and how I came there]" He stopped for my reply. 
 
 " Do vou mean the inn, sir]" I asked in ignorance of his drift. 
 
 " Yes/' he answered, with a faint smile. " Yes, Miss Harrington, if you 
 will condescend to honour it by that title. He has told you— has hs 
 not]" 
 
 " No. We did not speak, sir, on the subject. Do you come from mm 
 
184 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 now? Have you brought a letter from Lira ] Has lie sent a message ? 
 He has not changed his mind, I hope]" 
 
 " Certainly not," was the reply. " Miss Harrington," continued Mr. 
 Temple, " your brother is my dearest friend. I have known him for years ; 
 I love him as a brother." 
 
 The young man spoke with fervour, and my heart warmed towards him 
 as he said the words. 
 
 " He is worthy, sir," said T, " of your affection. He has a noble heart. 
 He had," I continued, checking niyself, " and I pray to God it may con- 
 tinue so." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Harrington," continued the gentleman in a musing tone, '■ he 
 7iad; and let us hope he has. I risk much on his account. Do not sup- 
 pose that, for one in whom I took a common interest, I could perform so 
 much. For him, and him alone, do I venture to such haunts as that in 
 which Miss Harrington surprised us both this morning. If I retreated 
 hastily, and quicker than good manners would permit, it was to spare an 
 explanation that would have pained us all to hear." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said I, " I do not quite understand." 
 
 " It would be useless to disguise the fact," he said interrupting me. 
 " Your brother has been in danger. He has been surrounded by com- 
 panions who have led him into dissipation. He is safe now. I have never 
 deserted him. I never will desert him. I have injured my own character 
 by following him throughout his career of folly. I am "satisfied to be 
 spoken ill of, whilst 1 know that I have done my duty. Should you hear 
 your brother's friend, James Temple, mentioned with disrespect/you will 
 know the reason why." 
 
 I was still at a loss to gather the exact meaning of Mr. Temple's words. 
 I begged him to be explicit. 
 
 "A few words, Miss Harrington," he returned, "will explain as much 
 as you desire to hear. The whole is, in truth, very little ; but I wish you 
 to do me justice. Pardon me if I say that injustice never accompanied 
 "beauty so perfect as your own. Frederick has been tempted to the wine- 
 cup and the gaming-table." 
 
 " You do not mean it !" I exclaimed, starting with affright, and dread- 
 ing to hear more. 
 
 " He has been tempted, and withdrawn from them/' he added, in a 
 louder voice. "I have watched him daily and hourly. I have seen him 
 gradually falling beneath the wiles of wicked and designing men. I 
 have interfered to snatch him from the trap. I have succeeded, and am 
 happy." 
 
 " Then, indeed, we owe you much, sir. We are grateful for the act." 
 
 " I am more than overpaid to hear it from your lips. Do you return to 
 so soon 1" he asked. 
 
 "Within an hour, sir," I answered. " You know my place of residence"?" 
 
 " I am your brother's dearest friend. I know your melancholy history. 
 Although far from you, I have ever had a lively interest in your welfare. 
 Need I say that it is increased a hundred-fold by this delightful interview ? 
 Frederick and I have passed hours in bewailing your unhappy fate. Better 
 days await you." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " I do believe it." 
 
 * Nature," continued Mr. Temple, " is kind. If she wounds— she heals. 
 We do not always suffer." 
 
 " God is kind," I answered, " and often kindest where he seems most 
 cruel." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 185 
 
 " True," said Mr. Temple. " Nature is but another -word for the same 
 idea ; and something, too, more tangible." 
 
 "What is that;" I asked. 
 
 " Oh — closer to the senses — easier to conceive. We "worship nature 
 which we see — and this is true religion. How the heart overflows with 
 adoration on a bright sunny day, on any spot of earth that is glowing with 
 the variegated charms of the voluptuous goddess ! How free and generous 
 — how prodigal she is of all her gifts, giving alike to the rich and the poor, 
 and preaching, with a voice a3 loud and expressive as her own thunders, 
 the doctrine of a universal love ! " 
 
 "But what is all this, sir, to the poor sufferer?" said I, stopping him. 
 " Sunny days bring little warmth to the bare heart of the orphan." 
 
 Mr. Temple ventured to contest the point, and continued to panegyrise 
 in the loftiest terms the principle which, he contended, existed, and 
 governed throughout the whole visible world. It was a strange theory, 
 and new to me. I could not realise it, nor adapt it to my own precon- 
 ceived notions of the Everlasting Deity. Of the latter, in the affairs of 
 this world, he seemed to take no account. He ended and began with 
 Nature. All things were wrought by and through her, and we had only 
 to submit to and obey her laws. There was a mystery about all he said ; 
 but he spoke with eloquence, and with a fervour that animated his coun- 
 tenance, and gave brilliancy to an eye that shone with the fire and im- 
 petuosity of unsophisticated youth. I was struck and pleased with his 
 earnestness; and oh, how much did I regard him for his kindness towards 
 my unfriended and neglected brother ! It is very true, that here and 
 there, in the vehemence of his argument, I was startled and unsettled by 
 propositions which my native sense of truth at once rejected as unsound 
 and perilous ; but his expression of the heresy did not give rise to anger, 
 nor permit me to think unfavourably of the speaker. I could not, at that 
 distance from the moving springs that worked within his crafty and in- 
 human heart, discover the motive and design of every word that fell, 
 poisonous and sweet, upon my ears. "What if his theory were dangerous 
 and false, I believed his soul was pure, and flattered my imagination with 
 the thought that I could see it beaming in his face. Hence, although he 
 enforced the doctrine of personal unrestraint, and argued that the indul- 
 gence of what are deemed unlawful wishes, is sinful only when unnatural, 
 and in opposition to the benevolent laws of nature ; and, further than thia^ 
 pursued the theme, and drew the ready inference, that all are justified who 
 obey the dictates of the passions ; I did not express my indignation at the 
 insidious and demoniac lore, and strike the tempter dumb upon the very 
 threshold of his scheme. I have but feebly pourtrayed my first interview 
 with the destroyer. I do not hope to convey to you the full impression of 
 that short conference. I do not desire it. I have dwelt through many a 
 wean* hour upon this introduction into misery and guilt — for such it 
 proved to be — and I have found, the deeper I have pierced, the carefully 
 strewed seed of all the after-growth of crime. I ask you to explain the 
 reason why the unprotected and the orphan are the chosen victims of your 
 fellow-men \ Why are they so greedily pursued, so cruelly deprived of 
 that small share of happiness that belongs to their condition ? James 
 Temple knew me to be the most unfortunate of my sex, the most deserv- 
 ing of his pity and respect. He saw me for a moment, and resolved upon 
 my ruin. His first well-calculated step I have faintly described. For a 
 season the second was delayed. 
 
 The morning for my mother's funeral arrived. Stukely, my pen falters, 
 and refuses to trace the narrative which it sickens me to recall. And yet 
 
186 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 it must be told. I have brought you to the climax of human wretched- 
 ness. Read and believe. I tell you that the strange tale is true — horrible 
 it may be, it is — and yet I have survived it. Who doubts its authenticity 1 
 Let him carry it to the drunkard's habitation, and call around him first 
 the miserable wife, and then the sobbing children, and let him astound 
 their ears with the history that is their own. Oh ! think not for an instant 
 that exaggeration deforms the unsightly picture. The ugliness surpasses 
 not the truth. Would that both could strike the conscience of one do- 
 mestic murderer with effectual sorrow and remorse ! The morning of the 
 funeral had come. Ten o'clock had struck, and my brother had not yet 
 appeared. He had arrived from the school late on the preceding evening, 
 and had retired immediately to rest. I had received him, for my father 
 had gone to his bed some hours before. 1 told him that our breakfast hour 
 was nine o'clock, and he promised to me-ct his father at the breakfast table. 
 I did not sleep that night. How could 11 I walked restlessly about my 
 room, longing for the morning to come, dreading its approach, and grow- 
 ing more and more anxious and alarmed as the clock warned me at inter- 
 vals of its advance. At six o'clock I rose. Another sleeper in the house 
 had been disturbed before me, and was already moving. This was my 
 father. I found him in his library. He looked pale and wearied, and his 
 usual tremor unhinged his whole frame. When I opened the door of the 
 apartment he started from his seat, and was frightened. 
 
 " Ah — yes," said he, recovering himself, " it is you : be seated, Emma. 
 He has come, of course V 
 
 " He has," I answered. 
 
 " Well — and he is well-disposed, is tranquil, as he should be on the sad 
 occasion 1 " 
 
 " He has said little," I replied. " He has not yet risen. It was late 
 last night when he reached home." 
 
 "Well, I shall see him soon. Does he return to-morrow?" 
 
 " It is his intention." 
 
 " Good. He will be soon provided for. I have obtained for him an 
 appointment in India. Tell him so. It is better that he should pass the 
 little time that he will remain in England away from home. It may save 
 a breach. I cannot brook contradiction. I do not wish to gall and irritate 
 him. He is overhasty, I have heard. But he seems peaceable, and dis- 
 posed to keep so, I think you said V 
 
 Early as it was, the wine bottle was already on the table. 
 
 "Father," said I, pointing to it, "what is that 1 ?" 
 
 " Not another drop ! " he exclaimed impressively ; " not a sip, as I am 
 a living man ! I should have shaken to pieces had I not appeased the 
 nerves with one draught. But I have swallowed it, and I am quiet. I 
 shall taste no more : take it away." At the very moment that he made 
 this request, and as I approached the table to comply with it, he raised 
 the decanter mechanically, and poured from its contents another glassful. 
 Without a word or a sign, and as if unconscious of the act, he drank it off. 
 To such an extent was he the slave of habit, that I am satisfied he was 
 ignorant of having transgressed the rule which he had laid down for him- 
 self the very second before. 
 
 "Father," I exclaimed, "for Heaven's sake be cautious! Who shall 
 answer for the effects of a single dram ] Cease to be master of yourself, 
 and I forsee the consequences. As sure as I am speaking*, there will be 
 mischief that never can be forgotten or repaired. Be warned in time, 
 and avoid to-night the furious insensibility, from which you will wake to- 
 morrow to imprecate yourself, and loathe the very light in which you walk. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 187 
 
 For your own sake be advised, and flee, for this one day at least, from the 
 horrible temptation." 
 
 "Oh, trust me !" answered my father, made uneasy by the terms in 
 which I had ventured to address him, " trust me — I will be wise. Here — 
 take the key of the cellar. Let one bottle of wine remain for dinner. 
 Produce no more. If I ask for more, refuse it. You have me in your 
 keeping. It is for you to prevent the mischief that you dread." 
 
 I secured the key with eagerness, and, taking him at his word, placed 
 beyond his reach every means of gratifying the insatiable lust. Breakfast 
 was announced, and Frederick still was absent. I could not eat. Food 
 had never been acceptable to my father so early in the day. We sat in 
 silence, and the cloth was removed untouched by either of us. Shortly 
 afterwards, a rustling and a moving about were heard directly overhead, 
 and subdued talking" on the stairs. A chill shot through me. The men 
 had come to prepare the body for its last short journey. I wept, and my 
 father sat over the fire, looking into it, and thinking, it may be, on the 
 eternity into which he had hurried the uncomplaining sufferer. "What an 
 eternity for him ! — I left his presence, and stole to the busiest chamber in 
 the house, desirous of another leave-taking. The coffin was already closed. 
 One person only was in the room, and that was poor Frederick, weeping 
 at the coffin's foot, with the uncontrollable fulness of a heart-broken child. 
 I walked to his side, and placed my hand in his. He closed me in his 
 arms, and we had not a word to say, until the heart had wrung its last tear 
 through his drowned and quivering eye. 
 
 "Did I not," he said at length,— " tell me, Emma— did I not obey 
 her]" 
 
 " You did," I answered. " You never disobeyed her." 
 
 " But did I not offer a hundred times to come to her rescue ? Did she 
 not forbid it?-" 
 
 " You have done your duty, Frederick. She was satisfied you had." 
 
 " If I thought otherwise, I could not live another hour. I am sure she 
 was wrong ; but I do not reproach myself for a strict compliance with her 
 wishes." 
 
 " She is in heaven," I rejoined, " and smiles upon you for your filial 
 love." 
 
 "Where is lie?'' he asked, turning from the subject. "I have not met 
 him yet." 
 
 " He has expected you for the last hour or two. Come to him. He de- 
 sires to see you." 
 
 " No — not at present. I shall wait here until the ceremony compels me 
 to endure his sight. We are better and safer asunder. We will follow 
 her to the grave in company. That is all he can require of me. I am 
 happier alone. I could not talk with him." 
 
 " You will do nothing harsh and cruel, will you]" I asked, imploringly. 
 
 " Xo good can come of it. I will not give you pain unnecessarily, dear 
 Emma. Death is no punishment to such a man. Torture for years, such 
 as he inflicted, he deserves. It cannot bring her to life again. Would 
 that it might !" 
 
 I had many things to do on this eventful morning, and I was obliged to 
 leave my brother sooner than I wished. My anxiety prompted me to be 
 continually at his side ; for, in spite of his assurances, I had little con- 
 fidence in his power of forbearance. I knew that an angry word or look 
 could overthrow a mountain of good resolutions, and render him as help- 
 less as an infant in the hold, and at the mercy, of his excited and unfastened 
 passions. I was aware, too, from many observations that had fallen from 
 
188 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 him, that his code of morality was lax, and justified to his mind acts that 
 were criminal in themselves, and in the judgment of the world. His re- 
 ligious views had become fearfully dimmed, and he needed only the stimu- 
 Ins and the opportunity to become the sport and prey of notions that lead 
 only to destruction. On these accounts, I trembled for him, and begrudged 
 every moment that I passed away from him. Ill fortified he was to be 
 alone in any place. Here, where he walked in the midst of danger and 
 evil solicitation, he needed a hand ever present to guide him, and to warn 
 him of the mine that one inconsiderate step would set thundering beneath 
 his very feet. 
 
 At eleven o'clock, the small procession that constituted the ceremony 
 of my mother's humble funeral was marshalled, and ready to proceed. 
 My father and I were in the library, and waited for my brother. I heard 
 his footstep on the stairs, and my heart beat painfully and quick. He 
 descended slowly, and did not appear to delay or pause. In another mo- 
 ment he entered. I looked at my father, and he winced under the hard 
 trial. He looked uneasily about him— cast his eyes upon the ground — 
 towards me — to the attendants — anywhere but there, where fear, shame, 
 and acute vexation, all commingled, rendered one object intolerable to 
 the sight. Frederick was very pale ; but he looked subdued and placid. 
 Perfectly collected, and in a distant manner, he bowed to his father, and 
 the latter returned his greeting with a silent recognition, that betrayed 
 at once the agitation of his mind, and the small ability that he possessed 
 to check and hide the gnawing agony that seared his sinful soul. There 
 was no warmer salutation. Not a word was spoken. The silence of death 
 prevailed in the room, far more crushing, because inconsonant with the 
 occasion, until my father was reminded that it was time to go forward. I 
 saw them depart — I marked them when they followed, side by side, the 
 remains of the deceased through the long avenue that led to the church- 
 yard. Still not a word was exchanged. A handkerchief was in the hand 
 of my father— the mourner's ensign ! Frederick was overcome, and wept 
 aloud and violently ; his sobs and moans were carried through the air, 
 and conveyed to my own distressed and heaving heart. I closed the 
 casement, and escaped them. 
 
 It takes but a little time to separate for ever the living from the dead, 
 to place the latter in the cold, cold earth, and to render them as though 
 they had never been. The last office was performed, and father and 
 son were once more in the house together. I know not what had 
 passed between them during their short absence. Certain it is they had 
 spoken. The partition that had previously separated them was broken 
 down, and communication, if not of the most friendly character, was, at 
 least, unreserved. In spite of the evident attempts made by my father 
 to appear at ease, awkwardness and anxiety were manifest in every word 
 and movement. Once having addressed Frederick, he could not remain 
 for an instant silent, but turned from one subject of discourse to another, 
 regardless of connexion or relation, as if silence were impossible to bear, 
 and the least repose brought with it peril and alarm. Frederick, on his 
 part, was taken by surprise, and by degrees regarded his parent with a 
 kindlier spirit than I had ventured to expect from the impassioned boy. 
 He listened to his father's questionings, and answered with respect. A 
 ray of joy stole across my heart, and, for the moment, I flattered myself 
 with years of unmolested happiness — of harmony and peace. JSTot a word 
 was said of the sad occasion that brought us again together. That was 
 studiously avoided. But Frederick's future prospects were spoken of, and 
 the nature of his employment explained to him. He seemed pleased 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 189 
 
 with the pursuit, and eager for active, profitable life. Notwithstanding-, 
 however, the favourable aspect which matters had assumed ; notwith- 
 standing the bright gleam that passed through our home, lighting it up 
 with unaccustomed lustre, I did not lose my timidity, nor wholly rely 
 upon the sudden and violent reaction. I lingered near father and son, 
 and, as though filled with the presentiment of what was too soon to hap- 
 pen, could not for any interval lose sight of them without anxiety, and 
 an oppressive dread of danger. 
 
 The dinner hour arrived. We had no visitors. Iffy father, Frederick, 
 and myself sat down to the meal, and the previous conversation gave 
 place to heaviness and ungraceful silence. The solitary decanter of wine 
 was on the table. My father drank from it sparingly, but Frederick 
 emptied it with greediness. It was melancholy to behold the family sin 
 taking possession of his soul so early in life ; and I would gladly have 
 persuaded myself that a desire to drown present grief, and no habitual 
 vice, displayed itself in the eagerness with which he quaffed, glass after 
 glass, the fatal liquor. Before the close of dinner, the bottle needed re- 
 plenishing. My father looked at me enquiringly, but I did not heed 
 him ; for at the same time my eye was on my brother, and a glance 
 enabled me to ascertain the heated and perilous condition towards which 
 he was rapidly advancing. I took no notice of the hint. The repast was 
 finished, and without a syllable I left the table. Against my own con- 
 viction I forsook my guardianship, and only to avoid a greater evil. For 
 two hours I remained in my own room. I would not have quitted it 
 again that evening, had not the never-absent and tormenting anxiousness 
 that accompanied every hour of my brother's sojourn with us, driven me 
 back again to observe the progress of the new-made reconciliation. I 
 tripped confidently to the dining-room, opened the door, and was stag- 
 gered, bewildered, and confounded by the view that I encountered there. 
 Could I trust what my eyes presented to my waking mind ! Or did I 
 dream ?- Had I lost my recollection, my reason, in the conflict that my 
 brain had undergone ? The first object that I perceived upon the table 
 was a key ! the duplicate of that which I possessed — the conductor to the 
 wine-cellar. "Wine of different kinds crowded the board, some in bottles, 
 unopened ; some in the like half emptied, and next to them vessels 
 drained of their last drop. My father was transformed already into the 
 wretched object that wine had ever rendered him. He had become sot- 
 tish mad, and ignorant of his acts — his words — his thoughts. Frederick 
 himself had partaken of the fearful beverage until excitement glared in 
 every feature of his disordered countenance, and his veins swelled with 
 the hot and bounding blood that passed along them. It was an awful 
 season. One inconsiderate word from either — one exclamation — one 
 dangerous half whisper might be destruction to both. Careless children 
 were they at the mountain's edge, unconscious of danger, and ready to 
 take the step that dashes them to pieces. "Who should have courage to 
 venture near, and drag them backward from the yawning breach ) Who 
 would risk life now for the chance of sparing it ? Oh, such a one was 
 needed here to speak the word that might appease and save the helpless 
 men who had ventured to the very brink of ruin ! In my father's face I 
 could not trace mischief. Was it possible that fear had still controlling 
 power, and still protected him when even- other feeling had given way 
 beneath the maddening drink 1 Would for his own sake that it might 
 be so ! Yes, drunken anility and not ferocity seemed to be the prevailing 
 humour. How long it would endure depended on his companion and 
 antagonist. Frederick had grown loquacious, his voice was thick, and it 
 
190 CALEB STUKELY 
 
 grew hoarse with, exercise. There was spleen in every word he uttered, 
 and anger, contempt, and bitterness. Ferocity, too, sparkled in his ex- 
 pressive eye, and corrupted every other feature. How he sat there, 
 playing and trifling with his trembling prey, conscious of his power, and 
 sharpening his appetite for mischief with the contemplation of his sacri- 
 fice ! Neither of the men was disturbed at my approach. Each was too 
 busy with his own peculiar thoughts. The chair of Frederick was drawn 
 close to that of his father — his hand was upon his father's arm — his 
 bloodshot eye was strained towards his father's sottish face. I remained 
 at the door, fixed to the position in which my entrance had first placed 
 me, and fearful of accelerating harm and evil b} T the progress of an inch. 
 
 " Tell me what you preach !" exclaimed Frederick, laughing aloud and 
 unmeaningly ; " which side of the question do you espouse ? They tell 
 me you are a — what is it? a Calvinist. Who is he? Did he love wine — 
 did he drink as jollily as we do ? Oh, you are a rare old sinner? ha, ha, 
 ha !" and he laughed on, and swallowed a glassful in the midst of it. 
 
 " Do not talk so wildly," said his father, endeavouring to escape from 
 his side. 
 
 "And why not?" answered Frederick, rudely stopping him. u Who are 
 you, to order, and to say how a man is to speak or behave ?" 
 
 " I do not wish to molest." 
 
 "No, I'll take devilish good care you sha'n't," said my brother, interrupt- 
 ing him. " I say, parson, haven't you broken your heart in fretting after 
 your son? Hasn't natural affection almost killed you? Why, what did 
 you think had become of me \ Do you believe, in that black heart of yours,, 
 that j'ou are really on the road to heaven 1 Come, no flinching ! Answer 
 me like a man. Here, take your glass, I'll drink to our better acquaintance. 
 We shall know one another better for the future." 
 
 My father writhed under his infliction. He had a character to sustain 
 which he had never studied — for which he was but ill prepared. He burned 
 to burst the chains by which he felt himself enthralled. The dread of con- 
 sequences kept him as submissive as a beaten slave. Mine was the cruel 
 lot to observe in silence and in horror. A bumper was quaffed in honour 
 of the taunting toast, and Frederick was again pursuing his doomed 
 victim. 
 
 " Look there," said he, pointing to me ; " that's your daughter. I am 
 told that you have behaved most lovingly to her. Look at her, man," he 
 continued, seizing him by the wrist, " and see what a colour your kind- 
 ness has brought upon her cheek. Look — she is paler than the lily, and 
 that we know is joy's own colour. You'll go to heaven for that, too. Why, 
 you are a noble fellow to preach and pray, and tell us what we ought to do ! 
 Look me in the face ! " 
 
 My father shook with rising passion, and he bit his lips, and drew his 
 breath with difficulty. 
 
 " Look me in the face," continued the infuriated Frederick, for he had 
 lashed himself to rage — "and let me see a pious monster — a religious fiend 
 — a holy devil ! Now, hear me. I have spent many an hour of my most 
 miserable life — made miserable by you, in longing for this moment. I 
 have looked forward to this interview till I have almost gone mad in wait- 
 ing for it. I have walked for half a night listening to the wind screaming 
 amongst trees, howling about tombstones, and over green graves, trying to 
 keep down the horrible temptation that I have felt for years, to be your 
 murderer. Hear, and understand me, 1 repeat it calmly — to be your mur- 
 derer. I have seen the blooming and the young, without a crime, without 
 the burden of a fault, cut down in beauty, and removed from the earth 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 191 
 
 which they were just beginning to adorn and dignify — and 7" knew you — 
 the tormentor of your kind, the vilest of your race, in whose atmosphere to 
 live was to breathe pollution, and to suffer death — I knew you to be alive, 
 glorying in your defilement, pouring sorrow, distress, and misery on all 
 who came within your reach, and rendering life a curse to all who had con- 
 nexion with you. Do you think, I ask you, that I could deem it wrong to 
 remove for ever from the world the source of endless woe ? One blow 
 could do it. One blow, and in an instant there was peace for the most de- 
 serving. I could have struck you down, I could have dealt the blow with- 
 out remorse— without one aching thought. "Why, then, came 1 not to give 
 it ] I will not tell you, — but there was good reason for my absence. You were 
 preserved not through my forbearance. The cause that interfered between 
 me and my strong desire exists no longer. Now, I am free to act. Now, 
 I am here ; and, monster, what prevents the accomplishment of what I 
 have wished so long V 
 
 " You dare not do it ! " cried my father, starting from his chair, and 
 eluding by the suddenness the griping hand of Frederick. 
 
 "You lie !" impiously replied the drunken bo}-, and following him as he 
 proceeded from his seat. 
 
 It was my time to act. No longer capable of self-control, I placed my- 
 self between the angry men, and entreated the aggressor to desist. My 
 influence and power over the unfortunate were gone. 
 
 "Stay you there," said he, placing me at a distance from them, "or begone, 
 and do not intermeddle. I am tranquil, and am master of myself. We have 
 a long account to settle ; and it must be called over item after item." 
 
 " I do not fear you," muttered my father, gnashing his teeth, and looking 
 fiercely at his son. " I do not fear you, most unnatural villain ! " 
 
 " Well said, unnatural father ! " cried Frederick, in a laughing tone ; 
 " then sit you down, and we'll converse. You need not fear me. You say 
 I dare not punish you for all your guilt ; and I say, You lie. I dare; but I 
 will not. The time is past. You have not me to thank for it. Live, die 
 and be detested, when and where you please." 
 
 The words were grateful in my father's ear, hideous as they fell on mine. 
 He lost dastard timidity with their utterance, and acquired insolence and 
 bluster. Secure of life, he had no motive to withhold his abuse, and it 
 spirted out, as usual, upon the head of the powerless and innocent. He 
 aimed his shafts at the coffin of my scarcely buried mother. Alas ! he 
 knew not the holiness with which that mother's memory was enshrined, 
 even in the heart of the irreligious and much-offending Frederick. 
 
 "You have had a good instructress!" was the ready sarcasm. " Y^our 
 mother " 
 
 "Name her not!" shrieked Frederick; the blood rushing from his 
 cheek at the same moment, leaving it pale, ghastly, and fearful to behold. 
 " Name her not. I dare not name her." I dare not trust myself to listen 
 to the sound." 
 
 " She was punished for the usage I received from her, and so will you be, 
 and so will she," continued he, pointing spitefully at me. " You will be 
 smitten both, as she was smitten, when I cursed her for her cruelty — vilest 
 of wretches as she was." 
 
 " Be warned ! " cried Frederick, swelling with anger, and struggling 
 for composure, which he could not find. " Be warned, I say ! Speak to 
 him, Emma — save us both ! " 
 
 " Warned ! warned ! " said the roused lunatic, presuming on the assur- 
 ance he had received. "Who threatens me] Do you remind me of the 
 past ] I have not forgotten it. The curse will wither the hand that was 
 
192 CALKB STUKELY. 
 
 uplifted against your father, as it has visited and destroyed her who bore 
 the miscreant, and taught him lessons that will avail him when he pine3 
 in hell. She was born to be my plague ; and I glory in my deliverance. 
 Were she here again, again would I be quit of her. I hated and despised 
 her. I have lived to trample on her grave !" 
 
 He said more than this — more than I desire to remember or record. He 
 persisted in the same strain, associating the most disgusting epithets with 
 my mother's name, and outrunning sense in his eagerness to vilify her. 
 Drunken, unmeaning gibberish supplied him with terms that would have 
 excited ridicule and compassion within the breast of any one but him who 
 listened to the speaker, enraged and irritated until reason was immersed, 
 and could no longer serve him. One horrible expression, too infamous to 
 be repeated, was fatal to them both. It was but half uttered before 
 Frederick leaped from his seat, and seized his fellow-drunkard and his 
 father by the throat. The latter fell, and his assailant with him. One 
 shrieked with terror, and struggled furiously, the other foamed, and held 
 the prostrate man down with a hand of iron. I saw no more, but ran 
 from the apartment, screaming aloud for help, and about to fall with 
 fright and agitation. 
 
 The servants had asked permission to leave home at the close of dinner, 
 In order to visit the grave of their mistress, before it should be finally and 
 for ever shut.- It was a request that had its origin in affection, and I com- 
 plied with it at once. They had been faithful and true friends — for years 
 had shared the affliction of my mother ; and on her account had borne 
 anger and submitted to reproach. We were about to lose them now. In- 
 gots of gold would not have purchased their services for my widowed 
 father. They had already set out on their errand of love, and the house 
 was deserted. No one there could help me, and I flew into the village. 
 Within a hundred yards of the parsonage I encountered old Adam. He 
 was the family confident, and in a few words I made the miserable busi- 
 ness known to him. The poor fellow quickened, as well as he might, his 
 aged feet, and, full of useless regrets and ineffective guesses, accompanied 
 me to our abode. 
 
 " Oh, miss," said he, " why did the young gentleman return *? What a 
 pity he didn't keep at school ! Oh, it was the maddest trick that could be 
 played — just running into danger. Dear me, dear me, how thoughtless we 
 all are ! You don't mean to say, miss, that you left them on the ground, 
 and fighting too ! Your brother could never be so sacrilegious as to strike 
 a man in orders ! If he was wicked enough to insult his father, he must 
 respect the cloth. Dear me, dear me ! pardon me, Miss Harrington, yours 
 is a remarkably unpleasant family." 
 
 We reached the house in time to meet Frederick rushing from it vehe- 
 mently. He had a wild and vacant look, and he was paler than ever. Old 
 Adam retreated a step or two as the wretched youth approached him. 
 Frederick took no notice of him, but seized my hand, which was steadier 
 than his own, and spoke to me, panting for breath. 
 
 " You are a witness, Emma," he exclaimed, " I implored him to be 
 quiet. You heard me. He would not. He has himself to thank for it. 
 Oh, the accursed drink ! It is the ruin of us all. I vowed that I would 
 use no violence — that I would not be angry, I promised you faithfully; 
 for your sake it was right. The wine betrayed me — set me in flames. Oh, 
 Emma, Emma ! " he cried out, bursting into tears, " what is to become of 
 you? What is to be done"? All gone — all gone!" I endeavoured to 
 pacify him. " No, no," he cried, putting me gently from him ; " you 
 mustn't kiss me now. Enter there — there — in that room, don't curse your 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 193 
 
 brother, Emma. I 'will spare you one trial — you shall not see me on the 
 gallows ! Good-bye — poor girl — I did not mean it, Emma. It was the 
 drink — the drink !" 
 
 We did not permit him to proceed. Horrified by his -words, I started 
 from him. Adam had already preceded me, and -we entered the dining- 
 room at one and the same moment. He was a corpse. There, on the 
 floor where I had left him, he lay a motionless clod. 
 
 Stukely, receive the command of a dying woman, and hold it sacred. 
 Do not shun and utterly discard the drunkard of your acquaintance. 
 Have pity on him, and shock his ear with the unparalleled but faithful 
 history of his fellow mortal. The sight stupified me ; I hurried from it, 
 and went to join the — assassin ! He was gone. He had fled — whither ?- 
 Ah, whither could he flee, friendless in the world and alone? I returned 
 to the house. Adam met me on the threshold. His eyes were full of tears. 
 He took me by the hand — closed the door, and locked it. He was very 
 much alarmed, but he tried to keep calm. 
 
 " Miss Harrington," said he, " may God forgive me for what I am about 
 to do ! The servants, you say, are out ] " 
 
 " They are." 
 
 "How long will they be absent?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Adam. They may be returning now." 
 
 '•' We have no time to lose, then. You must not speak of this. Oh ! we 
 are doing wrong, Miss Harrington : but I am a weak old man, and hardly 
 know indeed the right from the wrong. I pity you. Dont betray your 
 brother. Don't let your lips sentence him to death. I have looked well 
 about him. There's not a mark. Every one knew your father's ailment. 
 A sudden death will not surprise the world. It has been long expected. 
 It is a dreadful situation to be placed in, but what are we to do ? Do you 
 understand me, miss ? Hark — there's some one walking up the avenue. 
 Fly ! fly ! unlock the door ; and oh, do not let them hear you for the 
 world !" 
 
 I ran with speed. The domestics had come home. I joined them on 
 the lawn, and, reckless of all consequences, I spoke the falsehood. In less 
 than an hour it was spread through the whole village. The parsonage was 
 thronged with applicants and visitors. Adam was with me for my sup- 
 port. Not one presumed to doubt the tale. It corresponded with the 
 universal expectation. Many wondered why it had not happened many 
 years before. Some had remarked, during the day, the curious look that 
 the parson carried with him, and had all but said he wouldn't see the 
 night out. An inquest was held upon the body. I kept my room that 
 day. The coroner would not distress the lady's feelings by requesting her 
 to be present at the inquisition. The jury concurred in the propriety of 
 this forbearance ; " for indeed," the foreman said, on behalf of all the rest, 
 ** the melancholy case was but too clear." So deemed the coroner, and so 
 the world. The verdict was returned, and registered, and declared most 
 wise by every one — Mr. Harrington had died of apoplexy. 
 
 The obituary announced my father's death. I could trace the hand of 
 Adam in the composition of the precious memorandum. Thus it ran : — 
 11 Died on Wednesday last, SUDDENLY OF APOPLEXY, AND UNI- 
 VERSALLY RESPECTED (!), the Reverend Arthur Harrington, rector 
 
 of , in Kent." In a few days the circumstance of the minister's 
 
 death was forgotten — he was no more thought of. The young proprietor 
 was about to be ordained, and to return to his cure. The parishioners 
 looked forward to his arrival. The affairs of my father were wound up. 
 
 o 
 
194 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 It was no difficult matter. He had left behind him little more than was 
 enough to purchase his interment. The whole of his handsome fortune 
 had been dissipated, squandered, and lost, in the encouragement of his 
 fatal passion, and in the blind recklessness which it had engendered and 
 supported. He had mortgaged, borrowed, and sold, until his income 
 could scarcely meet the claims which were in existence against him. His 
 very furniture had become the property of another ; and for the last three 
 years oi' his life, the generosity and good feeling of a creditor alone per- 
 mitted him to enjoy the use of it, I was left in the world literally penni- 
 less. A few jewels of my mother, of inconsiderable value, and my own 
 clothes, were everything that I possessed. "With these I quitted the par- 
 sonage, and, for the emergency, retreated to the cottage of an humble but 
 kind-hearted woman in the village. She was now my truest friend. In- 
 deed, I had no other in the world. My sudden extreme poverty had made 
 manifest a hundred faults that were not visible before, and every virtuous 
 eye was glad to look another way, and not be wounded with the sight of 
 them. I resolved to go to service, the last resource of the outcast daugh- 
 ters of the improvident. My education had not been of a high order ; 
 still, I had not been wholly neglected. My mother had been for years my 
 teacher, and I profited under her patience and instruction. I would en- 
 deavour to find employment as a governess ; but, failing this, pride should 
 not prevent me from becoming a servant-maid. I needed peace and freedom 
 from my own thoughts. These secured, it mattered little how and whence 
 they were obtained. I had arranged to go to London, that great mart 
 and centre of industry, and it wanted but a day to the period fixed for my 
 departure. My kind hostess gave me a volume of advice, and prepared 
 me for the great struggle into which I was about to cast myself; pointed 
 out the dangers of my condition, and laid down rules of conduct which it 
 was indispensable for me to follow if I hoped for comfort and success. It 
 Avas on this day, and at the moment of her enforcing her good counsel, 
 that a visitor arrived to aid us with his best wishes and experience. It 
 was Mr. Temple. 
 
 He had read the account of my fathers dissolution, and he had not lost 
 a minute in offering his condolence and assistance at the trying season. 
 It was a benevolent act on the part of my brother's friend, and I thanked 
 him for his consideration. " It was not worth my thanks," he answered, 
 and at the same time he asked for Frederick. 
 
 " He is gone," was my reply ; "whither I cannot tell you." 
 ""What, left you I" he exclaimed, as if indignant at the thought; "left 
 you here, alone, at such a time ! It is impossible, Miss Harrington — a 
 stranger could not do it. Surely he is ignorant of his father's death. He 
 cannot be so insensible to duty. I will not believe it of the man to whom 
 I have given my friendship and my heart. Nature could never wrong 
 herself so far. Is this true, good lady V he enquired, turning to the 
 hostess. 
 
 " I don't wonder you're surprised, sir," was the reply. " You are a gen- 
 tleman of feeling. Indeed, it is true, sir, though incredible to believe. 
 The day his father died, sir, he left the premises, and hasn't been nigh, 
 nor by, sir, ever since." 
 
 " I will not believe it— for I cannot. Instinct in animals is not to be 
 suppressed, and has its claims and laws from which it will not fail. The 
 heart of man cannot do violence to itself. Love will never be re- 
 strained." 
 
 " Ah, how beautifully you talk, sir !" said my friend. " I quite enjoy 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 195 
 
 to hear you. But what I say is true. Master Harrington is gone away, 
 and young miss is all alone." 
 
 " Xo, my good woman, not alone ! Pardon me, Miss Harrington, if, 
 in the absence of your brother, I assume a brother's privilege. Pray, con- 
 fide in me. Can I help you ) Let me be of service to you. Deal 
 frankly with me. Let me see you placed comfortably and happily in life ; 
 it is ail I ask — I require. I say too much perhaps. In truth I hardly 
 know what I say or do. I can never forget the interest that was excited 
 in my bosom by our first interview. I am agitated now by what you tell 
 me of your brother — by what I see of your lonely, perilous condition. 
 Do not think me overbold and impertinent, if I ask you of your circum- 
 stances ! Are you provided for] Are you independent ?-" 
 
 " I have no reason to blush, sir, when I acknowledge to you, that I am 
 at this moment relying for my bread upon the friendship and bounty of 
 this kind person. My father has died insolvent, and I am without a 
 home." 
 
 " Mis3 Harrington, you alarm and agitate me beyond expression ! I 
 was not prepared for this communication — it has taken me by surprise ! 
 This charitable lady must not go unrewarded. Take this from me," he 
 said, addressing her, and placing a guinea in her hand, " not in payment 
 of what you have done — no money could discharge that obligation — but 
 as a testimonial, slight as it is, of your beneficent and unworldly conduct. 
 And tell me, Miss Harrington, I beseech you, what is it that you propose 
 to do?-" 
 
 " To go to London without delay, and seek a situation." 
 
 " A situation ! In heaven's name, as what ?- " 
 
 " I am not particular," I replied. " I can use my hands in many ways. 
 I have no doubt that I shall meet with one to which I can accommodate 
 myself without much difficulty or repugnance." 
 
 Mr. Temple paced the room in great uneasiness of mind. 
 
 " X o, no. I must not permit it," he said at length. " Fate has brought 
 me here, that I might arrogate to myself the right to act on your behalf 
 which a brother has renounced. You would sink under the degradation 
 and indignities to which you are about to expose yourself. It must not 
 be. I cannot allow it. Do not be hasty — do not act without forethought 
 and consideration. Permit me to consider for you. Surely there are many 
 ways of providing for you suitably to your education and cultivated mind. 
 I have many friends — they would be proud to serve you. Indeed, to 
 whom would it not be an honour to save loveliness from contumely and 
 insult ]" 
 
 I am a woman. I was then a girl, by nature susceptible of flattery, and, 
 from my cruel situation, unused to the accents of tenderness and respect. 
 The terms in which Mr. Temple addressed me, flattered and gently agi- 
 tated, but did not displease me. I was grateful for the warm interest 
 which he evinced in favour of a friendless orphan ; and his handsome, 
 manly countenance, could not tend to diminish the impression that Lis 
 generosity had wrought. My truant woman's heart already encouraged 
 half formed visions, the secret sight of which crimsoned my cheek, making 
 it blush with fear and maiden shame. I endeavoured to dismiss them ; 
 but, alas ! could I be insensible to the fact, which was apparent in every 
 word he uttered ?- It was impossible to avoid the conviction, that a feeling 
 deeper than that of ordinary philanthropy had been excited in his heart, 
 and that I was an object of his passiouate love no less than of his compas- 
 sion. To have resolved to decline all favours at his hands at the moment 
 of making this discovery, would have been the step of prudence and of 
 
 o 2 
 
]96 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 duty. I did not take it. It was not that my vanity was gratified and my 
 better judgment overborne. Loneliness and desertion, which stared me in 
 the lace, heightened and improved the hope that I would scarcely trust 
 myself to entertain, and yet entertained with unbounded gratitude, to- 
 wards the man who had inspired and emboldened it. It was difficult to 
 find an answer to the tender entreaties of my kind adviser. In truth, I 
 knew not what to say. I thanked him for bis counsel, and acknowledged 
 that I thought it well to act upon it— to delay my journey— and to consi- 
 der well the many disadvantages that would accompany my sudden change 
 of life. " If," I added in conclusion, " he would secure me the counte- 
 nance and aid of his good friends in the prosecution of my object, he might 
 feel assured that I would not willingly discredit his introduction." 
 
 " Do not talk so, Miss Harrington, I implore you," he replied. " You 
 cannot conceive my agony and distress. To see you reduced to the neces- 
 sity of labouring for your livelihood is more than I can calmly bear. 
 Something must be done for you. I am so shocked by what I see and learn, 
 that I find it hard to fix my thoughts. When I have recovered from the 
 stupor, do not doubt but that I may devise some plan for your future life, 
 that will be congenial to your tastes, and worthy the adoption of the best 
 and fairest of her sex." 
 
 Mrs. Wybrow, my simple-minded hostess, applied her white apron to 
 her eyes, and wept copiously. " Ah, sir," said she, with feelings very much 
 warmed, I fear, by the handsome present that she had received, " if all the 
 young gentlemen in the world were like you, how different things would 
 be ! I am sure if Miss Harrington liked to live here for ever, she should 
 be as welcome as the day is long. 1 have told her myself, that she is run- 
 ning too fast into this sort of thing ; and as you say, sir, if she only waits 
 a little, something may turn up quite congealed to her taste." 
 
 "Do you really not know where Frederick isT asked Temple, after 
 having kept silence for a time. 
 
 " I do not, indeed," I replied, and shuddered. 
 "Can you not guess]" 
 "I cannot." 
 
 " Have you any reason to believe that he will soon return V 
 " I believe," I answered, shedding bitter tears, " that I shall never see 
 him more." 
 
 " I am resolved," said Temple, in a determined tone — moved to it, as I 
 imagined, by witnessing my tears — " I am resolved, Miss Harrington. I 
 will go instantly to town, and see my friends. You cannot be in safer and 
 in better company at present than with this kind and feeling lady. You 
 shall shortly hear from me — sooner, perhaps, than you expect. I do not 
 reckon too much on my influence and power, when I assure you that you 
 shall be well provided for. The beginning of your life has not been 
 
 happy. The end of it may be happiness to yourself, and to another " 
 
 He hesitated, and gazed at me expressively. I blushed, and bent my 
 head. 
 
 Mr. Temple remained in the cottage until a late hour in the evening, 
 when he departed in a chaise which he had hired to convey him to the 
 neighbouring market-town. The favourable estimate which I had formed of 
 his character did not suffer by his behaviour during the day that he passed 
 with us. His conversation was agreeable and animated. He had a hundred 
 subjects at command, of which I had never heard, and to which his appro- 
 priate language and his fervour gave a charm as resistless as it was injuri- 
 ous. Now he played with Mrs. Wybrow's children, gave them pence, 
 promised toys, submitted to be beaten, cried in joke, and performed a host 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 197 
 
 of tricks to make the young ones scream with joy, and to seduce the easy 
 and maternal heart of Mrs. Wybrow. Then he read to me, produced a 
 book, his constant fellow-traveller and best friend — a book of plays — glow- 
 ing, it is true, with high and passionate poetry, but startling the delicate 
 and unaccustomed ear by the boldness of its subjects, and the freedom as 
 well as laxity of its expression. I should have deemed the perusal of that 
 work unlawful, had not the unhesitating tone of Mr. Temple — the absence 
 of all constraint as he spoke the passages, given a stamp to them that, to 
 my inexperienced judgment, entitled them to currency. Had they been 
 wrong to hear, he never would have read them. His memory, too, was 
 stored with verses — short poems, breathing love, and sanctioning a liberty 
 of thought and action that was not always limited ; or if so, not too strictly. 
 These he poured insidiously into my willing ear, carrying them to their 
 destination with the voice of trembling passion, and the look of melting 
 love that was not to be mistaken. He took his leave at length ; and his 
 departure was the signal for panegyrics, which the middle-aged but still 
 inexperienced Mrs. Wybrow had been yearning to deliver for many hours 
 before. 
 
 " Well, he is indeed," said she, " the picture of a gentleman. It's no 
 use disguising it, he's over head and ears in love. I couldn't help think- 
 ing, as he sat down there, what a pretty couple you would make. He's fit 
 for you, Miss Harrington, and you're deserving on him. My stars, what 
 a clever man he is! How he talks ! Why, how many books should you 
 think he has got by heart] And isn't he" liberal. Only think of giving 
 me a guinea, and the brats about eighteenpence a-piece — quite a fortune 
 for'em. Now, I should say, he's gone to London to see about no situation 
 at all, but just to ask his father leave to marry you, and to make arrange- 
 ments for the wedding. I don't know what you may think, miss, but if I 
 was a queen — now that would be just the man that I should fancy." 
 
 Her praises were not displeasing to me, although I did not tell her so. 
 She spoke during the evening, and until late that night, of little else than 
 Mr. Temple, and I feigned to ply my needle most industriously, whilst I 
 hugged in silence every syllable to my heart, and lost myself in a bright 
 world of fancy, more beautiful and less substantial than the wildest dream 
 of night. For the succeeding week, the subject of our conversation was 
 the same, and lost nothing of its interest and pleasantness. At the end 
 of the week, the following note, reached me through the post : — 
 
 " My Dear Miss Harrington,— Permit me to address you thus fami- 
 liarly, although I have not yet the pleasure of your personal acquaintance. 
 I have heard of your misfortunes, and affliction commands our sympathy 
 and regard evenfor a stranger. But a stranger you are not. My son, 
 from whom I have heard the unfortunate history of your life, is well known 
 to your brother, and slightly, I believe, to yourself. He is ardent, and 
 haspleaded your cause with a warmth that was not to be resisted, had I 
 been unwilling to listen to the claim that your case was justified in making 
 upon the good feeling of one of your own sex. Would that it were in my 
 power to offer you more than a quiet, comfortable home ! James has ac- 
 quainted me with your desire of becoming a governess. My children need 
 an instructress and a friend — are you willing to become both to them ? If 
 so, let your reply to this letter be your appearance at our house. I will 
 meet you as a daughter, and endeavour to make amends for your late suf- 
 ferings and many trials. Come, and I will receive you with open arms. 
 
 I am anxious to serve you. The coach which leaves on Saturday next, 
 
 will bring you to the Golden Key Inn, in Fleet Street. Any person 
 
198 CALEB STUEELT. 
 
 there "will direct you to our residence, and a hackney coach Trill convey 
 you to it. If you are silent, and I do not see you on the day I mention, 
 I shall conclude that you have already obtained employment. If you have 
 not been so successful, permit me to be of service to you. — Believe me, 
 my dear Miss Harrington, 
 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 "Agnes Temple." 
 *' Queen Square, London.*' 
 
 Before I had half finished this epistle, the white apron of Mrs. Wybrow 
 ■was bandied with very nervous fingers, and was at last called to its usual 
 work, in fact, for which it seemed that it was put on and worn ; viz. the 
 cleansing of her eyes. She was completely overcome by the terms of the 
 letter ; and as she had but one way of expressing joy and sorrow, she 
 sobbed until I had finished, and she could speak. 
 
 " Well, miss," said she, " gentle-folks have the perlitest, nicest way in 
 life of saying things ! It's as good as a sermon to read that letter. I 
 am so glad on your account, you cannot think, Miss Harrington " 
 
 "Words were superfluous to good Mrs. Wybrow. Feeling did all for her. 
 She stopped, and cried, and then once more attempted 
 
 " It's a long lane, Miss Harrington, that has no end. I was sure that it 
 would all be settled. Oh, how happy you will be ! Now, I'll tell you 
 what I must do. I must make some of them nice cakes that yon are so 
 very fond of, and you can take them up for the dear little children. Oh, I 
 dare say they are beauties ! Then Mr. Temple liked our cream so ; 
 there'll be a pint of that ; and then we'll find something for the old lady 
 herself. What should you say to one of them sides of bacon — that streaky 
 side 1 I'll warrant you, that will eat delicious." 
 
 I did not write in answer to this letter. I did not consider. My heart 
 was too full of gratitude to indulge for a moment the thought of wrong. 
 What w T rong could there be in such voluntary goodness? The shadow of 
 suspicion did not darken the fair prospect that w r as now before me. The 
 Saturday arrived. I had made every arrangement for my departure 
 during the intervening days. Mrs. Wybrow had loaded me with her 
 humble presents. I bade her affectionately farewell. I was on my jour- 
 ney. I arrived in London. We reached the inn. The first face that I 
 beheld there was that of James Temple. He awaited the arrival of the 
 coach, and he assisted me to alight. He looked pale and anxious, and the 
 smile with which he greeted me lacked the smallest cheerfulness. He 
 bowed, but did not speak. I was led into a private apartment by a waiter 
 at the inn. My luggage followed me. All was hurry and confusion. Mr. 
 Temple had not yet presented himself, " He has sent, no doubt," thought 
 I, " for the hackney coach." How grieved I was to see him looking 111. 
 There was a gentle knock at the door. I requested the visitor to enter, 
 and Mr. Temple presented himself. He looked worse than ever ; there 
 was a wildness about him that I could not understand ; he was perplexed 
 and excited, and he evidently wished to say something that his mind 
 would not permit him calmly to utter. 
 
 " Miss Harrington," he said, at length, " I am the most unfortunate, the 
 most miserable being in existence." 
 
 "What has happened V I asked, alarmed. 
 
 " Miss Harrington," he repeated, " you cannot be insensible to the ex- 
 istence of a passion, which at this moment possesses and consumes me. I 
 have made it evident to you in a hundred ways. I could not conceal it 
 from you. We are not master of ourselves. I saw you and loved — ardently 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 190 
 
 loved you. From the moment that I beheld you, your imag 11 owed 
 
 me by nicrht and day, sleeping or waking — wheresoever I h.ive been." 
 
 I wi " ied by his vehemence, and the suddenness of his declara- 
 tion : but I hid not a word to speak. 
 
 " Do not despise me for this behaviour." he continued, "but listen. I im- 
 plore you. to what I have to say. Before you hate me. hear and pity 
 me. I left yon, and returned immediately to London. I told your his- 
 tory to my mother: she was deeply moved at the recital, and the result 
 was the invitation to her house which has led to your present visit, and 
 to this interview, which I would have given worlds to pureha- knew 
 
 not then of the love that I bore towards the object of her co:.. ss i 3ht 
 knows it now ; and oh — miserable wretch that I am ! — refuses yon ad- 
 mittance to her house." 
 
 "Oh, what have I done, sir." I asked instinctively. 
 
 *hing," answ nple; "nothing that does not redound to 
 
 your honour, and adorn the be has lav ".^spar- 
 
 ingly upon you. But my mother is unthinking-. She d n me, 
 
 and persuades her^_..: th ft I have fallen into the hands of a 
 woman." 
 
 My cheek burned with indignation; I was about to reply, but Air. 
 Temple checked me. 
 
 •'•'Ah. Mis ' ngton !" he continued: "it is because I k 
 are the best and most artless, an you are the love!: 
 
 am driven mad by the cruel insinuations of my mother. I know you. 
 She does not. The sight of you would carry conviction to her heai 
 -i mine with unspeakable and unbounded love." 
 
 '•'Let me re:urn to the cot tag .-." I said, in 
 happy with Mrs. Wybrow until I obtain a situation. I will return at 
 once." 
 
 :i." exclaimed my lover, falling upon his kn 
 not pronounce my death-warrant ! Emma, dear Emma ! for you are 
 dearer to m? than I —I have revealed my passion to yon — -do not 
 
 treat it lightly. Drive me not to an act which yon will neve 
 lament and mourn. Do you hate me ! Do you regard me with indiffer- 
 ence ! Say but the word, and I will molest you no longer. I will drag 
 If from your presence, and finish my wretched existence far. far 
 from you. Let me be satisfied of that." 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 "Dearest Emma," he con ■ I am not indifferent to you. That 
 
 blush assures me I am not. Your silence speaks more eloquently than 
 words. Then do not leave me. Listen to me. and be i I .- 
 
 sudden anger of my mother will abate. The nr 
 
 - :-rly than will regret the 
 
 n which she has She will 
 
 and ackn she has done you injustice. All I ask, implore 
 
 you, is to permit her prose Be sure it will 
 
 in here for a few days. Why not here as well as in the con 
 Eor the sake of one wh life depen 
 
 sion, comply with the request. In a day or two — perhaps to-morr ~ — I 
 hindrances may be removed, and the present trial will be re 
 
 to enhance our real felicity. I know my mother. She is passionate, 
 he is loving and good at heart, and would not injure the worm be- 
 neath her feet. 
 
 n his knees. He continued to en": 
 tations of his arde »n were r 
 
200 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 and unprotected girl to do ! What had she to say whose heart was al- 
 ready touched, whose reason was ensnared and bound ? I consented to 
 remain at the inn for a few days — but for a few days only. This was a 
 stipulation. Temple was overjoyed and grateful for what he termed the 
 act of considerate love ; and he told me that everything should be clone 
 for me to render my temporary stay agreeable and cheerful, and not a 
 moment should be lost in effecting a removal from the place, and an 
 alteration in his mother's views. The subject was then dropped. Temple 
 saw that I needed refreshment. He rang the bell, and requested the man 
 who answered it to prepare a dinner for — his sister. The waiter bowed 
 obsequiously and went away, and then I remonstrated against the false- 
 hood that he had spoken. 
 
 " It must be done, dear Emma," he replied, " to secure civility and 
 respect. Who suffers by my saying so 1 ? Besides, are you not my sister? 
 Ami not your brother ? Have I not pledged myself to assume that sacred 
 office, and do a brother's duty by you 1 ?" 
 
 Stukely, vouchsafe me now your pity, and withhold your scorn. I can- 
 not chronicle the daily steps that led to my disgrace. You have guessed 
 already that the letter was a forgery. It was. Is it strange that I did 
 not suspect it until my ruin gave a new colouring to that and every 
 other thing ? It may be so. It is strange, perhaps, that a word spoken 
 against the man on whose integrity and faith I would have staked my 
 life — and did my honour — would have roused indignant unbelief. But 
 so it is. I remained at the hotel for a week. New obstacles arose — diffi- 
 culties increased. The heart of Mrs. Temple was obdurate. She still 
 denied me admission to her house. Why did I not return to ? Be- 
 cause the tempter would not have it so. His love increased in proportion 
 to my hardships. He could not live without me. Destruction should 
 follow my refusal of his hand. Well, I did not refuse it. I consented to 
 become his wife. Why did I not ? I tell you, because the tempter would 
 not have it so. The declaration of his love — his goodness — his ardour — 
 his respectful manner — his zealous endeavours to administer to my com- 
 fort and peace of mind — his manly form — his handsome countenance — 
 his gentlemanly bearing — these were not lost upon me. My heart suc- 
 cumbed. I loved him passionately. His presence became necessary to 
 my happiness. I was dull and melancholy if he were away. I could 
 think of nothing else. It was bliss to have him at my side — imprison- 
 ment to dwell without him. I have said enough. What will not woman 
 do for the man she trusts — in whom she collects the fulness of her ripe 
 affections ! I was at the mercy of your fellow man. What inhuman 
 monster ever profited so savagely by opportunity? I fell. 
 
 I have asked your pity. You will not accord it ; for you know my later 
 history, and there exists the crime committed against yourself, that can 
 never be blotted out or pardoned. Months of unkindness — for unkind- 
 ness followed possession quickly — did not entirely extinguish the love I 
 felt for my betrayer. I accompanied him to Cambridge. It was there 
 that he opened his door, and bade me seek amongst men a better friend 
 than he could now afford to be. It was there and then that I first saw 
 you ; and the horror that I felt of beting thrown upon the world, recon- 
 ciled me to the crime of listening to your love. I have been punished 
 for the act, and I have lived to repent it. Stukely ! do not curse my 
 memory. May Heaven bless and protect you ! My last prayer is for 
 your happiness, and for the welfare of the sinful and most wretched bo}', 
 who wanders through the world with the guilt of blood upon his soul — a 
 father's blood ! 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 201 
 
 The history was finished. Mr. Clayton closed the manuscript, and we 
 ■were both for many minutes silent. 
 
 Oh, wine, wine ! whose praises are so clamorously rung around the 
 festive board, and whose virtues supply the song with brilliant thoughts 
 and ardent svllables, what need of eloquence and verse to sound thy 
 fame whilst murder and seduction bear ghastly witness to thy potency! 
 Is there a greater crime than these ] Name it, and Drunkenness shall 
 claim it for a child ! 
 
 PART XI. 
 
 THE REVULSION. 
 
 " He was a man 
 
 Who stole the livery of the court of hea^n 
 To serve the devil in. * * * * 
 In holy phrase transacted villanies 
 That common sinners durst not meddle with." 
 
 Pollok's Course of Time. 
 
 Cardinal Wolsey.—" For holy offices I have a time ; a time 
 To think upon the part of business." 
 
 Henry VIII. 
 
 Mr. Clayton was wont to spend many hours daily in a small room, 
 called a study. It was a chamber sacred to the occupation followed there. 
 I had not access to it— nor had any stranger, with the exception of two 
 ill-favoured men, whom I had found, for weeks together, constant attend- 
 ants upon mv benefactor. For a month at a time, not a single day 
 elapsed during which they were not closeted for a considerable period 
 with the divine. A three weeks' interval of absence would then take 
 place ; Mr. Clavton prosecuted his studies alone and undisturbed, and no 
 strange foot would cross the threshold until the ill-looking men returned, 
 and passed some five weeks in the small sanctuary as before. Who could 
 thev be ? I had never directly asked the question, curious as I had been 
 to know their historv, and the purpose of their visits. Had I not learned 
 from Mr. Clavton the impropriety and sinfulness of judging humanity by 
 its looks, I should have formed almost uncharitable opinion of their cha- 
 racters. Thev were hard-featured men, sallow of complexion, rigid in 
 their looks, 'i knew that, attached to the church of Mr. Clayton, were 
 two missionaries — men of rare piety, and of humble origin — small boot- 
 makers, in fact ; sometimes I believed that the visitors and they were the 
 same individuals. Circumstances, however, unfavourable to this idea, 
 arose, and I turned from one conjecture to another, until I reposed at 
 length in the belief that they were sinners— sinners of the deepest dye- 
 such as their ill-omened looks betrayed— and that they sought_ the kind 
 and ever-readv minister to obtain his counsel, and to share his prayers. 
 At all events/ this was a subject upon which I received no enlightening 
 from their confidant. Once I took occasion to make mention of it ; but, 
 in an instant, I perceived that my enquiry was not deemed proper to be 
 answered. It was to this forbidden closet— the scene of so much mystery 
 
202 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 — that, to my great surprise, I found myself one day invited by my benefac- 
 tor, after I had implored him to release me from an obligation in which I 
 had some weeks before too hastily involved myself — viz. that of working 
 in the vineyard where Mr. Clayton himself proved so zealous a labourer. 
 I had made trial of my skill, and proved myself unequal to the effort. 
 
 " Be seated, Caleb/' said Mr. Clayton, as we entered the room in com- 
 pany. 
 
 " I have been careful," he said, after a short pause, " in not thwarting 
 your own good purposes. I have been most anxious to give your feelings 
 their full bent. Has your conversion been too sudden to endure 1 Have 
 you so soon regretted the abandonment of the great world and all its 
 pleasures — such as they were to you ? Has a life of usefulness and peace 
 no charms ] Alas ! I had hoped otherwise." 
 
 I assured my friend that he had mistaken the motive which had com- 
 pelled me to forsake, at least for the present, the intention that I had en- 
 tertained honestly — though, I felt, erroneously — for the last few days. 
 Nothing was farther from my thoughts than a desire to mix again in a 
 world of sinfulness and trouble. His precepts and bi-ight example had 
 won me from it; and I prayed onlj- to be established in the principles, in 
 the true knowledge of which I knew my happiness to consist. I was not 
 equal to the task which I had proposed to myself, and he had kindty per- 
 mitted me to assume. I wished to be his meanest disciple — to acquire 
 wisdom from his tuition — and, by the labour of years, to prepare myself 
 finally for that reward which he had so often announced to me as the pe- 
 culiar inheritance of the faithful and the righteous. I ceased. My auditor 
 did not answer me immediately. He sat for some minutes in silence, and 
 dosed his eyes as if absorbed in thought. At length he said to me 
 
 " You do not surprise me, Caleb. I am prepared for this. I perceived 
 your difficulties from afar. It was inevitable. Self-confidence has placed 
 you where you are. Be happ} r , and rejoice in your weakness ; but turn 
 now to the strong for strength. The work that has begun in your heart 
 must be completed. It shall be so — do not doubt it." 
 
 The minister hesitated, looked hard at me, and endeavoured, as I ima- 
 gined, to find in the expression of my countenance, an index to my 
 thoughts. I said nothing, and he proceeded. 
 
 " There are the appointed means. His way is in the sanctuary. He 
 shall feed his flock like a shepherd. There is but one refuge for the out- 
 cast. I have but one alleviation to offer you. It is all and everything. 
 Are you prepared to accept it 1 ?" 
 
 " You are my friend, my guardian, and my father," I replied. 
 
 " You have wandered long in the wilderness," continued the minister. 
 "You have fed with the swine and the goats. You have found no 
 nourishment there. All was bleak, and barren, and desolate there. The 
 living waters were dried up, and the bread of life was denied to the starv- 
 ing wayfarer." 
 
 '•'What must be done, sir?" 
 
 " You must enter the FOLTj— and have communion with the chosen 
 people. Are you content to do it V 
 
 " Oh, am I worthy," I exclaimed, " to be reckoned in the number of 
 those holy men?" 
 
 " I cannot doubt it ; but your own spirit shall bear witness to your 
 State. To-morrow is our next chureh meeting. There, if it be your wish, 
 I will propose you ; messengers will be appointed to converse with you. 
 They will come to you, and gather from your experience the evidences of 
 your renewed, regenerated character. " 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 203 
 
 "What shall I say, sir?" I asked, in all simplicity. 
 "What Bays the drowning man to the hand that brings him to the 
 shore I Your beating heart will be too ready to acknowledge the mighty 
 work that has been already done on your behalf. Have you forgotten the 
 way vou have been led ? Point it out to them. Have you been plucked 
 as V brand from the burning? Acknowledge it to them in strains of 
 liveliest Gratitude. Does not your soul at this moment overflow at the 
 vivid recollection of all that has been done for it and you?- Will it not 
 vearn to sing aloud when strangers come to listen to the song? Then 
 speak to them. Do you not feel, have not a hundred circumstances _ all 
 concurred to prove, that you exist a vessel chosen to show forth praise ? 
 Show it to them, and let them carry back the certain proofs of your re- 
 demption — let them convey the sweet intelligence of a brother's safety— 
 and let them bid the church prepare to welcome him with hymns of praise 
 into her loving bosom." 
 
 Within a week of the above conversation, two respectable individuals 
 called upon me at Mr. Clayton's house— the accredited messengers of the 
 church in which my eternal safety was about to be sesured. One was a 
 thickset man, with large black whiskers and corresponding eyebrows. 
 His countenance had a stern expression— the eye especially, which lay 
 couched like a tiger beneath its rugged overhanging brow. You did not 
 like to look at it, and you could not meet it without unpleasantness and 
 awe. The gentleman was very tall and sturdy — evidently a hairy person ; 
 he was unshaven, and looked muscular. Acting under the feeling which 
 led him to despise all earthly grandeur and distinction, and which, no 
 doubt, influenced his conduct "throughout life, he was remarkable for a 
 carelessness and uncleanness of attire, as powerful and striking as the 
 odour which exhaled from his broad person, and which explained the pro- 
 fession of the gentleman to be— a working blacksmith. His companion 
 was thin, and neat, and dapper. There was an air about him that could 
 not have been acquired except by frequent intercourse with the polished 
 and the rich. He was delicacy itself, incapable of a strong expression, and 
 happier far when he could hint, and not express his sentiments. Had I 
 been subject only to his examination, my ordeal would not have been 
 severe. It was the blacksmith whom I found hard and unimpressible as 
 his own anvil, dark as his forge, and as unpitying as its flames. The thin 
 examiner held the high office of deacon of the church. Whether it was 
 the particularly dirty face of his friend that set him off to such advantage, 
 or whether he had inherent claims to my respect, I cannot tell ; well I 
 know, throughout the scrutiny that soon took place, many times I should 
 have fallen beneath the blacksmith's hammer, but for the support and mild 
 encouragement that I found in him. He was most becomingly dressed. 
 He wore a white cravat and no collar. He had light hair closely cut, and 
 his face was as smooth as a woman's. His shirt was whiter than any shirt 
 I have ever seen before or since, and it was made of very fine material. 
 He carried an agreeable smirk upon his countenance, and he disinterred, 
 now and then, some very long and extraordinary word from the dictionary, 
 when he was particularly desirous either to make himself understood or 
 conceal his meaning. He was a ladies' haberdasher. 
 
 I received the deputation with a trembling and apprehensive heart. I 
 knew my faith to be sincere, and I believed it to be correct, according to 
 the views of the church of which my reverend friend was the minister and 
 or:ran. Still, I could not be insensible to the importance of the step 
 which I was about to take, and to the high tone of piety which the true 
 
204 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 believers demanded from all who joined their ranks, and partook of their 
 exclusive privileges. 
 
 It will not be necessary to repeat in detail the course of my examination. 
 At the close of two hours it was concluded, and I am at this moment will- 
 ing to conless that it was, upon the whole, satisfactory. I mean to myself 
 — for by my questioners, and by the little haberdasher more particularly, 
 the conierence was pronounced most gratifying and comforting in every 
 way. I say upon the whole ; for I could not, even at that early period of 
 my initiation, and with all my excitement and enthusiasm, prevent the 
 intrusion of some disturbing thoughts — some painful impressions, that 
 were not in harmony with the general tenor of my feelings. I had pre- 
 pared myself to meet and deal with the appointed delegates of Heaven, 
 and I had encountered men ; yes, and men not entitled to my reverence 
 and regard, except as the chosen ambassadors of the church. One was low, 
 ignorant, and vulgar. He took no pains to conceal the fact ; he rather 
 gloried in his native and offensive coarseness. The other was a smoother 
 man, scarcely less destitute of knowledge, or worthier of respect. Look- 
 ing back, at this distance of time, upon this strange interview, I am in- 
 deed shocked and grieved at the part which I then and there permitted 
 myself to undertake. I do not -wonder that, overtaken in a career of 
 misery, the consequence of my own imprudence, I should have been 
 arrested by the voice, and smitten by the eloquence, of Mr. Clayton. I do 
 not wonder that I listened to his arguments, and observed his conduct, 
 until I was reduced to passiveness, and my mind was willing to be moulded 
 to his purposes. But I do wonder and lament that any obscuration of my 
 judgment, any luxuriance of feeling, should have permitted my youthful 
 understanding for an instant to believe that to such men as my examiners 
 the keys of heaven were entrusted, and that on them, and on their voice, 
 depended the reception of a broken-hearted penitent at tbe mercy-seat of 
 God. 
 
 -A few words from the haberdasher-deacon at the breaking up of the 
 convocation, or whatever else it might be termed, were satisfactory, in so 
 far as they showed that my temporal prospects were not entirely neg- 
 lected by those who had become so deeply interested in my spiritual wel- 
 fare. The blacksmith had hardly brought to a close a somewhat lengthy 
 and very ungrammatical exhortation, that wound up the day's proceed- 
 ings, when the dapper Jehu Tomkins, jumping at once from the confessional 
 to the revel, shook me cordially by the hand, and most kindly suggested 
 to me that, under the patronage of so important and religious a connexion 
 as that into which I was about to enter, I could not fail to succeed, what- 
 ever might be the plan which I had laid down for my future support. 
 
 " I've heard all about you," added Jehu, " from our respected minister, 
 and you'll soon get into something now. It's a good congregation, sir — 
 wealthy and influential. I should say we have richer people in our con- 
 nexion than in any about London. Mr. Clayton is a very popular man, 
 sir — very good, and speaks the truth." 
 " He is good, indeed ! " I answered. 
 
 " Sir, grace is sure to follow you now. It is fifteen years since I first sat 
 under Mr. Clayton. Ah ! I remember the night I was converted, as if it 
 were yesterday. I always felt up to that very time, the need of something 
 better than I had got. Business had gone wrong ever since I opened shop, 
 and my mind was quite unsettled. Satan tried very hard at me, but it 
 wouldn't do. Sometimes, when my boy had gone home, and shop was 
 Ehut up, the Tempter would whisper in my ears words like these — ' Jehu 
 
J\1 ~~^ 
 
 THE DELICATE EXAMINATION. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 205 
 
 you're insured, over and over again, for your stock ; let a spark fall on the 
 shavings and your fortune's made.' Well, sir, once or twice — will you 
 believe it r ! — the Devil had nearly got it all his OAvn way ; but grace pre- 
 vented, and I was saved. I owe it all to Mr. Clayton. I was told by one 
 or two of my customers to go and hear him, but somehow or other I never 
 did. Satan kept me back. At last the gentleman as was the deacon — ■ 
 him as built the chapel — Mrs. Jehu Tomkins's father — comes to my shop 
 with his daughter, 5lrs. Jehu as is now, and spoke to me about the mi- 
 nister. Well, I heard the old gentleman was very rich and pious, and I went 
 the next Sabbath-day as was, with his family, into his pew. I never went 
 anywhere else after that. He seemed to hit the nail just on the head, and 
 I was convinced — oh quite wonderful ! — all on a sudden. I was married 
 to Mrs. Jehu before that day twelvemonth. So you see grace followed me 
 throughout, as it will you, my dear brother, if you only mind what you 
 are about, and don't be a backslider." 
 
 " Mr. Clayton," said I, " has kindly promised to procure employment 
 for me." 
 
 " Ah ! and he'll do it, if he says so," rejoined Mr. Tomkins. " That's 
 your man. You stick to him, and you won't hurt. He's a chosen vessel, 
 if ever there was one. What do you say, brother Buster ] " 
 
 Brother Buster simply groaned his assent, and scowled. He had been 
 for some time anxious to depart, and he now took his leave without further 
 ceremony. 
 
 " You wouldn't think that man was a saint to look at him, would you ]" 
 asked the deacon, as soon as his friend was gone. " He is, though. He is 
 riper in spiritual matters than any man I know. Ah ! the Establishment 
 would give something for a few like him. He'll be taken from us, I fear. 
 We make a idol of him, and that's sure to be punished. It's wonderful 
 what he knows ; and how it has come to him we can't tell." 
 
 I received a pressing invitation from Mr. Tomkins to visit his " small 
 and 'appy family," as he was pleased to call it, on any evening after eight 
 o'clock, which was his latest business hour. " Mrs. Jehu," I was assured, 
 "was just like her father, and his four small Jehus as exactly like their 
 grandfather, and he wished to say no more for them. After business his 
 family enjoyed invariably a little spiritual refreshment, and that and a 
 hymn made the time pass very agreeabh T till supper-time, at nine, when he 
 had a 'ot collation, at which he should be most proud to see me." 
 
 The close scrutiny on the part of Mr. Buster, proper as it was as a step 
 preliminary, was by no means sufficient to procure for me an easy and un- 
 questioned admission into the church which the blacksmith had so ably 
 represented. There was yet another trial to ensue, and another jury to 
 pronounce upon the merits of the anxious candidate. He had yet to prove,, 
 to the perfect satisfaction of the self-constituted junto that styled itself 
 a church, how Heaven had mercifully dealt with him — to detail with 
 historic accuracy the method and procedure of his regeneration, and to 
 find evidence of a spiritual change, that carried on its front the proof of 
 his conversion and his accepted state. All this was to be done before I could 
 be entitled to the privileges which Messrs. Buster, Tomkins, and the 
 rest had it in their power to bestow. The manner in which this delicate 
 investigation was carried on, its indecorum and profaneness, I never can 
 forget ; nor can I, in truth, remember it without humiliation and deep sor- 
 row. Against the indiscreet, unlawful exhibition, I set off my ignorance, 
 simplicity, and desire of serving Heaven ; and in these I look for my 
 apology for the share I had in such proceedings. 
 
 1 received, in due form, a requisition to appear before the body of the 
 
206 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 church, ^t its general meeting. I appeared. The chapel was thronged, 
 the majority of members being women. In the hands of nearly every 
 third person was a paper. I was not then aware of its contents ; if 1 had 
 been, the ceremony would, in all probability, have concluded with my en- 
 trance. Will it be believed, that this paper contained a formula of the 
 questions which were to test the quality of my faith, and to pronounce 
 upon the vitality and worth of my spiritual pretensions ! Any person pre- 
 sent was at liberty to address me, and to form his owm opinion of my 
 case from the manner and the matter which their ingenuity elicited. At 
 the suggestion ot Mr. Tomkins, who, in his capacity of deacon, was re- 
 markably active on this occasion, it w'as deemed proper that I should enter 
 upon my " experience " at once. My heart fluttered as I rose to comply 
 with the demand, and the chapel was hushed. It will be sufficient to say, 
 that I repeated my entire history, and secured the attention of my audi- 
 tory until I had spoken my last word. There were parts of the narrative 
 which I could, with a glance, perceive to be peculiarly i^iquant and accept- 
 able. As these occurred, a rustling and a murmur expressed the subdued 
 applause. When, for instance, I mentioned the disgust which I had con- 
 ceived for the University upon losing the scholarship, and the uneasiness 
 which I afterwards felt as long as I continued a member of that commu- 
 nity, a few of the most acute looked at one another, and shrugged myste- 
 riously, as who should say, " How wondrous are the ways of Providence !" 
 and when I arrived at the point of my deliverance by the hand of their 
 own minister, there would have been, i thought, no end to the gesticula- 
 tions, expressions o: gratitude and joy, that burst from the "church," in. 
 spite of the praiseworthy efforts of the minister to control and keep them 
 down. When I had concluded, and whilst the half-suppressed rejoicing 
 still buzzed in the chapel, the stern Buster rose, and presented to me the 
 unmitigated force oi his unpleasant eye. Silence prevailed immediately. 
 "Now, sir," said my old friend, "what makes you think yourself a 
 child of grace ] Speak out, if you please ; some of us is rather deaf." 
 " The loathing that I feel of what I was." 
 
 " Good ! " said Jehu Tomkins, with strong emphasis, and loud enough to 
 be heard by every one. 
 
 "When did you feel the fetters fust busting from your spirit?* 
 " Not till I heard the minister's kind voice," was the reply. 
 "Do you always feel as strong upon the subject] Do you feel your 
 spirit always willing 1 " 
 
 " Oh no ! " I answered, " there are dreadful fluctuations, and there is 
 nothing so uncertain as self-dependence. I have dark and bitter moments, 
 when I feel, in all its power, the melancholy truth — ' When I w r ould do 
 good, evil is present with me. 5 " 
 
 " Capital sign .'—capital sign !" exclaimed Jehu Tomkins again ; " quite 
 sufficient ! quite sufficient !" 
 
 Yes, it was so. A few questions were put to me by individuals, rather 
 for the sake of gratifying an impertinent curiosit}', than that of eluci- 
 dating further proof of my proficiency, and the ceremony was finished by 
 my formal reception into the body of the church. A prayer was offered, 
 an address delivered, a hymn sung — the eyes of many ladies were turned 
 with smiling interest upon me — and the meeting separated. Jehu Tom- 
 kins was the first to congratulate me upon the happy issue of my trial. 
 
 " You are a made man, sir, depend upon it," said he, with his first salu- 
 tation. " You can't fail. There— do you see that fat man that's just 
 going out— him as has got on the Indy'ankycher?— I sold him that— he 
 came on purpose to hear you, and, if he found you up to the mark, he's 
 
CALEB STLKELY. 207 
 
 going to provide for you. He belongs to all our societies, and just does 
 what he pleases. His -word's a law. We've a boiled leg of mutton at nine 
 to-night. Suppose you come to us, and finish the day there i Bless me, 
 what a full meeting we've had! Here's a squeezing!" There was cer- 
 tainly some difficulty in osur" egression. The people had gathered into a 
 crowd at the small doorway, and men jostled and made their way without 
 regard to others in their vicinity. Lost as I was in the indiscriminate 
 host, a few observations fell upon my ear that were not, I presume, espe- 
 cially intended for it. 
 
 " Well," said a greasy youth, not many yards distant from me, " I doubt 
 his having had a call. There wasn't life enough in it for me. I shouldn't 
 be surprised if he's a black sheep after all. I wish I had put a question 
 or two to him. I think I could have shown Satan in his heart pretty 
 quick." 
 
 " Now you say it," replied the person addressed, " I did think him veiy 
 backward and lukewarm. I didn't like his tone altogether. Ah ! what a 
 thing experimental religion is ! You know what it is, and so do I ; 
 but I werry much fear that delooded young man is as carnal-minded as 
 my mother was, that went below, though I say it, as contented and un- 
 concerned as if she was going to the saints in glory." 
 
 The information conveyed to me by Mr. Tomkins, as we issued from the 
 chapel, was not unfounded. The day subsequent to my admittance into 
 the bosom of the church, I was requested to attend the minister in the 
 sanctum already referred to. Upon reaching it, I discovered the fat 
 gentleman of the preceding evening, dressed as he was on the previous 
 occasion, and still adorned with Jehu's India handkerchief. Both he and 
 Mr. Clayton were seated at table, and writing materials were before them. 
 The moment I entered the apartment, the fat gentleman held out his 
 hand, and shook mine with much stateliness. His name was Bombasty, 
 and he was the bearer of an official appointment. Henceforth I was to be 
 the travelling secretary of a Christian Instruction Society, in connexion 
 with Mr. Clayton's "church," with a salary ol 1501. a-year. The very next 
 morning I entered on my duties, Mr. Clayton becoming security for my 
 good behaviour to the extent of one thousand pounds. 
 
 It was about a month after my installation into my new office, that 
 business connected with the society carried me to the village of Highgate. 
 It was late in the evening when my commission was completed, and I was 
 enabled, after a day of excessive fatigue, to direct my steps once more 
 homeward. The stage-coach, which set out from the village for London 
 twice during the day, luckily for me, was appointed to make its last 
 journey about half an hour after my engagements had set me at liberty. 
 A mile, across fields, intervened between me and the coach-office. Short 
 as the distance was, it was anything but an agreeable task to get over it, 
 with the rain spitting into my face, the boisterous wind beating me back, 
 and the darkness of night confoundiug me at every turn. In good time, 
 however, I reached the inn. Providence favoured me. There were but 
 two seats unoccupied in the coach ; one was already engaged by a gentle- 
 man who had requested to be taken up a mile forward ; the other had 
 just been given up by a lady who had been frightened by the storm, and 
 had postponed her return to London to the following day. This seat I 
 immediately secured, and in a few minutes afterwards we were on our 
 way towards Babylon. We made but little progress. The breed of coach* 
 horses has been much improved since the period of which I write ; and a 
 journey from Highgate to London was a much more important event than 
 a railway conductor of the present day would suppose. My companions 
 
208 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 were all men. Their conversation turned upon the topics of the day. A 
 momentary crisis had taken place in the mercantile world ; and for many 
 days I had heard nothing spoken of but the vast losses which houses and 
 individuals of high character and standing had incurred, and the bank- 
 ruptcy with which the community had become suddenly threatened. The 
 subject had grown stale and wearisome to me. It had little interest, in 
 fact, for one whose humble salary of one hundred and fifty pounds per 
 annum depended so little upon the great fluctuations of commerce ; and 
 I accordingly disposed myself for sleep as soon as the words bills, money, 
 and bankruptcy, became the staple matter of discourse. I had scarcely 
 established a comfortable doze before the coach stopped suddenly, and 
 awoke me. It had halted for the last inside. A gentleman, apparently 
 stout and well wrapped up — it was impossible to speak positively on the 
 subject, the night was so very dark — trod his way into the vehicle over 
 the toes of his fellow-passengers, and took his seat. The coach was once 
 more moving towards the metropolis, and again I endeavoured to lull 
 myself to sleep. The same expressions proceeded from the lips of the 
 travellers, and they were growing more and more indistinct and shadowy, 
 when I was startled all of a sudden by one of the most palpable sounds 
 that had ever disturbed and confounded a dreamer. I sat up and listened, 
 coughed to convince myself that I was certainly awake, and the sounds 
 were repeated as clear and as audible as before. I would have sworn that 
 Mr. Clayton was the gentleman whom we had last picked up — that he 
 was now in the coach with me — and was now talking, if the words which 
 fell from the traveller had not been such as he would never have used, 
 and the subject on which he spoke had not been one upon which Mr. 
 Clayton, I believed, was as ignorant as a child. The resemblance between 
 the voices was so great, that I pronounced the phenomenon the most ex- 
 traordinary that had ever occurred to me ; and growing quite wakeful 
 from the incident, I continued to listen to the accents of the speaker, 
 until once or twice I had almost thought it my duty to acquaint him 
 with the remarkable fact, which he was now living to illustrate. But I 
 held my peace, and the conversation proceeded without interruption. 
 
 " You may depend upon it," said one gentleman, " things must get 
 worse before they'll mend. Half the mischief isn't done yet. There's 
 
 a report to day that cannot hold out much longer. It will be a 
 
 queer thing if they smash. Many petty tradesmen bank with that house, 
 who wall be ruined if they go. Things are certainly in a very sweet 
 state." 
 
 "You do not mean," said the voice, trembling with emotion or alarm, 
 
 " that the house of threatens to give way % I have been in the city 
 
 to-day, and did not hear a syllable of this. I think you must be mis- 
 taken. Good God, how frightful ]" 
 
 Well, it was really wonderful ! I could have sworn that Mr. Clayton 
 was the speaker. Had he not concluded with the ejaculation, my doubt 
 would certainly have ceased. That exclamation, of course, removed the 
 supposition entirely. 
 
 " You'll find I'm right, sir," was the reply of the traveller who spoke 
 first. " At least, I fear you will. I hope I may be wrong. If you have 
 anything in their hands, you would find it worth your while, I think, to 
 pay them an early visit to-morrow morning. If there's a run upon them, 
 nothing in the world can save them." 
 
 " And is it true," asked the voice, " that stopped payment on 
 
 Tuesday ? I came to town from Warwickshire only yesterday, and this is. 
 the first news that I heard." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 209 
 
 " Oh, there's no doubt about that!" answered a third person; "but 
 that surprised nobody. The only wonder is, how he managed to keep afloat 
 so long. He has been up to the chin for the last twelvemonth or more. I 
 hope you don't lose there, sirl" 
 
 '• Mine has been the devil's luck this year," continued the voice, in a 
 bitter savage tone, that never belonged to Mr. Clayton. u Yes, gentlemen, 
 I lose heavily by them both. But never mind, never mind, one shall wince 
 for it, if he has been playing ducks and drakes with my good money. He 
 shall feel the scourge, depend upon it. I'll never leave him till he ha3 
 paid me back in groans. Heaven, what a sum !" 
 
 The voice said no more during the journey. The other gentlemen, hav- 
 ing lost nothing by the various failures, discussed matters with philosophy 
 and praiseworthy decorum. Sometimes, indeed "the third person" grew 
 slightly facetious and jocose when he represented to himself what he 
 termed "the queer cut" that some old friend would display on presenting 
 
 his cheque for payment at the rickety counter of Messrs. & Co.; 
 
 but no deeper expression of feeling escaped one of those who spoke so long 
 and volubly on what concerned themselves so very little. I was puzzled 
 and disturbed. The stranger had returned from Warwickshire the day be- 
 fore. Twice during my residence with the minister, business of importance 
 had carried him to that county. It was certainly a curious coincidence : 
 but coincidences more curious pass by us every day unheeded. It would 
 have been absurd to conclude from that the identity of the stranger ; yet 
 the fact, coupled with the voice, staggered and confounded me. I said 
 nothing, but determined, as soon as we reached the public streets, to call 
 to my aid the light — feeble as it was — of the dimly-burning lamps, which, 
 at the time I speak of, were placed at a considerable distance from one 
 another along the principal streets of London, scattering no light, and 
 looking like oil lamps in the last stage of a lingering consumption. These 
 afforded me little help. The weakest effort of illumination imaginable 
 strayed across the coach window as we passed a burner, about as serviceable 
 as the long interval of darkness that ensued, and far more tantalizing. 
 We were driving through the city. I was still brooding over the singular 
 occurrence when the coach stopped. The stranger alighted. I endeavoured 
 to obtain sight of him; but he was so wrapped and clothed that I did not 
 succeed. The coach was on its way again, and I had just opportunity 
 enough to discover that we had halted at the corner of the street in which 
 Mr. Clayton resided. I had been so intent upon scanning the figure of the 
 traveller, that the fact had escaped me. Had I been aware of it, I would 
 certainly have followed the man, and seen him at all events safely beyond 
 the door of the minister. X ow it was too late. 
 
 I could not repress the desire which I felt to visit Mr. Clayton on the 
 following morning. I went to him at an early hour. If he and the stran- 
 ger were one and the same person, I should be made aware of it at a glance. 
 The cause that had affected him so deeply in the stage-coach existed still, 
 and his manner must betray him. My suspicions were, thank Heaven ! in- 
 stantly removed. I found my friend tranquil as ever, busy at his old occu- 
 pation, and welcoming me with his usual smile of benevolence. He was 
 paler than usual, I thought, but this impression only convinced me how 
 difficult it is to be charitable and just, when bias and prejudice once take 
 possession ot us. My friend was, if anything, kinder and more affection- 
 ate than ever. He spoke to me about my new employment, gave me his 
 advice on points of difficulty, and bade me consult him always, and 
 without hesitation, when doubt might lead me into danger. He could not 
 tell me how happy he had been made by having secured a competency for 
 
210 CALEB STUKELY 
 
 me ; and he hoped sincerely that no act of mine would ever cause him to 
 regret the step that he had taken. 
 
 " Indeed," said he, "I have great confidence in you, Caleb. I do not know 
 another person in the world upon whose character I would have staked so 
 large a sum. In truth, I should not have been justified. A thousand 
 pounds is a heavy venture for one so straitened as I am. But you are 
 worthy of it all. You are a faithful and good boy, and will never give 
 me reason to repent my generosity. Will you, child 1 ?" 
 
 "No, sir," I replied; " not if I am master of myself." 
 
 " It is strange," continued the good man, " how we attach ourselves to in- 
 dividuals ! There are some men who repel you at first sight — with whom 
 your feelings are at variance as oil with water. Others, again, who win us 
 with a look — to whom we could confide the secrets of our inmost heart, 
 and feel satisfied of their losing nothing of their sacredness. Have you 
 never experienced this, Caleb V 
 
 " I could speak to you, sir," said I, in return, " as unreservedly as to 
 myself." 
 
 " Yes, and I to you. It is a strange and beautiful arrangement. Provi- 
 dence has a hand in this, as in all other sublunary dispensations. We were 
 created to be a comfort and a joy to one another, and to reciprocate con- 
 fidence and love. Such instances are not confined to modern times. His- 
 tory tells us of glorious friendships in the ancient world. The great of old — 
 of Greece and Rome — they who advanced to the very gate and threshold 
 of Truth, and then despairingly turned back — they have honoured human 
 nature by the intensity and permanency of their attachments. But what 
 is a Pagan attachment in comparison with that which exists amongst 
 believers, and unites in bonds that are indissoluble the faithful hearts of 
 pious Christians !" 
 
 "Ah, what, indeed, sir !" 
 
 " Come to me to-morrow, Caleb," continued my friend, changing the 
 subject. " Let me see you as often as your duties will permit you. We 
 must not be strangers. I did not intend to give you up so easily. It is 
 sweet and refreshing to pursue our old subjects of discourse. You are 
 not tired of them V 
 
 "Oh, no, sir!" 
 
 " Come, then, to-morrow." 
 
 It was truly delightful to listen to the minister. I had never known 
 him more sweetly disposed and more calm than on this occasion. He was 
 unruffled by the presence of one anxious thought. Ah ! how different would 
 he have been if he had really proved to be my coach acquaintance ! How I 
 despised myself for the one unkind half suspicion which I had entertained so 
 derogatory to the high character of the saint. But it was a great comfort to 
 me, nevertheless, to be so satisfied of my delusion, and to feel so easy and 
 so happy in my mind at the close of our long interview. According to my 
 promise, I saw the minister on the following day. He was as peaceful and 
 heavenly-minded as before. Another appointment was made and kept — 
 another succeeded to that ; and for one fortnight together, I spent many 
 hours daily in the society of my respected friend. 
 
 In pursuance of an arrangement which we had made, I called one after- 
 noon at Mr. Clayton's house, and was distressed to hear that he was confined 
 to his bed by a sudden attack of illness. He had directed his servant to 
 acquaint all visitors with his condition, and to admit no one to him with 
 the exception of the medical attendant and myself. I was eager to profit 
 by my privilege, and was in a few seconds at the bedside of my benefactor. 
 He was reading when I approached him, and looked flushed and agi- 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 211 
 
 tated. He put his book away from him, and held out his hand to me. I 
 pressed it most affectionately. 
 
 " I have been ill, Caleb," he began, " but I am better now, and I shall be 
 quite well soon. Do not be alarmed." 
 
 "How did it happen, sir!" I asked. 
 "We are in the flesh now, dear boy, and are subject to the evils of the 
 flesh. Hereafter it will be otherwise. Sorrow and distress, we are told, 
 shall be no more. Oh, happy time for sinners ! I have grievously offended. 
 This very day I have permitted worldly thoughts to disturb and harass 
 me, and to shake the fleshly tabernacle. It was wrong, very wrong." 
 
 " What has happened, sir ]" I enquired. 
 
 The minister looked hard and tenderly upon me, pressed my hand 
 again, and bade me take a chair. 
 
 " Bring it near to the bed, Caleb," said Mr. Clayton ; " I like to have you 
 near me. I am better since you came. To see you is always soothing to 
 my mind. I am reminded, then, that I am not altogether so worthless 
 and insignificant a worm as I believe myself, since I have been able to do 
 so much for you. Tell me, do you still like the employment that I pro- 
 cured for you 1 ?" 
 
 " I would not resign it for any other that I know of. It is everything 
 to me. I feel my independence, and I have been told that I am useful to 
 my fellow-creatures. It would be a bitter hour to me, sir, that should find 
 me deprived of my appointment." 
 
 "And that hour is very distant, Caleb, if you are sensible of your duty, 
 and grateful to the instruments which Heaven has raised for you. You 
 shall always feel your independence, and always hear that you are useful 
 and respected. Be but faithful. It is a lesson that I have repeated to you 
 many times — it cannot be told too often." 
 
 " You are a patient and a kind instructor, sir." 
 
 " Come closer to me, Caleb, and now listen. But first— look well at me, 
 and tell me what you see." 
 
 I looked as he required, but gave no answer. 
 
 " Tell me, do you see the lines and marks that Deggary and ruin bring 
 upon the countenance of men 1 Does poverty glare from any one expres- 
 sion ] / am a lost and ruined man." 
 
 "You, sir?" 
 
 "Yes. The trifling pittance upon which I lived, and barely lived, and 
 yet from which I could still extract enough to do a little good — to feed, 
 perhaps, one starving throat — is wrested, torn from me, and from those 
 who shared in what it might obtain. I am myself a beggar." 
 
 Mr. Clayton became agitated as he spoke, and I implored him to com- 
 pose himself. 
 
 " Yes — it is that I wish to do. I should be above the influence of dross. 
 And for myself I am. Would that I might suffer alone ! And this is not 
 all. The man who has effected my ruin owes everything to me. I found 
 him penniless, and raised him to a condition that should have inspired him 
 with regard and gratitude. I would have trusted that man with confidence 
 unbounded. I did entrust him with my all, and he has beggared and un- 
 done me." 
 
 " Take it not to heart, sir," I said, soothing the afflicted man ; " things 
 may not be so bad as you suppose." 
 
 " They cannot be worse," was the reply ; " but I will not take it to heart. 
 The blow is hard to bear — the carnal man must feel it — yet I am not with- 
 out my solace. Eead to me, Caleb." 
 
 " I read a chapter from the work that was lying on the bed. It was called 
 
 p2 
 
212 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " The Good Man's Comfort in Affliction." It was effectual in restoring 
 my friend to composure. He spoke afterwards with his usual softness of 
 manner. 
 
 " This bad man, Caleb," he resumed, " is a member of our church. I 
 am sorry for it — grievously, bitterly sorry for it. The scandal must be re- 
 moved. Personally, I would be as passive and forbearing as a child ; but 
 the church suffers whilst one such member is permitted to profane her 
 ordinances. He must be cut off from her. It must be done. The church 
 must disavow the man who has betrayed her minister, and disgraced him- 
 self. I have been your friend, Caleb — you must now prove mine." 
 
 " Most willingly," said I. 
 
 " This business must be brought before a general meeting of the church. 
 From me the accusation will come with ill grace, and yet a public charge 
 must be preferred. You must be the champion of my cause. Yours shall 
 be the task of conferring a lasting obligation on your friend — yours shall 
 be the glory of ridding the sanctuary of defilement." 
 
 " How am I to act, sir]" 
 
 " Your course is very easy, child. A meeting shall be convened with- 
 out delay. You shall attend it. You shall be made master of the case. 
 You must propose an examination of his affairs on the part of the church. 
 The man has failed — he is a bankrupt — our church is pure, and demands 
 an investigation into the questionable conduct of her children. This you 
 shall do. The church will do the rest." 
 
 I know not how it was — I cannot tell what led to it ; but a cold shudder 
 crept through my body, and a sudden sickness overcame me. I thought 
 of the coach scene — the voice seemed more like than ever — the tones were 
 the very same. I seemed unexpectedly enclosed and entangled in some 
 dreadful mystery. I could not conceive why I should hesitate to accept 
 the invitation of my friend with alacrity and pleasure. He was my be- 
 nefactor, preserver, best and only friend. He had been defrauded, and he 
 called upon me now to perform a simple act of justice. A man under 
 much less obligation to the minister would have met his wishes joyfully ; 
 but I did hesitate and hold back. A natural suggestion, one that I could 
 not control or crush, told me, as loudly as a voice could speak, not to com- 
 mit myself by an immediate and rash consent. It must have been the 
 coach — for, previously to that adventure, had the minister commanded me 
 to accuse a hundred men, a hint would have sufficed for my obedience. 
 But that unfortunate occurrence, now revived by the manner of my friend 
 ■ — by the expressions which he employed — by the charge which he adduced 
 against the unhappy member of his church — filled me with doubt, uncer- 
 tainty, and alarm. Mr. Clayton was not slow to remark what was passing 
 in my mind. 
 , "How is this, Caleb 1 ]" he enquired. "You pause and hesitate." 
 
 "What has he done, sir?" I asked, in my confusion, hardly knowing 
 what I said. 
 
 "Done !" exclaimed the minister, with an offended air. "Caleb, he has 
 ruined the man who has made you what you are." 
 
 It was too true. Mr. Clayton had indeed made me what I was. It was 
 a just reproof. It was ingratitude of the blackest character, to listen so 
 coldly to his wishes. For months I had received daily and hourly the 
 most signal benefits from his hands. He had never till now called upon 
 me to make the shadow of a return for all his disinterested love — disin- 
 terested, ah, was it so 1 I hated myself for the momentary doubt — and yet 
 the doubt returned upon me. If I had not heard his voice in the coach, 
 such a suspicion would have been impossible. Now, anything seemed 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 213 
 
 possible — nothing was too extraordinary to happen. Well, it was little 
 that the minister requested me to do. I had but to demand an investiga- 
 tion into the man's affairs. It was easily done, and without any cost or 
 sacrifice of principle. But why could not the minister demand the same 
 himself] " It would be unseemly," he asserted. Well, it might be — why 
 had he not selected an elder member of the church ] Because, as he had 
 often told me, there was none so dear to him. This was plain and reason- 
 able, and all this passed through my brain with the rapidity of thought in 
 an instant of time. 
 
 " You may command me, sir," I said at length. 
 
 " Xo, Caleb, I will not command you. To serve your friend would have 
 been, I deemed, a labour of love. I did not command you, and I now re- 
 tract the trifling request which I find I was too bold to make." 
 
 " Do not talk so to me, Mr. Clayton, I entreat you. I am disturbed and 
 unwell to-day. Your illness has unsettled me. Pray, command me. 
 Speak to me as is your wont — with the same kindliness and warmth. 
 You know I am bound to you; let me serve you in any way you 
 please." 
 
 " We will speak of it some other time. Let us change the subject now. 
 There are twenty men who will be eager to comply with the wishes of 
 their minister. An intimation will suffice." 
 
 " But why, sir," I returned — " why should others be privileged to do 
 your bidding, and I denied ] Forgive my apparent coldness, and give me 
 my instructions." 
 
 •• Xot now," said Mr. Clayton, softened by my returning warmth. " Let 
 ns read again. Some other time." 
 
 In a few days the subject was again introduced, and I put in possession 
 of the history of the unfortunate man who was so soon to be brought 
 under the anathema of the church. According to the statement of the 
 minister, the guilty person had received at various times from him as a 
 loan no less a sum than four thousand pounds, the substance of his wealth, 
 besides an equal amount from other sources, for which Mr. Clayton had 
 made himself accountable. Mr. Clayton had implicated himself so seri- 
 ously, as he said, for the advantage of the man whom he had known from 
 boyhood, and raised from beggary, simply on account of the love he bore 
 him, and in consideration of his Christian character. Of every farthing 
 thus advanced the minister had been defrauded, and within a month the 
 trader had declared himself a bankrupt. That the minister should have 
 acted so inconsiderately and prodigally might seem strange to any one 
 who did not thoroughly understand the extreme unselfishness of his dis- 
 position. Towards me he had behaved with an equal liberality ; and I, 
 at least, had no right to question the truth of every word he spoke. The 
 conduct of the man appeared odious and unpardonable ; and I regretted 
 that I should have doubted, for one moment, the propriety of assisting so 
 manifest an act of justice. Let me acknowledge that there was much 
 need of self-persuasion to arrive at this conclusion. I wished to believe 
 that I felt urged to my determination ; but the necessity that I expe- 
 rienced of working myself up to a conviction of the justice of the case, 
 militated sadly against so pleasing a delusion. 
 
 The second church meeting in which it fell to my lot to perform a dis- 
 tinguished character, took place soon after the communication which I 
 received from my respected friend. It was convened with the especial 
 object of enquiring into the circumstances connected with the failure of 
 Mr. George Whitefield Bunyan Smith. The chapel was, if possible, ialler 
 
21 4 CALEB STTJKELY. 
 
 than on the former evening, and the majority of members was, as before, 
 women. A movement throughout the assembly — a whispering, and a 
 ceaseless expectoration, indicated the raciness and interest which attached 
 to the matter in hand, and every eye and mouth seemed opened in the 
 fulness of an anxious expectation. I sat quietly and uncomfortably, and 
 my heart beat palpably against my clothes. I endeavoured to paint the 
 villany of Mr. Smith in the darkest colours, and, by the contemplation 
 of it, to rouse myself to self-esteem — but the effort was a failure. I could 
 see nothing but the man in the coach, and hear nothing but the voice, 
 which sounded in my ears louder than ever, and far more like ; and I 
 became at length perfectly satisfied that I had no business to stand in the 
 capacity of Mr. Smith's accuser. It was too late to recant. The bell had 
 rung — the curtain was up — and the performances were about to begin. 
 
 A hymn, as usual, ushered in the proceedings of the day. The fifty- 
 second psalm was then read by the minister, in the beautiful tone which 
 he knew so well how to assume, and reverence and awe accompanied his 
 emphatic delivery. Ah ! could I ever forget the hour when those accents 
 first dropped with medicinal virtue on my soul — when every syllable from 
 his lips brought unction to my bruised nature— and the dark shadows of 
 earth were dissipated and destroyed, beneath the clear, pure light of 
 heaven that he invoked and made apparent ! Why passed the syllables 
 now coldly and ineffectually across the heart they could not penetrate] 
 "Why glittered they before the eye with phosphorescent lustre, void of all 
 heat and might 1 I could not tell. The charm was gone. It was misery 
 to know it. The minister having concluded, " Brother Buster was re- 
 quested to engage in prayer." That worthy rose instanter. First, he 
 coughed, then he made a face — an awful face — then closed his eyes — then 
 opened them again, looked up, and stretched forth his arms. At last he 
 spoke. He prayed for the whole world, including the islands recently 
 discovered, " even from the river to the oceans of ages" — then for Europe, 
 and "more especially" for England, and London "in particular," but 
 "chiefly" for the parish in which the chapel stood, and " principally" for 
 the Chosen People then and there assembled ; and, "above all" for the 
 infatuated man upon whose account they had been brought together. 
 " Oh ! might the delooded sinner repent off his sin, and having felt the 
 rod, turn from the error off his ways. Oh ! might the church have grace 
 to purify itself ; and oh ! might the vessel wot was chosen this night to 
 bring the criminal to justice, be hindood with strength for the work ; and 
 oh ! might the criminal be enabled to come out of it with clean hands, 
 (which he very much doubted ;) and oh ! might the minister be preserved to 
 his church for many years to come ; and oh ! might he himself be a door- 
 keeper in heaven, rather than dwell in the midst of wickedness and sin- 
 ners !" This was the substance of the divine supplication, offered up by 
 Jabez Buster, in the presence of the congregation, and listened to with 
 devout respect and seriousness by the refined and intellectual Mr. Clayton. 
 Another hymn succeeded immediately. It must have been written for 
 the occasion ; for the sentiment of it was in accordance with the prayer. 
 It was a wail over the backsliding of a fallen saint. To the assembly thus 
 prejudiced — an assembly made up of men of business and their wives, 
 mechanics, dress-makers, servant-maids, and the like — an address suitable 
 
 to their capacities was spoken. Mr. Clayton himself delivered it. He 
 
 trembled with emotion when he referred to the painful duty which he was 
 now called upon to perform. "Dear brethren," said he, "you are all 
 aware of the unhappy condition of that brother who has long been bound 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 215 
 
 to us by every tie that may unite the brethren in cordial and in Christian, 
 love. Truly he has been dear to all of us ; and for myself, I can with 
 sincerity aver, that no creature living was dearer to me in the flesh than 
 him upon whose conduct we are met this night in Christian charity to 
 adjudicate. Yes, he was my equal, my guide, and my acquaintance. We 
 took sweet counsel together, and we walked to the house of prayer in 
 company. I hope, I pray — would that I might add that I believe ! — the 
 sin that has been committed in the face of the church, and before the 
 world, may be found not to lie at the door of him we loved and cherished. 
 We are not here to take cognizance of the temporal concerns of every 
 member of our congregation. We have no right to do this so long as the 
 church is kept pure, and suffers not by the delinquencies of her children. 
 If the limb be unworthy and unsound, let it be lopped off. You have 
 heard that the worldly affairs of our brother are crushed ; it is whispered 
 abroad that there is reason to fear the commission of discreditable acts. 
 Is this so ? If it be true, let the whisper assume a bolder form, and pro- 
 nounce our brother unworthy of a place with the elect. If it be false, let 
 every evil tongue be silenced, and let us rejoice exceedingly, yea, with the 
 timbrel and dance, with stringed instruments and loud-sounding cymbals. 
 For my own part, I will not believe him guilty until proof positive' has 
 made him so. His accuser is here this night. From what I know of our 
 young brother, I am satisfied he will proceed most cautiously. Should 
 he suggest simply an investigation into the recent transactions of the un- 
 fortunate man, it will be our duty to act upon that suggestion. If he 
 comes armed with evidences of guilt, they must be examined with a kind 
 but still impartial spirit. I know not to what extent it is proposed to 
 proceed. It is not for me to know it. I am not his prosecutor. I shall 
 not pronounce upon him. It is for you to judge. If he be proved cul- 
 pable in this most melancholy business, and, alas ! I fear he must be if 
 reports are true — though you must be careful to discard reports and look 
 to testimony only — our course is plain and easy. Pardon is not with us ; 
 it must be sought elsewhere. I will not detain you longer. Brother 
 Stukely, the church will listen to your charge." 
 
 But Brother Stukely had been for some time rendered incapable of 
 speech. He was staggered and overwhelmed. He distrusted his eyes, 
 his ears, and every sense that he possessed. What !— was this Mr. Clayton, 
 the meek, the pious, the good, the benevolent, the just, the truth-telling, 
 the Christian, and the minister] What!— could he assert that he was 
 satisfied of his victim's innocence until I should prove him guilty— I, 
 who knew nothing of the man and his affairs but what I gathered from 
 his own false lips? There was some terrible mistake here. I dreamt, or 
 raved. What !— had the history of the last twelvemonth been a cheat— a 
 fable ? How was it— where was 1 » What !— could Mr. Clayton talk thus 
 — could he descend to falsehood and deceit— he, the immaculate and 
 infallible ! What a moral earthquake was here ! What a re-enacting of 
 the fall of man ! But every eye was upon me, and the church was silent 
 as death, waiting for my rising. The chapel commenced swimming round 
 me. I grew sick, and feared that I was becoming blind ; for a mist came 
 before mv eyes, and confounded all things. At length I was awakened 
 to something like consciousness, by a rapid and universal expectoration. 
 I rose, and became painfully distressed by a conflict of opposing feelings. 
 I remembered, in spite of the present obliquity of the minister, his great 
 kindness to me— I remembered it with gratitude. This urged me to 
 speak aloud, whilst a sense of justice as strongly demanded silence; and 
 
216 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 pity for the man whom I had undertaken to accuse, but who had never 
 offended me, cried shame upon me for the words I was about to utter. 
 For a second I stood irresolute, and a merciful interference was sent to 
 rescue me. 
 
 . " Why," exclaimed a voice that came pleasing to my ears — "why are 
 you going to accuse this here brother l Harn't twenty men failed afore, 
 and you never thought of asking questions?" 
 
 I looked round, and my friend Thompson, of happy memory, nodded 
 familiarly, and by no means disconcertedly, to me. I had never seen him 
 in the chapel before. I did not know that he was a member. Here was 
 another mystery ! His words were the signal for loud disapprobation. 
 He had marred the general curiosity at an intensely interesting moment, 
 and the auger that was conceived against him was by no means partial. 
 The minister rose in the midst of it. He looked very pale and much an- 
 noyed ; but his manner was still mild, and his expressions as full of charity 
 and kind feeling as ever. 
 
 " It was a proper enquiry," he said ; " one that should immediately be 
 answered." Heaven forbid that their conduct, in one particular, should 
 savour of injustice ! In due time the explanation would have been ofiered. 
 Had their brother waited for that time, he would have found that this 
 harsh observation might have been withheld. The unfortunate man 
 needed not the champion who had stood so irreverently forward. " I can 
 assure our brother, that there is one who will hear of his innocence with 
 greater joy than any other man may feel for him." But it was his duty 
 to state, and publicly, that there were circumstances connected with this 
 failure, that unfavourably marked it from every other that had taken 
 place amongst them. These must be enquired into. Their brother 
 Stukely had been interrupted in the charge which he was about to make. 
 He repeated that he knew not how far that charge might have been 
 brought home. He would propose now, that two messengers be appointed 
 to wait upon the bankrupt, and to examine thoroughly his affairs, and 
 that, previous to their report, no further proceedings should take place. 
 The purity and disinterestedness of their conduct should be made appa- 
 rent. Brothers Buster and Tomkins Avere the gentlemen whom he pro- 
 posed for the delicate office, with the full assurance that they would 
 execute their commission with Christian charity, tempering justice with 
 heavenly mercy. 
 
 The assembly gave a reluctant consent to this arrangement. " Such 
 things," it was argued, " were better settled at once ; and it would have 
 been far more satisfactory if the bankrupt's matters had been disclosed to 
 the meeting, who had come on purpose to hear them, and had neglected 
 important matters at home, rather than be disappointed." The meeting, 
 however, dissolved with a hymn, sung without spirit or heart. At the 
 close of it, the minister retired. He passed me on his way ; looked at me 
 coldly, and I thought a frown had settled on his brow almost in spite of 
 him. I was scarcely in the open street again, before Thompson was at my 
 side, shaking my hand with the greatest heartiness. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I should much sooner have thought of seeing the 
 devil in that chapel than you, any how. Why, what does it all mean 1 I 
 thought you were in Brummagem." 
 
 " Ah ! Thompson," I exclaimed, sighing, " I wish I were ! It is a long 
 history." 
 
 " Well, do let's have it, I am astonished." 
 
 I put him in possession of my doings since we parted at the Bull's 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 217 
 
 Head Inn, in Holborn. I had not finished when we arrived at my lodg- 
 ings. I invited my old friend to supper, and, after that meal, he heard 
 the conclusion of the narrative. 
 
 '• Well," said he at last, "some people don't believe in sperits. Now I 
 do. Now I believe that a sperit has brought you and me together again. 
 You've told me a good deal. Now, I'll tell you something. Clayton's an 
 out-and-outer." 
 
 " He's a mysterious and unintelligible being !" I exclaimed. 
 " Yes," answered Thompson, u you were always fond of them fine words. 
 P'r'aps you mean the same as me, after all. What I mean is, that fellow 
 beats all I ever came near. Talk of the Old Un ! He's a babby to him." 
 " I can believe anything now," I answered. 
 
 " I don't complain ; because I think it serves me right. I did very well 
 at our parish church, and had no business to leave it ; and I shouldn't 
 either, if I hadn't been a easy fool all my life. I went on right well 
 there, and understood the clergyman very well, and I should have done 
 to this day if it hadn't been for my missus. She's always worriting her- 
 self about her state; and she happened to hear this Mr. Clayton, and 
 nothing would please her but we must join his congregation, the whole 
 biling lot of us, and get elected, as they call it. She said all was cold in 
 the church, and nothing to catch hold on there. I'm blessed if I haven't 
 catched hold of a good deal more than I like in this here chapel. They 
 call one another brothers— sich brothers, I fancy, as Cain was to Abel. 
 They are the rummest Christians you ever see'd. Just look at the head of 
 
 them — that Mr. Clayton, rolling in riches " 
 
 " In what !" said I, interrupting him. " You mistake. The little that 
 he had is lost." 
 
 " Oh, don't you be gammoned ! " was the reply. " What he has lost 
 won't hurt him. He's got enough now to buy this street, out and out. 
 He's the greediest fellow for money this world ever saw." 
 . " I am puzzled, Thompson," said I. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps you are, and you'll be more puzzled yet when you know 
 all. Why, what is all this about poor Smith ? I knew him before Clayton 
 ever got hold of him, when the chap hadn't a halfpenny to fly with, but 
 was a most oudacious fellow at spekylating and inventions, and was 
 always up to something new. One day he had a plan for making moist 
 sugar out of bricks — then soap out of nothing— and sweet oil out of stones. 
 At last Clayton hears of him, hooks him up, and gets him to the chapel ; 
 first converts him, and then goes partners with him in the spekylations— 
 let's him have as much money as he ask3 for, and because soap doesn't 
 come from nothing, and sugar from bricks, and sweet oil from stones, he 
 stops short, sews him up, drives him into the Gazette, and now wants to 
 throw him into the world a beggar, without name and character, and with 
 ten young 'uns hanging about his widowed arm for bread." 
 
 " Oh, it's dreadful if it's true ! " said I ; " but if he has robbed the 
 minister, whatever Mr. Clayton may be, he ought to be punished." 
 
 " But it isn't true, and there's the villany of it. Smith's a fool ; you 
 never see'd a bigger in your life ; and though he thinks himself so clever 
 in his inventions and diskiveries, he's as simple as a child in business. 
 Why, he gave three thousand pounds for the machinery wot was to make 
 soap out of nothing ; and so all the money's gone. How sich a deep un as 
 Clayton ever trusted him, I can't tell. He's wexed with himself now, and 
 wants to have his spite upon his unfortunate tool." 
 " I can hardly believe it," said I. 
 "No; and do you think I would have believed it the first day as missus 
 
218 CALEB STUKELY 
 
 made me come and listen to that out-and-outer 1 ? and do you think if I 
 had known about it, they would ever have lugged me in to be a brother 1 
 You shall take a walk with me to morrow, if you please ; and if you don't 
 believe it then of your own accord, why I sha'n't ask you." 
 
 " He has been so kind, so generous to me. He has behaved so unlike a 
 mercenary man." 
 
 "Yes; that's just his way. That's what he calls, I suppose, sharpening 
 his tools. He's made up his mind long ago to have out of you all he gave 
 you, and a little more besides. Why, what did you get up for in the 
 chapel 2 Didn't he say it was to bring a charge against Smith 1 Why, 
 what do you know of Smith ] Can't you see, with half an eye, he's been 
 feeding of you to do his dirty work ; and, if you had turned out well, 
 wouldn't it have been cheap to him at the price'?" 
 
 " What is it," said I, " you propose to do to-morrow V 
 
 " To take a Avalk ; that's all. Don't ask questions. If you go with me, 
 I'll satisfy your doubts." 
 
 " Surely," said I, " his congregation must have known this ; and they 
 would not have permitted him -" 
 
 " Ah, my dear sir, you don't know human nature ! Wait till you have 
 lived as long as I have. Now, there's my wife ; she 'knows as much as I 
 do about the man, and yet I'm blowed if she doesn't seem to like him all 
 the better for it ! She calls him a chosen wessel, and only wishes I was 
 half as sure of salvation. As for the congregation, they are a complete set 
 of chosen wessels together, and the more you blow 'em up, the better the 
 wessels like it. If what they call the world didn't speak agin 'em, they'd be 
 afraid they were going wrong. So you never can offend them." 
 
 Thompson continued in the same strain for the rest of the evening, 
 bringing charge after charge against the minister, with the view of prov- 
 ing him to be a hypocrite of the deepest dye. As he had fostered and 
 protected me, Thompson explained that he had previously maintained and 
 trained up Smith, whom he never would have deserted had all his specula- 
 tions issued favourably. The loss of his money had so enraged him, that 
 his feelings had suddenly taken a different direction, and he would now 
 not stop until he had thoroughly effected the poor man's ruin. He 
 (Thompson) knew Smith well ; he had seen his books ; and the man was 
 as innocent of fraud as a child unborn. Clayton knew it very well, and 
 the trick of examining the books was all a fudge. " That precious pair 
 of brothers, Buster and Tomkins, knew very well what they were about, 
 and would make it turn out right for the minister somehow. As for his- 
 self, he stood up for the fellow because he hadn't another friend in the 
 place. He knew he should be kicked out for his pains ; but that w r ould 
 be more agreeable than otherways." From all I gathered from Thompson, 
 it appeared that the pitiable man — the audacious minister of God — was 
 the slave of one of the most corroding passions that ever made shipwreck 
 of the heart of man. The love of money absorbed or made subservient 
 every other sentiment. To heap up riches there was no labour too pain- 
 ful, no means too vicious, no conduct too unjustifiable. The graces of 
 earth, the virtues of heaven, were made to minister to the lust, and to 
 conceal the demon behind the brightness and the beauty of their forms. 
 There is no limit to the moral baseness of the man of avarice. There 
 was none with Mr. Clayton. He lived to accumulate. Mr. Clayton was 
 a scholar, a man of refinement, eloquent — an angel not more winning : he 
 was self-denying in his appetites, humble, patient — powerful and beautiful 
 in expression, when the vices of men compelled the unwilling invective. 
 He was, to the eyes of men, studious and holy as an anchorite. But, 
 
CALEB STTJ&ELY. 219 
 
 better than his own immortal soul, he loved and doated upon gold ! That 
 love acknowledged, fed, and gratified, when are its demands appeased 1 — 
 when does conscience raise a barrier against its further progress ? It ia a 
 state difficult to believe. Could I have listened with an ear of credulity 
 to the tale of Thompson — could I have borne to listen to it with patience, 
 had I not witnessed an act of turpitude that ocular demonstration could 
 only render credible — had I not been prepared for that act by the tone, 
 the manner, the expressions of the minister, when we passed an hour to- 
 gether, ignorant of each other's presence ] It was a dreadful conviction 
 that was forced upon me, and as wonderful as terrible. Self-delusion, for 
 such it was, so perfect and complete, who could conceive — hypocrisy so 
 super-eminent, who could conjecture ! There was something, however, to 
 be disclosed on the succeeding day. Thompson was very mysterious about 
 this. He would give no clue to what he designed. I should judge from 
 what I saw of the truth of his communications. Alas ! I had seen enough 
 already to mourn over the most melancholy overthrow that had ever 
 crushed tbe confidence, and bruised the feelings, of ingenuous youth. 
 
 I passed a restless and unhappy night. Miserable dreams distressed me. 
 I dreamt that I was sentenced to death for perjury — that the gallows was 
 erected — and that Buster and Tomkins were my executioners. The latter 
 was cruelly polite and attentive in his demeanour. He put the rope round 
 my neck with an air of cutting civility, and apologised for the whole pro- 
 ceeding. I experienced vividly the moment of being turned off. I suf- 
 fered the horrors of strangulation. The noose slipped, and I was dangling 
 in the air in excruciating agony, half-dead and half-alive. Buster rushed 
 to the foot of the scaffold, and with Christian charity fastened himself to 
 my legs, and hung there till I had breathed my last. "Whilst he was thus 
 suspended, he sang one of his favourite hymns with his own rich and ef- 
 fective nasal vigour. Then I dreamt I was murdering Bunyan Smith in 
 his sleep ; Mr. Clayton was pushing me forward, and urging a dagger into 
 my hand. Just as I had killed him I was knocked down by Thompson, 
 and Clayton ran off laughing. Then I woke up, thank Heaven ! more 
 frightened than hurt, with every limb in my body sore and aching. Then, 
 instead of going to sleep again, which I could not do, I lay awake, and re- 
 flected on what had taken place ; and I thought all I had heard against 
 Mr. Clayton, and all I had seen in the chapel, was a dream, like the exe- 
 cution and the murder. One thing seemed just as real and as likely as 
 the other. Then I became uneasy in my bed, got up, and walked about 
 the room, and wondered what in the world I should do, if Mr. Clayton de- 
 prived me of my situation, and I was thrown out of bread again. Then I 
 recollected his many hints concerning fidelity and friendship, and what he 
 had said about my being in no danger so long as I was faithful, and the 
 rest of it ; and then I wished I had thrown myself over Blackfriars' Bridge 
 as I had intended, and so put an end to all the trials that beset my path. 
 
 Thompson came early on the following day, punctual to his appoint- 
 ment. He was accompanied by poor Bunyan Smith, and a voluminous 
 statement of his affairs. I looked over them as well as I was able ; for 
 the unfortunate man was all excitement, and, faithful to the description of 
 Thompson, sanguine in the extreme. He interrupted me twenty times, 
 and, as every new speculation turned up, had still something to say why it 
 had not succeeded according to his wishes. Although he had failed in 
 every grand experiment, there was not one which would not have realised 
 his hopes a hundredfold, but for the occurrence of some unfortunate event 
 which it was impossible to foresee, but which could not possibly take place 
 again, had he but money to renew his trials. His bankruptcy had not 
 
220 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 subdued him, nor in the least diminished his belief in the efficacy of his 
 great discoveries. There was certainly no appearance of fraud in the ac- 
 count of his transactions; but it was not Mr. Smith's innocence -1 was 
 anxious to establish. It was the known guilt of Mr. Clayton that I would 
 have made any sacrifice to remove. 
 
 It was in the afternoon that Thompson and I were walking along the 
 well-filled pavement of Cheapside, on our way to what he called " the best 
 witness he could bring to speak in favour of all that he had said about the 
 minister." He still persisted in keeping up a mystery in respect of this 
 same witness. " He might be, after all/' he said, " mistaken in the thing, 
 and he didn't wish to be made a fool of. I don't expect I shall, but we 
 shall see." We reached Cornhill, and were opposite the Exchange. 
 
 " That's a rum place, isn't it 1 " asked Thompson, looking at the building 
 — "Have you ever been inside ?" 
 
 " Never," I replied. 
 
 "Suppose we just stroll in then 1 ? What a row they are kicking up there! 
 And what a crowd ! There's hardly room to move." 
 
 The area was, as he said, crowded. There was a loud continued murmur of 
 human voices. Traffic was intense, and had reached what might be supposed 
 its acme. It seemed as if business was undergoing a paroxysm, or fit, 
 rather than pursuing her steady, healthful course. Bodies of men were 
 standing in groups — some were darting from corner to corner, pen in 
 mouth— a few were walking leisurely with downcast looks — others quickly, 
 uneasy and excited. A stout and well-contented gentleman or two leaned 
 against the high pillars of the building, and formed the centre of a human 
 circle, that smiled as he smiled, and stopped when he stopped. 
 
 " Nice place to study in, sir," said Thompson, as we walked along. 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 " I mean it though," said he. " I see a man now that comes here on 
 purpose to study — as clever a man at his books as ever I saw, and as fine a 
 fellow to talk as you know — there, just look across the road — under that 
 pillar — near the archway. There, just where them two men has left a 
 open space. Tell me, who do you see there, sir?" 
 , " Why, Mr. Clayton !" I replied, astonished at the sight. 
 
 " Yes, and if you'll come here every day of your life, there you'll find 
 him. I've watched him often, since Smith first put me up to his tricks, 
 and I have never missed him. There he is making money, and wearing 
 his soul out because he can't make half enough to satisfy his greedy maw. 
 His covetousness is awful. There's nothing that he doesn't spekylate in ; 
 there's hardly a man of business in his congregation that he doesn't, either 
 by himself or others, lend money out at usury. I mean such on 'em as he 
 knows are right; for catch him, if he knows it, trusting the rotten bro- 
 thers. Smith says he has got something to do with every one of the 
 stocks. I don't know whether that is anything to eat and drink or not; 
 but I think they call this here bear-garden the Stock Exchange, and in 
 this neighbourhood the out-and-outer spends more than half his days." 
 Whilst Thompson spoke, one of the two men, whom I have mentioned as 
 being for many hours together closeted with the minister in his private 
 study, and whom I set down as missionaries — came up in great haste to 
 Mr. Clayton, and communicated to him news, apparently of import- 
 ance. The latter immediately produced a pocket-book, in which he wrote 
 a few words with a pencil, and the individual departed. The information, 
 whatever it may have been, had deeply affected the man to whom it had 
 been brought. He did not stand stiil, as before, but walked nervously 
 about, looked pale, care-worn, and miserably anxious. He referred to his 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 221 
 
 book a dozen times — restored it frequently to his pocket, and had it out 
 again immediately for surer satisfaction, or for further calculations. In 
 about ten minutes, "the missionary" returned. This time he was the 
 bearer of a better tale. The minister smiled — his brow expanded, and his 
 eye had the vivacity and fire that belonged to it in the pulpit. Another 
 memorandum was written in the pocket-book, and the two gentlemen 
 walked quickly, and side by side, along the covered avenue. I had seen 
 sufficient. 
 
 " Let us go," I said to Thompson. 
 
 "Why, you don't mean to say you have had enough?" returned he; 
 " oh, wait a bit, and see the other boy ! They make a precious trio." 
 
 I declined to witness the melancholy spectacle any longer. I was op- 
 pressed, grieved, and sickened, and turned away. 
 
 Thompson was delighted at the result of our "voyage of discovery," 
 and continued to be facetious at the expense of the unhappy minister. I 
 implored him to desist. 
 
 " Say no more, Thompson. This is no subject for laughter. I have suf- 
 fered much since your brother carried me to Birmingham. This is the 
 hardest blow yet. I believe now that all is a dream. This is not Mr. 
 Clayton. It is a cheat of Satan. We are deluded and made fools in the 
 hands of the Wicked One. 
 
 " You'll excuse me, sir," said Thompson ; " but if I didn't know you bet- 
 ter, I should say, to hear you talk in that uncommonly queer way, that 
 you were as big a wessel as any of 'em. Don't flatter yourself you are 
 dreaming, when you never were wider awake in all your life." 
 
 It is perhaps needless to say, that I had no heart to present myself again 
 before my friend and benefactor — the once beloved and still deeply com- 
 passionated minister of religion. I avoided the house of Mr. Clayton, and 
 absented myself from his chapel. But I was not content with the first 
 view that had been afforded me at the Exchange. I was unwilling to de- 
 cide for ever upon the character of my former friend without a complete 
 self-justification. I went again to the house of commerce, and alone. 
 Again I beheld Mr. Clayton immersed in the doings of the place. For a 
 week I continued my observation. Proofs of his worldliness and gross 
 hypocrisy came fast and thick upon each other. I no longer doubted the 
 statement of Thompson and the speculator Smith. I resolved upon seeing 
 my preserver no more. I could not think of him without shuddering, and 
 I endeavoured to forget him. One evening, about ten days after the chapel 
 scene, sitting alone in my apartment, I was attracted by a slight movement 
 on the stairs. A moment afterwards there was a knock at my door. The 
 door opened, and Mr. Clayton himself walked into the room. I trembled 
 instantly from head to foot. The minister had a serious countenance, and 
 was very placid. He took a chair, and I waited till he spoke. 
 
 " You have not visited me of late, Caleb," he began. " You have surely 
 forgotten me. You have forgotten your promise — our friendship — your 
 obligations— gratitude — everything. How is this?" 
 
 Still I did not speak. 
 
 " Tell me," he continued, " who has taught you to become a spy ?- Who 
 has taught you that it is honourable and just to track the movements and 
 to break upon the privacy of others I I saw you in the Exchange this 
 morning — I saw you yesterday — and the day before. Tell me, what took 
 you there?" 
 
 I gave no answer. 
 
 II Your Bible, Caleb, 'gives no encouragement to the feeling which has 
 
222 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 prompted you to act thus. You have read the word of truth imperfectly. 
 There is a holiness— a peculiar sanctity " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Mr. Clayton," I cried out, interrupting him, " do 
 not talk so ! Do not deceive yourself. Do not attempt to bewilder me. 
 Do not provoke the wrath of Heaven. You have been kinder to me than 
 I can express. The recollection of what you have done is ever present to 
 me. Oh, would that I owed you nothing ! Would that I could pay you 
 back to the last farthing, and that the past could be obliterated from my 
 mind ! I would have parted with my life willingly, gladly, to serve you. 
 Had you been poor, how delightful would it have been to labour for my 
 benefactor ! I will not deceive you. I have learned everything. Whom 
 can I trust now 1 ? Whom shall 1 believe] To whom attach myself 1 Mr. 
 Clayton, it seems incredible to me that I can talk thus to you. It is 
 indeed, and I tremble as I do so. But what is to be done 1 I can respect 
 you no longer, however my poor heart throbs towards you, and pities " 
 
 I burst into tears. 
 
 "Spare your pity, boy," said Mr. Clayton, coldly, "and spare those 
 hollow tears. You acknowledge that there exists a debt between us. Well, 
 have you attempted to repay it 1 Listen to me. I have been your friend. 
 I am willing to remain so. Come to me as before, and you shall find me 
 as I have ever been — affectionate and kind. Avoid me — place yourself 
 in the condition of my opponent, and beware. In a moment, by one 
 word, I can throw you back into the slough from whence I dragged you. 
 To-morrow morning, if I so will it, you shall wander forth again, an out- 
 cast, depending for your bread upon a road-side charity. It is a dreadful 
 thing to walk a marked and branded man through this cold world ; yet 
 it is only for me to say the word, and infamy is attached to your name 
 for ever. And what greater crime exists than black ingratitude 1 It is 
 our duty to expose and punish it, It is for you to make the choice. If 
 you are wise, you will not hesitate. If Christianity has worked " 
 
 " Sir, what has Christianity to do with this 1 Satan must witness the 
 compact that you would have us make. I cannot sell myself!" 
 
 "Your new companions have taught you these fine phrases, Caleb. 
 They will support you, no doubt, and you will remain faithful to them, 
 until a fresh acquaintance shall poison your ear against them, as they 
 have corrupted it to win you from the man whom you have sworn to 
 serve. I have nothing more to say. You promised to be faithful through 
 good report and evil. You have broken your word. I forgive you, if you 
 are sorry for the fault, and my arms are ready to receive you. Punish- 
 ment shall follow — strict justice, and no mercy — if you persist in evil. 
 Within a week present yourself at my abode, and everything is forgotten 
 and forgiven. I am your friend for ever. Do not come, be obstinate 
 and unyielding, and prepare yourself for misery." 
 
 The minister left me. The week elapsed, and at the end of it I had 
 not presented myself at his residence. But, in the meanwhile, I had been 
 active in taking measures for the security of the office which I held, and 
 whose duties I had hitherto performed to the perfect satisfaction of my 
 employers. I had been given to understand that it remained with Mr. 
 Bombasty to continue my appointment, or to dismiss me at once ; that he 
 was in the hands of Mr. Clayton ; and that if the latter desired my dis- 
 missal, and could bring against me the shadow of a complaint to justify 
 Mr. Bombasty in the eye of the society, nothing could save me from 
 ejection. It was proposed to me by a fellow-servant of the society, to 
 place myself as soon as possible beyond the reach and influence of Mr. 
 
CALEB STDKELY. 223 
 
 Clayton. He advised me to secede at once from the church, and to attach 
 myself to another, professing the same principles, and, like that, in con- 
 nexion with the society. By this means, Clayton and I would be sepa- 
 rated, and his power over me effectually removed. Exclusion was to me 
 starvation, and I eagerly adopted the counsel of my companion. To be, 
 however, in a condition to join another church, it was necessary to procure, 
 either by personal application, or at the instance of the minister of the 
 new church, a letter of dismission, which letter should contain an assur- 
 ance of the candidate's previous good conduct and present qualification. 
 In my case, the minister himself proposed to apply for my testimonials. 
 He did apply, and at the end of a month no answer had been returned 
 to his communication. He wrote a second, and the second application 
 met with no greater respect than the first. At length I received a very 
 formal and polite letter from Mr. Tomkins, informing me that " a church 
 meeting had been convened for the purpose of considering the propriety 
 of affording Brother Stukely the opportunity of joining another con- 
 nexion, by granting him a letter of dismission," and that my presence 
 was requested on that very important occasion. 
 
 If there was one thing upon earth more than another which at this par- 
 ticular time of my life I abominated with unmitigated and ineffable dis- 
 gust, it was the frequent recurrence of these eternal church meetings. 
 Nothing, however trifling, could be carried forward without them ; no 
 man's affairs, however private and worldly, were too uninteresting for their 
 investigation. My connexion with the church had hardly commenced 
 before two had taken place, principally on my account, and now a third 
 was proposed, in order to enable the minister to write a letter of civility, 
 and to state the simple fact of my having conducted myself with pro- 
 priety and decorum. Still it was proper that I should attend it. I did so, 
 accompanied by Thompson, and a crowded assembly, as befitted the occa- 
 sion, welcomed us amongst them with many short coughs and much sup- 
 pressed hissing. There was the usual routine. The hymn, the portion 
 of Scripture, and the prayer of Brother Buster. In the latter, there 
 were many dark hints intended to be appropriate to my case, and which 
 were, to all appearance, well understood by the congregation at large. 
 They did not frighten me. I was guilty of no crime against their church. 
 They could bring no charge against me. The prayer concluded, Mr. 
 Clayton coldly requested me to retire. I did so. I passed into the vestry, 
 which was separated from the main building by a very thin partition, 
 that enabled me to hear every word spoken in the chapel. Mr. Clayton 
 began. He introduced his subject by lamenting, in the most feeling 
 terms, the unhappy state of the brother who had just departed from the 
 congregation — (the crocodile weeping over the fate of the doomed wretch 
 he was about to destroy !). He had hoped great things of him. He had 
 believed him to be a child of God. It was not for him to judge their 
 brother now; but this was a world of disappointment, and the fairest 
 hopes were blasted, even as the rose withereth beneath the canker. They 
 all knew — it was not for him to disguise or hide the fact — that their 
 brother had not realised the ardent expectations that one and all had 
 formed of him. Their brother himself carried about with him this 
 miserable consciousness; and under such circumstances it was that he 
 proposed to withdraw from their communion, and to receive a dismission 
 that should entitle him to a seat elsewhere. It was for them to consider 
 how far they were justified in complying with his request. As for himself, 
 he was sorely distressed in spirit. His carnal heart urged him to listen 
 to the desire of his brother in the flesh, and that heart warred with his 
 
224 CALEE STUKELY. 
 
 spiritual conviction. To be charitable was one thing, to involve one's self 
 in guilt, to encourage sinfulness, and to reward backsliding — oh, surely, 
 this was another ! He had no right in his high capacity to indulge a per- 
 sonal affection. It was his glory that he could sacrifice it at the call of 
 duty. Accordingly, in the answer to the application that he had received, 
 he had humbly attempted rather to embody the views of the church, than 
 the suggestions of his own weak bosom. That answer he would now sub- 
 mit to them, and their voice must pronounce upon its justice. He did 
 not fear for them. They were highly privileged ; they had been wonder- 
 fully directed hitherto, and they would, adorned as they were with humi- 
 lity and faith, be directed even unto the end. 
 
 "Ha-nien!" responded Buster very audibly, and the minister forthwith 
 proceeded to his letter. 
 
 _ It was my honour to be represented in it as a person but too likely to 
 disturb the peace of any church ; whose conduct, however exemplary on 
 my first joining the congregation, had lately been such as to give great 
 reason to fear that I had been suddenly deprived of all godliness and grace ; 
 who had caused the brethren great pain ; and whom recent circumstances 
 had especially rendered an object of suspicion and alarm. There was 
 much more to the same effect. There was no distinct charge — nothing 
 tangible, or of which I could defy them to the proof. All was dark doubt 
 and murderous innuendo. There was nothing for which I could claim 
 relief from the laws of my country — more than enough to complete my 
 ruin. I burned with anger and indignation ; forgot everything but the 
 cold-blooded designs of the minister ; and, stung to action by the im- 
 minent danger in which I stood, I rushed at once from the vestry into 
 the midst of the congregation. Thompson was already on his legs, and 
 had ventured something on my behalf, which had been drowned in loud 
 and universal clamour. Silence was, in a measure, restored by my ap- 
 pearance, and I took the opportunity to demand from the minister a 
 perusal of the letter that had just been read. 
 
 He scowled upon me with a natural hate, and refused to comply with 
 my request. 
 
 " What !" I asked aloud, "am I denied the privilege that is extended to 
 the vilest of his species ? Will you condemn me unheard 1 Accuse me 
 in my absence — keep me in ignorance of my charge — and stab me in the 
 dark?" 
 
 I received no answer, and then I turned to the congregation. I im- 
 plored them — little knowing the men to Avhom I trusted my appeal — to 
 save me from the persecution of a man who had resolved upon my down- 
 fall. I asked nothing from them, from him, but the liberty of gaining, by 
 daily labour, an honourable subsistence. Would they deny it me? " 
 
 I was interrupted by groans and hisses, and loud cries of " Yes, yes !" 
 from Brother Buster. 
 
 I addressed the minister again. 
 
 " Mr. Clayton," said I, " beware how you tread me down. Beware how 
 you drive me to desperation. Cruel, heartless man ! What have I done 
 that you should follow me with this relentless spite 1 Can you sleep 1 Can 
 you walk and live without the fear of a punishment adequate to your 
 offence ? Let me go. Be satisfied that I possess the power of exposing 
 unheard-of turpitude and hypocrisy, and that I refrain from using it. 
 Dismiss me ; let me leave your sight for ever, and you are safe — for me." 
 
 "Viper!" exclaimed the minister, rising in his seat, "whom I have 
 warmed and nourished in my bosom ; viper ! whom I took to my hearth, 
 and kept there till the returning sense of life gave vigour to your blood 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 225 
 
 and fresh venom to your sting ! Is it thus you pay me back for food and 
 raiment — thus you heap upon me the expressions of a glowing gratitude ! 
 — with threats and deadly accusations 1 Spit forth your malice ! Pile 
 up falsehoods to the skies !— Who will believe the Tale of Proba- 
 bility ] Brethren ! behold the man whose cause I pleaded with you — for 
 whom my feelings had well nigh mastered my better judgment. Behold 
 him, and learn how hard it is to pierce the stony heart of him whose youth 
 has passed in dissolute living and in adultery. Shall I approach thy ear 
 with the voice of her who cries from the grave for justice on her seducer * 
 Look, my beloved, on the man whom I found discarded by mankind, 
 friendless and naked, whom I clothed and fostered, and whom I brought 
 in confidence amongst you. Look at him, and, oh, be warned !" 
 
 The hissing and groaning were redoubled. Thompson rose a dozen 
 times to speak, but a volley assailed him on each occasion, and he was 
 obliged to resume his seat. He grew irritated and violent ; and at length, 
 when the public disapprobation had reached its height, and for the twenty - 
 and-first time had cut short his address almost before he spoke, unable to 
 contain himself any longer, he uttered at the top of his stentorian voice a 
 fearful imprecation, and recommended to the care of a gentleman who 
 had more to do with that society than was generally supposed Mr. Clay- 
 ton, and every individual brother in the congregation. 
 
 Jabez Buster, after looking to the ceiling, and satisfying himself that it 
 had not fallen in, rose, dreadfully distressed. 
 
 " He had lived," he said, " to see sich sights and hear sich language as 
 had made his nature groan within him. He could only compare their 
 beloved minister to one of them there ancient martyrs who had died for 
 conscience' sake before Smithfield was a cattle-market ; but he hoped he 
 would have strength for the conflict, and that the congregation would 
 help him to fight the good fight. He called upon 'em all now to do their 
 duty, to exclude and excommunicate for ever the unrighteous brethren — 
 and to make them over to Satan without further delay." 
 
 The shout with which the proposition was received decided the fate of 
 poor Thompson and myself. It was hardly submitted, before it was 
 carried nemine contradicente ; and, immediately afterwards, Thompson 
 buttoned his coat in disgust, and was hooted out of the assembly. I fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 PART XII. 
 
 saints and sinners. 
 
 " Whatever shocks, or gives the least offence 
 To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense, 
 (Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide,) 
 Nor has, nor can have, Scripture on its side." 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 One of the first consequences of my unlooked-for meeting with the faithful 
 Thompson, was the repayment of the five shillings which he had so gene- 
 rously spared me when I was about to leave him for Birmingham without 
 
 Q 
 
226 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 as many pence in my scrip. During my absence, however, fortune Lad 
 placed my honest friend in a new relation to a sum of this value. Five 
 shillings were not to him, as before, sixty pence. The proprietor of the 
 house in which he lived, and which he had found it so difficult to let out to 
 his satisfaction, had died suddenly, and had thought proper to bequeath to 
 his tenant the bulk of his property, amounting, perhaps, to five thousand 
 pounds. Thompson, who was an upholsterer by trade, left the workshop 
 in which he was employed as journeyman immediately, and began to 
 work upon his own account. He was a prosperous and a thriving man 
 when I rejoined him. His manner was, as the reader has seen, kind and 
 straightforward as ever, and the only change that his wealth had wrought 
 in him, was that which gold may be supposed to work in a heart alive to 
 its duties, simple and honest in its intentions, and lacking only the means 
 to make known its strong desire of usefulness. His generosity had kept 
 pace with his success ; his good wishes outstripped both. His home was 
 finer, .yet scarcely more sightly and happier than the one large room, 
 which, with its complement of ten children, sire and dame, had still a 
 nook for the needy and friendless stranger. The old bouse had been made 
 over for a twelvemonth to the various tenants, free of all charge. At the 
 end of that period it was the intention of Thompson to pull it down, and 
 build a better in its place. 'A young widow, with her three orphans, 
 lodged on the attic floor, and the grateful prayers of the four went far to 
 establish the buoyancy of the landlord's spirit, and to maintain the smile 
 that seldom departed from his manly cheek. Well might the poor crea- 
 ture, whom 1 once visited in her happy lodging, talk of the sin of desti-oy- 
 ing so comfortable a residence, and feel assured, that " let them build a 
 palace, they would never equal the present house, or make a sleeping- 
 room where a body might rest so peacefully and well." Thompson's mode 
 of life had scarcely varied. He was not idle amongst his men. When 
 labour was suspended, he was with his children ; another had been added 
 to the number, and there were now eleven to relieve him of the super- 
 abundant profits created in the manufactory. Mrs. Thompson was still a 
 noble housewife, worthy of her husband. All was care, cleanliness, and 
 economy at home. Griping stint would never have been tolerated by the 
 hospitable master, and virtuous plenty only was admitted by the prudent 
 wife. Had there been a oneness in the religious views of this good couple, 
 Paradise would have been a word fit to write beneath the board that made 
 known to men John Thompson's occupation; but this, alas ! was wanting 
 to complete a scene that otherwise looked rather like perfection. The 
 great enemy of man seeks in many ways to defeat the benevolent aims of 
 Providence. Thompson had remained at home one Sunday afternoon to 
 smoke a friendly pipe with an old acquaintance, when he should have gone 
 to church. His wife set out alone. Satan took advantage of her husband's 
 absence, drew her to chapel, and made her — a dissenter. This was Thomp- 
 son's statement of the case, and severer punishment, he insisted, had never 
 been inflicted on a man for Sabbath-breaking. 
 
 Dismissed, as I expected, by Mr. Bombasty, it was a natural step to walk 
 towards the abode of the upholsterer. 1 knew his hour for supper, and 
 his long hour after that for ale, and pipe, and recreation. I was not in 
 doubt as to my welcome. Mrs. Thompson had given me a general invita- 
 tion to supper, " because," she said, " it did Thompson good to chat after 
 a hard day's work ; " and the respected Thompson himself had especially 
 invited me to the long hour afterwards, "because," he added, "it did the 
 ale and 'baccy good, who liked it so much better to go out of this here 
 wicked world in company." About seven o'clock in the evening I found 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 227 
 
 myself under their hospitable roof, seated in the room devoted to the 
 general purposes of the house. It was large, and comfortably furnished. 
 The -walls were of wainscot, painted white, and were graced with two 
 paintings. One, a family group, consisting of Thompson, wife, and eight 
 children, most wretchedly executed, was the production of a slowly rising 
 artist, a former lodger of my friend's, who had contrived to compound 
 with his easy landlord for two years and three quarters' rent with this 
 striking display of his ability. Thompson was prouder of this picture 
 than of the originals themselves, if that were possible. The design had 
 been his own, and had cost him, as he was ready and even anxious to ac- 
 knowledge, more time and trouble than he had ever given before, or meant 
 to give again, to any luxury in life. The artist, as I was informed, had 
 endeavoured to reduce to form some fifty different schemes that had arisen 
 in poor Thompson's brain, but had failed in every one, so difficult he found 
 it to introduce the thousand and one effects that the landlord deemed es- 
 sential to the subject. His first idea had been to bring upon the canvas 
 every feature of his life from boyhood upwards. This being impracticable, 
 he wished to bargain for at least the workshop and the private residence. 
 The lodgers, he thought, might come into the background well, and the 
 tools, peeping from a basket in the corner, would look so much like life 
 and nature. The upshot of his plans was the existing »vork of art, which 
 Thompson considered matchless, and pronounced " dirt cheap, if he had 
 even given the fellow a seven years' lease of the entire premises." The 
 situations were striking certainly. In the centre of the picture were two 
 high chairs, on which were seated, as grave as judges, the heads of the 
 establishment. They sat there, drawn to their full height, too dignified 
 to look at one another, and yet displaying a fond attachment, by a joining 
 of the hands. The youngest child had clambered to the father's knee, 
 and, with £ chisel, was digging at his nose, wonderful to say, without 
 disturbing the stoic equanimity that had settled on the father's face. This 
 was the favourite son. Another, with a plane larger than himself, was 
 menacing the mother's knee. The remaining six had each a tool, and 
 served in various ways to effect most artfully the beloved purpose of the 
 vain upholsterer's heart — viz. the introduction of the entire workshop. 
 The second painting in the centre of the opposite wall represented Mr. 
 Clayton. The likeness was a failure, and the colours were coarse and 
 glaring ; but there needed no instruction to know that the carefully-framed 
 production attempted to pourtray the unenviable. man, who, in spite of his 
 immorality and shameless life, was still revered and idolised by the blind 
 disciples who had taken him for their guide. This portrait vras Mrs. 
 Thompson's peculiar property. There were no other articles of rertu in 
 the spacious apartment ; but cleanliness and decorum bestowed upon it a 
 grace, the absence of which no idle decoration could supply. Early as 
 the hour was, a saucepan was on the fire, whose bubbling water wa3 bus}' 
 with the supper that at half-past eight must meet the assault of many 
 knives and forks. John Thompson and two sons — the eldest — were work- 
 ing in the shop. They had been there with little intermission since six 
 that morning. The honest man was fond of work ; so was he of his 
 children — yes, dearly fond of them, and they must share with him the 
 evening meal ; and he must have them all about him ; and he must help 
 them all, and see them eat, and look with manly joy and pride upon the 
 noisy youngsters, for whom his lusty arm had earned the bread that came 
 like manna to him — so wholesome and so sweet ! Three girls, humbly but 
 neatly dressed, the three first steps of this great human ladder, were 
 seated at a table administering to the necessities of sundry shirts and 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 stockings that had suffered sensibly in their last week's struggle through 
 the world. They were indeed a picture worth the looking at. You grew 
 a better man in gazing on their innocence and industry. What a lesson 
 stole from their quiet and contented looks, their patient perseverance, 
 their sweet unity ! How shining smooth the faces, how healthy and how 
 round, and how impossible it seemed for wrinkles ever to disturb the 
 fine and glossy surface ! Modesty never should forsake the humble ; the 
 bosom of the lowly-born should be her home. Here she had enshrined 
 herself, and given to simplicity all her dignity and truth. They worked 
 and worked on ; who should tell which was the most assiduous— which 
 the fairest — which the most eager and successful to increase the happiness 
 of all ! And turn to Billy there, that half-tamed urchin ! that likeness in 
 little of his sire, rocking, not so much against his will as against convic- 
 tion, the last of all theThompsons— a six months' infant in the wicker 
 cradle. How, obedient to his mother's wish, like a little man at first, he 
 rocks with all his might, and then irregularly, and at long intervals— by 
 fits and starts— and ceases altogether very soon, bobbing his curly head, 
 and falling gently into a deep mesmeric sleep. The older lads are making 
 wooden boats, and two, still older, stand on either side their mother. A 
 book is in the hands of each, full of instruction and fine learning. It 
 was the source of all their knowledge, the cause of all their earliest woes. 
 Good Mrs. Thompson had been neglected as a child, and was enthusiastic 
 in the cause of early education. Sometimes they looked into the book, 
 but oftener still they cast attentive eyes upon the fire, as if " the book of 
 knowledge fair" was there displayed, and not a noisy saucepan, almost un- 
 able to contain itself for joy of the cod's head and shoulders that must be 
 ready by John Thompson^ supper- time. The whole family were my friends 
 — with the boys I was on terms of warmest intimacy, and smiles and nods, 
 and shouts and cheers, welcomed me amongst them. 
 
 " Now, close your book, Bob," said the mother, soon after I was seated, 
 " and, Alec, give me yours. Put your hands down, turn from the fire, and 
 look up at me, dears. What is the capital of Russia'?" 
 
 "The Birman empire !" said Alec, with unhesitating confidence. 
 
 "The Baltic sea !" cried Bob, emulous and ardent. 
 
 « Wait— not so fast ; let me see, my dears, which of you is right." 
 
 Mrs. Thompson appealed immediately to her book, after a long and 
 private communication with which, she emphatically pronounced both 
 
 now wrong. • 
 
 " Give us a chance, mother," said Bob, in a wheedling tone (Bob knew 
 his mother's weaknesses). '* Them's such hard words. I don't know how 
 it is, but I never can remember 'em. Just tell us the first syllable— oh, do 
 now — please !" 
 
 " Oh, I know now !" cried Alec. "It's something with a G in it." 
 
 "Think of the apostles, dears. What are the name of the apostles'?" 
 
 " Why, there's Moses," began Bob, counting on his fingers, " and there's 
 Sammy well, and there's Aaron, and Noah's ark " 
 
 " Stop, my dear," said Mrs. Thompson, who was very busy with her 
 manual, and contriving a method of rendering a solution of her question 
 easy. "Just begin again. I said — who was Peter — no, not that— who 
 was an apostle 1 ?" 
 
 "Oh, 1 know now !" cried Alec again (Alec was the sharp boy of the 
 family). "It's Peter. Peter's the capital of Russia !" 
 
 " No, not quite, my dear. You are very warm — very warm indeed, but 
 not quite hot. Try again." 
 
 " Paul," half murmured Robert, with a reckless hope of proving right. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 229 
 
 " Xo, Peter's right ; but there's something else. What has your father 
 been taking down the beds for?" 
 
 There was a solemn silence, and the three industrious sisters blushed 
 the faintest blush that could be raised upon a maiden's cheek. 
 
 " To rub that stuff upon the walls," said the ready Alec. 
 
 " Yes, but what was it to kill?" continued the instructress. 
 
 " The fleas," said Bob. 
 
 " Worse than that, my dear." 
 
 "Oh, I know now!" shrieked Alec for the third time. " Peter slug's 
 the capital of Russia ! " 
 
 Mrs. Thompson looked at me with pardonable vanity and triumph, and 
 I bestowed upon the successful students a few comfits which I had pur- 
 chased on my road for my numerous and comfit-loving friends. The mere 
 sight of this sweet " reward of merit" immediately inspired the two boys 
 at work upon the boats with a desire for knowledge, and especially for 
 learning the capitals of countries, that was most agreeable to contemplate. 
 The lesson was continued, more to my amusement, I fear, than the edifi- 
 cation of the pupils. The boys were unable to answer a single question 
 until they had had so many chances, and had become so very hot, that 
 not to have answered at length would have bordered on the miraculous. 
 The persevering governess was not displeased at this ; for she would not 
 have lost the opportunity of displaying her own skill in metaphorical 
 illustration for a great deal, I am very sure. The clock struck eight ; 
 there was a general movement. The three sisters folded their work, and 
 lodged it carefully in separate drawers. The eldest then produced the 
 table-cloth, knives, forks, and spoons. The second exhibited bibs and 
 pinafores ; and the third brought from their hiding-places a dozen modest 
 chairs, and placed them round the table. Bob assured the company " he 
 was so hungry;" Alec said, " so was he ;" and the boatmen, in an under 
 tone, settled what should be done with the great cod's eyes, which, they 
 contended, were the best parts of the fish, and " shouldn't they be glad if 
 father would give 'em one a-piece ! " The good woman must enquire, of 
 course, how nearly the much-relished dainty had reached the critical and 
 interesting state when it became most palatable to John Thompson ; for 
 John Thompson was an epicure, " and must have his little bits of things 
 done to a charm, or not at all." Half-past eight had struck. The family 
 were bibbed and pinafored ; the easy coat and slippers were at the fire, 
 and warmed through and through — it was a season of intenseness. 
 " Here's father ! " shouted Alec, and all the bibs and pinafores rushed 
 like a torrent to the door. "Which shall the father catch into his ready 
 arms, which kiss, which hug, which answer ? — all are upon him ; they 
 know their playmate, their companion and best friend ; they have hoarded 
 up, since the preceding night, a hundred things to say, and now they have 
 got their loving and attentive listener. " Look what I have done, father," 
 says the chief boatman, '-Tom and I together." "Well done, boys!" 
 says the father — and Tom and he are kissed. " I have been rocking 
 baby," lisps little Billy, who, in return, gets rocked himself. " Father, 
 what's the capital of Russia \" shrieks Alec, tugging at his coat. " "What 
 do you mean, you dog?" is the reply, accompanied by a hearty shake of 
 his long flaxen hair. "Petersbug!" cry Tom and Alec both, following 
 him to the hearth, each one endeavouring to relieve him of his boots as 
 soon as he is seated there. The family circle is completed. The flaky 
 fish is ready, and presented for inspection. The father has served them 
 all, even to little Billy — their plates are full and smoking. " Mother" 
 is called upon to ask a blessing. She rises, and assumes the looks of 
 
230 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 Jabez Buster — twenty blessings might be asked and granted in half 
 the time she takes — so think and look Bob, Alec, and the boatmen; but 
 at length she pauses — the word is given, and further ceremony is dis- 
 pensed with. In childhood, supper is a thing to look forward to, and to 
 last when it arrives ; but not in childhood, any more than in old age, can 
 sublunary joys endure for ever. The meal is finished. A short half hour 
 flies, like lightning, by. The children gather round their father ; and in 
 the name of all, upon his knees, he thanks his God for all the mercies of 
 the day. Thompson is no orator. His heart is warm ; his words are few 
 and simple. The three attendant graces take charge of their brethren, 
 detach them from their father's side, and conduct them to their beds. 
 Happy father ! happy children ! May Providence be merciful, and keep 
 the grim enemy away from your fireside ! Let him not come now in the 
 blooming beauty and the freshness of your loves ! Let him not darken 
 and embitter for ever the life that is still bright, beautiful, and glorious in 
 the power of elevating and sustaining thought that leads beyond it. Let 
 him wait the matured and not unexpected hour, when the shock comes, 
 not to crush, to overwhelm, and to annihilate, but to warn, to teach, and 
 to encourage ; not to alarm and stagger the untaught spirit, but to bring 
 to the subdued and long-tried soul its last lesson on the vanity and eva- 
 nescence of its early dreams ! 
 
 It is half-past nine o'clock. Thompson, his wife, and two eldest boys 
 are present, and, for the first time, I have an opportunity to make known 
 the object of my visit. 
 
 "And so they have turned you off," said Thompson, when I had 
 finished. " And who's surprised at that 1 Not I, for one. Missus," con- 
 tinued he, turning to his wife, " why haven't you got a curtain yet for 
 that 'ere pictur ! I can't a-bear the sight of it." 
 
 Mrs. Thompson looked plaintively towards the painting, and heaved a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Ah, dear good man ! He has got his enemies," said she. 
 
 "Mrs. Thompson !" exclaimed her husband, "I have done with that 
 good man from this day for'ards ; and I do hope, old 'ooman, that you'll 
 go next Sunday to church with me, as we used to do afore you got that 
 pictur painted." 
 
 " It's no good talking, Thompson," answered the lady, positively and 
 firmly. " I can't sit under a cold man, and there's an end of it." 
 
 " There, that's the way you talk, missus." 
 
 " Why, you know, Thompson, everything in the church is cold." 
 
 " No, not now, my dear — they've put up a large stove. You'll recollect 
 you haven't been lately." 
 
 " Besides, do you think I can sit in a place of worship, and hear a man 
 say 'Let us pray' in the middle of the service, making a fool of one, as 
 if we hadn't been praying all the time ! As that dear and persecuted 
 saint says (turning to the picture), it's a common assault to our under- 
 standings." 
 
 " Now, Polty, that's just always how you go off. If you'd only listen 
 to reason, that could all be made out right in no time. The clergyman 
 doesn't mean to say Let us pray because he hasn't been praying afore ; 
 — -what he means is — we have been praying all this time, and so we'll go 
 on praying again — no, not again exactly — but don't leave off. That isn't 
 what I mean, either. Let me see — Let us pray. Oh, yes ! Why— stay. 
 Where is it he does say Let us pray ? There, I say, Stukely, you know 
 it all much better than I do. Just make it right to the missus." 
 
 " It is not difficult/' said I. 
 
fjff 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 231 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Stukely, I dare say not ! " added Mrs. Thompson, inter- 
 rupting me. "Mr. Clayton says, Satan has got his janysarries abroad, 
 and has a reason for everything. It is very proper to say, too, I suppose, 
 that it is an imposition when the bishops ordain the ministers '] What a 
 word to make use of ! It's frightful !" 
 
 '•Well, I'm blessed," exclaimed Thompson, "if I don't think }'Ou had 
 better hold your tongue, old girl, about impositions ; for sieh oudacious 
 robbers as your precious brothers is, I never come across since I was 
 stopped that ere night, as we were courting, on Shooter's Hill ! It's a 
 system of imposition from beginning to end." 
 
 " Look to your Bible, Thompson ; what does that say % Does that tell 
 ministers to read their sermons] There can't be no truth and right feel- 
 ing when a man puts down what he's going to say ; the vital warmth is 
 wanting, I'm sure. And then to read the same prayers Sunday after 
 Sunday, till a body get's quite tired at hearing them over and over again, 
 and finding nothing new ! How can you improve an occasion if you are 
 tied down in this sort of way." 
 
 "Did you ever see one of the brothers eat, Stukely'?" asked Thompson, 
 avoiding the main subject. " Don't 3-011 ask one of them to dinner — 
 that's all. That nice boy Buster ought to eat for a wager. I had the 
 pleasure of his company to dinner one fine afternoon. I don't mean to 
 send him another invitation just yet, at all events."' 
 
 "Yes," proceeded the fair, but stanch nonconformist: "what does the 
 Bible say indeed ! 'Take no thought of what you should say.' Why, in 
 the church, I am told they are doing nothing else from Monday morning 
 to Saturday night but writing the sermon they are going to read on the 
 Sabbath. To read a sermon ! What would the apostles say to that V 
 
 " Why, didn't you tell me, my dear, that the gentleman as set for that 
 pictur got all his sermons by heart before he preached 'em!" 
 
 " Of course I did — but that's a very different thing. Doesn't it all pour 
 from him as natural as if it had come to him that minute 1 He doesn't 
 fumble over a book like a schoolboy. His beautiful eyes, I warrant you, 
 ain't looking down all the time, as if he was ashamed to hold 'em up. 
 Isn't it a privilege to see his blessed eyes rolling all sorts of ways; and 
 don't they speak wolumes to the poor benighted sinner ] Besides, don't 
 tell me, Thompson; we had better turn Catholics at once, if we are to have 
 the minister dressing up like the Pope of Rome, and all the rest of it." 
 
 " You are the gal of my heart!" exclaimed the uxorious Thompson; 
 "but I must say, you have got some of the disgracefulest notions out of that 
 ere chapel as ever I heard on. Why, it's only common decency to wear a 
 dress in the pulpit ; and I believe in my mind, that that's come down to 
 us from time immemorable, like everything else in human natur. 
 What's your opinion, Stukely?" 
 
 "Yes; and what's your opinion, Mr. Stukely," added the lady imme- 
 diately, "about calling a minister of the gospel — spriest? Is that Pa- 
 peristical or not 1 ?" 
 
 " That isn't the pint, Polly," proceeded John. " We are talking about 
 the dress. Let's have that out first." 
 
 " And then the absolution " 
 
 " No, Poll. Stick to the dress." 
 
 "Ah, Thompson, it's always the way !" continued the mistress of the 
 house, growing red and wroth, and heedless of the presence of the eager- 
 listening children ; " it's always the way. Satan is ruining of you. You'll 
 laugh at the elect, and you'll not find your mistake out till it's too late to 
 alter. Mr. Clayton says that the Establishment is the hothouse of devils; 
 
232 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 and the more I see of its ways, the more I feel he is right. Thompson, 
 you are in the sink of iniquity. " 
 
 " Come, I can't stand no more of this," exclaimed Thompson, growing- 
 uneasy in his chair, but without a spark of ill-humour. Let's change the 
 topic, old 'ooman ; I'm sure it can't do the young uns any good to hear 
 this idle talk. Let's teach 'em nothing at all, if we can't larn 'em some- 
 thing better than wrangling about religion. Now Jack," he continued, 
 turning to his eldest boy, " what is the matter with you ? What are you 
 sitting there for with your mouth wide open 1 " 
 
 "What's the meaning of Paperist, father ]" asked the boy, who had been 
 long waiting to propose the question. 
 
 " What's that to you, you rascal 1 ?" was the reply; "mind your own bu- 
 siness, my good fellow, and leave the Paperist to mind his'n ; that's your 
 father's maxim, who got it from his father before him. You'll learn to 
 find fault with other people fast enough without my teaching you. I tell 
 you what, Jack, if you look well after yourself, you'll find little time left 
 to bother about others. If your hands are ever idle — recollect you have 
 ten brothers and sisters. Look about you — you are the oldest boy — and 
 see what vou can do for them. Do you mind that ?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Very well, old chap. Then just get out the bottle, and give your fa- 
 ther something to coax the cod down. Poll, that fish won't settle." 
 
 The long hour was beginning. That bottle was the signal. A gin-and- 
 water nightcap, on this occasion, officiated for the ale. Jack and his 
 brother received a special invitation to a sip or two, which they at once 
 unhesitatingly accepted. The sturdy fellows shook their father and fellow- 
 labourer's hand, and were not loth to go to rest. Their mother was their 
 attendant. The ruffle had departed from her face. It was as pleasant as 
 before. She was but half a dissenter. So Thompson thought when he 
 called her back again, and bade his " old 'ooman give her hubby one of 
 her good old-fashioned busses, and think no more about it." 
 
 Thompson and I were left together. 
 
 " And what do you mean to do, sir, now ?" was his first question. 
 
 " I hardly know," I answered. 
 
 " Of course, you'll cut the gang entirely — that's a nat'ral consequence." 
 
 " No, Thompson, not at present. I must not seem so fickle and incon- 
 stant. I must not seem so to myself. I joined this sect not altogether 
 without deliberation. I must have further proof of the unsoundness of its 
 principles. A few of its professors have been faithless even to their own 
 position. Of what religious profession may not the same be said 1 ? I will 
 be patient, and examine further." 
 
 " I was a-thinking," said Thompson musingly — "'I was a-thinking, till 
 
 you've got something else to do but no, never mind, you won't like 
 
 that." 
 
 "What is it V 
 
 " Why, I was thinking about the young uns. They're shocking back'ard 
 in their eddication, and, between you and me, the missus makes them 
 back'arder. I don't understand the way she has got of laming 'em at all. 
 I don't want to make scholards of 'em. Nobody would but a fool. Bless 
 'em, they'll have enough to do to get their bread with sweating and toil- 
 ing, without addling their brains about things they can't understand. 
 But it is a cruelty, mind you, for a parent to hinder his child from reading 
 his Bible on a Sunday afternoon, and to make him stand ashamed of him- 
 self before his fellow workmen Avhen he grows up, and finds that he can't 
 put paid to a bill on a Saturday night. The boys should all know how to 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 233 
 
 read and write, and keep accounts, and a little summut of human nature. 
 This is what I wants to give 'em, and nobody should I like better to put it 
 into 'em than you, my old friend, if you'd just take the trouble 'till you've 
 got something better to do."; 
 
 " Thompson," I answered instantly. "I will do it with pleasure. I ought 
 to have made the offer. It did not occur to me. I shall rejoice to repay 
 you, in this trifling way, for all your good feeling and kindness." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " answered my friend, " none of that. We must have an un- 
 derstanding. Don't you think I should have asked the question, if I 
 meant to sneak out in that dirty sort of way. ZSo, that won't do- 
 It's very kind of you ; but we must 'make all that right. We shan't quar- 
 rel, I dare say. If you mean you'll do it, I have only just a word or two to 
 say before you begin." 
 
 "I shall "be proud to serve you, Thompson, and on any terms you 
 please." 
 
 " Well, it is a serving me — I don't deny it ; but mind you, only till you 
 have dropped into something worth your while. What I wish to say is as 
 this : — As soon as ever my missus hears of what you are going to do, I 
 know as well what she'll be at as I know what I am talking of now. She'll 
 just be breaking my heart to have the boys larned French. Now, I'djust 
 as soon bind 'em apprentice to that 'ere Clayton. I've seen too much of 
 that 'ere sort of thing in my time. I'm as positive as I sit here, that when 
 a chap begins to talk"French he loses all his English spirit, and feels as 
 like a mounseer as possible. I'm sure he does. I've seen it a hundred 
 times, and that I couldn't a-bear. Besides, I've been told that French is 
 the language the thieves talk, and I solemnly believe it. That's one 
 thing. Now here's another. You'll excuse me, my dear fellow. In 
 course you know more than I do : but I must say that you have got some- 
 times a' very roundabout way of coming to the pint. 1 mean no offence, 
 and I don't blame you. It's all along of the company you have kept. 
 You are — it's the only fault you have got— you are oudaciously fond of 
 hard words. Don't let the young uns larn 'em. That's all I have to say, 
 and we'll talk of the pay some other time." 
 
 At this turn of the conversation, Thompson insisted upon my lighting a 
 pipe and joining him in the gin-and-water. We smoked for many mi- 
 nutes in silence. My friend had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and had 
 drawn the table nearer to his warm and hospitable fire. A log of wood 
 was burning slowly and steadily away, and a small, bright — very bright — 
 copper kettle overlooked it from the hob. My host had fixed his feet 
 upon the fender— the unemployed hand was in his corduroys. His eyes 
 were three parts closed, enjoying what from its origin may be called — a 
 pure tobacco-born soliloquy. The smoke arose in thin white curls from 
 the clay cup, and at regular periods stole blandly from the corner of his 
 lips. The silent man was blessed. He had been happy at his work ; he 
 had grown happier as the sun went down ; his happiness was ripening at 
 the supper-table ; — novj, half asleep and half awake — half conscious and 
 half dreaming — wholly free from care, and yet not free from pregnant 
 thought — the labourer had reached the summit of felicity, and was at 
 peace — intensely. 
 
 A few evenings only had elapsed after this interesting meeting, before 
 I was again spending a delicious hour or two with the simple-hearted 
 and generous upholsterer. There was something very winning in these 
 moments snatched and secured from the hurricane of life, and passed in 
 thorough and undisturbed enjoyment. My friend, notwithstanding that 
 he had engaged my services, and was pleased to express his satisfaction at 
 
234 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 the mode in which I rendered them, was yet alive to my interests, and 
 too apprehensive of injuring them by keeping me away from loftier em- 
 ployment. He did not like my being throw* out of the chapel, especially 
 after he had heard my determination not to forsake immediately the sect 
 to which I had attached myself. He was indifferent to his own fate. His 
 worldly prospects could not be injured by his expulsion ; on the con- 
 trary, he slily assured me that " his neighbours would begin to think 
 better of him, and give him credit for having become an honester and 
 more trustworthy man." But with regard to myself it was a different 
 thing. I should require "a character" at some time or another, and 
 there was a body of men primed and ready to vilify and crush me. He 
 advised me, whilst he acknowledged it was a hard thing to say, and 
 " it went agin him to do it," to apply once more respectfully for my dis- 
 mission. " It won't do," he pertinently said, " to bite your nose off to be 
 revenged on your tongue." I was certainly in a mess, and must get out 
 of it in the best way that I could. Buster and Tomkins had great power 
 in the Church, and if I represented my case to either or both of them, he 
 did hope they might be brought to consent not to injure me, or stand in 
 the way of my getting bread. " In a quarrel," he said, in conclusion, 
 " some one must give in. I was a young man, and had my way to make, 
 and though he should despise hisself if he recommended me to do any- 
 thing mean and dirty in the business, yet he thought, as the father of a 
 numerous family, he ought to advise me to be civil, and to do the best for 
 myself in this unfortunate dileinmy." 
 
 I accepted his advice, and determined to wait upon the dapper deacon. 
 I was physically afraid to encounter Buster, not so much on account of 
 his spiritual pretension, as of what I had heard of his domestic behaviour. 
 It was not a very difficult task to obtain from Mrs. Thompson the secret 
 history of many of her highly-privileged acquaintances and brethren. 
 She enjoyed, in a powerful degree, the peculiar virtue of her amiable sex, 
 and to communicate secrets, delivered to her in strictest confidence, and 
 imparted by her again with equal caution and provisory care, vas the 
 choicest recreation of her well-employed and useful life. It was through 
 this lady that I was favoured with a glance into the natural heart of Mr. 
 Buster ; or into what he would himself have called, with a most unfilial 
 disgust, " his old man." It appeared that, like most great actors, he was 
 a very different personage before and behind the curtain. Kings, who 
 are miserable and gloomy through the five acts of a dismal tragedy, and 
 who must needs die at the end of it. are your merriest knaves over a 
 tankard at the Shakspeare's Head. Your stage fool shall be the dullest 
 dog that ever spoiled mirth with sour and discontented looks. Jabez 
 Buster, his employment being over at Mr. Clayton's theatre, his dress 
 thrown aside, his mask put by, was not to be recognised by his nearest 
 friend. This is the perfection of art. A greater tyrant on a small scale, 
 with limited means, never existed than the saintly Buster when his cha- 
 racter was done, and he found himself again in the bosom of his family. 
 Unhappy bosom was it, and sad flustration did his presence, nine times 
 out of ten, produce there. He had four sons, and a delicate creature for 
 a wife, born to be crushed. The sons were remarkable chiefly for their 
 hypocrisy, which promised, in the fulness of time, to throw their highly- 
 gifted parent's far into the shade ; and secondarily, for their persecution 
 of their helpless and indulgent mother. They witnessed and approved 
 so much the success of Jabez in this particular, that during his absence 
 they cultivated the affectionate habit until it became a kind of second 
 nature, infinitely more racy and agreeable than the primary. In propor- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 235 
 
 tion to their deliberate oppression of their mother, was their natural 
 dread and terror of their father. Mrs. Thompson pronounced it " the 
 shockingest thing in this world to he present when the young blue-beards 
 were worriting their mother's soul out with saying, ' i" shan't' and ' / 
 won't' to everything, and swearing ' they'd tell their father this,' ' and 
 put him up to that, and then wouldn't he make a jolly row about it;' with 
 hollering out for nothing at all, only to frighten the poor timid cretur, 
 and then making a holabaloo with the chairs, or perhaps falling down, 
 roaring and kicking, just to drive the poor thing clean out of her wits, on 
 purpose to laugh at her for being so taken in. Well, but it was a great 
 treat, too," she added, " to hear, in the midst of all this, Buster's heavy 
 foot in the passage, and to see what a scrimmage there was at once 
 amongst all the young hypocrites. How they all run in different direc- 
 tions — one to the fire — one to the table — one out at the back-door — one 
 anywhere he could — all of 'em as silent as mice, and afear'd of the very 
 eye of the blacksmith, who knew, good man, how to keep every man Jack 
 of 'em in order, and, if a word didn't do, wasn't by no means behind-hand 
 with blows. Buster," she continued, " had his faults like other men, biyt 
 he was a saint if ever there was one. To be sure, he did like to have his 
 own way at home, and wasn't it natural ? And if he was rather overbearing 
 and cruel to his wife, wasn't that, she should like to know, Satan warring 
 with the new man, and sometimes getting the better of if? And if he 
 was, as Thompson had hinted, rayther partial to the creature, and liked 
 good living, what was this to the purpose ! it was an infirmity that might 
 happen to the best Christian living. Nobody could say that he wasn't a 
 renewed man, and a chosen wessel, and faithful to his call. A man isn't 
 a backslider because he's carnally weak, and a man isn't a saint because 
 he's moral and well-behaved. r Good works,' Mr. Clayton said, 'were 
 filthy rags;' and so they were. To be sure, between themselves, there 
 were one or two things said about Buster that she couldn't approve of. 
 For instance, she had been told — but this was quite in confidence, and 
 really must not go further— that Buster very often kept out late at night 
 — sometimes didn't come home at all, and sometimes did at two o'clock 
 in the morning, very hungry and ill-tempered ; and then forced his poor 
 wife out of bed, and made the delicate and shivering creature light a fire, 
 cook beef-steaks, go into the yard for beer, and wait upon him till he had 
 even eat every morsel up. She for one would never believe all this, 
 though Mrs. Buster herself had told her every word with tears in her 
 eyes, and in the greatest confidence ; so she trusted I wouldn't repeat it, 
 as it wouldn't look well in her to be found out telling other people's 
 secrets." 
 
 Singular, perhaps, to say, the tale did not go further. I kept the lady's 
 secret, and at the same time declined to approach Mr. Jabez Buster in the 
 character of a suppliant. If his advocate and panegyrist had nothing 
 more to say for him, it could not be uncharitable to conclude that the 
 pretended saint was as bold a sinner as ever paid infamous courtship to 
 religion, and as such was studiously to be avoided. I turned my attention 
 from him to Tomkins. There was no grossness about him, no brutality, 
 no abominable vice. In the hour of my defeat and desertion, he had 
 extended to me his sympathy, and more in sorrow than in anger, I am 
 convinced, he voted for my expulsion from the church when he found 
 that his vote, and twenty added to it, would not have been sufficient to 
 protect me. He could not act in opposition to the wishes of his friend 
 and patron, Mr. Clayton ; but very glad would he have been, as even- 
 word and look assured me, to meet the wishes of us both, had that been 
 
236 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 practicable. If the great desire of Jehu Tomkins's heart could have been 
 gratified, he never would have been at enmity with a single soul on 
 earth. He was a soft, good-natured, easy man ; most desirous to be let 
 alone, and not uneasily envious or distressed to see his neighbours jog- 
 ging on, so long as he could do his own good stroke of business, and 
 keep a little way before them. Jehu was a Liberal too — in politics and in 
 religion : in everything, in fact, but the one small article of money, and 
 here, I must confess, the good Dissenter dissented little from the best of 
 us. He was a stanch Conservative in matters connected with the till. 
 For his private life it was exemplary — at least it looked so to the world. 
 and the world is satisfied with what it sees. Jehu was attentive to his 
 business — yes, very — and a business life is not monotonous and dull, if it 
 be relieved, as it was in this case, by dexterous arts, that give an interest 
 and flavour to the commonest pursuits. Sometimes a customer would die 
 — a natural state of things, but a great event for Jehu. First, he would 
 "improve the occasion" to the surviving relatives — condole and pray with 
 them. Afterwards he would improve it to himself, in his own little room 
 at night, when all the children were asleep, and no one was awake but 
 Mrs. Tomkins and himself. Then he would get down his ledger, and 
 turn to the deceased's account — 
 
 " How long it is thou soe'st, 
 
 And lie would gaze till it became much longer;'' 
 
 " For who could tell whether six shirts or twelve were bought in July last ; 
 and what could be the harm of making those eight handkerchiefs a dozen? 
 He was a strange old gentleman ; lived by himself — and the books might 
 be referred to, and speak boldly for themselves." Yes, cunning Jehu, so 
 they might ; with those interpolations and erasures that would confound 
 and overcome a lawyer. When customers did not die, it was pastime to 
 be dallying with the living. In adding up a bill with haste, how many 
 times will four and four make nine ! They generally did with Jehu. The 
 best are liable to errors. It cost a smirk or smile ; Jehu had hundreds at 
 command, and the accident was amended. How easy is it sometimes to 
 give no bill at all ! How very easy to apply, a few months afterwards, for 
 second payment ; how much more easy still to pocket it without a word : 
 or, if discovered and convicted, to apologize without a blush for the 
 mistake ! With regard to the domestic position of my interesting friend, 
 it is painful to add, that the less that is said about it the better. In vain 
 was his name in full, painted in large yellow letters, over the shop front. 
 In vain was Bo 1 , of Jehu Tomkins engraven on satin paper, with flourishes 
 innumerable beneath the royal arms ; he was no more the master of his 
 house than was the small boy of the establishment, who did the dirty work 
 of the place for nothing a- week and the broken victuals. If Jehu was deacon 
 abroad, he was taught to acknowledge an mrMeacon at home — one to 
 whom he was indebted for his success in life, and for reminding him of 
 that agreeable fact about four times during every day of his existence. I 
 was aware of this delicate circumstance when I ventured to the linen- 
 draper's shop on my almost hopeless mission : but, although I had never 
 spoken to Mrs. Tomkins, I had often seen her in the chapel, and I relied 
 much on the feeling and natural tenderness of the female heart. The re- 
 spectable shop of Mr. Tomkins was in Fleet Street. The establishment 
 consisted of Mrs. Tomkins premi&rej Jehu, under secretary; and four 
 sickly-looking young ladies behind the counter. It is to be said, to the 
 honour of Mrs. Tomkins, that she admitted no young woman into her ser- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 237 
 
 vice whose character was not decided, and whose views were not very clear. 
 Accordingly, the four young ladies were members of the chapel. It is 
 pleasing to reflect, that, in this well-ordered house of business, the ladies 
 took their turns to attend the weekly prayer-meetings of the church ! 
 Would that I might add, that they were not severally met on these occa- 
 sions by their young men at the corner of Chancery Lane, and invariably 
 escorted by them some two or three miles in a totally opposite direction. 
 Had Mrs. Tomkins been born a man, it is difficult to decide what situation 
 she would have adorned the most. She would have made a good man of 
 business— an acute lawyer— a fine casuist— a great divine. Her attain- 
 ments were immense ; her self-confidence unbounded. She was a woman 
 of middle height and masculine bearing. She was not prepossessing not- 
 withstanding her white teeth and large mouth, and the intolerable grin that 
 a customer to the amount of a halfpenny and upwards could bring upon 
 her face under any circumstances and at any hour of the day. Her com- 
 plexion might have been good originally. Red blotches scattered over her 
 cheek had destroyed its beauty. She wore a modest and becoming cap, and 
 a gold eyeglass round her neck. She was devoted to money-making — 
 heart and soul devoted to it during business hours. What time she was 
 not in the shop, she passed amongst dissenting ministers, spiritual brethren, 
 and deluded sinners. It remains to state the fact, that, whilst a customer 
 never approached the lady without being repelled by the offensive smirk 
 that she assumed, no dependent ever ventured near her without the fear of 
 the scowl that sat naturally (and fearfully when she pleased) upon her dark 
 and inauspicious brow. What wonder that little Jehu was crushed into 
 nothingness, behind his own counter, under the eye of his own wife ! 
 
 It was not without misgiving that I knocked modestly at the door of 
 Mr. Jehu Tomkins. For himself, there was no solidity in his moral compo- 
 sition — nothing to grapple or rely upon. He was a small weak man, of 
 no character at all ; and but for his powerful wife and active partner, would 
 have become the smallest of unknown quantities in the respectable parish 
 that contained him. Upon his own weak shoulders he could not have sus- 
 tained the burden of an establishment, and must inevitably have dwindled 
 into the lightest of light porters, or the most aged of errand-boys. As for 
 the deaconess, I have said already that the fact of her being a lady, and the 
 possessor of a heart, constituted the only ground of hope that I could 
 have in reference to her. This I felt to be insecure enough when I held 
 the knocker in my hand, and remembered all at once the many little tales 
 that I had heard, every one of which went far to prove that ladies may be 
 ladies without the generous weakness of their sex — and carry hearts about 
 with them as easily as they carry bags. 
 
 My first application was unsuccessful. The deacon was not at home. 
 " Mr. Tomkins and his lady had gone to hear the Reverend Doctor White- 
 froth/' — a northern and eccentric light, now blazing for a time in the me- 
 tropolis. It is a curious fact, that Mr. Tomkins and Mr. Buster, and every 
 nonconformist whom I had hitherto encountered, never professed to visit 
 the house of prayer with any other object than that of hearing. It was 
 never by any accident to worship or to pray. But let this pass. 
 
 I paid a second visit to my friend, and gained admittance. It was about 
 half-past eight o'clock in the evening, and the shop had been closed some 
 twenty minutes before. I was ushered into a well-furnished room behind 
 the shop, where sat the firm— Mrs. Jehu and the junior partner. The 
 latter looked into his lady's face, perceive a smile upon it, and then— but 
 not till then— he offered me his hand, and welcomed me with much appa- 
 rent warmth. This ceremony over, Mr. Tomkins grew fidgety and uneasy, 
 
238 CALEB STDKELY. 
 
 and betrayed a great anxiety to get up a conversation which he had not 
 heart enough to set a-going. Mrs. Toinkins, a woman of the world, 
 evinced no anxiety at all, sat smiling, and in peace. I perceived imme- 
 diately that I must state at once the object of my visit, and I proceeded to 
 the task. 
 
 " Mrs. Tomkins," I commenced. 
 • " Sir V said that lady, and then a postman's knock brought us to a stop, 
 and Jehu skipped across the room to listen at the door. 
 
 " That's him, my dear Jemima ! " exclaimed the linen-draper ; " I know 
 his knock," and then he skipped as quickly to his chair again. 
 
 The door of the apartment was opened by a servant girl, who entered 
 the room alone, and approached her mistress with a card. Mrs. Tomkins 
 looked at it through her eyeglass, said " she was most happy," and the 
 servant then retired. The card was placed upon the table near me, and, as 
 I believe, for my inspection. I took it up and read the following words, 
 '• Mr. Stanislaus Levisohn." They were engraven in the centre of the paper, 
 and were surrounded by a circle of rays, wbich in its turn was enveloped 
 in a circle of clouds. In the very corner of the card, and in very small 
 characters, the words "general merchant" were written. 
 
 There was a noise of shoe-cleaning outside the door for about five 
 minutes, then the door was opened again by the domestic, and a remark- 
 able gentleman walked very slowly in. He was a tall individual, with small 
 cunning eyes, black eyebrows, and a beard. He was rather shabbily 
 attired, and not washed with care. He had thick boorish hands, and 
 smelt unpleasantly of tobacco smoke ; an affected grin, at variance with 
 every feature, was planted on his face, and sickened an unprejudiced 
 observer at the very first gaze. His mode of speaking English betrayed 
 him for a foreigner. He was a native of Poland. Before uttering a 
 syllable, the interesting stranger walked to a corner of the room, turned 
 himself to the wall, and muttered a few undistinguishable words ; he then 
 bowed lowly to the company, and took a chair, grinning all the while. 
 
 " Is that a Polish move V asked Mr. Tomkins. 
 
 " It vos de cushtom mit de anshent tribes, my tear sare, vor alles tings, 
 to recommend de family to de protection of de hevins. Yy not now mit 
 all goot Christians?" 
 
 "Why not, indeed 1 ?" added Mrs. Tomkins. "May I offer you a glass 
 of raisin wine 1 ?" 
 
 " Tank you. For de shtomack's sake — yase." 
 
 A glass was poured out. It was but decent to offer me another. I paid 
 my compliments to the hostess and the gentlemen, and was about to 
 drink it off, when the enlightened foreigner called upon me in a loud 
 voice to desist. 
 
 " Shtay, mein young friend — ve are not de heathen and de cannibal. 
 It is our privilege to live in de Christian society mit de Christian lady. 
 Ye most ask blessing — alvays — never forget — you excuse — vait tree 
 minutes." 
 
 It was not for me to protest against so pious a movement, albeit it pre- 
 sented itself somewhat inopportunely and out of place. Mr. Levisohn 
 covered his face with one hand, and murmured a few words. The last 
 only reached me — it was " Amen," and this was rather heaved up in a 
 sigh, than articulately expressed. 
 
 "Do you like the wine?" asked Jehu, as if he thought it superfine. 
 
 " Yase, I like moch — especially de sherry and de port." 
 
 Jehu smiled, but made no reply. 
 
 Mrs. Tomkins supposed that port and sherry were favourite beverages 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 239 
 
 in Poland ; but, for her part, she had found that nothing agreed so well 
 with British stomachs as the native wines. 
 
 " Ah ! my lady," said the Pole, li ve can give up very moch, so long ve 
 got British religions.'' 
 
 " Very true, indeed," answered Mrs. Tomkins. * Pray, Mr. Levisohn, 
 what may be your opinion of the lost sheep \ Do you think they will 
 come into the fold during our time V 
 
 Before the gentleman replies, it may be proper to state on his behalf, 
 that he had never given his questioner any reason to suppose that he was 
 better informed on such mysterious subjects than herself. The history of 
 his introduction into the family of the linen-draper is very short. He had 
 been for some years connected with Mr. Tomkins in the way of business ; 
 having supplied that gentleman with all the genuine foreign, but certainly 
 English, perfumery, that was retailed with considerable profit in his over- 
 nice and pious establishment. Mrs. Tomkins, no less zealous in the cause 
 of the church than that of her own shop, at length, and all on a sudden, 
 resolved to set about his conversion, and to present him to the chapel as a 
 brand plucked with her own hand from the burning. As a preliminary 
 step. he was invited to supper, and treated with peculiar respect. The 
 matter was gently touched upon, but discussion postponed until another 
 occasion. Mr. Levisohn being very shrewd, very needy, and enjoying no 
 particular principles of morality and religion, perceived immediately the 
 object of his hostess, met her more than halfway in her Christian purposes, 
 and accepted her numerous invitations to tea and supper with the most 
 affectionate readiness. Within two months he was received into the bosom 
 of the church, and became as celebrated for the depth and intensity of his 
 belief, as for the earnestness and promptitude with which he attended the 
 meetings of the brethren, particularly those in which eating and drinking 
 did not constitute the least important part of the proceedings. Being 
 a foreigner, he was listened to with the deepest attention, very often 
 indeed to his serious annoyance ; for his ignorance was awful, and his 
 assurance, great as it was, not always sufficient to get him clear of his 
 difficulties. His foreign accent, however, worked wonders for him, and, 
 whenever too hard pressed, afforded him a secure and happy retreat. An 
 unmeaning grin, and " me not pronounce^ had saved him from precipices, 
 down which an Englishman, cceteris paribus, must unquestionably have 
 been dashed. 
 
 " Vill dey come V said Mr. Levisohn, in answer to the question. " Yase, 
 certainly, if dey like, I tink." 
 
 •• Ah, sir ! I fear you are a latitudinarian," said the lady. 
 
 " I hope hevin, my dear lady, vill forgive me for dat, and all my wicked- 
 ness. I am a skinner. I shtink." 
 
 I looked at the converted gentleman at the same moment that Mrs. Jehu 
 assured him that it would be a great thing if they were all as satisfied of 
 their condition as he might be. " Your strong convictions of your worih- 
 lessness is alone a proof," she added, " of your accepted state." 
 
 ••' My lady," continued the humble Stanislaus, ; " I am rotten, I am a tief, 
 a blackguard, a swindler, a pickpocket, a housebreak, a sticker mit de 
 knife. I vish somebody would call me names all de day long, because I 
 forget sometime dat I am de nashty vurni of de creation. I tink I hire a 
 boy to call me names, and make me not forget. Oh, my lady ! I always 
 remember those fine words you sing — 
 
 ' If I could read my title clear 
 To manshions in de silkies, 
 I say farevell to every fear, 
 And vipe my veeping eyes.' " 
 
240 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 " That is so conscientious of you. Pray, my dear sir, is there an Esta- 
 blishment in Poland? or have you Independent churches]" 
 
 " Ah, my dear lady, we have noting at all !" 
 
 " Is it possible V 
 
 " Yase, it is possible — it is true." 
 
 " Who could have thought it ! What ! Nothing ? " 
 
 "Noting at all, my lady. Do not ask me again, I pray you. It is 
 frightful to a goot Christian to talk dese tings." 
 
 "What is your opinion of the Arminian doctrine, Mr. Stanislaus?" 
 
 "Do you mean de doctrine?" enquired Stanislaus slowly, as though he 
 found some difficulty in answering the question. 
 
 " Yes, my dear sir." 
 
 " I tink," said the gentleman after some delay, " it vould be very goot if 
 were not for someting." 
 
 " Dear me," cried Mrs. Jehu, " that is so exactly my opinion." 
 
 " Den dere is noting more to be said about dat," continued Stanislaus, 
 interrupting her ; " and I hope you vill not ask dese deep questions, my 
 dear lady, which are not at all proper to be answered, and vich put me 
 into de low spirits. Shall ve sing a hymn?" 
 
 " By all means ! " exclaimed the hostess, who immediately made pre- 
 parations for the ceremony. Hymn-books were introduced, and the 
 servant-maid ordered up, and then a quartet was performed by Mr. Levi- 
 sohn, Mrs. Tomkins, her husband, and Betsy. The subject of the song 
 was the courtship of Isaac. Two verses only have remained in my 
 memory, and the manner in which they were given out by the fervent 
 Stanislaus will never be forgotten. They ran thus : — 
 
 " Ven Abraham's servant to procure 
 A vife for Isaac vent, 
 He met Rebekah, tould his vish, 
 Her parents gave conshent. 
 * * * * 
 
 " 'Shiay,' Satan, my old master, cries, 
 ' Or force shall thee detain.' 
 ' Hinder me not, I vill begone, 
 I vish to break my chain.'" 
 
 This being concluded, Mr. Tomkins asked Mr. Levisohn what he had to 
 say in the business line ; to which Mr. Levisohn replied, " Someting very 
 goot, but should he not vait until after soppare ?" whereupon Mr. Tomkins 
 gave his lady a significant leer, and the latter retired, evidently to prepare 
 the much-desired repast. Then did little Jehu turn confidentially to 
 Stanislaus, and asked him when he meant to deliver that 'ere conac that 
 he had promised him so long ago. 
 
 " Ven Providence, my tear dikkon, paremits — I expect a case of goots 
 at de cushtom-house every day ; but my friend vot examines de marchan- 
 dis, and vot saves me de duties ven I makes it all right mit him, is vary 
 ill, I am sorry for to say, and ve most wait mit Christian patience, my dear 
 sare, till he get veil. You see dat?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! that's clear enough. Well, Stanny, I only hope that fellow 
 won't die. I don't think you'd find it so easy to make it all right with any 
 other chap ; that's all ! " 
 
 " I hope he vill not die. Ye mosht pray dat he live, my dear dikkon. 
 I tink it vill be veil if der goot Mr. Clayton pray mit der church for him. 
 You shall speak for him." 
 
 " Well, what have you done about the Eau de Cologne ? " continued 
 Jehu Tomkins. " Have you nailed the fellow ] " 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 241 
 
 " It vos specially about dis matter dat I vish to see you. my dear sare. 
 I persvade der man to sell ten eases. He be very nearly vot you call in 
 der mess. He valk into de Gazette next veek. He shtarve now. I pity 
 him. De ten cases cost him ten pounds. I give fifty shilling — two 
 pound ten. He buy meat for de childs, and is tankful. I take ten shil- 
 lings for my trouble. Der Christian satisfied mit vary little." 
 
 " Any good bills in the market, Stanny ?" 
 
 Stanislaus Levisohn winked. 
 
 " Ho — you don't sav so," said the deacon. " Have vou got 'em with 
 you?" 
 
 " After soppare, my dear sare," answered Stanislaus, who looked at me, 
 and winked again significantly at Jehu. 
 
 Mrs. Tomkins returned, accompanied by the vocal Betsy. The cloth 
 was spread, and real silver forks, and fine cut tumblers, and blue plates 
 with scripture patterns, speedily appeared. Then came a dish of fried 
 sausages and parsley— then baked potatoes — then lamb chops. Then we 
 all sat round the table, and then, against all order and propriety, Mrs. 
 Jehu grossly and publicly insulted her husband at his own board, by call- 
 ing upon the enlightened foreigner to ask a blessing upon the meal. 
 
 The company sat down : but scarcely were we seated before Stanislaus 
 resumed. .. 
 
 " I tank you, my tear goot Mrs. Tomkins, for dat shop mit der brown, 
 ven it comes to my turn to be sarved. It look just der ting." 
 
 Mrs. Jehu served her guest immediately. 
 
 " I vill take a sossage, tear ladv, also, if vou please." 
 
 "And a baked potato?" 
 
 '"' And a baked potato ) Yase." 
 
 He was served. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Christian lady, have you got, perhaps, der littel 
 pickel-chestnut and der crimson cabbage?" 
 
 '•' Mr. Tomkins, go down-stairs and get the pickles." said the mistress of 
 the house, and Tomkins vanished like a mouse on tiptoe. 
 
 Before he could return. Stanislaus had eaten more than half his choo, 
 and discovered that, after all, "it was not just the ting." Mrs. Jehu en- 
 treated him to try another. He declined at first ; but at length suffered 
 himself to be persuaded. Four chops had graced the dish originally ; the 
 remaining two were divided equally between the lady and myself. I 
 begged that my share might be left for the worthy host ; but receiving a 
 recommendation from his wife " not to mind him" I said no more, but 
 kept Mr. Stanislaus Levisohn in countenance. 
 
 " I hope you'll find it to your liking, Mr. Stukely," said our hostess. 
 
 " Mishter vat V exclaimed the foreigner, looking quickly up. " I tink 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear sir ?" enquired the lady of the house. 
 
 " Noting, my tear friend, I tought der young gentleman vos a poor un- 
 converted sinner dat I met a long time ago. Dat is all. Ye talk of some- 
 ting- else." 
 
 Has the reader forgotten the dark-visaged individual, who, at the ex- 
 amination of my lamented father before the commissioners of bankruptcy, 
 made his appearance in company with Mr. Levy and the ready Ikey ? Him 
 I mean of the vivid imagination, who swore to facts which were no facts 
 at all, and whom an unpoetic jury sentenced to vile imprisonment for 
 wilful perjury ? There he sat, transformed into a Pole, bearded and 
 whiskered, and the hair of his head close clipped, but in every other re- 
 gard the same as when the constable invited him to forsake a too prosaic 
 
 R 
 
Q42 CALEB STDKEIiY. 
 
 and ungrateful world; and had Mr. Levisohn been wise and guarded, 
 the discovery would never have been made by me ; for we had met but 
 once before, then only for a short half hour, and under agitating circum- 
 stances. But my curiosity and attention once roused by his exclamation, 
 it was impossible to mistake my man. I fixed my eye upon him, and the 
 harder he pulled at his chop, and the more he attempted to evade my gaze, 
 the more satisfied was I, that a villain and an impostor was seated amoDgst 
 us. Thinking, absurdly enough, to do my host and hostess a lasting ser- 
 vice, I determined without delay to unmask the pretended saint, and to 
 secure his victims from the designs he purposed. 
 
 " Mr. Levisohn," I said immediately, " you have told the truth — we have 
 met before." 
 
 " Nevare, my tear friend, you mistake ; nevare in my life, upon my 
 
 vurd !" 
 
 " Mrs. Tomkins," I continued, rising, " I should not be worthy of your 
 hospitality if I did not at once make known to you the character of that 
 man. He is a convicted criminal. I myself know him to be guilty of the 
 grossest practices." Mr. Levisohn dropped his chop, turned his greasy face 
 up, and then looked round the room, and endeavoured to appear uncon- 
 cerned, innocent, and amazed, all at once. At this moment Jehu 
 entered the room with the pickles, and the face of the deaconess grew 
 fearfully stern. 
 
 " Were you ever in the Court of Bankruptcy, Mr. Levisohn 1 " I con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " I have never been out of London, my good sare. You labour under 
 de mistake. — I excuse you. Ah !" he cried out suddenly, as if a new idea 
 had struck him very hard ; " I see now vot it is. I explain. You take 
 me for somebody else." 
 
 " I do not, sir. I accuse you publicly of having committed perjury of 
 the most shameless kind, and I can prove you guilty of the charge. Do 
 you know a person of the name of Levy V 
 
 Mr. Stanislaus looked to the ceiling after the manner of individuals who 
 desire, or who do not desire, as the case may be, to call a subject to remem- 
 brance. " No," he answered, after a long pause ; " certainly not. I never 
 hear dat name." 
 
 " Beware of him, Mrs. Tomkins," I continued ; " he is an impostor, a 
 disgrace to mankind, and to the faith which he professes." 
 
 " What do you mean by that, you impertinent young man'?" said Mrs. 
 Tomkins, her blood rising to her face, herself rising from her chair. " I 
 should have thought that a man who had been so recently expelled from 
 his church would "have had more decency. A pretty person you must be, 
 to bring a charge of this kind against so good a creature as that." 
 
 " No, do not say dat," interposed Stanny ;"Iam not goot. I am a brute 
 beast." 
 
 "Mr. Tomkins," continued the lady, "I don't know what object that 
 person has in disturbing the peace of our family, or why he comes here at 
 all to-night. He is a mischief-making, hardened young man, or he would 
 never have come to what he has. Well, I'm sure — What will Satan put 
 into his head next]" 
 
 " I vould vish you be not angry. Der young gentleman is, I dare say, 
 vary goot at heart. He is labouring under de deloosions." 
 
 " Mr. Levisohn, pardon me, I am not. Proofs exist, and I can bring 
 them to convict you." 
 
 "Do you hear that, Mr. Tomkins] Were you ever insulted so before? 
 Are you master in your own house V 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 243 
 
 " What shall I do ) " said Jehu, trembling with excitement at the door. 
 
 "Do ! What ! Give him his hat, turn him out." 
 ^ "Oh, my tear goat Christian friends !" said Mr. Levisohn imploringly; 
 " de booels of der Christian growls ven he shees dese sights ; vot is de 
 good of to fight ? It is shtoopid. Let me be der peacemaker. Der yong 
 man has been drink, perhaps. I forgive him from de bottom of my heart! 
 If ve quarrel ve fight. If we fight ve lose every ting. 
 
 ' So Samson, ven his hair vos lost, 
 Met the Philistines to his cost, 
 Shook his vain limhs in shad shurprise, 
 Made feeble fight, and lost his eyes.' " 
 
 " Mr. Tomkins ! " 1 exclaimed, " I court enquiry, I can obtain proofs." 
 
 " We want none of your proofs, you backslider," cried the deaconess. 
 
 " Madam, you '"' 
 
 " Get out of the house, ambassador of Satan ! Mr. Tomkins, will you 
 tell him instantly to go?" 
 
 "Go !" squealed Tomkins from the door, not advancing an inch. 
 
 I seized my hat, and left the table. 
 
 " You will be sorry for this, sir," said I ; " and you, madam " 
 
 "Don't talk to me, you bad man. If you don't go this minute I'll 
 spring the rattle and have up the watchmen." 
 
 I did not attempt to say another word. I left the room, and hurried 
 from the house. I had hardly shut the street door before it was violentlv 
 opened again, and the head of Mr. Levisohn made itself apparent. 
 
 " Go home," exclaimed that gentleman, " and pray to be shaved, vou 
 shtoopid ass ! " 
 
 It was not many days after the enacting of this scene, that I entered 
 upon my duties as the instructor of the infant children of my friend. It 
 was useless to renew my application to the deacon, and I abandoned the 
 idea. The youngest of my pupils was the lisping Billy. It was my honour 
 to introduce him at the very porch of knowledge — to place him on the 
 first step of learning's ladder — to make familiar to him the simple letters 
 of his native tongue, in whose mysterious combinations the mighty souls 
 of men appear and speak. The lesson of the alphabet was the first that 
 I gave, and a heavy sadness depressed and humbled me, when as the child 
 repeated, wonderingly after me, letter by letter, I could not but feel deeply 
 and acutely the miserable blighting of my youthful promises. How lono- 
 was it ago — it seemed but yesterday — when the sun used to shine brightly 
 into my own dear bedroom, and awake me with its first gush of light* tell- 
 ing my ready fancy that he came to rouse me from inaction, and to en- 
 courage me to my labours ! Oh, happy labours ! Beloved books ! What 
 joy I had amongst you ! 
 
 We were still engaged upon our lesson, when John Thompson interrupted 
 the proceeding, by entering the apartment in great haste, and placino- in 
 my hands a newspaper. " He had been searching," he said, "for one whole 
 fortnight, to find a situation that would suit me, and now he thouo-ht that 
 he had hit upon it. There it was, ' a tutorer in a human family,' to teach 
 the languages and the sciences. Apply from two to four. It's just three 
 now. Send the youngster to his mother, and see after it, my friend. I 
 wouldn't have you lose it for the world." I took the journal from his 
 hands, and, as though placed there by the hand of the avenger to arouse 
 deeper remorse, to draw still hotter blood from the lacerated heart, the 
 following announcement, and nothing else, glared on the paper, and 'took 
 possession of my sight : — 
 
 K 2 
 
244 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 "University Intelligence. — After a contest more severe than any 
 known for years, Mr. John Smithson, of Trinity College, Cambridge, has 
 been declared the Senior Wrangler of his year. Mr. Smithson is, we 
 understand, the son of an humble curate in Norfolk, whose principal sup- 
 port has been derived from the exertions of his son during his residence 
 in the University. The honour could not have been conferred on a more _ 
 deserving child of Alma Mater." 
 
 A hundred recollections crowded on my brain. My heart was torn with 
 anguish. The perseverance and the filial piety of Smithson, so opposite 
 to my unsteadiness and unnatural disloyalty, confounded and unmanned 
 me. I burst into tears before the faithful Thompson, and covered my face 
 for very shame. 
 
 "What is the matter, lad?" exclaimed the good fellow, pale with sur- 
 prise, his eye trembling with honest feeling. " Have I hurt you ? Drat 
 the paper ! Don't think, Stukely, I wished to get rid of you. Don't think 
 so hard of your old friend. I thought to help and do you service ; I know 
 you have the feelings of a gentleman about you, and I wouldn't wound 
 ; em, God knows, for anything. There, think no more about it. I am so 
 rousii a hand, I'm not fit to live with Christians. I mean no harm, believe 
 me." Get rid of you, my boy ! I only wish you'd ^say this is your home, 
 and never leave me— that would make me happy." 
 
 " Thompson," I answered, through my tears, " I am not deserving of 
 your friendship. You have not offended me. You have never wronged 
 me. You are all kindness and truth. I have had no real enemy but my- 
 self. Eead that paper." 
 
 I pointed to the paragraph, and he read it. 
 
 "What of itr he asked. 
 
 "Thompson, listen to me ; what do you say of such a sonT 
 
 " I can e;uess his father's feelings," said my friend. " Earth's a heaven, 
 Stukely, when father and child live together as God appointed them." 
 
 "But when a child breaks a parent's heart, Thompson— what then?" 
 
 " Don't talk about it, lad. I have got eleven of 5 em, and that's a side 
 of the pictur that I can't look at with pleasure. I think the boys are good. 
 They have gone on well as yet ; but who can tell what a few years will 
 
 do?" 
 
 "Or a few months, Thompson," I answered quickly; "or a few days, or 
 hours, when the will is fickle, principles unfixed, and the heart treacherous 
 and false. That Smithson and I, Thompson, were fellow-students. We 
 left home together— we took up our abode in the University together— we 
 were attached to the same college— taught by the same master— read from 
 the same books. My feelings were as warm as his. My resolution to do 
 well apparently as firm, my knowledge and attainments as extensive. If 
 he was encouraged, and protected, and urged forward by the fond love of 
 a devoted household— so was I. If parental blessings hallowed his en- 
 trance upon those pursuits which have ended so successfully for him— so 
 did they mine. If he had motive for exertion, I had not less— we were 
 equal in the race which we began together— look at us now I" 
 
 "How did it happen, then?" 
 
 " He was honest and faithful to his purpose. I was not. He saw one 
 object far in the distance before him, and looked neither to the right nor 
 left, but dug his arduous way towards it. He craved not the false excite- 
 ment of temporary applause, nor deemed the opinion of weak men es- 
 sential to his design. He had a sacred duty to perform, which left him 
 not the choice of action, and he performed it to the letter. He had a feel- 
 ing conscience and a reasoning heart ; and the home of his youth, and the 
 
CALEB STUKELY. ^45 
 
 sister who had grown up with him, the father who had laboured, the mother 
 who had striven for him, visited him by night and by day— in his silent 
 study, and in his lonely bed, comforting, animating, and supporting him 
 by their delightful presence." 
 " And what did you do f ' 
 
 " Just the reverse of this. I had neither simplicity of aim, nor stability 
 of affection. One slip from the path, and I hadn't energy to take the 
 road again. One vicious inclination, and the virtuous resolves of years 
 melted before it. The sneer of a fool could frighten me from rectitude— 
 the smile of a girl render me indifferent to the pangs that tear a parent's 
 heart. Look at us both. Look at him— the man whom I treated with 
 contemptuous derision. What a return home for him— his mission ac- 
 complished— his duty done ! Look at me, the outcast, the beggar, the de- 
 spised—the author of a mother's death, a fathers bankruptcy and ruin— 
 with no excuse for misconduct, no promise for the future, no self-justifica- 
 tion, and no hope of pardon beyond that afforded to the vilest criminal 
 that comes repentant to the mercy-seat above.'' 
 
 « Well— but— Stukelv— don't take the thing to heart. You are young 
 —look for'ards. Oh ! I tell you, its a blessed thing to be sorry for our 
 faults, and to feel as if we wished to do better for the time to come. I'm 
 an older man than you, and I bid you take comfort, and trust for better 
 things, and better things will come too. You are not so badly off now as 
 you were this time twelvemonth. And you know I'll never leave you. 
 Don't despond — don't give away. It's unnatural for a man to do it, and 
 he's lost if he does. Oh ! bless you, this is a life of suffering and sorrow, 
 and well it is : for who wouldn't go mad to think of leaving all his young 
 uns behind him, and everything he loves, if he wasn't taught that there's 
 a quieter place, where all shall meet agin ! You know me, my boy ; I 
 can't talk, but I want to comfort you and cheer you up — and so, give me 
 your hand, old fellow, and say you won't think of all this any more, but 
 try and forget it, and see about settling comfortably in life. What do you 
 say to the advertisement i A tutorer in a human family, to teach the 
 languages and the sciences. Come now, that's right ; I'm glad to see you 
 laugh. I suppose I don't give the right pronunciation to the words. 
 Well, never mind ; laugh at your old friend. He'd rather see you laugh 
 at him. than teaze your heart about your troubles." 
 
 Thompson would not be satisfied until I had read the advertisement, 
 and given him my opinion of its merits. He would not suffer me to say 
 another word about mv past misfortunes, but insisted on my looking for- 
 ward cheerfully, and like a man. The situation appeared to him just the 
 thing for me ; "and after all, if I had wrangled as well as that 'ere Smith- 
 son— (though, at the same time, wrangling seemed a very aggravating 
 word to put into young men's mouths at all) — perhaps I shouldn't have 
 been half as happy as a quiet comfortable life would make me. " I was 
 cut out for a tutorer. He was sure of it. So he'd thank me to read the 
 paper without another syllable." The advertisement, in truth, was pro- 
 mising. "' The advertiser, in London, desired to engage the services of a 
 young° gentleman, capable of teaching the ancient languages, and of giving 
 his pupils ' an introduction to the sciences.' The salary would be liberal, 
 and the occupation with a humane family in the country, who would re- 
 ceive the tutor as one of themselves. References would be required and 
 given." 
 
 "References would be required and given," I repeated, after having 
 concluded the advertisement, and put the paper down. 
 
 ••Yes, that's the only thing:" said Thompson, scratching his honest 
 
246 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 ear, like a man perplexed and driven to a corner. " "We haven't got no 
 references to give. But I'll tell you what we've got, though. We've got 
 the papers of these freehold premises, and we've something like two 
 thousand in the bank. I'll give 'em them, if you turns out a bad un. 
 That I'll undertake to do, and sha'n't be frightened either. Now, you 
 just go, and see if you can get it. "Where do you apply?" 
 
 " Wait, Thompson. I must not suffer you " 
 
 " Did you hear what I said, sir ? where do you apply 1 ?" 
 " At X Y Z," said I, " in Swallow-street, Saint James's." 
 " Then, don't you lose a minute. I shouldn't be surprised if the place 
 is run down already. London's overstocked with tutorers and men of 
 laming. You come along o' me, Billy, and don't you lose sight of this 
 ere chance, my boy. If they wants a reference, tell 'em I'll be glad to 
 wait upon 'em." 
 
 Three days had not elapsed after this conversation, before my services 
 were accepted by X Y Z — and I had engaged to travel into Devonshire 
 to enter at once upon my duties, as teacher in the dwelling-house of the 
 Eeverend Walter Fairman. X Y Z was a man of business ; and, for- 
 tunately for me, had known my father well. He was satisfied Avith my 
 connexion, and with the unbounded recommendation which Thompson 
 gave with me. Mr. Fairman was incumbent of one of the loveliest 
 parishes in England, and the guardian and teacher of six boys. My salary 
 was fifty pounds per annum, with board and lodging. The matter was 
 settled in a few hours, and before I had time to consider, my place was 
 taken in the coach, and a letter was dispatched to Mr. Fairman, announc- 
 ing my intended departure. Nothing could exceed the joy of Thompson 
 at my success — nothing could be kinder and more anxious than his 
 valuable advice. 
 
 " Now," he said, as we walked together from the coach-office, " was I 
 wrong in telling you that better things would turn up 1 Take care of 
 yourself, and the best wrangler of the lot may be glad to change places 
 with you. It isn't lots of laming, or lots of money, or lots of houses and 
 coaches, that makes a man happy in this world. They never can do it ; 
 but they do just the contrarery, and make him the miserablest wretch as 
 crawls. A contented mind is ' the one thing needful.' Take what God 
 gives gratefully, and do unto others as you would that they should do 
 unto you. That's a maxim my poor father was always giving me, and I 
 wish, when I take the young uns to church, that they could always hear 
 it, for human natur needs it." 
 
 The evening before my setting out was spent with Thompson's family. 
 I had received a special invitation, and Thompson, with the labouring 
 sons, were under an engagement to the mistress of the house, to leave the 
 workshop at least an hour earlier than usual. Oh ! it was a sight to move 
 the heart of one more hardened than I can boast to be, to behold the 
 affectionate party assembled to bid me farewell, and to do honour to our 
 leave-taking. A little feast was prepared for the occasion, and my many 
 friends were dressed, all in their Sunday clothes, befittingly. There was 
 not one who had not something to give me for a token. Mary had worked 
 me a purse ; and Mary blushed whilst her mother betrayed her, and gave 
 the little keepsake. Ellen thought a pincushion might be useful; and 
 the knitter of the large establishment provided me with comforters. 
 All the little fellows, down to Billy himself, had a separate gift, which 
 each must offer with a kiss, and with a word or two expressive of his good 
 wishes. All hoped I would come soon again, and Alec more than hinted 
 a request that I would postpone my departure to some indefinite period 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 247 
 
 which he could not name. Poor tremulous heart ! how it throbbed 
 amongst them all, and how sad it felt to part from them ! Love bound 
 me to the happy room — the only love that connected the poor outcast 
 with the wide cold world. This was the home of my affections — could I 
 leave it — could I venture once more upon the boisterous waters of life 
 without regret and apprehension ! 
 
 Thompson kindly offered to accompany me on the following morning 
 to the inn from which I was destined to depart, but I would not hear of 
 it. He was full of business ; had little time to spare, and none to throw 
 away upon me. I begged him not to think of it, and he acquiesced in 
 my wishes. We were sitting together, and his wife and children had an 
 hour or two previously retired to rest. 
 
 " Them's good children, ain*t they, Stukely V enquired Thompson, after 
 having made a long pause. 
 
 " You may well be proud of them," I answered. 
 
 "It looked nice of 'em to make you a little present of something before 
 you went. But it was quite right. That's just as it should be. I like 
 that sort of thing, especially when a man understands the sperrit that a 
 thing's given with. Now, some fellows would have been offended if any- 
 thing had been offered 'em. How I do hate all that !" 
 
 " I assure you, Thompson, I feel deeply their kind treatment of their 
 friend. I shall never forget it." 
 
 u You ain't offended, then?" 
 
 " No, indeed." 
 
 '■' Well, now I am so happy to hear it, you cant think," continued 
 Thompson, fumbling about his breeches pocket, and drawing from it at 
 length something which he concealed in his fist. " There, take that," he 
 suddenly exclaimed ; " take it, my old fellow, and God bless you ! It's 
 no good trying to make a fuss about it." 
 
 I held a purse of money in my hand. 
 
 " No, Thompson," I replied, " 1 cannot accept it. Do not think me 
 proud or ungrateful ; but I have no right to take it." 
 
 " It's only twenty guineas, man, and I can afford it. Now look, 
 Stukely, you are going to leave me. If you don't take it, you'll make me 
 as wretched as the day is long. You are my friend, and my friend 
 mustn't go among strangers without an independent spirit. If you have 
 twenty guineas in your pocket, you needn't be worrying yourself about 
 little things. You'll find plenty of ways to make the money useful. You 
 shall pay me, if you like, when you grow rich, and we meets again ; but 
 take it now, and make John Thompson happy." 
 
248 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 PART XIII. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 " She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleam'cl upon my sight. 
 A lovely apparition sent 
 To be a moment's ornament." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 1 recall a spring day — a sparkling day of the season of youth and pro- 
 mise — and a nook of earth, fit for the wild unshackled sun to skip along 
 and brighten with his inconstant, giddy light. Hope is everywhere ; 
 murmuring in the brooks, and smiling in the sky. Upon the bursting 
 trees she sits ; she nestles in the hedges. She fills the throat of mating 
 birds, and bears the soaring lark nearer and nearer to the gate of heaven. 
 It is the first holiday of the year, and the universal heart is glad. Grief 
 and apprehension cannot dwell in the human breast on such a day ; and, 
 for an hour, even Self is merged in the general joy. I reach my destina- 
 tion ; and the regrets for the past, and the fears for the future, which have 
 accompanied me through the long and anxious journey, fall from the 
 oppressed spirit, and leave it buoyant, cheerful, free — free to delight itself 
 in a land of enchantment, and to revel again in the unsubstantial glories 
 of a youtlrful dream. I paint the Future in the colours that surround me, 
 and 1 confide in her again. 
 
 It was noon Avhen Ave reached the head-quarters of the straggling parish 
 of Deerhurst. We had travelled since the golden sunrise over noble 
 -earth, and amongst scenes scarcely less heavenly than the blue vault 
 which smiled upon them. Now the horizon was bounded by a range of 
 lofty hills linked to each other by gentle undulations, and bearing to their 
 summits innumerable and giant trees; these, crowded together, and 
 swayed by the brisk wind, presented to the eye the figure of a vast 
 and supernatural sea, and made the intervening vale of loveliness a 
 neglected blank. Then we emerged suddenly — yes, instantaneously — as 
 though designing nature, with purpose to surprise, had hid behind the 
 jutting crag, beneath the rugged steep — upon a world of beauty ; garden 
 upon garden, sward upon sward, hamlet upon hamlet, far as the sight could 
 reach, and purple shades of all beyond. Then, flashes of the broad ocean, 
 like quick transitory bursts of light, started at intervals, washing the feet 
 of a tall emerald cliff, or, like a lake, buried between the hills. Shorter 
 and shorter become the intermissions, larger and larger grows the watery 
 expanse, until, at length, the mighty element rolls unobstructed on, and 
 earth, decked in her verdant leaves, her flowers and gems, is on the shore 
 to greet it. 
 
 The entrance to the village is by a swift, precipitous descent. On either 
 side are piled rude stones, placed there by a subtle hand, and with a poet's 
 aim, to touch the fancy, and to soothe the traveller with thoughts of other 
 times — of ruined castles, and of old terrace walks. Already have the 
 stones fulfilled their purpose, and the ivy, the brier, and the saxifrage have 
 found a home amongst them. At the foot of the declivity, standing like a 
 watchful mother, is the church — the small, the unpretending, the venerable 
 and lovely village church. You do not see a dwelling till she is passed. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 249 
 
 Before a house was built about her, she was an aged church, and her 
 favoured graves were rich in heavenly clay. The churchyard gate ; and 
 then at once, the limited and quiet village, nestling in a valley and shut 
 out from the world : beautiful and self-sufficient. Hill upon hill behind, 
 each greener than the last— hill upon hill before, all exclusion, and nothing 
 but her own surpassing loveliness to console and cheer her solitude. And 
 is it not enough ! What if she know little of the sea beyond its voice, and 
 nothing of external life— her crystal stream, her myrtle-covered cottages, 
 her garden plots, her variegated flowers and massive foliage, her shady 
 dells and ecented lanes, are joys enough for her small commonwealth. Thin 
 curling smoke, that rises like" a spirit from the hidden bosom of one green 
 hillock, proclaims the single house that has its seat upon the eminence. It 
 is the parsonage — my future home. 
 
 With a trembling heart I left the little inn, and took my silent way to 
 the incumbent's house. There was no eye to follow; the leafy street was 
 tenantless, and seemed made over to the restless sun and dissolute winds 
 to wanton through it as they pleased. As I ascended, the view enlarged- 
 beauty became more beauteous, silence more profound. I reached the par- 
 sonage gate, and my heart yearned to tell how much I longed to live and 
 die on this sequestered and most peaceful spot. The dwelling-house was 
 primitive and low ; its long and overhanging roof was thatched ; its 
 windows small and many. A myrtle, luxuriant as a vine, covered its en- 
 tire front, and concealed the ancient brick and wood. A raised bank sur- 
 rounded the green nest, and a gentle slope conducted to a lawn fringed 
 with the earliest flowers of the year. I rang the loud bell, and a neatly- 
 dressed servant-girl gave me admittance to the house. In a room of mode- 
 rate size, furnished by a hand as old at least as the grandsires of the present 
 occupants, and well" supplied with books, sat the incumbent. He was a 
 man of fifty vears of age or more, tall and gentlemanly in demeanour. 
 His head was"partly bald, and Avhat remained of his hair was grey almost 
 to whiteness. He had a noble forehead, a marked brow, and a cold grey 
 eye. His mouth betrayed sorrow, or habitual deep reflection, and the ex- 
 pression of every other feature tended to seriousness. The first impression 
 was unfavourable. A youth who was reading with the minister when I 
 entered the apartment, was dismissed with a simple inclination of the 
 head, and the Kev. Walter Fairman then pointed to a seat. 
 
 " You have had a tedious journey, Mr. Stukely," began the incumbent, 
 " and you are fatigued, no doubt." 
 
 " What a glorious spot this is, sir !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, it is prettv," answered Mr. Fairman, very coldly as I thought. 
 " Are you hungry, Mr. Stukely ! We dine early; but pray take refresh- 
 ment if you need it." 
 
 I declined respectfully. 
 
 " Do you bring letters from my agent?" 
 
 " I have a parcel in my trunk, sir, which will be here immediately. 
 What magnificent trees ! " I exclaimed again, my eyes riveted upon a 
 stately cluster, which were about a hundred yards distant. 
 
 " Have you been accustomed to tuition;" asked Mr. Fairman, taking 
 no notice of my remark. 
 
 " I have not," sir, but I am sure that I shall be delighted with the occu- 
 pation. I have always thought so." 
 
 "■ We must not be too sanguine. Xothing requires more delicate 
 handling than the mind of youth. In no business is experience,^ great 
 discernment, and tact, so much needed as in that of instruction. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am aware of it. 
 
250 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 * No doubt/' answered Mr. Fairrnan quietly. " How old are you?" 
 I told my age, and blushed. 
 
 * Well, well," said the incumbent, " I have no doubt we shall do. You 
 are a Cambridge man, Mr. Graham writes me." 
 
 " I was only a year, sir, at the university. Circumstances prevented a 
 longer residence. I believe I mentioned the fact to Mr. Graham." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! he told me so. You shall see the boys this afternoon. They 
 are fine-hearted lads, and much may be done with them. There are six. 
 Two of them are pretty well advanced. They read Euripides and Horace. 
 Is Euripides a favourite of yours ? " 
 
 " He is tender, plaintive, and passionate," I answered ; " but perhaps I 
 may be pardoned if I venture to prefer the vigour and majesty of the 
 sterner tragedian." 
 
 " You mean you like iEschylus better. Do you write poetry, Mr. 
 Stukely — not Latin verses, but English poetry? 
 
 " I do not, sir." 
 
 " Well, I am glad of that. It struck me that you did. Will you really 
 take no refreshment ? Are you not fatigued?" 
 
 " Not in the least, sir. This lovely prospect, for one who has seen so 
 little of nature as I have, is refreshment enough for tbe present." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Fairman, sighing faintly, " you will get accustomed to 
 it. There is something in the prospect, but more in your own mind. 
 Some of our poor fellows would be easily served and satisfied, if we could 
 feed them on the prospect. But if you are not tired you shall see more of 
 it if you will. I have to go down to the village. We have an hour till 
 dinner-time. Will you accompany me?" 
 
 "With pleasure, sir." 
 
 "Very well." Mr. Fairman then rang the bell, and the servant-girl 
 came in. 
 
 "Where's Miss Ellen, Mary?" asked the incumbent. 
 
 " She has been in the village since breakfast, sir. Mrs. Barnes sent word 
 that she was ill, and Miss took her the rice and sago that Dr. Mayhew 
 ordered." 
 
 " Has Warden been this morning ! " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Foolish fellow. I'll call on him. Mary, if Cuthbert the fisherman 
 comes, give him that bottle of port wine; but tell him not to touch a drop 
 of it himself. It is for his sick child, and it is committing robbery to take 
 it. Let him have the blanket also that was looked out for him." 
 
 " It's gone, sir. Miss sent it yesterday." 
 
 " Very well. There is nothing more. Now, Mr. Stukely, we will go." 
 ^ I have said already tbat the first opinion which I formed of the disposi- 
 tion of Mr. Fairman was not a flattering one. Before he spoke a word, I 
 felt disappointed and depressed. My impression after our short conversa- 
 tion was worse than the first. The natural effect of the scene in which I 
 suddenly found myself had been to prepare my ever too forward spirit for 
 a man of enthusiasm and poetic temperament. Mr. Fairman was many 
 degrees removed from warmth. He spoke to me in a sharp tone of voice, 
 and sometimes, I suspected, with the intention of mocking me. His man- 
 ner, when he addressed the servant-girl, was not more pleasing. When I 
 followed him from the room, I regretted the haste with which I had ac- 
 cepted my appointment ; but a moment afterwards I entered into fairy- 
 land again, and the passing shadow left me grateful to Providence for so 
 much real enjoyment. We descended the hill, and for a time in silence. 
 Mr. Fairman was evidently engaged in deep thought, and I had no wish 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 251 
 
 to disturb him. Every now and then we lighted upon a view of especial 
 beauty, and I was on the point of expressing my unbounded admiration, 
 when one look at my cool and matter-of-fact companion at once annoyed 
 and stopped me. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Fairman at length, still musing. " It is very difficult- 
 very difficult to manage the poor. I wonder if they are grateful at heart. 
 What do you think, Mr. Stukely !" 
 
 " I have nothing to say of the poor, sir, but praise." 
 
 Mr. Fairman looked hard at me, and smiled unpleasantly. 
 
 " It is the scenery, I suppose. That will make you praise everything for 
 the next day or so. It will not do, though. We must walk on our feet, 
 and be prosaic in this world. The poor are not as poets paint them, nor is 
 there so much happiness in a hovel as they would lead you to expect. The 
 poets are like you— they have nothing to say but praise. Ah, me ! they 
 draw largely on their imaginations." 
 
 " I do not, sir, in this instance," I answered, somewhat nettled. " My 
 most valued friends are in the humblest ranks of life. I am proud to say 
 so. I am not prepared to add, that the most generous of men are the most 
 needy, although it has been my lot to meet with sympathy and succour at 
 the hands of those who were much in want of both themselves." 
 
 "I believe you, Mr. Stukely," answered the incumbent, in a more feeling 
 tone. " I am" not fond of theories ; yet that's a theory with which I would 
 willingly pass through life ; but it will not answer. It is knocked on the 
 head every hour of the day. Perhaps it is our own fault. We do not 
 know how to reach the hearts and educate the feelings of the ignorant 
 and helpless. Just step in here." 
 
 We were standing before a hut at the base of the hill. It was a low 
 dirty-looking place, all roof, with a neglected garden surrounding it. One 
 window was in the cob-wall. It had been fixed there originally, doubtless, 
 with the object of affording light to the inmates; but light, not being 
 essential to the comfort or happiness of the present tenants, was in a great 
 measure excluded by a number of small rags which occupied the place of 
 the diamond panes that had departed many months before. A child, ill- 
 clad, in fragments of clothes, with long and dirty hair, unclean face, and 
 naked feet, cried at the door, and loud talking was heard within. Mr. 
 Fairman knocked with his knuckle before he entered, and a gruff voice 
 desired him to '-'come in." A stout fellow, with a surly countenance and 
 unshaven beard, was sitting over an apology for a fire, and a female of the 
 same age and condition was near him. She bore an unhappy infant in her 
 arms, whose melancholy peakish face, not twelve months old, looked 
 already conscious of prevailing misery. There was no flooring to the 
 room, which contained no one perfect or complete article of furniture, 
 but symptoms of many, from the blank etless bed down to the solitary 
 coverless saucepan. JSTecd I add, that the man who sat there, the degraded 
 father of the house, had his measure of liquor before him, and that the 
 means of purchasing it were never wanting, however impudently charity 
 might be called upon to supply the starving family with bread 1 
 
 The man did not rise upon our entrance. He changed colour very 
 slightly, and looked more ignorantly surly, or tried to do so. 
 
 " Well, Jacob Warden," said the incumbent, "you are determined to 
 brave it out, I see." The fellow did not answer. 
 
 '•' When I told you yesterday that your idleness and bad habits were 
 bringing you to ruin, you answered — / toas a liar. I then said, that when 
 you were sorry for having uttered that expression, you might come to the 
 parsonage and tell me so. You have not been yet— I am grieved to say 
 
252 CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 it. What have I ever done to you, Jacob "Warden, that you should behave 
 so wickedly ? I do not wish you to humble yourself to me, but I should 
 have been glad to see you do your duty. If I did mine, perhaps, I should 
 give you up, and see you no more, for I fear you are a hardened man." 
 
 " He hasn't had no work for a month," said the wife, in a tone of up- 
 braiding, as if the minister had been the wilful cause of it. 
 
 " And whose fault is that, Mrs. Warden ? There is work enough for 
 sober and honest men in the parish. Why was your husband turned away 
 from the Squire's?" 
 
 " Why all along of them spoons. They never could prove it agin him, 
 that's one thing — though they tried it hard enough." 
 
 " Come, come, Mrs. Warden, if you love that man, take the right way to 
 show it. Think of your children." 
 
 " Yes ; if I didn't — who would, I should like to know ? The poor are 
 trodden under foot." 
 
 " Not so, Mrs. Warden, the poor are taken care of, if they are deserving. 
 God loves the poor, and commands us all to love them. Give me your 
 Bible !" 
 
 The woman hesitated a minute, and then answered — 
 
 " Never mind the Bible, that won't get us bread." 
 
 " Give me your Bible, Mrs. Warden." 
 
 " We haven't got it. What's the use of keeping a Bible in the house 
 for children as can't read, when they are crying for summut to eat V 
 . " You have sold it, then I" 
 
 " We got a shilling on it — that's all." 
 
 " Have you ever applied to us for food, and has it been denied you?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know. The servant always looks grumpy at us when we 
 come a-begging, and seems to begrudge us every mouthful. It's all very 
 well to live on other persons' leavings. I dare say you don't give us what 
 you could eat yourselves." 
 
 " We give the best we can afford, Mrs. Warden, and, God knows, with no 
 such feeling as you suppose. How is the child ! Is it better V 
 
 " Yes, no thanks to Doctor Mayhew either." 
 
 "Did he not call, then]" 
 
 " Call ! Yes, but he made me tramp to his house for the physic, and 
 when he passed the cottage the other day, I called after him ; but the devil 
 a bit would he come back. We might have died first. Of course, he 
 knows he isn't paid, and what does he care?" 
 
 " It is very wrong of you to talk so. You are well aware that he was 
 hurrying to a case of urgency, and could not be detained. He visited you 
 upon the following day, and told you so." 
 
 " Oh, yes, the following day ! What's that to do with it?" 
 
 " Woman ! " exclaimed Mr. Fairman, solemnly, " my heart bleeds for 
 those poor children. What will become of them with such an example 
 before their eyes? I can say no more to you than I have repeated a 
 hundred times before. I would make you happy in this world if I could ; 
 I would save you. You forbid me. I would be your true friend, and you 
 look upon me as an enemy. Heaven, I trust, will melt your heart ! What 
 is that child screaming for?" 
 
 " What ! she hasn't had a blessed thing to-day. We had nothing for 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Fairman took some biscuits from his pockets, and placed them on 
 the table. " Let the girl come in and eat," said he. " I shall send you 
 some meat from the village. Warden, I cannot tell you how deeply I feel 
 your wickedness. I did expect you to come to the parsonage, and say 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 253 
 
 you were sorry. It would have looked well, and I should have liked it. 
 You put it out of my power to help you. It is most distressing to see you 
 both going headlong to destruction. May you live to repent ! I shall "see 
 you again this evening, and I will speak to you alone. Come. Mr. Stukely, 
 our time is getting short." 
 
 The incumbent spoke rapidly, and seemed affected. I looked at him, 
 and could hardly believe him to be the cold and unimpassioned man that 
 I had at first imagined him. 
 
 We pursued our way towards the village. 
 
 " There, sir," said the minister, in a quick tone of voice, " what is the 
 beautiful prospect, and what are the noble trees, to the heart of that man? 
 What have they to do at all with man's morality ! Had those people 
 never seen a shrub or flower, could they have been more impenetrable, 
 more insolent and suspicious, or steeped in vice much deeper ? That man 
 wants only opportunity, a large sphere of action, and the variety of crime 
 and motive that are to be found amongst congregated masses of" mankind, 
 to become a monster. His passions and his vices are as wilful and as 
 strong as those of any man born and bred in the sinks of a great city. 
 They have fewer outlets — less capability of mischief — and there i3 the 
 difference." 
 
 I ventured no remark, and the incumbent, after a short pause, continued 
 in a milder strain. 
 
 " I may be, after all, weak and inefficient. Doubtless great delicacy and 
 caution are required. Heavenly truths are not to be administered to 
 these as to the refined and willing. The land must be ploughed, or it is 
 useless to sow the seed. Am I not, perhaps, an unskilful labourer 1 ?" 
 
 Mr. Fairman stopped at the first house in the village — the prettiest of 
 the half-dozen myrtle-covered cottages before alluded to. Here he tapped 
 softly, and a gentle foot that seemed to know the visitor hastened to admit 
 him. 
 
 " Well, Mary," said the minister, glancing round the room— a clean and 
 happydooking room it was — " Where's Michael'?" 
 
 " He is gone, sir, as you bade him, to make it up with Cousin Willet. 
 He couldn't rest easy, sir, since you told him that it was no use coniino- to 
 church so long as he bore malice. He won't be long, sir." 
 
 Mr. Fairman smiled ; and, cold as his grey eye might be, it did not 
 seem so steady now. 
 
 " Mary, that is good of him ; tell him his minister is pleased. How is 
 work with him 1 ?" 
 
 " He has enough to do to carry him to the month's end, sir." 
 
 " Then, at the month's end, Mary, let him come to the parsonage. I 
 have something for him there. But we can wait till then. Have you 
 seen the itinerary preacher since I" 
 
 "It is not his time, sir. He didn't promise to come till Monday 
 week." 
 
 " Do neither you nor Michael speak with him, nor listen to his public 
 preachings. I mean, regard him not as one having authority. I speak 
 solemnly, and with a view to your eternal peace. Do not forget." 
 
 Every house was visited, and in all opportunity was found °for the exer- 
 cise of the benevolent feelings by which the incumbent was manifestly 
 actuated. He lost no occasion of affording his flock sound instruction and 
 good advice. It could not be doubted for an instant that their real 
 welfare, temporal and everlasting, lay deeply in his heart. I was struck 
 bj one distinguishing feature in his mode of dealing with his people ; it 
 was so opposed to the doctrine and practice of Mr. Clayton, and of those 
 
254 CALEB STTJKELT. 
 
 who were connected with him. With the latter, a certain degree of phy- 
 sical fervour, and a conventional peculiarity of expression, were insisted 
 upon and accepted as evidences of grace and renewed life. With Mr. Fair- 
 man, neither acquired heat, nor the more easily acquired jargon of a 
 clique, were taken into account. He rather repressed than encouraged 
 their existence ; but he was desirous, and even eager, to establish rectitude 
 of conduct and purity of feeling in the disciples around him : — these 
 were to him tangible witnesses of the operation of that celestial Spirit 
 before whose light the mists of simulation and deceit fade unresistingly 
 away. I could not help remarking, however, that in every cottage the 
 same injunction was given in respect of the itinerant ; the same solemnity 
 of manner accompanied the command ; the same importance was attached 
 to its obedience. There seemed to me, fresh from the hands of Mr. Clay- 
 ton, something of bigotry and uncharitableness in all this. I did not 
 hint at this effect upon my own mind, nor did I enquire into the motives 
 of the minister. I was not pleased ; but I said nothing. As if Mr. Fair- 
 man read my very thoughts, he addressed me on the subject almost before 
 the door of the last cottage was closed upon us. 
 
 " Bigoted and narroio-minded are the terms, Mr. Stukely, by which the 
 extremely liberal would characterise the line of conduct which I am com- 
 pelled by duty to pursue. I cannot be frightened by harsh terms. I am 
 the pastor of these people, and must decide and act for them. I am their 
 shepherd, and must be faithful. Poor and ignorant, and unripe in judg- 
 ment, and easily deceived by the shows and counterfeits of truth as the 
 ignorant are, is it for me to hand them over to perplexity and risk 1 They 
 are simple believers, and are contented. They worship God, and are at 
 peace. They know their lot, and do not murmur at it. Is it right that 
 they should be disturbed with the religious differences and theological 
 subtleties which have already divided into innumerable sects the universal 
 family of Christians whom God made one ? Is it fair or merciful to 
 whisper into their ears the plausible reasons of dissatisfaction, envy, and 
 complaining, to which the uninformed of all classes but too eagerly 
 listen ? I have ever found the religious and the political propagandist united 
 in the same individual. The man who proposes to the simple to improve 
 his creed, is ready to point out the way to better his condition. He suc- 
 ceeds in rendering him unhappy in both, and there he leaves him. So 
 would this man, and I would rather die for my people, than tamely give 
 them over to their misery." 
 
 A tall, stout, weather-beaten man in the coarse dress of a fisherman, 
 descending the hill, intercepted our way. It was the man Cuthbert, 
 already mentioned by Mr. Fairman. He touched his south-wester to the 
 incumbent. 
 
 "How is the boy, Cuthbert]" asked the minister, stopping at the same 
 moment. 
 
 "All but well, sir. Doctor Mayhew don't mean to come again. It's all 
 along of them nourishments that Miss Ellen sent us down. The doctor 
 says he must have died without them." 
 
 " Well, Cuthbert, I trust that we shall find you grateful." 
 
 "Grateful, sir!" exclaimed the man. "If ever I forget what you have 
 done for that poor child, I hope the breath " 
 
 The brawny fisherman could say no more. His eyes filled suddenly, 
 and he held down his head ashamed. He had no cause to be so. 
 
 " Be honest and industrious, Cuthbert ; give that boy a good example. 
 Teach him to love his God, and his neighbour as himself. That will be 
 gratitude enough, and more than pay Miss Ellen." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 255 
 
 " I'll trv to do it. sir. God bless you !" 
 
 We said little till we reached the parsonage again ; but before I re-en- 
 tered its gate, the Reverend Walter Fairman had risen in my esteem, and 
 ceased to^be considered a cold and unfeeling man. 
 
 We dined ; the party consisting of the incumbent, the six students, and 
 myself. The daughter, the only daughter and child of Mr. Fairman, who 
 was himself a widower, had not returned from the cottage to which she 
 had been called in the morning. It was necessary that a female should 
 be in constant attendance upon the aged invalid ; a messenger had been 
 dispatched to the neighbouring village for an experienced nurse ; and 
 until her arrival Miss Fairman would permit no one but herscdf to under- 
 take the duties of the sick chamber. It was on this account that we were 
 deprived of the pleasure of her society ; for her accustomed seat waa at 
 the head of her father's table. I was pleased with the pupils : they were 
 affable and well-bred. They treated the incumbent with marked respect, 
 and behaved towards their new teacher with the generous kindness and 
 freedom of true voting gentlemen. The two eldest boys might be fifteen 
 years of age ; the* remaining four could not have reached their thirteenth 
 year. In^the afternoon I "had the scholars to myself. The incumbent 
 retired to his library, and left us to pass our first day in removing the 
 restraint that was the natural accompaniment of our different positions, 
 and in securing our intimacy. I talked of the scenery, and found willing 
 listeners. Thev understood' me better than their master, for they were 
 worshippers themselves. They promised to show me lovelier spots than 
 anv I had met with yet : sacred corners, known only to themselves, down 
 by the sea. where the arbute and laurustinus grew like trees, and children 
 of the ocean. Then there were villages near, more beautiful even than 
 their own ; one that lav in the lap of a large hill, with the sea creeping 
 round, or rolling at its feet like thunder, sometimes. What lanes, too, 
 Miss Fairman knew of! She would take me into places worth the looking 
 at : and oh, what drawings she had made from them ! Their sisters had 
 bought drawings, and paid very dearly for them too, that were not half so 
 finely done ! "Thev would ask her 'to show me her portfolio, and she 
 would do it directly, for she was the kindest creature living It was not 
 the worst trait in the disposition of these boys, that whatever might be 
 the subject of conversation, or from whatever point we might start in our 
 discourse, thev found pleasure in making all things bear towards the ho- 
 nour and' renown of their young mistress. The scenery was nothing with- 
 out Miss Fairman and her sketches. The house was dull without her ; 
 and the singing in the church, if she were ill and absent, was as different 
 as could be. There were the sweetest birds that could be. heard warbling 
 in the high trees that lined the narrow roads : but at Miss Fairman's win- 
 dow there was a nightingale that beat them all. The day wore on, and I 
 did not see the general favourite. It was dusk when she reached the par- 
 sonage, and then she retired immediately to rest, tired from the laboun 
 of the day. The friend of the family, Doctor Mayhew. had accompanied 
 Miss Fairman home : he remained with the incumbent, and I continued 
 with my voung companions until their bed-time. They departed, leaving 
 me their books, and then I took a survey of the work that was before me. 
 My duties were to commence on the following day, and our first subject 
 was the tragedy of Hecuba. How very grateful did I feel for the sound 
 instruction which I had received in early life from my revered and pains- 
 taking tutor, for the solid groundwork that he had established, and for 
 the rational mode of tuition which he had from the first adopted. From 
 the moment that he undertook to cultivate and inform the youthful intel- 
 
256 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 lect, this became itself an active instrument in the attainment of know- 
 ledge — not, as is so often the case, the mere idle depositary of encumbering 
 words. It was little that he required to be gained by rote ; for he re- 
 garded all acquisitions as useless in which the understanding had not the 
 chiefest share. He was pleased to communicate facts, and anxious to dis- 
 cover, from examination, that the principles which they contained had 
 been accurately seen and understood. Then no labour and perseverance 
 on his part were deemed too great for his pupil, and the business of his 
 life became his first pleasure. In the study of Greek, for which at an 
 early age I evinced great aptitude, I learned the structure of the language 
 and its laws from the keen observations of my master, whose rules were 
 drawn from the classic work before us — rather than from grammars. To 
 this hour I retain the information thus obtained, and at no period of my 
 life have I ever had greater cause for thankfulness, than when, after many 
 months of idleness and neglect, with a view to purchase bread, I opened, 
 not without anxiety, my book again, and found that time had not im- 
 paired my knowledge, and that light shone brightly on the pages, as it 
 did of old. Towards the close of the evening, I was invited to the study 
 of Mr. Fairman. Doctor Mayhew was still with him, and I was introduced 
 to the physician as the teacher newly arrived from London. The doctor 
 was a stout, good-humoured gentleman of the middle height, with a 
 cheerful and healthy-looking countenance. He was, in truth, a jovial 
 man, as well as a great snuff-taker. The incumbent offered me a chair, 
 and placed a decanter of wine before me. His own glass of port was 
 untouched, and he looked serious and dejected. 
 
 "Well, sir, how does London look?" enquired the doctor; "are the 
 folks as mad as they used to be? What new invention is the rage now? 
 What bubble is going to burst ? What lord committed forgery last ? Who 
 was the last woman murdered before }'ou started?" 
 I confessed my inability to answer. 
 
 " Well, never mind. There isn't much lost. I am almost ashamed of 
 old England, that's the truth on't. I have given over reading the news- 
 papers, for they are about as full of horrors as Miss What's-her-name's 
 tale of the Infernals. What an age this is ! all crime and fanaticism ! 
 Every man and every thing is on the rush. Come, Fairman, take your 
 wine." 
 
 Mr. Fairman sat gazing on the fire quietly, and took no notice of the 
 request. "People's heads," continued the medical gentleman, "seemed 
 turned topsy-turvy. Dear me, how different it was in my time ! What men 
 are about I can't think. The ver} r last newspaper I read, had an advertise- 
 ment that I should as soon have expected to see there when my father was 
 alive, as a ship sailing along this coast keel upwards. You saw it, Fair- 
 man. It was just under the Everlasting Life Pill advertisement; and an- 
 nounced that the Reverend Mr. Somebody would preach on the Sunday 
 following at some conventicle, when the public were invited to listen to 
 him — and that the doors would be opened half an hour earlier than usual 
 to prevent squeezing. That's modern religion, and it looks as much like 
 ancient play-acting as two peas. Where will these marching days of im- 
 provement bring us to at last ?" 
 
 " Tell me, Mayhew," said Mr. Fairman, " does it not surprise you that 
 a girl of her age should be so easily fatigued?" 
 
 "My dear friend, that makes the sixth time of asking. Let us hope that 
 it will be the last. I don't know what you mean by ' so easily ' fatigued. 
 The poor girl has been in the village all day, fomenting and poulticing 
 old Mrs. Barnes, and if it had been any girl but herself, she would have 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 257 
 
 been tired out long before. Make your mind easy. I have sent the 
 naughty puss to bed, and she'll be as fresh as a rose in the morning." 
 
 " She must keep her exertions within proper bounds," continued the 
 incumbent. " I am sure she has not strength enough to carry out her 
 good intentions. I have watched her narrowly, and cannot be mistaken." 
 
 " You do wrong, then, Fairman. Anxious watching creates fear, with- 
 out the shadow of an excuse for it. When we have anything like a bad 
 symptom, it is time to get uneasy." 
 
 " Yes, but what do you call a bad symptom, doctor] " 
 
 " "Why, I call your worrying yourself into fidgets, and teasing me into 
 an ill temper, a shocking symptom of bad behaviour. If it continue, 
 you must take a dose. Come, my friend, let me prescribe that glass of 
 good old port. It does credit to the cloth." 
 
 " Seriously, Mayhew, have you never noticed the short, hacking cough 
 that sometimes troubles her]" 
 
 " Yes ; I noticed it last January for the space of one week, when there 
 was not a person within ten miles of you who was not either hacking, as 
 you call it, or blowing his nose from morning till night. The dear child 
 had a cold, and so had you, and I, and everybody else." 
 
 " And that sudden flush, too V 
 
 "Why, you'll be complaining of the bloom on the peach next ! That's 
 health, and nothing else, take my word for it." 
 
 " I am, perhaps, morbidly apprehensive ; but I cannot forget her pool- 
 mother. You attended her, Mayhew, and you know how suddenly that 
 came upon us. Poor Ellen ! what should I do without her ! " 
 
 "Fairman, join me in wishing success to our young friend here. Mr. 
 Stukely, here's your good health; and success and happiness attend you. 
 You'll find little society here ; but it is of the right sort, I can tell you. 
 You must make yourself at home. " The minister became more cheerful, 
 and an hour passed in pleasant conversation. At ten o'clock, the horse of 
 Doctor Mayhew was brought to the gate, and the gentleman departed in 
 great good-humour. Almost immediately afterwards, the incumbent him- 
 self conducted me to my sleeping apartment, and I was not loath to get 
 my rest. I fell asleep with the beautiful village floating before my weary 
 eyes, and the first day of my residence at the parsonage closed peacefully 
 upon me. 
 
 It was at the breakfast table on the succeeding morning that I beheld 
 the daughter of the incumbent, the favourite and companion of my pupils, 
 and mistress of the house — a maiden in her twentieth year. She was 
 simply and artlessly attired, gentle and retiring in demeanour, and femi- 
 ninely sweet rather than beautiful in expression. Her figure was slender, 
 her voice soft and musical ; her hair light brown, and worn plain across 
 a forehead white as marble. The eyebrows which arched the small, rich, 
 hazel eyes, were delicately drawn, and the slightly aquiline nose might 
 have formed a study for an artist. With the exception, however, of this 
 last-named feature, there was little in the individual lineaments of the 
 face to surprise or rivet the observer. Extreme simplicity, and perfect 
 innocence — these were stamped upon the countenance, and were its charm. 
 It was a strange feeling that possessed me when I first gazed upon her 
 through the chaste atmosphere that dwelt around her. It was degradation 
 deep and unaffected — a sense of shame and undeservedness. I remembered 
 with self-abhorrence the relation that had existed between the unhappy 
 Emma and myself, and the enormity and disgrace of my offence never 
 looked so great as now, and here — in the bright presence of unconscious 
 purity. She reassured and welcomed me with a natural smile, and pur- 
 
 s 
 
258 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 sued her occupation with quiet cheerfulness and unconstraint. I did not 
 wonder that her father loved her, and entertained the thought of losing 
 her with fear; for, young and gentle as she was, she evinced wisdom and 
 age in her deep sense of duty, and in the government of her happy home. 
 Method and order waited on her doings, and sweetness and tranquillity — 
 the ease and dignity of a matron elevating and upholding the maiden's 
 native modesty. And did she not love her sire as ardently ] Yes, if her 
 virgin soul spoke faithfully in every movement of her guileless face. 
 Yes, if there be truth in tones that strike the heart to thrill it — in 
 thoughts that write their meaning in the watchful eye — in words that issue 
 straight from the fount of love — in acts that do not bear one shade of 
 selfish purpose. It was not a labour of time to learn that the existence of 
 the child, her peace and happiness, were merged in those of the fond pa- 
 rent. He was everything to her, as she to him. She had no brother — 
 he no wife : these natural channels of affection cut away, the stream was 
 strong and deep that flowed into each other's hearts. My first interview 
 with the young lady was necessarily limited. I would gladly have pro- 
 longed it. The morning was passed with my pupils, and my mind stole 
 often from the work before me, to dwell upon the face and form of her, 
 whom, as a sister, I could have doated on and cherished. How happy I 
 should have been, I deemed, if I had been so blessed ! Useless reflection ! 
 and yet pleased was I to dwell upon it, and to welcome its return as often 
 as it recurred. At dinner we met again. To be admitted into her pre- 
 sence seemed the reward for my morning toil — a privilege rather than a 
 right, What labour was too great for the advantage of such moments 1 — 
 moments indeed they were, and less— flashes of time that were not here 
 before they had disappeared. We exchanged but few words. I was still 
 oppressed with the conviction of my own unworthiness, and wondered if 
 she could read in my burning face the history of shame. How she must 
 avoid and despise me, thought I, when she has discovered all, and how 
 bold and wicked it was to darken the light in Avhich she lived with the 
 guilt that was a part of me ! Not the less did I experience this when she 
 spoke to me with kindness and unreserve. The feeling grew in strength. 
 I was conscious of deceit and fraud, and could not shake the knowledge 
 off. I was taking mean advantage of her confidence, assuming a character 
 to which I had no claim, and listening to the accents of innocence and 
 virtue with the equanimity of one good and spotless as herself. In the 
 afternoon the young students resumed their work. When it was over, we 
 strolled amongst the hills ; and, at the close of a delightful walk, found 
 ourselves in the enchanting village. Here we encountered Miss Fairman 
 and the incumbent, and we returned home in company. In one short 
 hour we reached it. How many hours have passed since that was ravished 
 from the hand of Time, and registered in the tenacious memory ! Years 
 have floated by, and silently have dropped into the boundless sea, un- 
 heeded, unregretted ; and these few minutes — sacred relics — live and 
 linger in the world, in mercy it may be, to lighten up my lonely hearth, 
 or save the whitened head from drooping. The spirit of one golden hour 
 shall hover through a life, and shed glory where he falls. What are the 
 unfruitful, unremembered years that rush along, frightening mortality 
 with their fatal speed— an instant in eternity! What are the moments 
 loaded with passion, intense and never-dying — years, ages upon earth ! 
 Away with the divisions of time, whilst one short breath — the smallest 
 particle or measure of duration— shall outweigh ages. Breathless and 
 silent is the dewy eve. Trailing a host of glittering clouds behind him, 
 the sun stalks down, and leaves the emerald hills in deener green. The 
 
CALEB STUKKLY. 259 
 
 lambs are skipping on the path — the shepherd as loath to lead them home 
 as thej r to go. The labourer has done his work, and whistles his way back. 
 The minister has much of good and wise to say to his young family. They 
 hear the business of the day : their guardian draws the moral, and bids 
 them think it over. Upon my arm I bear his child, the fairest object of 
 the twilight group. She tells me histories of this charmed spot, and the 
 good old tales that are as old as the grey church beneath us ; she smiles 
 and speaks of joys amongst the hills, ignorant of the tearful eye and throb- 
 bing heart beside her, that overflow with new-found bliss, and cannot bear 
 their weight of happiness. 
 
 Another day of natural gladnes3 — and then the Sabbath ; this not less 
 cheerful and inspiriting than the preceding. The sun shone fair upon the 
 ancient church, and made its venerable grey stones sparkle and look young 
 again. The dark -green ivy that for many a year had clung there, looked 
 no longer sad and sombre, but gay and lively as the newest of the new- 
 born leaves that smiled on every tree. The inhabitants of the secluded 
 village were already a-foot when we proceeded from the parsonage, and 
 men and women from adjacent villages were on the road to join them. 
 The deep-toned bell pealed solemnly, and sanctified the vale ; for its 
 sound strikes deeply ever on the broad ear of nature. Willows and yew- 
 trees shelter the graves of the departed villagers, and the living wend 
 their way beneath them, subdued to seriousness, it may be, by the breath- 
 less voice that dwells in every well-remembered mound. There is not one who 
 does not carry on his brow the thoughts that best become it now. All are 
 well dressed, all look cleanly and contented. The children are with their 
 parents, their natural and best instructors. Whom should they love so 
 well* To whom is honour due if not to them] The village owns no 
 school to disannul the tie of blood, to warp and weaken the affection that 
 holds them well together. 
 
 All was quietness and decorum in the house of prayer. Every earnest 
 eye was fixed, not upon Mr. Fairman, but on the book from which the 
 people prayed ; in which they found their own godd thoughts pourtrayed, 
 their pious wishes told, their sorrow and repentance in clearest form 
 described. Every humble penitent was on his knees. With one voice, 
 loud and heartfelt, came the responses which spoke the people's acqui- 
 escence in all the pastor urged and prayed on their behalf. The worship 
 over, Mr. Fairman addressed his congregation, selecting his subject from 
 the lesson of the day, and fitting his words to the capacities of those who 
 listened. Let me particularly note, that whilst the incumbent pointed 
 distinctly to the cross as the only ground of a sinner's hope, he insisted 
 upon good works as the necessary and essential accompaniment of his 
 faith. " Do not tell me, my dear friends," he said, at the conclusion of 
 his address — * do not tell me that you believe, if your daily life is un- 
 worthy a believer. 1 will not trust you. What is your belief, if your 
 heart is busy in contrivances to overreach your neighbour? What is it, if 
 your mind is filled with envy, malice, hatred, and revenge? What if you 
 are givenover to disgraceful lust — to drunkenness and debauchery] What if 
 you are ashamed to speak the truth, and are willing to become a liar ] 1 tell 
 you, and 1 have warrant for what I say, that your conduct one towards 
 another must be straightforward, honest, generous, kind, and affectionate, 
 or you cannot be in a safe and happy state. You owe it to yourselves to 
 be so ; for if you are poor and labouring men, you have an immortal soul 
 within you, and it is your greatest ornament. It is that which gives the 
 meanest of us a dignity that no earthly honours can supply ; a dignity 
 that it becomes the first and last of us by every means to cherish and 
 
 s 2 
 
260 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 support. Is it not, my friends, degrading, fearful, to know that we bear 
 about with us the very image of our God, and that we are acting worse 
 than the very brutes of the field ? Do yourselves justice. Be pure— pure 
 in mind and body. Be honest, in word and deed. Be loving to one 
 another. Crush every wish to do evil, or to speak harshly ; be brothers, 
 and feel that you are working out the wishes of a benevolent and loving 
 Father, who has created you for love, and smiles upon you when you do 
 his bidding." There was more to this effect, but nothing need be added 
 to explain the scope and tendency of his discourse. His congregation 
 could not mistake his meaning; they could not fail to profit by it, if 
 reason was not proof against the soundest argument. As quietly as, and, 
 if it be possible, more seriously than, they entered the church, did the 
 small band of worshippers, at the close of the service, retire from it. Could 
 it be my fancy, or did the wife in truth cling closer to her husband — the 
 father clasp his little boy more firmly in his hand ] Did neighbour nod 
 to neighbour more eagerly as they parted at the churchyard gate — did 
 every look and movement of the many groups bespeak a spirit touched, a 
 mind reproved ? I may not say so ; for my own heart was melted by the 
 scene, and might mislead my judgment. There was a second service in 
 the afternoon. This concluded, we walked to the sea-beach. In the even- 
 ing Mr. Fairman related a connected history from the Old Testament ; 
 whilst the pupils tracked his progress on their maps, and the narrative 
 became a living thing in their remembrances. Serious conversation then 
 succeeded ; to this a simple prayer, and the day closed, sweetly and calmly, 
 as a day might close in Paradise. 
 
 The events of the following month partook of the character of those 
 already glanced at. The minister was unremitting in his attendance upon 
 his parishioners, and no day passed during which something had not been 
 accomplished for their spiritual improvement or worldly comfort. His 
 loving daughter was a handmaid at his side, ministering with him, and 
 shedding sunshine where she came. The villagers were frugal and in- 
 dustrious ; and seemed, for the most part, sensible of their incumbent's 
 untiring efforts. Improvement appeared even in the cottage of the despe- 
 rate Warden. Mr. Fairman obtained employment for him. For a fort- 
 night he had attended to it, and no complaint had reached the parsonage 
 of misbehaviour. His wife had learned to bear her imagined wrongs in 
 silence, and could even submit to a visit from her best friend without in- 
 sulting him for the condescension. My own days passed smoothly on. 
 My occupation grew every day more pleasing, and the results of my 
 endeavours as gratifying as I could wish them. My pupils were attached 
 to me, and I beheld them improving gradually and securely under their 
 instruction. Mr. Fairman, who, for a week together, had witnessed the 
 course of my tuition, and watched it narrowly, was pleased to express his 
 approbation in the warmest terms. Much of the coldness with which I 
 thought he had at first encountered me disappeared, and his manner grew 
 daily more friendly and confiding. His treatment was most generous. 
 He received me into the bosom of his family as a son, and strove to render 
 his fair habitation my genuine and natural home. 
 
 Another month passed by, and the colour and tone of my existence 
 had suffered a momentous change. In the acquirement of a fearful joy, 
 I had lost all joy. In rendering every moment of my life blissful and 
 ecstatic, I had robbed myself of all felicity. A few weeks before, and my 
 state of being had realised a serenity that defied all causes of perturbation 
 and disquiet. Now it was a sea of agitation and disorder ; and a breath, 
 nothing, had brought the restless waves upon the quiet surface. Through 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 261 
 
 the kindness of Mr. Fairman, my evenings had been almost invariably 
 passed in the society of himself and his daughter. The lads were early 
 risers, and retired, on that account, at a very early hour to rest. Upon 
 their dismission, I had been requested to join the company in the draw- 
 ing-room. This company included sometimes Doctor Mayhew. the neigh- 
 bouring squire, or a chance visitor, but consisted oftenest only of the in- 
 cumbent and his daughter. Aware of the friendly motive which sug- 
 gested the request, I obeyed it with alacrity. On these occasions, Miss 
 Fairman used her pencil, whilst I read aloud ; or she would ply her needle, 
 and soothe at intervals her father's ear with strains of music,, which he, 
 for manv reasons, loved to hear. Once or twice the incumbent had been 
 called away, and' his child and I were left together. I had no reason to 
 be silent whilst the good minister was present ; yet I found that I could 
 speak more confidently and better when he was absent. We conversed 
 with freedom and unrestraint. I found the maiden's mind well stored — 
 her voice was not more sweet than was her understanding clear and 
 cloudless. Books had been her joy, which, in the season of suffering, 
 had been my consolation. They were a common source of pleasure. She 
 spoke of them with feeling, and I could understand her. I regarded her 
 with deep, unfeigned respect ; but, the evening over, I took my leave, as 
 I had come— in peace. Miss Fairman left the parsonage to pay a two 
 davs' visit at a house in the vicinity. Until the evening of the first day 
 I was not sensible of her absence. It was then, and at the customary 
 hour of our reunion, that for the first time I experienced, with alarm, a 
 sense of loneliness and desertion— that I became tremblingly conscious of 
 the secret growth of an affection, that had waited only for the time and 
 circumstance to make its presence and its power known and dreaded. In 
 the daily enjoyment of her society, I had not estimated its influence and 
 value. "Once denied it, and I dared not acknowledge to myself how pre- 
 cious it had become, how silently and fatally it had wrought upon my 
 heart. The impropriety and folly of self-indulgence were at once appa- 
 rent—yes, the vanity and wickedness— and, startled by what looked like 
 guilt, I determined manfully to rise superior to temptation. I took refuge 
 in mv books ; they lacked" their usual interest, were ineffectual in re- 
 ducing the ruffled mind to order. I rose and paced my room, but I could 
 not escape from agitating thought. I sought the minister in his study, 
 and hoped to bring myself to calm and reason by dwelling seriously on 
 the business of the day— with him, the father of the lady, and my matter. 
 He was not there. He had left the parsonage with Doctor Mayhew an 
 hour before. I walked into the open air restless and unhappy, relying on 
 the freshness and repose of night to be subdued and comforted. It was 
 a night to soften ana;er— to conquer envy— to destroy revenge— beautiful 
 and bright. The hills were bathed in liquid silvery light, and on their 
 heights, and in the vale, on all around, lay passion slumbering. "What 
 could I find on such a night, but favour and incitement, support and con- 
 firmation, flattery and delusion?- Every object ministered to the imagina- 
 tion, and love had given that wings. I trembled as I pursued my road, 
 and fuel found its unobstructed way rapidly to the flame within. Self- 
 absorbed, I wandered on. I did not choose my path. I believe I did 
 not, and I stopped at length— before the house that held her. I gazed 
 upon it with reverence and love. One room was lighted up. Shadows 
 flitted across the curtained window, and my heart throbbed sensibly when, 
 amongst them, I imagined I could trace her form. I was borne down by 
 a conviction of wrong and culpability ; but I could not move, or for a 
 moment draw away my look. It was a strange assurance that I felt— but 
 
£62 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 I did feel it, strongly and emphatioally — that I should see her palpably 
 before I left the place. I waited for that sight in certain expectation, and 
 it came. A light was carried from the room. Diminished illumination 
 there, and sudden brightness against a previously-darkened casement 
 made this evident. The light ascended — another casement higher than 
 the last was, in its turn, illumined, and it betrayed her figure. She ap- 
 proached the window, and for an instant — oh, how brief! — looked into 
 the heavenly night. My poor heart sickened with delight, and I strained 
 my eyes long after all was blank and dark again. 
 
 Daylight, and the employments of day, if they did not remove, weak- 
 ened the turbulence of the preceding night. The more I found my 
 passion acquiring mastery, with greater vigour I renewed my work, and 
 with more determination I pursued the objects that were most likely to 
 fight and overcome it. I laboured with the youths for a longer period. 
 I undertook to prepare a composition for the following day, which I knew 
 must take much thought and many hours in working out. I armed my- 
 self at all points — but the evening came and found me once more con- 
 scious of a void that left me prostrate. Mr. Fairman was again absent 
 from home. I could not rest in it, and I too sallied forth, but this time 
 to the village. I would not deliberately offer violence to my conscience, 
 and I shrunk from a premeditated visit to the distant house. My own 
 acquaintances in the village were not many or of long standing ; but 
 there were some half dozen, especial favourites of the incumbent's 
 daughter. To one of these I bent my steps, with no other purpose than 
 that of baffling time, that hung upon me painfully and heavily at home. 
 For a few minutes I spoke with the aged female of the house on general 
 topics ; then a passing observation — in spite of me — escaped my lips in 
 reference to Miss Ellen. The villager took up the theme, and expatiated 
 widely. There was no end to what she had to say of good and kind for 
 the dear lady. I could have hugged her for her praise. Prudence bade 
 me forsake the dangerous ground, and so I did, to return again with ten- 
 fold curiosity and zest. I asked a hundred questions, each one revealing 
 more interest and ardour than the last, and involving me in deeper peril. 
 It was at length accomplished. My companion hesitated suddenly in a 
 discourse, then stopped, and looked me in the face, smiling cunningly. 
 "I tell you what, sir," she exclaimed at last, and loudly, "3^011 are over 
 head and ears in love, and that's the truth on't !" 
 
 " Hush, good woman," I replied, blushing to the forehead, and hasten- 
 ing to shut an open door. " Don't speak so loud. You mistake, it is no such 
 thing. I shall be angry if you say so— very angry. What can you mean *" 
 
 "Just what I say, sir. Why, do you know how old I am? Seventy- 
 three. I think I ought to tell, and where's the harm of it] Who couldn't 
 love the sweetest lady in the parish — bless her young feeling heart V 
 
 "I tell you — you mistake — you are to blame. I command you not to 
 repeat this to a living soul. If it should come to the incumbent's 
 ears " 
 
 " Trust me for that, sir. I'm no blab. He sha'n't be wiser for such as 
 me. But do you mean to tell me, sir, with that red face of your'n, you 
 haven't lost your heart — leave alone your trembling 1 Ah, well, I hopes 
 you'll both be happy, anyhow !" 
 
 I endeavoured to remonstrate, but the old woman only laughed and 
 shook her aged head. I left her grieved and apprehensive. My secret 
 thoughts had been discovered. How soon might they be carried to the 
 confiding minister and his unsuspecting daughter! What would they 
 think of me ? It was a day of anxiety and trouble, that on which Miss 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 263 
 
 Fairman returned to the parsonage. I received my usual invitation ; but 
 I was indisposed, and did not go. I resolved to see her only during 
 meals, and when it was impossible to avoid her. I would not seek her 
 presence. Foolish effort ! It had been better to pass hours in her sight, 
 for previous separation made union more intense, and the passionate en- 
 joyment of a fleeting instant was hoarded up, and became nourishment 
 for the livelong da v. 
 
 It was a soft rich afternoon in June, and chance made me the companion 
 of Miss Fairman. We were alone : I had encountered her at a distance 
 of about a mile from the parsonage, on the sea-shore, whither I had 
 walked distressed in spirit, and grateful for the privilegeof listening in 
 gloomv quietude to the soothing sounds of nature— medicinal ever. The 
 lady was at my side almost before I was aware of her approach. My 
 heart throbbed whilst she smiled upon me, sweetly as she smiled on all. 
 Her deep hazel eye was moist. Could it be from weeping ] 
 
 "What has happened, Miss Fairman V I asked immediately. 
 
 "Do I betrav mv weakness, then]" she answered. "I am sorry for it; 
 for dear papa tells all the villagers that no wise man weeps— and no wise 
 woman either, I suppose. But I cannot help it. We are but a small 
 family in the village, and it makes me very sad to miss the ancient faces 
 one after another, and to see old friends dropping and dropping into the 
 silent grave." 
 
 As she spoke the church-bell tolled, and she turned pale, and ceased. 1 
 offered her mv arm, and we walked on. 
 
 '•'Whom do" you mourn, Miss Fairman?" I asked at length. 
 
 " A dear good friend— my best and oldest. When poor mamma was 
 dying, she made me over to her care. She was her nurse, and was mine 
 for years. It is very wrong of me to weep for her. She was good and 
 pious, and is blest." 
 
 The church-bell tolled again, and mv companion shuddered. 
 
 "Oh ! I cannot listen to that bell," she said. " I wish papa would do 
 awav with it. What a withering sound it has ! I heard it first when it was 
 tolling for my dear mother. It fell upon my heart like iron then, and it 
 falls so now." . T 
 
 " I cannot say that I dislike the melancholy chime. Death is sad. Its 
 
 messenger should not be gay." . 
 
 " It is the soul that sees and hears. Beauty and music are created 
 quickly if the heart be joyful. So my book says, and it is true. You 
 have had no cause to think that bell a hideous thing." 
 
 " Yet I have suffered youth's severest loss. I have lost a mother. 
 
 "You speak the truth. Yet, I have a kind father left me— and 
 
 you " 
 
 " I am an orphan, friendless and deserted. God grant, Miss h airman, 
 you may be spared my fate for years !" 
 
 " Not friendless or deserted either, Mr. Stukely," answered the young 
 lady kindly ; " papa does not deserve, I am sure, that you should speak 
 so harshly." 
 
 " Pardon me, Miss Fairman. I did not mean to say that. He has been 
 most generous to me— kinder than I deserve. But I have borne much, and 
 still must bear. The fatherless and motherless is in the world alone. He 
 needs no greater punishment." 
 
 " You must not talk so. Papa will, I am sure, be a father to you, as he 
 is to all who need one. You do not know him, Mr. Stukely. His heart 
 is overflowing with tenderness and charity. You cannot judge him by 
 his manner. He has had his share of sorrow and misfortune : and death 
 
264 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 has been at his door oftener than once. Friends have been unfaithful and 
 men have been ungrateful ; but trial and suffering have not hardened him. 
 He has received injury like a child, and dealt mercy and love with the 
 liberality of an angel. Trust my father, Mr. Stukely." 
 
 The maiden spoke quickly and passionately, and her neck and face 
 crimsoned with animation. I quivered, for her tones communicated fire ; 
 but my line of conduct was marked, and it shone clear in spite of the 
 clouds of emotion which strove to envelope and conceal it — as they did 
 too soon. 
 
 " I would trust him, Miss Fairman, and I do," I answered, with a falter- 
 ing* tongue. " I appreciate his character, and I revere him. I could have 
 made my home with him. I prayed that I might do so. Heaven seemed 
 to have directed my steps to this blissful spot, and to have pointed out at 
 length a resting-place for my tired feet. I have been most happy here — 
 too happy. I have proved ungrateful, and I know how rashly I have for- 
 feited this and everything. I cannot live here. This is no home for me. 
 I will go into the world again — cast myself upon it — do anything. I could 
 be a labourer on the highways, and be contented if I could see that I had 
 done my duty, and behaved with honour. Believe me, Miss Fairman, I 
 have not deliberately indulged— I have struggled, fought, and battled, till 
 my brain has tottered. I am wretched and forlorn; but I will leave you 
 
 — to-morrow — would that I had never come " I could say no more. 
 
 My full heart spoke its agony in tears. 
 
 " What has occurred 1 What afflicts you ? You alarm me, Mr. Stukely." 
 
 I had sternly determined to permit no one look to give expression to 
 the feeling which consumed me, to obstruct by force the passage of the re- 
 motest hint that should struggle to betray me ; but as the maiden looked 
 full and timidly upon me, I felt in defiance of me, and against all opposi- 
 tion, the telltale passion rising from my soul, and creeping to my eye. It 
 would not be held back. In an instant, with one treacherous glance, all 
 was spoken and revealed. 
 
 PART XIV. 
 
 THE FUGITIVE. 
 
 " It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out ; 
 ****** the one 
 To end in madness — both in misery." 
 
 Bi'ROX. 
 
 The tongue has nothing to say when the soul hath spoken all ! What need 
 of words in the passionate and early intercourse of love ! There is no oral 
 language that can satisfy or meet the requisitions of the stricken heart. 
 Speech, the worldling and the false— oftener the dark veil than the bright 
 mirror of man's thoughts— is banished from the spot consecrated to purity, 
 unselfishness, and truth. The lovely and beloved Ellen learned, before a 
 syllable escaped my lips, the secret which those lips would never have dis- 
 closed. Her innocent. and conscious cheek acknowledged instantly her 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 265 
 
 quick perception, and with maiden modesty she turned aside — not angrily, 
 but timorous as a bird, upon whose leafy covert the heavy fowler's foot had 
 trod too harshly and too suddenly. I thought of nothing then but the 
 pain I had inflicted, and was sensible of no feeling but that of shame and 
 sorrow for my fault. We walked on in silence. Our road brought us to 
 the point in the village at which I had met Miss Fairman and her father, 
 when, for the first time, we became companions in our evening walk. We 
 retraced the path which then we took, and the hallowed spot grew lovelier 
 as we followed it. I could not choose but tell how deeply and indelibly 
 the scene of beauty had become imprinted on my heart. 
 
 "To you, Miss Fairman," I began, "and to others who were born and 
 nurtured in this valley, this is a common sight. To me it is a land of en- 
 chantment, and the impression that it brings must affect my future being. 
 I am sure, whatever may be my lot, that I shall be a happier man for what 
 I now behold." 
 
 " It is well," said my companion, " that you did not make the acquaint- 
 ance of our hills during the bleak winter, when their charms were hidden 
 in the snow, and they had nothing better to offer their worshipper than 
 rain and sleet, and nipping winds. They would have lost your praise 
 then." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Imprisoned as I have been, and kept a stranger to 
 the noblest works of Providence, my enjoyment is excessive, and I dare 
 scarcely trust myself to feel it as I would. I could gaze on yonder sweet 
 hillock, with itsVild-flowers and its own blue patch of sky, until I wept." 
 
 '•'Yes, this is a lovely scene in truth!" exclaimed Miss Fairman pen- 
 sively. 
 
 " i)o you remember, Miss Fairman, our first spring walk 1 For an hour 
 we went on, and that little green clump, as it appears from here, was not 
 for a moment out of my sight. My eyes were riveted upon it, and I 
 watched the clouds shifting across it, changing its hue, now darkening, now 
 lighting it up, until it became fixed in my remembrance, never to depart 
 from it. We have many fair visions around us, but that is to me the 
 fairest. It is connected with our evening walk. Neither can be forgotten, 
 whilst I live." 
 
 It was well that we reached the parsonage gate before another word was 
 spoken. In spite of the firmest of resolutions, the smallest self-indulgence 
 brought me to the very verge of transgression. 
 
 In the evening I sat alone, and began a letter to the minister. I wrote 
 a few lines expressive of my gratitude and deep sense of obligation. The}' 
 did not read well, and I destroyed them. I recommenced. I reproached 
 myself for presumption and temerity, and confessed that I had taken ad- 
 vantage of his confidence by attempting to gain the affections of his only 
 child. I regretted the fault, and desired to be dismissed. The terms 
 which I employed, on reperusal, looked too harsh, and did not certainly do 
 justice to the motives by which throughout I had been actuated ; for, how- 
 ever violent had been my passion, principle had still protected and re- 
 strained me. I had not coldly and deliberately betrayed myself. The second 
 writing, not more satisfactory than the first, was, in its turn, expunged. I 
 attempted a third epistle, and failed. Then I put down the pen and con- 
 sidered. I pondered until I concluded that I had ever been too hasty and 
 too violent. Miss Fairman would certainly take no notice of what had 
 happened ; and if I were guarded — silent — and determined for the future, 
 all would still be well. It was madness to indulge a passion which could 
 only lead to my expulsion from the parsonage, and end in misery. Had I 
 found it so easy to obtain a home and quiet, that both were to be so reck- 
 
266 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 lessly and shamefully abandoned 1 Surely it was time to dwell soberly and 
 seriously upon the affairs of life. I had numbered years and undergone trial 
 sufficient to be acquainted with true policy and the line of duty. Both bade 
 me instantly reject the new solicitation, and pursue, with singleness of pur- 
 pose, the occupation which fortune had mercifully vouchsafed to me. All 
 this was specious and most just, and sounded well to the understanding, 
 that was not less able to look temperately and calmly upon the argument 
 in consequence of the previous overflow of feeling. Reason is never so 
 plausible and prevailing as when it takes the place of gratified passion. 
 Never are we so firmly resolved upon good, as in the moment that follows 
 instantly the doing of evil. Never is conscience louder in her complaints, 
 than when she rises from a temporary overthrow. I had discovered every- 
 thing to Miss Fairman. I had fatally committed myself. There was no 
 doubt of this ; and nothing was left for present consolation but sapient 
 resolutions for the future. Virtuous and fixed they looked in my silent 
 chamber, and in the silent hour of night. Morning had yet to dawn, and 
 they had yet to contend with the thousand incitements which our desires 
 are ever setting up to battle with our better judgment. I did not write to 
 Mr. Fairman. but I rose from my seat much comforted, and softened my 
 midnight pillow with the best intentions. 
 
 Fancy might have suggested to me, on the following morning, that the 
 eyes of Miss Fairman had been visited but little by sleep, and that her 
 face was far more pallid than usual, if her parent had not remarked, with 
 much anxiety, when she took her place amongst us, that she was looking 
 most weary and unwell. Like the sudden emanation that crimsons all the 
 east, the beautiful and earliest blush of morning, came the driven blood 
 into the maiden's cheek, telling of discovery and shame. Nothing she said 
 in answer, but diligently pursued her occupation. I could perceive that 
 the fair hand trembled, and that the gentle bosom was disquieted. I could 
 tell why downwards bent the head, and with what new emotions the artless 
 spirit had become acquainted. Instantly I saw the mischief which my 
 rashness had occasioned, and felt how deeply had fallen the first accents of 
 love into the poor heart of the secluded one. What had I done by the 
 short, indistinct, most inconsiderate avowal, and how was it possible now 
 to avert its consequence 1 Every tender and uneasy glance that Mr. Fair- 
 man cast upon his cherished daughter, passed like a sting to me, and 
 roused the bitterest self-reproach. I could have calmed his groundless 
 fears, had I been bold enough to risk his righteous indignation. The frank- 
 ness and cordiality which had ever marked my intercourse with Miss 
 Fairman, were from this hour suspended. Could it be otherwise with one 
 so innocent, so truthful, and so meek ! Anger she had none, but appre- 
 hension and conceptions strange, such as disturbed the awakened soul of 
 woman, ere the storm of passion comes to overcharge it. 
 
 I slunk from the apartment and the first meal of the day, like a man 
 guilty of a heinous fault. I pleaded illness, and did not rejoin my friends. 
 I knew not what to do, and I passed a day in long and feverish doubt. 
 Evening arrived. My pupils were dismissed, and once more I sat in my 
 own silent room, lost in anxious meditation. Suddenly an unusual knock 
 at the door roused me, and brought me to my feet. I requested the 
 visitor to enter, and Mr. Fairman himself walked slowly in. He was pale 
 and care-worn, and he looked, as I imagined, sternly upon me. " All is 
 known !" was my first thought, and my throat swelled with agitation. I 
 presented a chair to the incumbent ; and when he sat down and turned his 
 wan face upon me, I felt that my own cheek was no less blanched than his. 
 I waited his rebuke in breathless suspense. 
 
CALEB STUKEIA". 267 
 
 " You are indeed ill, Stukely," commenced Mr. Fairman, gazing 
 earnestly. " I was not aware of this, or I would have seen you before. 
 You have overworked yourself with the boys. You shall be relieved to- 
 morrow. I will take charge of them myself. You should not have per- 
 severed when you found your strength unequal to the task. A little re- 
 pose will, I trust, restore you." 
 
 With every animating syllable, the affrighted blood returned again, and 
 I gained confidence. His tones assured me that he was still in ignorance. 
 A load was taken from me. 
 
 " I shall be better in the morning, sir," I answered. " Do not think 
 seriously of the slightest indisposition. I am better now." 
 
 " I am rejoiced to hear it," answered the incumbent. " I am full of 
 alarm and wretchedness to-day. Did you observe mv daughter this morn- 
 ing, Stukely!" 
 
 " Yes, sir," I faltered. 
 
 " You did, at breakfast, but you have not seen her since. I wish you 
 had. I am sick at heart." 
 
 " Is she unwell, sir!" 
 
 " Do you know what consumption is ] Have you ever watched its fearful 
 progress V 
 
 " Xever." 
 
 " I thought you might have done so. It is a fearful disease, and leaves 
 hardly a family untouched. Did she not look ill "!— you can tell me that at 
 least." 
 
 " Kot quite so well, perhaps, as I have seen her, sir ; but I should 
 hope " 
 
 " Eh— what ! not very ill, then \ Well, that is strange, for I was 
 frightened by her. What can it be ! I wish that Mayhew had called in. 
 Every ailment fills me with terror. I always think of her dear mother. 
 Three months before her death, she sat with me, as we do here together, 
 well and strong, and thanking Providence for health and strength. She 
 withered, as it might be, from that hour, and, as I tell you, three short 
 montns of havoc brought her to the grave." 
 
 u Was she young, sir V 
 
 " A few years older than my child— but that is nothing. Did you say 
 you did not think her looks this morning iudicated any symptoms ? Oh 
 — no ! I recollect. You never saw the malady at work. Well, certainly 
 she does not cough as her poor mother did. Did it look like languor, think 
 
 you?" 
 
 " The loss of rest might " 
 
 " Yes, it might, and perhaps it is nothing worse. I know Mayhew 
 thinks lightly of these temporary shadows ; but I do not believe he has 
 ever seen her so thoroughly feeble and depressed as she appears to-day. 
 She is very pale, but I was glad to find her face free from all flush whatever. 
 That is comforting. Let us hope the best. How do the boys advance 1 
 What opinion have you formed of the lad Charlton]" 
 
 " He is a dull, good-hearted boy, sir. Willing to learn, with little ability 
 to help him on. Most difficult of treatment. His tears lie near the sur- 
 face. At times it seems that the simplest terms are beyond his under- 
 standing, and then the gentlest reproof opens the flood-gate, and sub- 
 merges his faculties for the day." 
 
 "Be tender and cautious, Stukely, with that child. He is a sapling 
 that will not bear the rough wind. Let him learn what he will — rest 
 assured it is all he can. His eagerness to learn will never fall short of 
 yours to teach. He must be kindly encouraged, not frowned upon in his 
 
268 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 reverses; for who fights so hard against them, or deplores them mor 
 deeply than himself ? Poor, weak child, he is his own chastiser." 
 
 " I will take care, sir." 
 
 "Have vou seen this coming on, Stukely?" 
 
 "With Charlton, sir?" 
 
 " JSTo. Miss Fairman's indisposition. For many weeks she has cer- 
 tainly improved in health. I have remarked it, and I was taken by sur- 
 prise this morning. I should be easier had Mayhew seen her." 
 
 " Let me fetch him in the morning, sir. His presence will relieve you. 
 I will start early — and bring him with me." 
 
 " Well, if you are better, but certainly not otherwise. I confess I 
 should be pleased to talk with him. But do not rise too early. Get your 
 breakfast first. I will take the boys until you come back." 
 
 This had been the object of the anxious father's visit. As soon as I had 
 undertaken to meet his wish, he became more tranquil. My mission was 
 to be kept a secret. The reason why a servant had not been employed, 
 was the fear of causing alarm in the beloved patient. Before Mr. Fairman 
 left me, I was more than half persuaded that I myself had mistaken the 
 cause of his daughter's suffering ; so agreeable is it, even against convic- 
 tion, to discharge ourselves of blame. 
 
 The residence of Dr. Mayhew was about four miles distant from our 
 village. It was a fine brick house, as old as the oaks which stood before 
 it, conferring upon a few acres of grass land the right to be regarded as a 
 park. The interior of the house was as substantial as the outside ; both 
 were as solid as the good doctor himself. He was a man of independent 
 property, a member of the University of Oxford, and a great stickler for 
 old observances. He received a fee from every man who was able to pay 
 him for his services ; and the poor might always receive at his door, at the 
 cost of application only, medical advice and physic, and a few commodi- 
 ties much more acceptable than either. He kept a good establishment, 
 in the most interesting portion of which dwelt three decaying creatures, 
 the youngest fourscore years of age and more. They were an entail from 
 his grandfather, and had faithfully served that ancestor for many years as 
 coachman, housekeeper, and butler. The father of Dr. Mayhew had 
 availed himself of their integrity and experience until Time robbed 
 them of the latter, and rendered the former a useless ornament ; and 
 dying, he bequeathed them, with the house and lands, to their present 
 friend and patron. There they sat in their own hall, royal servants every 
 one, hanging to life by one small thread, which when it breaks for one 
 must break for all. They had little interest in the present world, to 
 which the daily visit of the doctor, and that alone, connected them. He 
 never failed to pay it. Unconscious of all else, they never failed to look 
 for it. 
 
 The village clock struck eleven as I walked up the avenue that con- 
 ducted to the house. The day was intensely hot, and at that early hour 
 the fierce fire of the sun had rendered the atmosphere sweltry and op- 
 pressive. I knocked many times before I could obtain admittance, and, 
 at last, the door was opened by a ragged urchin about twelve years of age, 
 looking more like the son of a thief or a gipsy than a juvenile member 
 of the decent household. 
 
 " Is Dr. Mayhew at home?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know !" he answered, surlily; "you had better come and 
 see ; " and therewith he turned upon his heel, and tramped heavily down 
 the kitchen stairs. 
 
 For a few seconds I remained where I was. At length, hearing no 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 269 
 
 voices in the house, and finding that no one was likely to come to me, I 
 followed him. At the bottom of the stairs was a long passage leading to 
 the offices. It was very dark, or it was rendered so to me who had just 
 left the glare of noonday. At the end of it, however, a small lamp glim- 
 mered, and under its feeble help 1 advanced. Arriving at its extremity, 
 I was stopped by the hum of many voices that proceeded from a chamber 
 on the right. Here I knocked immediately. The voice of Dr. Mayhew 
 desired me to enter. The door was opened the moment afterwards, and 
 then I beheld the doctor himself and every servant of the house assembled 
 in a crowd. The little boy who had given me admission was in the group ; 
 and in the very centre of all, sitting upright in a chair, was the strangest 
 apparition of a man that I have ever gazed upon, before or since. The 
 object that attracted, and at the same time repelled, my notice, was a 
 creature whose age no living man could possibly determine. He was at 
 least six feet higb, with raven hair, and a complexion sallow as the sear 
 leaf. Look at his figure, then mark the absence of a single wrinkle, and 
 you judge him for a youth. Observe again : look at the emaciated face ; 
 note the jet-black eye, deeply sunken, and void of all fire and life ; the 
 crushed, the vacant, and forlorn expression ; the aquiline nose, prominent 
 as an eagle's, from which the parchment skin is drawn as rigidly as though 
 it were a dead man's skin, bloodless and inert. The wear and tear, the 
 buffeting and misery of seventy years are there. Seventy !— yea, twice 
 seventy years of mortal agony and suffering could hardly leave a deeper 
 impress. He is strangely clad. He is in rags. The remnants of fine 
 clothes are dropping from his shrunken body. His hand is white and 
 small. Upon the largest finger he wears a ring— once, no doubt, before 
 his hand had shrivelled up, the property and ornament of the smallest. 
 It is a sparkling diamond, and it glistens as his own black eye should, if 
 it be true that he is old only in mental misery and pain. There is no sign 
 of thought or feeling in his look. His eye falls on no one, but seems to 
 pass bevond the lookers-on, and to rest on space. The company are far 
 more agitated. A few minutes before my arrival the strange object had 
 been found, with the boy whom I had first seen, wandering in the garden. 
 He was apprehended for a thief, brought into the house, and not until Dr. 
 Mayhew had been summoned, had it been suspected that the poor creature 
 was an idiot. Commiseration then took the place of anger quickly, and 
 all was anxiety and desire to know whence he had come, who he might 
 be, and what his business was. He could not speak for himself, and the 
 answers of the boy had been unsatisfactory and vague. When I entered 
 the room the doctor gave me a slight recognition, and proceeded at once 
 to a further examination of the stripling. 
 
 '■' Where did you pick him up, sir T enquired the doctor. 
 " Mother sent me out a-begging with him," answered the gipsy boy. 
 " Who is your mother }" 
 " Mabel." 
 "Mabel what V* 
 •'•' Mabel nothing." 
 " Where does she live then?" 
 " She doesn't live nowhere. She's a tramper.'' 
 " Where is she now V 
 
 " How can I tell ? We shall pick her up somewhere. Let me' go, and 
 take Silly Billy with me. I shall get such a licking if I don't." 
 " Is his name Billy ! " 
 
 " Xo, Silly Billy ; all them chaps as is fools are called Silly Billy. You 
 know that, don't you ) Oh, I say, do let's go now— there's good fellows !" 
 
270 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 " Wait a moment, boy — not so fast. How long have you been acquainted 
 with this unfortunate ? " 
 
 "What, Silly Billy? Oh,- we ain't very old friends ! I only see'd him 
 yesterday. He came up quite unawares to our camp whilst we were grub- 
 bing. He seemed wery hungry, so mother gave him summut, and made 
 him up a bed — and she means to have him. So she sent me out this 
 morning a-begging with him, and told me she'd break every gallows bone 
 I'd got, if I did not bring him back safe. I say, now I have" told all, let us 
 go — there's a good gentleman ! I am quite glad he is going to live with 
 us. It's so lucky to have a Silly Billy." 
 
 " How is it, you young rascal, you didn't tell me all this before \ What 
 do you mean by it ?" 
 
 " Why, it isn't no business of your'n. Let us go, will you 1" 
 
 " Strange," said Dr. Mayhem, turning to his butler — "Strange that they 
 should leave that ring upon his finger — valuable as it looks." 
 
 "Oh, you try it on, that's all ! Catch mother leaving that there, if she 
 could get it off. She tried hard enough, I can tell you, and I thought 
 he'd just have bitten her hand off. Wasn't he savage neither, oh, cry ! 
 She won't try at it again in a hurry. . She says it serves her right, for no 
 luck comes of robbing a Silly Billy." 
 
 The servants, who betrayed a few minutes before great anxiety and 
 apprehension, were perfectly overcome by this humorous sally, and "burst, 
 with one accord, into the loudest laughter. The generally jocose doctor, 
 however, looked particularly serious, and kept his eye upon the poor idiot 
 with an expression of deep pity. "Will he not speak]" he asked, still 
 marking his unhappy countenance, bereft of every sign of sensibility. 
 
 " He won't say not nuffin," said the bo}', in a tone which he hoped 
 would settle the business. " You have no right to keep us. Let us 
 go." 
 
 " Leave me with these persons," said the doctor, turning to the servants. 
 u We will see if the tongue of this wretched creature be really tied. Go, 
 all of you." 
 
 In an instant the room was left to Dr. Mayhew and myself— the idiot 
 and his keeper. 
 
 " What is your name, my man?" enquired the physician, in a soothing 
 tone. " Do not be frightened. Nobody will hurt you here. We are all 
 your very good friends. Tell me now, what is your name ?" 
 
 The questioner took the poor fellow at the same time by the hand, and 
 pressed it kindly. The latter then looked round the room with a vacant 
 stare, and sighed profoundly. 
 
 " Tell me your name," continued the doctor, encouraged by the move- 
 ment. The lips of the afflicted man unclosed. His "brick-red tongue 
 attempted to moisten them. Fixing his expressionless eyes upon the 
 doctor, he answered, in a hollow voice, " Belton" 
 
 "Well, I never!" exclaimed the boy. "Them Silly Billies is the 
 deceitfulest chaps as is. He made out to mother that he couldn't speak a 
 word." 
 
 " Take care what you are about, boy," said Doctor Mayhew sternly. " I 
 tell you that I suspect you." Turning to the idiot, he proceeded — " And 
 where do you come from 1 ?" 
 
 The lips opened again, and the same hollow voice again answered, 
 "Belton." 
 
 " Yes, I understand — that is your name — but whither do you wish to 
 goV 
 
 "Belton," said the man. 
 
*' SILLY BILLY. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 271 
 
 " Strange !" ejaculated the doctor. " How old are you?" 
 u Bdion," repeated the simple creature, more earnestly than ever. 
 "I am puzzled!" exclaimed Dr. Mayhew, releasing the hand of the 
 idiot, and standing for a few seconds in suspense. K However," he con- 
 tinued, " upon one thing I am resolved. The man shall be left here, and 
 in my 'care. I will be responsible for his safety until something is done 
 for him. We shall certainly get intelligence. He has escaped from an 
 asylum— I have not the slightest doubt of it— and we shall be able, after 
 a few davs, to restore him. As for you, sir," he added, addressing the 
 young gipsy, " make the best of your way to your mother, and be thankful 
 that vou have come so well off— fly ! " 
 
 The boy be<?an to remonstrate, upon which the doctor began to talk of 
 the cage and the horsepond. The former then evinced his good sense by 
 listening to reason, and by selecting, as many a wiser man has done 
 before him, the smaller of two necessary evils. He departed, not express- 
 ing himself in the most elegant terms that might have been applied to a 
 leave-taking. 
 
 The benevolent physician soon made arrangements for the comfort of 
 his charge. He was "immediately placed in a bath, supplied with food, 
 and dressed in decent clothing. He submitted at once to his treatment, 
 and permitted his attendant to do what he would with him, taking, all the 
 while, especial care to feel the diamond ring safe and secure under the 
 palm of his own hand. A room was given to him and Robin, the gar- 
 dener's son, who was forthwith installed his guardian, with strict direc- 
 tions not to leave the patient for an instant by himself. "When Dr. Mayhew 
 had seen everything that could be done properly executed, he turned 
 cheerfully to me, and bade me follow him to his library. 
 
 " His clothes have been good," muttered the doctor to himself, as he sat 
 down. " Diamond ring ! He is a gentleman, or has been one. Curious 
 business ! Well, we shall have him advertised all round the country in a 
 day or two. Meanwhile here he is, and will be safe. That trouble is 
 over. Now, Stukely, what brings you so early] Anything wrong at 
 home ] Fairman in the dumps again; fidgety and restless, eh]" 
 I told my errand. 
 
 " Ah, 1 thought so ! There's nothing the matter there, sir. She is well 
 enough now, and will continue so, if her father doesn't frighten her into 
 sickness, which he may do. I tell you Avhat, I must get little puss a 
 husband, and take her from him. That will save her. I have my eye 
 upon a handsome fellow — Hollo, sir, what's the matter with you ? Just 
 look at your face in that glass. It is as red as fire. 
 
 " The weather, sir, is * 
 
 " Oh, is it ? You mean to say, then, that you are acquainted with the 
 influences of the weather. That is just the thing, for you can help me to 
 a few facts for the little treatise on climate which I have got now in hand. 
 
 Well, go on, my friend. You were saying that the weather is is 
 
 what']" 
 
 " It is very hot, sir," I answered, dreadfully annoyed. 
 " Well, so it is ; that's very true, but not original. I have heard the 
 same remark at least six times this morning. I say, Master Stukely, you 
 haven't been casting sheep's-eyes in that sweet quarter, have you] 
 Haven't, perhaps, been giving the young lady instruction as well as the 
 boys — eh V 
 
 " I do not understand, sir," I struggled to say with coolness. 
 " Oh, very well !" answered Dr. Mayhew dryly. " That's very unfortunate 
 too, for," continued he, taking out his watch, " I haven't time to explain 
 
272 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 myself just now. I have an appointment four miles away in half an hour's 
 time. I am late as it is. Williams will get you some lunch. Tell Fair- 
 man I shall see him before night. Make yourself perfectly at home, and 
 don't hurry. But excuse me ; this affair has made me quite behind-hand." 
 
 The doctor took a few papers and a book from the table, and, before I 
 had time to reply, vanished, much to my relief and satisfaction. My 
 journey homeward was not a happy one. I felt alarm and agitation, and 
 the beautiful scenery failed to remove or temper them. My heart's dear 
 secret had been once more discovered. Rumour could not omit to convey 
 it speedily to the minister himself. In two directions the flame had now 
 power to advance and spread ; and, if the old villager remained faithful, 
 what reason had I to hope that Dr. Mayhew would not immediately ex- 
 pose me — yes, must not regard it as his business and duty so to do ? Yet 
 one thing was certain. The secret, such as it had become, might, for all 
 practical purposes, be known to the whole world ; for unquestionably the 
 shallowest observer was at present able to detect it. The old woman in 
 the village, aged and ignorant as she was, had been skilful enough to dis- 
 cover it when I spoke, The doctor had gathered it from my looks even 
 before I uttered a syllable. What was to hinder the incumbent from read- 
 ing the tale on my forehead the moment that I again stood in his pre- 
 sence 1 
 
 Reaching the parsonage, I proceeded at once to the drawing-room, 
 where I expected to see the minister. No one was in the room, but a chair 
 was drawn to the table, and the implements of drawing were before it. 
 Could I not guess who had been the recent tenant of that happy chair — 
 who had been busy there 1 Forgetful of everything but her, I stood for 
 a time in silent adoration ; then I ventured to approach and gaze on her 
 handiwork. I shook with j 03', with ravishment, and ecstacy, when I be- 
 held it. What was not made known to me in that one hasty look ! What 
 golden dreams did not engage, what blissful triumph did not elevate, 
 what passionate delight did not overflow my aching heart ! Oh, it was 
 true — and the blessed intelligence came to me with a power and a reality 
 that no language could contain — she loved me ! she, the beloved, the good, 
 the innocent, and pure ! Before me was the scene — the dearest to me in life — 
 through which we had so recently walked together, and upon which she 
 knew I doated, for the sake of her whose presence had given it light and 
 hallowed it. Why had she brought it on the paper? Why this particular 
 scene, and that fair hillock, but for the sake of him who worshipped 
 them — but that the mysterious and communicable fire had touched her 
 soul, and melted it? I trembled with my happiness. There was a spot upon 
 the paper — a tear — one sacred drop from the immaculate fount. Why had 
 it been shed ?- In joy or pain — for whom — and wherefore % The paper 
 was still moist — the tear still warm. Happiest and most unfortunate of 
 my race, I pressed it to my lips, and kissed it passionately. 
 
 Miss Fairman entered at that moment. 
 
 She looked pale and ill. This was not a season for consideration. Be- 
 fore I could speak, I saw her tottering, and about to fall. I rushed to her, 
 and held her in my arms. She strove for recovery, and set herself at 
 liberty; but she wept aloud as she did so, and covered her face with her 
 hands. I fell upon my knees, and implored her to forgive me. 
 
 " I have been rash and cruel, Miss Fairman ; but extend to me your 
 pardon, and I will go for ever, and disturb your peace no more. Do not 
 despise me, or believe that I have deliberately interfered with your hap- 
 piness, and destroyed my own for ever. Do not hate me when I shall see 
 you no more." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 273 
 
 * Leave me, Mr. Stukely, I entreat," sobbed Miss Fairman, weeping 
 amain. Her hand fell. I was inflamed with passion, and I became in- 
 different to the claims of duty, which were drowned in the louder cla- 
 mours of love. I seized that hand and held it firm. It needed not, for 
 the lady sought not to withdraw it. 
 
 " 1 am not indifferent to you, dearest Miss Fairman ! " I exclaimed ; 
 "you do not hate me — you do not despise me — I am sure you do not. 
 That drawing has revealed to me all that T wish or care to know. I would 
 rather die this moment possessed of that knowledge, than live a monarch 
 without it." 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, I implore you," faltered Miss Fairman. 
 
 " Yes, dearest lady, I must — T shall leave you. I can stay no longer 
 here. Life is valueless now. I have permitted a raging fire to consume 
 me. I have indulged, madly, and fearfully indulged, in error. I have 
 struggled against the temptation. Heaven has willed that I should not 
 escape it. I have learned that you love me — come what may, I am 
 content." 
 
 "If you regard me, Mr. Stukely, pity me, and go, now. I beg, I entreat 
 you to leave me." 
 
 I raised the quivering hand, and kissed it ardently. I resigned it, and 
 departed. 
 
 My whole youth was a succession of inconsiderate yieldings to passion, 
 and of hasty visitings of remorse. It is not a matter of surprise that I 
 hated myself for every word that I had spoken, as soon as I was again 
 master of my conduct. It was my nature to fall into error against convic- 
 tion and my cool reason, and to experience speedily the reaction that suc- 
 ceeds the commission of exorbitant crimes. In proportion to the facility 
 with which I erred, was the extravagance and exaggeration with which I 
 viewed my faults. During the predominance of a passion, death, sur- 
 rounded by its terrors, would not have frightened me or driven me back — • 
 would not have received my passing notice ; whilst it lasted it prevailed. 
 So, afterwards, when all was calm and over, a crushing sense of wrong and 
 guilt magnified the smallest offence, until it grew into a bugbear to scare 
 me night and day. Leaving Miss Fairman, I rushed into the garden, pre- 
 paratory to running away from the parsonage altogether. This, in the 
 height of remorseful excitement, presented itself to my mind forcibly as 
 the necessary and only available step to adopt : but this soon came to be 
 regarded as open to numerous and powerful objections. 
 
 It seemed impossible that the incumbent could be kep any longer in 
 ignorance of the affair ; and it was better — oh ! how much better — 
 for my comfort and peace of mind that he should not be. In a few hours 
 Dr. Mayhew would arrive, and his shrewd eye would immediately pene- 
 trate to the very seat of his patient's disquietude. The discovery would 
 be communicated to her father — and what would he think of me ? — what 
 would become of me 1 I grew as agitated as though the doctor were at 
 that moment seated with the minister — and revealing to his astonished 
 listener the history of my deceit and black ingratitude. The feeling 
 was not to be borne ; and, in order to cast it off, I determined my- 
 self to be the messenger of the tale, and to stand the brunt of his first 
 surprise and indignation. With the earliest conception of the idea, I ran 
 to put it into execution. Xor did I stop until I reached the door of his 
 study, when the difficulty of introducing at once so delicate a business, 
 and the importance of a little quiet preparation, suggested themselves, 
 and made me hesitate. It was, however, but for a moment for self-posses- 
 sion. I would argue with myself no longer. The few hours that inter- 
 
274 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 vened before the arrival of the doctor were my own ; and if I permitted 
 them to pass away, my opportunity was gone for ever, and every claim 
 upon the kindness and forgiveness of my patron lost. I would confess my 
 affection, and offer him the only reparation in my power — to quit his roof, 
 and carry the passion with me for my punishment and torment. 
 
 Mr. Fairman was alone. The pupils were playing on the lawn upon 
 which the window of the study opened. There they ran, and leaped, and 
 shouted, all feeling and enjoyment, without an atom of the leaden care of 
 life to press upon the light elastic soul ; and there stood I, young enough 
 to be a playmate brother, separated from them and their heart's joyousn ess 
 by the deep broad line which, once traversed, may never be recovered, 
 ground to the earth by suffering, trial, and disappointment ; darkness and 
 discouragement without ; misery and self-upbraiding robbing me of peace 
 within. My eyes caught but a glimpse of the laughing boys before they 
 settled on the minister, and summoned me to my ungracious task — and it 
 was a glimpse of a bright and beautiful world, with which I had nothing 
 in common, of which I had known something, it might be ages since — but 
 whose glory had departed even from the memory. 
 
 " Is he here V enquired the incumbent. 
 
 " Doctor Mayhew could not accompany me, sir," I answered ; " but he 
 will shortly come." 
 
 " Thank you, Stukely, thank you. I have good news for you. I can afford 
 you time to recruit and be yourself again. The lads return home on Mon- 
 day next ; you shall have a month's holiday, and you shall spend it as you 
 will — with us, or elsewhere. If your health will be improved by travel- 
 ling, I shall be happy to provide you with the means. I cannot afford to 
 lose your services. You must not get ill." 
 
 " You are very kind, sir," I replied — " kinder than I deserve." 
 
 " That is a matter of opinion, Stukely. I do not think so. You have 
 served me faithfully and well. I consult my own interest in rewarding 
 you, and taking care of yours." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but " 
 
 " Well, never mind now. We will not argue on whose side the obliga- 
 tion lies. It is perhaps well that we should both of us think as we do. It 
 is likely that we shall both perform our duty more strictly if we strike the 
 balance against ourselves. Go and refresh yourself. You look tired and 
 worn. Get a glass of wine, and cheer up. Have vou seen Miss Fair- 
 man V 
 
 "It is concerning her, sir," I answered, trembling in every joint, "that 
 I desire particularly to speak to you." 
 
 "Good heaven!" exclaimed the incumbent, starting from his chair, 
 " what do you mean ? What is the matter ? What has happened 1 W hy 
 do you tremble, Stukely, and look so ghastly pale ? What has happened 
 since the morning ? What ails her? Go on. Speak. Tell me at once. 
 My poor child — what of her V 
 
 " Calm yourself, I implore you, sir. Miss Fairman is quite well. No- 
 thing has happened. Do not distress yourself. I have done very wrong 
 to speak so indiscreetly. Pardon me, sir. I should have known better- 
 She is well." 
 
 Mr. Fairman paced the room in perturbation, and held his hand upon 
 his heart to allay its heavy throbs. 
 
 "This is very wrong," he said, "very impious. I have thought of no- 
 thing else this day— and this is the consequence. I have dwelt upon the 
 probability of calamity, until I have persuaded myself of its actual pre- 
 sence — looked for woe, until I have created it. This is not the patience 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 275 
 
 and resignation which I teach ; for shame, for shame ! — go to thy closet, 
 worm — repent and pray." 
 
 Mr. Fairman resumed his seat, and hid his face for a time in his hands. 
 At length he spoke again. 
 
 " Proceed, Stukely. I am calm now. The thoughts and fears in which 
 it was most sinful to indulge, and which accumulated in this most anxious 
 breast, are dissipated. What would you say ? I can listen as I ou°-ht." 
 
 " I am glad, sir, that the boys revisit their homes on Monday, and that 
 a month, at least, will elapse before they return to you. In that interval. 
 you will have an opportunity of providing them with a teacher Avorthier 
 your regard and confidence ; and, if I leave you at once, you will not be 
 put to inconvenience." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " I must resign my office, sir," I said with trepidation. 
 
 u Resign 3 Wherefore ? What have I said or done ')" 
 _ " Let me beg your attention, sir,, whilst I attempt to explain my mo- 
 tives, and to do justice to myself and you. I mentioned the name of Miss 
 Fainnan." 
 
 " You did. Ha ! Go on, sir." 
 
 " You cannot blame me, Mr. Fairman. if I tell you that,' in common 
 with every one whose happiness it is to be acquainted with that ladv, I 
 have not been insensible to the qualities which render her so worth v of 
 your love, so deserving the esteem " I stopped. 
 
 "I am listening, sir — proceed." 
 
 " I know not how to tell you, sir — in what language to express the 
 growth of an attachment which has taken root in this poor heart, in- 
 creased and strengthened against every effort which I have made to cru«h 
 it," 
 
 " Sir !" uttered the incumbent, in great amazement. 
 
 " Do not be angry, Mr. Fairman, until you have heard all. I confess 
 that I have been imprudent and rash, that I have foolishly permitted a 
 passion to take possession of me, instead of manfully resisting its inroads; 
 but if I have been weak, do not believe that I havVbeen wicked." 
 
 " Speak plainly, Stukely. What am I to understand by this V 
 
 " That I have dared, sir, to indulge a fond, a hopeless love, inspired by 
 the gentlest and most innocent of her sex — that I have striven, and striven, 
 to forget and flee from it — that I have failed — that I come to confess the 
 fault, to ask your pardon, and depart." 
 
 " Tell me one thing," asked the incumbent quickly. " Have you com- 
 municated your sentiments to Miss Fairman?" 
 
 " I have, sir." 
 
 " Is her illness connected with that declaration % — You do not answer. 
 Stukely, I am deceived in you. I mistrust and doubt you. You have 
 murdered my poor child." 
 
 M Mr. Fairman, do not, I entreat " 
 
 " Heaven have mercy on me for my wild, uncrucified temper. I will 
 nse no harsh terms. I retract that expression, young man. I am sorry 
 that I used it. Let me know what more you have to say." 
 
 The tears came to my eyes, and blinded them. I did not answer. 
 
 "Be seated, Stukely," continued the minister, in a kinder tone ; '-'com- 
 pose yourself. I am to blame for using such a term. Forgive me for it — I did 
 not mean all that it conveyed. But you know how fragile and how delicate 
 a plant is that. You should have thought of her and me before you 
 gratified a passion as wild as it is idle. Kow, tell me everything 
 ceal and disguise nothing. I will listen to you calmly, and I will be in- 
 
 t 2 
 
276 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 dulgent. The past is not to be recalled. Aid me in the future, if you are 
 
 generous and just." 
 
 I related all that had passed between Miss Fairman and myself— all 
 that had taken place in my own turbulent soul— the battlings of the will 
 and judgment, the determination to overcome temptation, and the sudden 
 and violent yielding to it. Faithful to his command, I concealed nothing, 
 and, at the close of all, I signified my readiness, my wish, and my intention 
 to depart. 
 
 "Forgive me, sir, at parting," said I, "and you shall hear no more of the 
 disturber of your peace." 
 
 " I do not wish that, Stukely. I am indebted to you for the candour 
 with which you have spoken, and the proper view which you take of your 
 position. I wish to hear of you, and to serve you — and I will do it. I 
 aoTee with you, that you must leave us now — yes, and at once; and, as you 
 say, without another interview. But I will not turn you into the world, 
 lad, without some provision for the present, and good hopes for the future. 
 I owe you much. Yes— very much. When I consider how differently you 
 might behave, how very seriously you might interfere with my happiness" 
 as Mr. Fairman spoke, he opened the drawer of a table, and drew a check- 
 book from it—" I feel that you ought not to be a loser by your honesty. 
 I do not offer you this as a reward for that honesty — far from it — I would 
 only indemnify you— and this is my duty." 
 
 Mr. Fairman placed a draft for a hundred pounds in my hand. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir," said I, replacing it on his table. " I can take no 
 money. Millions could not indemnify me for all that I resign. Judge 
 charitably, and think kindly of me, sir— and I am paid. Honour is price- 
 less." 
 
 " Well, but when you get to London 1 " 
 
 " I am not altogether friendless. My salary is yet untouched, and will 
 supply my wants until I find employment." 
 
 " Which you shall not be long without, believe me, Stukely, if T have 
 power to get it you— and I think I have. You will tell me where I may 
 address my letters. I will not desert you. You shall not repent this." 
 
 "I do not, sir; and I believe I never shall. I propose to leave the 
 parsonage to-night, sir." 
 
 " No, to-morrow. We must have some talk. You need not see her. I 
 could not let you go to-night. You shall depart to-morrow ; and I rely 
 upon your good sense and honourable feelings to avoid another meeting. 
 It could only increase the mischief that has already taken place, and answer 
 no good purpose. You must be aware of this." 
 
 "I am, sir. You shall have no reason to complain." 
 
 " I am sure of it, Stukely. You had better see about your preparations. 
 John will help you in any way you wish. Make use of him. There must 
 be many little things to do. There can be no impropriety, Stukely, in 
 your accepting the whole of your year's salary. You are entitled to that. 
 I am sorry to lose you — very — but there's no help lor it. I will come to 
 your room this evening, and have some further conversation. Leave me 
 now." 
 
 The incumbent was evidently much excited. Love for his child, and 
 apprehension for her safety, were feelings that were, perhaps, too pro- 
 minent and apparent in the good and faithful minister of heaven ; they 
 betrayed him at times into a self-forgetfulness, and a warmth of expres- 
 sion, of which he repented heartily as soon as they occurred. Originally 
 of a violent and wayward disposition, it had cost the continual exercise 
 and the prayers of a life, to acquire evenness of temper and gentleness of 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 277 
 
 deportment, neither of which, in truth, was easily, if ever, disturbed, if 
 not by the amiable infirmity above alluded to. He was the best of men ; 
 but to the best, immunity from the natural weakness of mortality is not 
 to be vouchsafed. 
 
 Mr. Fairman was the last person whom I saw that night. He remained 
 with me until I retired to rest. He was the first person whom I saw on the 
 following morning. I do not believe that he did not rely upon the word 
 which I had pledged to him. I did not suppose that he suspected my re- 
 solution ; but I am convinced that he was most restless and unhappy, from 
 the moment that I revealed my passion to him, until that which saw me 
 safely deposited at the foot of the hill, on my way to the village. So long 
 as I remained in his house, he could only see danger for his daughter ; 
 and with my disappearance he counted upon her recovery and peace. 
 
 The incumbent was himself my companion from the parsonage. The 
 seiwant had already carried my trunk to the inn. At the bottom of the 
 hill, Mr. Fairman stopped and extended his hand 
 
 " Fare-you-well, Stukely," said he with emotion. "Once more, I am 
 obliged to you. I will never forget your conduct ; you shall hear from 
 me." 
 
 Since the conversation of the preceding day, the incumbent had not 
 mentioned the name of his daughter. I had not spoken of her. I felt it 
 impossible to part without a word. 
 
 "What did Doctor Mayhew say]" I asked. 
 
 " She is a little better, and will be soon quite well, we trust." 
 
 " That is good news. Is she composed V 
 
 " Yes— she is better." 
 
 "One question more, sir. Does she know of my departure V 
 
 '•' She does not — but she will, of course." 
 
 " Do not speak unkindly of me, to her, sir. I should be sorry if she 
 
 thought ill " 
 
 " She will respect you, Stukely, for the part which you have acted. She 
 must do so. You will respect yourself." 
 
 I had nothing more to say : I returned his warm pressure, and bade him 
 farewell. 
 
 " God bless you, lad, and prosper you ! We may meet again in a happier 
 season ; but if Ave do not, receive a father's thanks and gratitude. You 
 have behaved nobly. I feel it — believe me." 
 
 Manly and generous tears rushed to the eyes of my venerable friend, 
 and he could not speak. Once more he grasped my hand fervently, and 
 in the saddest silence that I have ever known we separated. 
 
 There was gloom around my heart, which the bright sun in heaven, that 
 gladdened all the land, could not penetrate or disperse ; but it gave way 
 before a touch of true affection, which came to me as a last memorial of 
 the beloved scene on which I lingered. 
 
 I had hardly parted from the minister, before I perceived walking be- 
 fore me, at the distance of a few yards, the youngest of the lads who had 
 been my pupils. At the request of the minister, I had neither taken 
 leave of them, nor informed any one of my departure. The lad whom I 
 now saw was a fine-spirited boy, who had strongly attached himself to me, 
 and shown great aptitude, as well as deep desire, for knowledge. He knew 
 very little when I came to him, but great pains had enabled him to ad- 
 vance rapidly. The interest which he manifested called forth in me a 
 corresponding disposition to assist him ; and the grateful boy, altogether 
 overlooking his own exertions, had over and over again expressed himself 
 in the warmest terms of thankfulness for my instruction, to which he in- 
 
278 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 sisted he owed all that he had acquired. He was in his eleventh year, and 
 his heart was as kind and generous as his intellect was vigorous and clear. 
 I came up to him, and found him plucking the wild flowers from the grass 
 as he wandered slowly along. I looked at him as I passed, and found him 
 weeping. 
 
 "Alfred !" I exclaimed, " what do you here so early 1 ?" 
 
 The boy burst into a fresh flow of tears, and threw himself passionately 
 into my arms. He sobbed piteously, and at length said, — 
 
 " Do not go. sir —do not leave me ! You have been so kind to me. Pray, 
 stop."' 
 
 " What is the matter, Alfred]" 
 
 " John has told me you are going, sir. He has just taken your box 
 down. Oh, Mr. Stukely, stay for my sake ! I won't give you so much 
 trouble as I used to do. I'll learn my lessons better — but don't go, pray, 
 six." 
 
 "You will have another teacher, Alfred, who will become as good a 
 friend as I am. I cannot stay. Return to the parsonage— there's a dear 
 boy." 
 
 " Oh, if you must go, let me walk with you a little, sir ! Let me take 
 your band. I shall be back in time for breakfast — pray, don't refuse me 
 that, sir ! " 
 
 I complied with his request. He grasped my palm in both his hands, 
 and held it there, as though he would not part with it again. He gave 
 me the flowers which he had gathered, and begged me to keep them for 
 his sake. He repeated every kind thing which I had done for him, not 
 one of which he would forget, and all the names and dates which he had 
 got by heart, to please his tutor. He told me that it would make him 
 wretched, "to get up to-morrow, and remember that I was gone;" and 
 that he loved me better than anybody, for no one had been so indulgent, 
 and had taken such pains to make him a good boy. Before we reached 
 the village, his volubility had changed the tears to smiles. As Ave reached 
 it, John appeared on his return homeward. I gave the boy into his charge, 
 and the cloud lowered again, and the shower fell heavier than ever. I 
 turned at the point at which the hills became shut out, and there stood 
 the boy fastened to the spot at which I had left him. 
 
 At the door of the inn, I was surprised to find my luggage in the cus- 
 tody of Dr. Mayhew's gardener. As soon as he perceived me, he advanced 
 a few steps with the box, and placed a note in my hand. It was addressed 
 to me at the parsonage, and politely requested me to wait upon the phy- 
 sician at my earliest convenience. ~No mention was made of the object of 
 my visit, or of the doctor's knowledge of my altered state. The docu- 
 ment was as short as it might be, and as courteous. Having read it, I 
 turned to the gardener, or to where he had stood a moment before, with 
 the view of questioning that gentleman ; but, to my great astonishment, I 
 perceived him about a hundred yards before me, walking as fast as his 
 load permitted him towards his master's residence. I called loudly after 
 him, but my voice only acted as a spur, and increased his pace. My 
 natural impulse was to follow him, and I obeyed it. 
 
 Dr. Mayhew received me at his door with a very cunning smile and a 
 facetious observation. 
 
 " Well, Master Stukely, this hot weather has been playing the deuce 
 with us all. Only think of little puss being attacked with your com? 
 plaint, the very day you were here suffering so much from it, and my 
 getting a touch myself." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 279 
 
 " Yes, sir, it is very easy to laugh at the troubles of other men ; but I 
 can tell you this is a very disagreeable epidemic. Severe times these for 
 maids and bachelors. I shall settle in life now, sooner than I intended. 
 I have fallen in love with puss myself." 
 I did not smile. 
 
 " To be sure, I am old enough to be her father ; but so much the better 
 for her. No man should marry till fifty. Your young fellows of twenty 
 don't know their own mind — don't understand what love means — all blaze 
 and flash, blue fire and sky-rocket — out in a minute. Eh, what do you 
 say, Stukely ! " 
 ""Are you aware, sir, that I have left the parsonage?" 
 " To be sure I am ; and a pretty kettle of fish you have made of it. 
 Instead of treating love as a quiet and respectable undertaking, as I mean 
 to treat it— instead of simmering your love down to a gentlemanly respect 
 and esteem, as I mean to simmer it — and waiting patiently for the natural 
 consequences of things, as I mean to wait — you must, like a boy as you 
 are, have it all out in a minute, set the whole house by the ears, and 
 throw yourself out of it without rhyme or reason, or profit to anybody. 
 Now, sit down, and tell me what you mean to do with yourself." 
 " I intend to go to London, sir." 
 " Does your father live there ]" 
 " I have no father, sir." 
 " "Well — your mother V 
 
 " She is dead, too. I have one friend there— I shall go to him until 
 I find occupation." 
 
 "You naughty boy! How I should like to whip you !^ "What right 
 had you to give away so good a chance as you have had ? You have com- 
 mitted a crime, sir — yes, you may look — you have, and a very grievous 
 one. I speak as I think. You have been flying in the face of Providence, 
 and doing worse than hiding the talent which was bestowed upon you for 
 improvement. Do you think I should have behaved so at your age ! Do 
 you think any man in the last generation out of a madhouse would have 
 done it ] Here's your march of education !" 
 
 I bowed to Doctor Mayhew, and wished him good-morning. 
 '•' No, thank you, sir," answered the physician ; " if I didn't mean to 
 say a little more to you, I shouldn't have spoken so much already. We 
 must talk these matters over quietly. You may as well stay a few days 
 with your friend in the country, as run off directly to the gentleman in 
 London. Besides, now I have made my mind up so suddenly to get 
 married, I don't know how soon I may be called upon to undergo the 
 operation — I beg the lady's pardon — the awful ceremony. I shali want a 
 bride's-man, and you wouldn't make a bad one by any means." 
 
 The physician rang the bell, and Williams, the butler — a personage in 
 black, short and stout, and exceedingly well fed, as his sleek face showed 
 — entered the apartment. 
 
 '•' Will you see, Williams, that Mr. Stukely's portmanteau is taken to 
 his room — bed quite aired — sheets all right, eh V 
 
 " Both baked, sir," replied Williams, with a deferential but expressive 
 smile, which became his face remarkably well. 
 
 " Then let us have lunch, Williams, and a bottle of the sherry !" 
 A look accompanied the request, which was not lost upon the butler. 
 He made a profound obeisance, and retired, At lunch the doctor con- 
 tinued his theme, and represented my conduct as most blamable and im- 
 proper. He insisted that I ought to be severely punished, and made to 
 
280 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 feel that a boy is not to indulge every foolish feeling that rises, just as he 
 thinks proper; but, like an inconsistent judge, he concluded the whole 
 of a very powerful and angry summing up, by pronouncing upon me the 
 verdict of an acquittal — inasmuch as he told me to make myself as com- 
 fortable as I could in his house, and to enjoy myself thoroughly in it 
 for the next fortnight to come, at the very least. It may have been that, 
 in considering my faults as those of the degenerate age in which 1 lived 
 — which age, however, be it known, lived afterwards to recover its cha- 
 racter, and to be held up as a model of propriety and virtue to the suc- 
 ceeding generation — the merciful doctor was willing to merge my chas- 
 tisement in that which he bestowed daily upon the unfortunate object of 
 his contempt and pity : or possibly he desired to inflict no punishment 
 at all, but simply to perform a duty incumbent upon his years and station. 
 Be this as it may, certain it is that with the luncheon ended all upbraid- 
 ing and rebuke, and commenced an unreservedness of intercourse — the 
 basis of a generous friendship, which increased and strengthened day by 
 day, and ended only with the noble-hearted doctor's life — nor then in its 
 effects upon my character and fortune. 
 
 It was on the night of the day on which I had arrived, that Doctor 
 Mayhcw and I were sitting in his sanctum; composedly and happily as 
 men sit whom care has given over for a moment to the profound and 
 stilly influences of the home and hearth. One topic of conversation had 
 given place easily to another, and there seemed at length little to be said 
 on any subject whatever, when the case of the idiot, which my own 
 troubles had temporarily dismissed from my mind, suddenly occurred to 
 me, and afforded us motive for the prolongation of a discourse which 
 neither seemed desirous to bring to a close. 
 
 " What have you done with the poor fellow]" I enquired. 
 " Nothing," replied the physician. " We have fed him well, and his 
 food has done him good. He is a hundred per cent, better than when he 
 came ; but he is still surly and tongue-tied. He says nothing. He is not 
 known in the neighbourhood. I have directed hand -bills to be circulated, 
 and placards to be posted in the villages. If he is not owned within a 
 week, he must be given to the parish-officers. I can't help thinking that 
 he is a runaway lunatic, and a gentleman by birth. Did you notice his 
 delicate white hand, that diamond ring, and the picture they found tied 
 round his neck?" 
 
 "What picture, sir?" 
 
 " Did I not tell you of it 1 The portrait of a lovely female — an old 
 attachment, I suppose, that turned his brain ; although I fancy sometimes 
 that it is his mother or sister, for there is certainly a resemblance to him- 
 self in it. The picture is set in gold. When Robin first discovered it, 
 the agony of the stricken wretch was most deplorable. He was afraid 
 that the man would remove it, and he screamed and implored like a true 
 maniac. When he found that he might keep it, he evinced the maddest 
 pleasure, and beckoned his keeper to notice and admire it. He pointed 
 to the eyes, and then groaned and wept himself, until Eobin was fright- 
 ened out of his wits, and was on the point of throwing up his office 
 altogether." 
 
 " Do you think the man may recover his reason V 
 
 "I have no hope of it. It is a case of confirmed fatuity, I believe. If 
 
 you like to see him again, you shall accompany me to-morrow when I 
 
 visit him. What a life is this, Stukely ! What a strange history may 
 
 be that of this poor fellow whom Providence has cast at our door ! Well, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 2S1 
 
 poor wretch, we'll do the best we can for him. If we cannot reach his 
 mind, we may improve his body, and he will be then perhaps quite as 
 happy as the wisest of us." 
 
 The clock struck twelve as Doctor Mayhew spoke. It startled and sur- 
 prised us both. In a few minutes we separated, and retired to our several 
 beds. 
 
 When I saw the idiot on the following day, I could perceive a marked 
 improvement in his appearance. The deadly pallor of his countenance 
 had departed ; and although no healthy colour had taken its place, the 
 living blood seemed again in motion, restoring expression to those wan 
 and withered features. His coal-black eye had recovered the faintest 
 power of speculation, and the presence of a stranger was now sufficient 
 to call it into action. He was clean and properly attired, and he sat — 
 apart from his keeper — conscious of existence. There was good ground, 
 in the absence of all positive proof, for the supposition of the doctor. A 
 common observer would have pronounced him well-born at a glance. 
 Smitten as he was, and unhinged by his sad affliction, there remained 
 still sufficient of the external forms to conduct to such an inference. 
 Gracefulness still hovered about the human ruin, discernible in the most 
 aimless of imbecility's weak movements, and the limbs were not those of 
 one accustomed to the drudgery of life. A melancholy creature truly did 
 he look, as I gazed upon him for a second time. He had carried his chair 
 to a corner of the room, and there he sat, his face half-hidden, resting 
 upon his breast, his knee drawn up and pressed tightly by his clasped 
 hands — those very hands, small and marble-white, forming a ghastful 
 contrast to the raven hair that fell thickly on his back. He had not 
 spoken since he rose. Indeed, since his first appearance, he had said 
 nothing but the unintelligible word which he had uttered four times in 
 my presence, and which Dr. Mayhew now believed to be the name of the 
 lady whose portrait he wore. That he could speak was certain, and his 
 silence was therefore the effect of obstinacy or of absolute weakness of 
 intellect, which forbade the smallest mental effort. I approached him, 
 and addressed him in accents of kindness. He raised his head slowly, 
 and looked piteously upon me, but in a moment again he resumed his 
 original position. 
 
 For the space of a week I visited the afflicted man daily, remaining with 
 him perhaps a couple of hours at each interview. Xo clue had been dis- 
 covered to his history, and the worthy physician had fixed upon one day 
 after another as that upon which he would relieve himself of his trust ; 
 but the day arrived only to find him unwilling to keep his word. The poor 
 object himself had improved rapidly in personal appearance ; and, as far as 
 could be ascertained from his gestures and indistinct expressions, was sen- 
 sible of his protector's charity, and thankful for it. He now attempted to 
 give to his keeperthe feeble aid he could afford him ; he partook of his food 
 with less avidity, he seemed aware of what was taking place around him. 
 On one occasion I brought his dinner to him, and sat by whilst it was served 
 to him. He stared at me as though he had immediate perception of some- 
 thing unusual. It was on the same day that, whilst trifling with a piece 
 of broken glass, he cut his hand. I closed the wound with an adhesive 
 plaster, and bound it up. It was the remembrance of this act that gained 
 for me the affection of the creature, in whom all affections seemed dried 
 up and dead. When, on the day that succeeded to this incident. Robin, 
 as w r as his custom, placed before the idiot his substantial meal, the latter 
 turned away from it offended, and would not taste it. I was sent for. The 
 eyes of the imbecile glistened when I entered the apartment, and he 
 
282 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 beckoned me to him. I sat at his side, as I had done on the day before, 
 and he then, with a smile of triumph, took his food on his knees, and 
 soon devoured it. When he had finished, and Robin had retired with the 
 tray and implements, the poor fellow made me draw my chair still nearer 
 to his own. He placed his hand upon my knee in great delight, patted it, 
 and then the wound which I had dressed. There was perfect folly in the 
 mode in which he fondled this, and yet a reasonableness which the heart 
 could not fail to detect and contemplate with emotion. First, he gently 
 stroked it, then placed his head upon it in utmost tenderness, then hugged 
 it in his arm, and rocked it as a child, then kissed it often with short 
 quick kisses that could scarce be heard ; courting my observation with 
 every change of action, making it apparent how much he loved, what care 
 he could bestow, upon the hand which had won the notice and regard of 
 his new friend and benefactor. This over, he pointed to his breast, dal- 
 lied for a time, and then drew from it the picture which he so jealously 
 carried there. He pressed it between his hands, sighed heavily from his 
 care-crazed heart, and strove to tell his meaning in words which would not 
 flow, in which he knew not how to breathe the bubble-thought that danced 
 about his brain. Closer than ever he approached me, and, with an air 
 which he intended for one of confidence and great regard, he invited me 
 to look upon his treasure. I did so, and, to my astonishment and terror, 
 gazed upon the portrait of the unhappy Emma Harrington. Gracious 
 God ! what thoughts came rushing into my mind ! It was impossible to 
 err. I, who had passionately dwelt upon those lineaments in all the fond- 
 ness of a devoted love, until the form became my heart's companion by 
 day and by night— I, who had watched the tear-drops falling from those 
 eyes, in which the limner had not failed to fix the natural sorrow that 
 was a part of them — watched and hung upon them in distress and agony 
 ■ — I, surely I, could not mistake the faithful likeness. Who, then, was lie 
 that wore it 2 Who was this now standing at my side, to turn to whom 
 again became immediately — sickness— horror] Who could it be but him, 
 the miserable parricide— the outcast — the unhappy brother— the despe- 
 rately wicked son ] There was no other in the worldto whom the departed 
 penitent could be dear ; and he— oh, was it difficult to suppose that mer- 
 ciful Heaven, merciful to the guiltiest, had placed between his conscience 
 and his horrible offence a cloud that made all dim — had rendered his 
 understanding powerless to comprehend a crime which reason must have 
 punished and aggravated endlessly] My judgment was prostrated by what 
 I learned so suddenly and fearfully. The discovery had been miraculous. 
 What should I do ? How proceed ] How had the youth got here % What 
 had been his history since his flight 1 Whither was he wandering ? Did 
 he know the fate of his poor sister] How had he lived? These questions 
 and others crowded into my mind one after another, and I trembled with 
 the violent rapidity of thought. The figure of the unhappy girl pre- 
 sented itself— her words vibrated on my ears — her last dying accents ; 
 and I felt that to me was consigned the wretched object of her solici- 
 tude and love — that to me Providence had directed the miserable man; 
 yes, if only that he who had shared in the family guilt, might behold 
 and profit by the living witness of the household wreck. Half forgetful 
 of the presence of the brother, and remembering nothing well but her 
 and her most pitiable tale, oppressed by a hundred recollections, I pro- 
 nounced her name. 
 
 "Poor, poor, much-tried Emma!" I ejaculated, gazing still upon her 
 image. 
 
 The idiot leaped from my side at the word, and clapped his hands, and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 283 
 
 laughed and shrieked. He ran to me again, and seized my palm, and 
 pressed it to his lips. His excitement was unbounded. He could only- 
 point to the picture, endeavour to repeat the word which I had spoken, 
 and direct his finger to my lips beseechingly, as though he prayed to hear 
 the sound again. Alarmed already at what I had done, and dreading the 
 consequences of a disclosure, because ignorant of the effect it would pro- 
 duce upon the idiot, I checked myself immediately, and spake no more. 
 Robin returned. I contrived to subdue by degrees the sudden ebullition, 
 and having succeeded, I restored the criminal to his keeper, and departed. 
 It was, however, necessary that I should act in some way, possessed of 
 the information which had so strangely come to me. I desired to be alone 
 to collect myself, and to determine quietly. I retired to my bedroom, 
 endeavoured to think composedly, and to mark out the line of duty. It 
 was a fruitless undertaking. My mind would rest on nothing but the 
 tragedy in which this miserable creature held so sad a part, and his un- 
 looked-for resuscitation here— here, under the roof which sheltered his 
 sister's paramour. Whether to keep the secret hidden in my bosom, or to 
 communicate it to the physician, was my duty, I could not settle now. It 
 had been a parting injunction of my friend Thompson to sleep upon all 
 matters of difficulty, and to avoid rashness above all things. Alas ! I had 
 not profited by his" counsel, nor, in my own case, recurred to it even for a 
 moment ; but it was different now. The fate, perhaps the life, of another 
 was involved in my decision ; and not to act upon the good advice, not to 
 be temperate and cautious, would be sinful in the extreme. What, had 
 she been alive, would the sister have required— entreated at my hands i 
 And now, if the freed spirit of the injured one looked down upon the 
 world, what would it expect from him to whom had been committed the 
 forlorn and stricken wanderer? What, if not justice, charity, and mercy] 
 " And he shall have it ! " I exclaimed. " I will act on his behalt. I will 
 be cool and calm. I will do nothing until to-morrow, when the excitement 
 of this hour shall have passed away, and reason resumed its proper influ- 
 ence and rule." 
 
 I rose, contented with my conclusion, and walked to the window, which 
 overlooked the pleasure-garden of the house. Eobin and his patient were 
 there ; the former sitting on a garden-chair and reposing comfortably after 
 his meal, heedless of the doings of his charge. The latter stood imme- 
 diately below the window, gazing upwards, with the portrait as before 
 pressed between his marble hands. He perceived me and screamed in 
 triumph and delight. The keeper started up ; I vanished instantly. He 
 surely could not have known the situation of my room— could not have 
 waited there and watched for my appearance. It was impossible. Yes, I 
 said so, and I attempted to console myself with the assurance ; but my 
 blood curdled with a new conviction that arose and clung to me, and 
 would not be cast off— the certainty that, by the utterance of one word, I 
 had, for good or ill, linked to my future destiny the reasonless and 
 wretched being, who stood and shrieked beneath the casement long after 
 I was gone. 
 
 I joined my friend, the doctor, asusual in the evening, and learned from 
 him the news of the day. He had visited his patient at the parsonage, 
 and he spoke favourably of her case. Although she had been told of my 
 absence, she was still not aware that I had quitted the house for ever. 
 Her father thought she was less unquiet, and believed that in a few days 
 all would be forgotten, and she would be herself again. Dr. Mayhew 
 assured me that nothing could be kinder than the manner in which the 
 incumbent spoke of me, and that it was impossible for any man to feel a 
 
284 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 favour more deeply than he appeared to appreciate the consideration 
 which I had shown for him. The doctor had been silent as to my actual 
 presence in the vicinity, which, he believed, to have mentioned would have 
 been to fill the anxious father's heart with alarms and fears, which, ground- 
 less as they were, might be productive of no little mischief. 1 acquiesced 
 in the propriety of his silence, and thanked him for his prudence. Whilst 
 my friend was speaking, I heard a quick and heavy footstep on the stairs, 
 which, causing me to start upon the instant, and hurling sickness to my 
 heart, clearly told, had doubt existed, how strongly apprehension had fixed 
 itself upon me, and how certainly and inextricably I had become con- 
 nected with the object of my dark and irresistible conceptions. I had no 
 longer an ear for Doctor Mayhew, but the sense followed the footstep until 
 it reached the topmost stair — passed along the passage — and stopped — 
 — suddenly at our door. Almost before it stopped, the door was knocked 
 at violently — quickly — loudly. Before an answer could be given, the 
 door itself was opened, and Eobin rushed in — scared. 
 
 "What is the matter]" I exclaimed, jumping up, and dreading to hear 
 him tell what I felt must come— another tale of horror* — another crime — 
 what less than self-destruction ? 
 
 " He's gone, sir — he's gone ! " roared the fellow, white as death, and 
 shaking like an aspen. 
 
 "Gone — how — who?" enquired the doctor. 
 
 " The madman," answered Robin, opening his mouth, and raising his 
 eyebrows, to exhibit his own praiseworthy astonishment at the fact. 
 
 " Go on, man," said the doctor. " What have you to say further ] How 
 did it happen 1 Quick ! " 
 
 " I don't know, sir. I ate something for dinner as disagreed. I have 
 been as sleepy as an owl ever since. We was together in his room, and I 
 just sot down for a minute thinking what it could be as I had eaten, when 
 I dozed off directly — and when I opened my eyes again, not quite a 
 minute arterwards, I couldn't find him nowheres — and nobody can't 
 neither, and we've been searching the house for the last half hour." 
 
 " Foolish fellow — how long was this ago ?" 
 
 " About an hour, sir.' ' 
 
 The doctor said not another word, but taking a candle from the 
 table, quitted the room, and hurried down stairs. I followed him, and 
 Robin, almost frightened out of his wits, trod upon my heel and rubbed 
 against my coat, in his eagerness not to be left behind me. The establish- 
 ment was, as it is said, at sixes and sevens. All was disorder and confu- 
 sion, and hustling into the most remote corner of the common room. 
 Mr. Williams especially was very much unsettled. He stood in the rear 
 of everybody else, and looked deathly white. It was he who ejaculated 
 something upon the sudden entrance of his master, and was the cause of 
 all the other ejaculations which followed quickly from every member of 
 the household. Doctor Mayhew commanded order, and was not long in 
 bringing it about. The house was searched immediately. Wherever it 
 was supposed that the idiot might hide himself, diligent enquiry was made ; 
 cupboards, holes, corners, and cellars. It was in vain. He certainly 
 had escaped. The gardens and paddocks, and fields adjacent, were scoured, 
 and with like success. There was no doubt of it — the idiot was gone — 
 who could tell whither 1 After two hours' unprofitable labour, Doctor 
 Mayhew was again in his librar}-, very much disturbed in mind, and 
 reproaching himself bitterly for his procrastination. " Had I acted," said 
 he, " upon my first determination, this would never have happened, and 
 my part in the business would have been faithfully performed. As it is, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 285 
 
 if any mischief should come to that man, I shall never cease to blame 
 myself, and to be considered the immediate cause of it:' I made no reply. 
 I could say nothing. His escape, occurring so soon after my identification 
 of the unfortunate creature, had bewildered and confounded me. I could 
 not guess at the motive of his flight, nor conceive a purpose to which it 
 wa3 likely the roused maniac would aspire; but I was satisfied — yes, too 
 satisfied, for to think of it was to chill and freeze the heart's warm blood 
 — that the revelation of the day and his removal were in close connexion. 
 Ala,?, I dared not speak, although my fears distracted me whilst I conti- 
 nued dumb ! Arrangements were at last made for watching both within 
 and without the house during the night — messengers were dispatched to 
 the contiguous villages, and all that could be done for the recovery of the 
 runaway was attempted. It was already past twelve o'clock when 
 Dr. .Mayhew insisted upon my retiring to rest. I did not oppose his 
 wish. He was ill at ease, and angry with himself. Maintaining the 
 silence which I had kept during the evening, I gave him my hand, and 
 took my leave. 
 
 I thought I should have dropped dead in the room when, lost in a deep 
 reverie, I opened my chamber-door, and discovered, sitting at the table, 
 the very man himself. There the idiot sat, portrait in hand, encountering 
 me with a look of unutterable sorrowfulness. He must have hid himself 
 amongst the folds of the curtains : for this room, as well as the rest, was 
 looked into, and its cupboards investigated. I recoiled with sudden terror, 
 and retreated, but the wretch clasped his hands in agony, and implored 
 me, in gestures which could not be mistaken, to remain. I recovered, 
 gained confidence, and forbore. 
 
 *• What do you desire with me V I asked quickly. " Can you speak ! 
 Do you understand me » " The unhappy man dropped on his knees, and 
 took my hand— cried like a beaten child — sobbed and groaned. He raised 
 the likeness of his sister to my eyes, and then I saw the fire sparkling in 
 his own lustrous orb, and the supplication bursting from it. that was not 
 to be resisted. He pointed to his mouth, compelled an inarticulate sound, 
 and looked at me again, to assure me that he had spoken all his faculties 
 permitted him. He waited for my answer. 
 
 Melted with pity for the bruised soul before me, I could no longer deny 
 him the gratification he besought. 
 
 "Emma !" I ejaculated ; '-'Emma Harrington." 
 
 He wept aloud, and kissed my hand, and put my arm upon his breast, 
 and caressed it with his own weak head. I permitted the affectionate 
 creature to display his childish gratitude, and then, taking him by the 
 wrist, I withdrew from the room. An infant could not have been more 
 docile with its nurse. In another moment he was again in custody. 
 
 It was in vain that I strove to fall asleep, and to forget the circumstances 
 of the day — in vain that I endeavoured to carry out the resolution which 
 I had taken to my pillow. Gladly would I have expelled all thought of 
 the idiot from my mind, and risen on the morrow, prepared by rest and 
 sweet suspension of mental labour for profitable deliberation. Sound as 
 was the advice of my friend, and anxious as I was to follow it, obedience 
 rested not with me, and was impossible. Should I make known the his- 
 tory of the man ] Should I discover his crime ? This was the question 
 that haunted my repose, and knocked at my ears until my labouring- brain 
 ached in its confusion. What might be the effect of a disclosure upon the 
 future existence of the desolate creature, should he ever recover his reason ? 
 Must he not suffer the extreme penalty of the law? It was dreadful to 
 think that his life should be forfeited through, and only through, my 
 
286 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 agency. There were reasons again, equally weighty, why I should not 
 conceal the facts which were in my possession. How I should have deter- 
 mined at length, I know not, if an argument — founded on selfishness — had 
 not stepped in and turned the balance in favour of the idiot. Alas, how 
 easy is it to decide when self-interest interposes with its intelligence and 
 aid ! Neither Mr. Fairman nor Doctor Mayhew knew of my connexion 
 with the unfortunate Emma Harrington. To ^xpose the brother would be 
 to commit myself. I was not yet prepared to acknowledge to the father of 
 Miss Fairman or to his friend, the relation that I had borne to that poor girl. 
 And why not] If to divulge the secret were an act of justice, why should 
 I hesitate to do it on account of the incumbent, with whom I had broken 
 off all intercourse for ever? Ah, did I in truth believe that our separation 
 had been final ? Or did I harbour, perhaps against reason and conviction, 
 a hope, a thought of future reconciliation, a shadowy yet not weak belief 
 that all might yet end happily, and that fortune still might favour love ? 
 With such faint hope, and such belief, I must have bribed myself to 
 silence ; for I left my couch resolved to keep my secret close. Doctor 
 Mayhew was deep in the contemplation of a map when I joined him at 
 the breakfast table. He did not take his eyes from it when I entered the 
 apartment, and he continued his investigations some time after I had 
 taken my seat. He raised his head at last, and looked hard at me, appa- 
 rently without perceiving me, and then he resumed his occupation with- 
 out having spoken a syllable : after a further study of five or ten minutes, 
 he shook his head, and pressed his lips, and frowned, and stroked his chin, 
 as though he was just arriving at the borders of a notable and great dis- 
 covery. 
 
 " It will be strange indeed ! " he muttered to himself. " How can we 
 find it out ] " 
 
 I did not break the thread of cogitation. 
 
 " Well," continued Doctor Mayhew, " he must leave this house at all 
 events. I will run the risk of losing him no longer. I will write this 
 morning to the overseer. Yet I should like to know — really — it may be, 
 after all, the case. Stukely, lad, look here. What county is this 1" he 
 continued, placing his finger on the map. 
 
 Somerset was written in the corner of it, and accordingly I answered. 
 
 " Very well," replied the doctor. "Now, look here. Eead this. What 
 do these letters spell ?" 
 
 He pointed to some small characters, which formed evidently the name 
 of a village that stood upon the banks of a river of some magnitude. I 
 spelt them as he desired, and pronounced, certainly to my own surprise, 
 the word — "Belton." 
 
 "Just so. Well, what do you say to that? I think I have hit it. 
 That's the fellow's home. I never thought of that before, and I shouldn't 
 now, if I hadn't had occasion for the road-book. It was the first thing 
 that caught my eye. Now — how can we find it out?" 
 
 "It isdifiicult!" said I. 
 
 " It is likely enough, you see. What should bring him so far westward, 
 if he hadn't some object? He was either wandering from or to his home, 
 depend upon it, when the gipsies found him. If Belton be his home, his 
 frequent repetition of the word was natural enough. Eh, don't you see 
 it?" 
 
 " Certainly," said I. 
 
 " Very well ; then, what's to be done?" 
 
 " I cannot tell," I answered. 
 
 The doctor rang the bell. 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 287 
 
 " Is Robin up yet?" he asked, when Williams came in to answer it. 
 
 " He is, sir." 
 
 "And the man?" 
 
 " Both, sir. They have just done breakfast." 
 
 " Very well, "Williams, you may go. Now, follow me, Stukely," con- 
 tinued the physician, the moment that the butler had departed. " I'll do 
 it now. I am a physiognomist, and I'll tell you in the twinkling of an 
 eye if we are right. You mark him well, and so will I." The doctor 
 seized his map and road-book, and before I could speak was out of the 
 room. When I overtook him, he had already reached the idiot, and dis- 
 missed Robin. 
 
 My friend commenced his operations by placing the map and book upon 
 the table, and closely scanning the countenance of his patient, in order to 
 detect and fix the smallest alteration of expression in the coming ex- 
 amination. He might have spared himself the trouble. The idiot had 
 no eye for him. When I appeared he ran to me, and manifested the most 
 extravagant delight. He grasped my hand, and drew me to his chair, and 
 there detained me. He did not introduce his treasure ; but I could not 
 fail to perceive that he intended to repeat the scene of the previous day 
 as soon as we were again alone. I did not wish to afford him opportunity, 
 and I gladly complied with the physician's request when he called upon 
 me to interrogate the idiot in the terms he should employ. He had 
 already himself applied to the youth ; but neither for himself nor his 
 questions could he obtain the slightest notice. The eye, the heart, and, 
 such as it was, the mind of the idiot, were upon his sister's friend. 
 
 " Ask him, Stukely," began the doctor, " if he has ever been in Somer- 
 set." 
 
 I did so, and, in truth, the word roused from their long slumber, or we 
 believed they did, recollections that argued well for the physician's theory. 
 The idiot raised his brow, and smiled. 
 
 The doctor referred to his map, and said, whispering as before, " Mention 
 the river Parret." 
 
 I could not doubt that the name had been familiar to the unhappy man. 
 He strove to speak, and could not ; but he nodded his head affirmatively 
 and quickly, and the expression of his features corroborated the strong- 
 testimony. 
 
 "Now — Belton!" added the doctor. 
 
 I repeated the word, and then the agony of supplication which I had 
 witnessed once before was re-enacted, and the shrill and incoherent cries 
 burst from his afflicted breast. 
 
 " I am satisfied !" exclaimed the doctor, shutting his book. " He shall 
 leave my house for Belton this very afternoon." 
 
 And so he did. In an hour arrangements were in progress for his de- 
 parture, and I was his guardian and companion. Robin, as soon as Dr. 
 Mayhew's intention was known, refused to have anything more to sav, 
 either inside the house or out of it, to the devil incarnate, as he was 
 pleased to call the miserable man. If his place depended upon his taking 
 charge of him, he was ready to resign it. There was not another man 
 whom the physician seemed disposed to trust, and in his difficulty he 
 glanced at me. I understood his meaning. He proceeded to express his 
 surprise and pleasure at finding an attachment so strong towards me on the 
 part of the idiot. " It was remarkable," he said—" very ! And what a pity 
 it was that he hadn't cultivated the same regard for somebody else. A 
 short journey then, to Somerset, would have been the easiest thing in the 
 world. Nothing but to pop into the coach, to go to an inn on arriving in 
 
288 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Belton, and to make enquiries, which, no doubt, would be satisfactorily 
 answered in less than no time. Yes, really, it was a hundred pities !" 
 
 The doctor looked at me again, and then I had already determined to 
 meet the request he was not bold to ask. I believed, equally with the 
 physician, from the conduct and expressions of young Harrington, that 
 the riddle of his present condition waited for explanation in the village 
 whose name seemed like a load upon his heart, and constituted the whole 
 of his discourse since he had arrived amongst us. It was there he yearned 
 to be. It was necessary only to mention the word to throw him into an 
 agitation which it took hours entirely to dissipate. Yes, for a reason well 
 known to him, and hidden from us all, his object, his only object as it 
 appeared, was to be removed and to be conducted thither. I had but one 
 reason for rejecting the otherwise well-sustained hypothesis of my friend. 
 During my whole intercourse with Emma, I had never heard her speak of 
 Somerset or Belton, and in her narrative no allusion was made either to 
 the shire or village. In what way, then, could it be so intimately con- 
 nected with her brother — whence was the origin of the hold which this 
 one word had taken of his shattered brain? I could not guess. But, on 
 the other hand, it was true that I was ignorant of his history subsequently 
 to the fearful death of his most sinful father. How could I tell what new 
 events had arisen, what fresh relations might have sprung up, to attach 
 and bind him to one particular spot of ground 1 Urged by curiosity to 
 discover all that yet remained to know of his career, and more by a natural 
 and strong desire to serve the youth — not to desert him in the hour of his 
 extremity — I resolved, with the first hint of the doctor, to become myself 
 the fellow-traveller of his protege. I told him so, and the doctor shook 
 me by the hand, and thanked me heartily. 
 
 That very evening we were on our road, for our preparations were not 
 extensive. My instructions were to carry him direct to Belton, to ascer- 
 tain, if possible, from his movements, the extent of his acquaintance with 
 the village, and to present him at all places of resort in the hope of having 
 him identified. Two days were granted for our stay. If he should be un- 
 known we were then to return, and Doctor Mayhew would at once resign 
 him to the parish. These were his words at parting. We had no opposi- 
 tion in the idiot. His happiness was perfect whilst I remained with him. 
 He followed me eagerly whithersoever I went, and was willing to be led 
 bo long as I continued guide. I took my seat in the coach, and he 
 placed himself at my side, trembling with joyousness and laughing con- 
 vulsively. Once seated, he grasped my hand as usual, and did not, through 
 the livelong night, relinquish it altogether. A hundred affectionate indi- 
 cations escaped him, and in the hour of darkness and of quiet it would 
 have been easy to suppose that an innocent child was nestling near me, 
 homevxird bound, and, in the fulness of its expectant bliss, lavish of its 
 young heartfelt endearments. Yes, it would have been, but for other 
 thoughts, blacker than the night itself— how much more fearful ! — which 
 rendered every sign of fondness a hollow, cold, and dismal mockery. 
 Innocence ! Alas, poor parricide ! 
 
 In the morning the sun streamed into the coach, of which we were the 
 only inside passengers. Dancing and playing came the light, now here, 
 now there, skipping along the seat, and settling nowhere — cheerful visitant, 
 and to the idiot something more ; for he gazed upon it, and followed its 
 fairy motion, lost in wonder and delight. He looked from the coach- 
 window, and beheld the far-spreading fields of beauty with an eye awakened 
 from long lethargy and inaction. He could not gaze enough. And the 
 voice of nature made giddy the sense of hearing that drank intoxication 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 289 
 
 from the notes of birds, the gurgling of a brook, the rustling of a thousand 
 leaves. His feeble powers, taken by surprise, were vanquished by the 
 summer's loveliness. Once, when our coach stopped, a peasant girl ap- 
 proached us with a nosegay, which she entreated me to buy. My fellow- 
 traveller was impatient "to obtain it. I gave it to him, and, for an hour, 
 all was neglected for the toy. He touched the flowers one by one, viewed 
 them attentively and lovingly, as we do children whom we have known, 
 and watched, and loved from infancy— now caressing this, now smiling 
 upon that. What recollections did they summon in the mind of the desti- 
 tute and almost mindless creature 1 What pictures rose there ]— pictures 
 that may never be excluded from the soul of man, however dim may burn 
 the intellectual light. His had been no bappy boyhood; yet, in the 
 wilderness of his existence, there must have been vouchsafed to him in 
 mercy the few green spots that serve to attach to earth the most afflicted 
 and forlorn of her sad children. How natural for the glimpses to revisit 
 the broken heart, thus employed, thus roused and animated by the light 
 of heaven, rendering all things beautiful and glad ! 
 
 As we approached the village, my companion ceased to regard his many- 
 coloured friends with the same exclusive attention and unmixed delight. 
 His spirits sank — his joy fled. Clouds gathered across his brow ; he with- 
 drew his hand from mine, and he sat for an hour, brooding. He held the 
 neglected nosegay before him, and plucked the pretty leaves one by one — 
 not conscious, I am sure, of what he did. In a short time every flower was 
 destroyed, and lay in its fragments before him. Then, as if stung by re- 
 morse for the cruel act, or shaken by the heavy thoughts that pressed 
 upon his brain, he covered his pallid face, and groaned bitterly. What 
 were those thoughts] How connected with the resting-place towards 
 which we were hastening rapidly ? My own anxiety became intense. 
 
 The village of Belton, situated near the mouth, and at the broadest 
 part, of the river Parret, consisted of one long narrow street, and a few 
 houses scattered here and there on the small eminences which sheltered it. 
 The adjacent country was of the same character as that which we had 
 quitted— less luxuriant, perhaps, but still rich and striking. We arrived 
 at mid-day. I determined to alight at the inn at which the coach put up, 
 and to make my first inquiries there. From the moment that we rattled 
 along the stones that formed the entrance to the village, an unfavourable 
 alteration took place in my companion. He grew excited and impatient ; 
 and his lips quivered, and his eyes sparkled, as I had never seen them 
 before. I was satisfied that he had reached the object of his long desire, 
 and that in a few minutes the mysterious relation in which he stood to the 
 place would be ascertained. " He must be known," I continued to repeat 
 to myself; "the first eye that falls on him will recognise him instantly." 
 We reached the inn ; we alighted. The landlord and the ostler came to 
 the coach-door, and received us with extreme civility. The former assisted 
 the idiot in his eager endeavour to reach the ground — I watched the action, 
 expecting him to start, to speak, to claim acquaintance ; and, having com- 
 pleted the polite attention, he stood smiling and scraping. I looked at 
 him, then at the idiot, and saw at once that they were strangers. A dozen 
 idlers stood about the door. I waited for a recognition : none came. 
 
 Seated in the parlour of the inn, I asked to see the landlady. The sight 
 of the idiot caused as little emotion in her, as it had produced in her hus- 
 band. I ordered dinner for him. Whilst it was preparing, I engaged the 
 landlord in conversation at the door. I did not wish to speak before young 
 Harrington. I dared not leave him. I enquired, first, if the face of the 
 
 u 
 
290 > CALEB STUKELY. " , 
 
 idiot were familiar to Mm. I received for answer, that the man had never 
 seen him in his- life before, nor had his wife. 
 
 " Do you know the name of Harrington'?" said I. 
 
 " 1S"o — never heard on it," was the reply. 
 
 "Fitzjones, perhaps'?" 
 
 " Many Joneses hereabouts, sir," said the landlord, " but none of that 
 there Christian name." 
 
 The excitement of the idiot did not abate. He would not touch his 
 food nor sit quietly ; but he walked swiftly up and down the room, breath- 
 ing heavily, and trembling Avith increasing agitation. He urged me in 
 his own peculiar way to leave the house and walk abroad. He pointed to 
 the road, and strove to speak. The attempt was fruitless, and he paced 
 the room again, wringing his hands, and sighing sorrowfully. At length I 
 yielded to his request, and we were again in the village, I following 
 whithersoever he led me. He ran through the street, like a madman, as 
 he was, bringing upon him the eyes of every one, and outstripping me 
 speedily. He stopped for a moment to collect himself — looked round as 
 though he had lost his way, and knew not whither to proceed ; then bounded 
 off again, the hunted deer not quicker in his flight, and instantly was out 
 of sight. Without the smallest hope of seeing him again, I pursued the 
 fugitive, and, as well, as I could guess it, continued in his track. For half 
 a mile J. traced his steps, and then I lost them. His last footmark was at 
 the closed gate of a good-sized dwelling-house. The roof and highest 
 windows only of the habitation were to be discerned from the path, and 
 these denoted the residence of a wealthy man. He could have no business 
 here — no object. " He must have passed," thought I, " upon the other 
 side." I was about to cross the road, when I perceived, at the distance of a 
 few yards, a man labouring in a field. I accosted him, and asked if he had 
 seen the idiot. 
 
 ]STo — he had not. He was sure that nobody had passed him for hours. 
 He must have seen the man if he had come that way. 
 
 " Whose house is that ?" I asked, not knowing why I asked the question. 
 
 '■ What \ that ! " said he, pointing to the gate. " Oh, that's Squire 
 Temples ! " 
 
 The name dropped like a knife upon my heart. I could not speak. I 
 must have fallen to the earth, if the man, seeing me grow pale as death, 
 had not started to his feet and intercepted me. I trembled with a hundred 
 apprehensions. My throat was dry with fright, and I thought I should 
 have choked. What follows was like a hideous dream. The gate was 
 opened suddenly. James Temple issued from it, and passed me like an 
 arrow. He was appalled and terror-stricken. Behind him — within six 
 feet — almost upon him, yelling fearfully, was the brother of the girl he had 
 betrayed and ruined — his friend and schoolfellow, the miserable Frederick 
 Harrington. I could perceive that he held aloft, high over his head, the 
 portrait of his sister. It was all I saw and could distinguish. Both shot 
 by me. I called to the labourer to follow ; and, fast as my feet could carry 
 me, I went on. Temple fell. Harrington was down with him. I reached 
 the spot. The hand of the idiot was on the chest of the seducer, and the 
 picture was thrust in agony before his shuddering eyes. There was a 
 struggle — the idiot was cast away, and Temple was once more dashing 
 onward. On, on ! — after him ! shrieked the idiot. They reached the 
 river's edge. "What now — what now 1 ?" I exclaimed, beholding them 
 from afar, bewildered and amazed. The water does not restrain the scared 
 spirit of the pursued. [He rushes on, leaps in, and trusts to the swift cur- 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 291 
 
 rent. So also the pursuer, who, with one long, loud exclamation of 
 triumph, still with his treasure in his grasp, springs vehemently forward, 
 and sinks, once and for ever. And the betrayer beats his way onward, 
 aimless and exhausted, but still he nears the shore. Shall he reach it ?- 
 Kever ! 
 
 PAET THE LAST. 
 
 TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 " Mourn not for her ! for what hath life to give 
 That should detain her ready spirit here ? 
 Thinkest thou that it were worth a wish to live, 
 Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere ? 
 That simple heart, that innocence sincere 
 The world would stain. Fitter she ne'er could he 
 For the great change ; and now that change is near, 
 Oh ! who would keep her soid from heing free ? 
 Maiden, beloved of Heav'n, to die is "best for thee." 
 
 Soctukt. 
 
 " Time on this head hath snow'd, yet still 'tis borne 
 Aloft, nor thinks hut on another's grave." 
 
 YorxG. 
 
 The sudden and unlooked-for appearance of James Temple threw light 
 upona mystery. Further explanation awaited me in the house from which the 
 unfortunate man had rushed to meet instant death and all its consequences. 
 It will be remembered that, in the narrative of his victim, mention is made 
 of one Mrs. "Wybrow, with whom the poor girl, upon the loss of her father, 
 and of all means of support, obtained a temporary home. It appeared 
 that Frederick Harrington, a few months after his flight, returned secretly 
 to the village, and, at the house of that benevolent woman, made earnest 
 application for his sister. He was then excited and half insane, speaking 
 extravagantly of his views and his intentions in respect of her he came to 
 take away. " She should be a duchess," he said, " and must take prece- 
 dence of every lady in the land. He was a king himself, and could com- 
 mand it so. He could perform wonders, if he chose to use the power with 
 which he was invested ; but he would wait until his sister might reap the 
 benefit of his acquired wealth." In this strain he continued, alarming the 
 placid Mrs. Wybrow, who knew not what to do to moderate the wildness 
 and the vehemence of his demeanour. Hoping, however, to appease him, she 
 told him of the good fortune of his sister — how she had obtained a happy 
 home, and how grateful he ought to be to Providence for its kind care of 
 her. Much more she said, only to increase the anger of the man, whose 
 insane pride was roused to fury the moment that he heard his sister was 
 doomed to eat the bread of a dependent. He disdained the assistance of 
 Mrs. Temple — swore it was an artifice, a cheat, and that he would drag her 
 from the net into which they had enticed her. When afterwards he learned 
 that it was through the mediation of James Temple that his sister had 
 been provided for, the truth burst instantly upon him, and he foresaw at 
 once all that actuallv took place. He vowed that he would become him- 
 
 u 2 
 
292 CALEB STUKELY 
 
 self the avenger of his sister, and that he would not let her betrayer sleep 
 until he had wrung from him deep atonement for his crime. It was in rain 
 that Mr?. Wybrow sought to convince him of his delusion. He Avould not 
 "be advised— he would not listen — he would not linger another moment in 
 the house, but quitted it, wrought to the highest pitch of rage, and speak- 
 in"- only of vengeance on the seducer. He set out for London. Mrs. 
 Wybrow, agitated more than she had been at any time since her birth, and 
 herself almost deprived of reason by her fears for the safety of Miss Har- 
 rington, James Temple, and the furious lunatic himself, wrote immediately 
 to Emma, then resident in Cambridge, explaining the sad condition of her 
 brother, and warning her of his approach— Emma having already (without 
 acquainting Mrs. Wybrow with her fallen state) forwarded her address, with 
 a. strict injunction to her humble friend to convey to her all information, 
 of her absent brother which she could possibly obtain. The threatened 
 danger was communicated to the lover — darkened his days for a time with 
 anxiety and dread, but ceased as time wore on, and as no visitant appeared 
 to affect the easy tenor of his immoral life. The reader will not have 
 forgotten, perhaps, that when for the first time I beheld James Temple, he 
 was accompanied by an elder brother. It was from the latter, his friend and 
 confidante, that the above particulars, and those which follow in respect of 
 the deceased, were gathered. The house in which, for a second time, I en- 
 countered my ancient college friends, was their uncle's. Parents they had 
 none. Of father and of mother both they had been deprived in infancy ; 
 and from that period, their home had been with their relative and 
 guardian. The conduct of one charge, at least, had been from boyhood 
 such as to cause the greatest pain to him who had assumed a parent's cares. 
 Hypocrisy, sensuality, and— for his years and social station — unparalleled 
 dishonesty, had characterised James Temple's short career. By some in- 
 explicable tortuosity of mind, with every natural endowment, with every 
 acquired advantage, graced with the borrowed as well as native ornaments 
 of humanity, he found no joy in his inheritance, but sacrificed it all, and 
 crawled through life a gross and earthy man. The seduction of Emma, 
 young as he was when he committed that offence, was, by many, not the first 
 crime for which — not, thank Heaven ! without some preparation for his 
 trial— he was called suddenly to answer. As a boy, he had grown aged in 
 vice. It has been stated that he quitted the university the very instant 
 he disencumbered himself of the girl whom he had sacrificed. He crept 
 to the metropolis, and for a time there hid himseif. But it was there that 
 he was discovered by Frederick Harrington, who had pursued the destroyer 
 with a perseverance that was indomitable, and scoffed at disappointment. 
 How the lunatic existed no one knew ; how he steered clear of transgres- 
 sion and restraint was equally difficult to explain. It was evident enough 
 that he made himself acquainted with the haunts of his former school- 
 fellow ; and, in one of them, he rushed furiously and unexpectedly upon 
 him, affrighted his intended victim, but failing in his purpose of vengeance 
 by the very impetuosity of his assault. Temple escaped. Then it was 
 that the latter, shaken by fear, revealed to his brother the rise and pro- 
 gress of his intimacy with the discarded girl, and, in his extremity, called 
 upon him for advice and help. He could afford him none ; and the seducer 
 found himself in the world without an hour's happiness or quiet. What 
 quails so readily as the heartless soul of the sensualist? Who so cowardly 
 as the man only courageous in his oppression of the weak \ The spirit of 
 Temple was laid prostrate. He walked, and ate, and slept, in base and 
 dastard fear. Locks and bolts could not secure him from dismal appre- 
 hensions. A sound shook him, as the unseenwind makes the tall poplar 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 293 
 
 shudder— a voice struck terror in his ear, and "sickness to his recreant 
 heart. He could not he alone— for alarm was heightened by the speaking 
 conscience that pronounced it just. He journeyed from place to place, his 
 brother ever at his side, and the shadow of the avenger ever stalking in 
 the rear, and impelling the weary wanderer still onward. The health of 
 the sufferer gave way. To preserve his life, he was ordered to the south- 
 western coast. His faithful brother was his companion still. He had not 
 received a week's benefit from the mild and grateful climate— he was 
 scarcelv settled in the tranquil village in which they had fixed their resi- 
 dence, before the old terror was made manifest, and hunted the unhappy 
 man away. Whilst sitting at his window, and gazing upon the broad and 
 smooth blue sea— the sick man's notice was invited to a crowd of yelling 
 bovs, who had amongst them one, the tallest of their number, whom they 
 dragged along for punishment or sport. He was an idiot. Who he was 
 none'knew so^well as the pale man that looked upon him, who could not 
 drao- his eye away, so lost was it in wonder, so transfixed with horror. The 
 invalid remained no longer there. Fast as horses could convey him, he 
 journeyed homeward ; and, in the bosom of his natural protectors, he 
 sought for peace he could not gain elsewhere. Here he remained, the 
 slave of fear, the conscience-stricken, diseased in body— almost spent ; and 
 here he would have died, had not Providence directed the impotent mind, 
 of the imbecile to the spot, and willed it otherwise. I have narrated, as 
 shortly as I might, the history of my earliest college friend, as I received 
 it from his brother's lips. There remained but a few words to say—the 
 pleasantest that I have had to speak of him. James Temple did not die a 
 hardened man. If there be truth in tears, in prayers of penitence that 
 fall from him who stands upon the borders of eternity— who can gain 
 nothing by hvpocrisy, and may lose by it the priceless treasure of an 
 immortal soul— if serenity and joy are signs of a repentance spoken, 
 a forgiveness felt, then Heaven had assuredly been merciful with the 
 culprit, and had remitted his offences, as Heaven can, and will, remit the 
 vilest. 
 
 I remained in the village of Belton until I saw all that remained of the 
 school-fellows deposited in the earth. Their bodies had been easily obtained 
 —that of the idiot, indeed, before life had quitted it. The evening that 
 followed their burial, I passed with William Temple. Many a sad re- 
 miniscence occurred to him which he communicated to me without reserve, 
 nianv a wanton act of coarse licentiousness, many a warning unheeded, 
 laughed at, spurned. It is a mournful pleasure for the mind, as it dwells 
 upon the doings of the departed, to build up its own theories, and to 
 work out a history of what might have been in happier circumstances — 
 a useless history of ifs. "If my brother had been looked to when he was 
 young," said William Temple more than once, " he would have turned out 
 differently. My uncle spoiled him. As a child, he was never corrected. 
 If he wished for a toy, he had but to scream for it. If, at school, he had 
 been fortunate enough to contract his friendships with young men of worth 
 and character, their example would have won him to rectitude, for he was 
 always a lad easily led." And again, " If he had but listened to the advice 
 which, when it would have served him, I did not fail daily and hourly to 
 offer him, he might have lived for years, and been respected— for many 
 know, I lost no opportunity to draw him from his course of error." Yain 
 idle talk ! I journeyed homeward. When I arrived at the house of Dr. 
 Mavhew, I was surprised to find how little I could remember of the 
 country over which I had travelled. The scenes through which I had 
 passed\vere forgotten— had not been noticed. Absorbed by the thoughts, 
 
294 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 which possessed my brain, I had suffered myself to be carried forward, 
 conscious of nothing but the waking dreams. I was prepared, however, to 
 see my friend. Still influenced by the latent hope of meeting once more with 
 Miss Fairman, still believing in the happy issue of my love, I had resolved 
 to keep my own connexion with the idiot as secret as the grave. There 
 was no reason why I should betray myself. His fate was independent of 
 my act — my conduct formed no link in the chain which must be presented 
 to make the history clear : and shame would have withheld the gratuitous 
 confession, had not the ever-present, never-dying promise forbade the dis- 
 closure of one convicting syllable. As may be supposed, the surprise of 
 Doctor Mayhew, upon hearing the narrative, was no less than the regret 
 which he experienced at the violent death of the poor creature in whom 
 he had taken so kind and deep an interest. But a few days sufficed to 
 lessen his concern for one who had come to him a stranger, and whom he 
 had known so short a time. The pursuits and cares of life gradually 
 withdrew the incident from his mind, and all thoughts of the idiot. He 
 ceased to speak of him. To me the last scene of his life was present for 
 many a year. I could not remove it. By day and night it came before 
 my eyes, without one effort on my part to invoke it. It has started up. sud- 
 denly and mysteriously, in the midst of enjoyment and serene delight, to 
 mingle bitterness in the cup of earthly bliss. It has come in the season 
 of sorrow to heighten the distress. Amongst men, and in the din of 
 business, the vision has intruded, and in solitude it has followed me to 
 throw its shadows across the bright green fields, beautiful in their fresh- 
 ness. Night after night — I cannot count their number — it has been the 
 form and substance of my dreams ; and I have gone to rest — yes, for 
 months — with the sure and natural expectation of beholding the melancholy 
 repetition of an act which I would have given anything, and all I had, to 
 forget and drive away for ever. 
 
 A week passed pleasantly with my host. I spoke of departure at the 
 end of it. He smiled when I did so, bade me hold my tongue and be 
 patient. I suffered another week to glide away, and then hinted once more 
 that I had trespassed long enough upon his hospitality. The doctor placed 
 his hand upon my arm, and answered quickly, "all in good time — do not 
 hurry." His tone and manner confirmed, I know not why, the strong 
 hope within me, and his words passed with meaning to my heart. I 
 already built upon the aerial foundation, and looked forward with joyous 
 confidence and expectation. The arguments and shows of truth are few 
 that love requires. The poorest logic is the soundest reasoning — if it con- 
 clude for him. The visits to the parsonage were, meanwhile, continued. 
 Upon my return, I gained no news. I asked if all were well there, and the 
 simple monosyllable " Yes," answered with unusual quickness and decision, 
 was all that escaped the doctor's lips. He did not wish to be interrogated 
 further, and was displeased. I perceived this, and was silent. For some 
 days, no mention was made of his dear friend and minister. He was 
 accustomed to speak often of that man, and most affectionately. What was 
 the inference I A breach had taken place. If I entertained the idea for 
 a day, it was dissipated on the next; for the doctor, a week having elapsed 
 since his last visit, rode over to the parsonage as usual, remained there 
 some hours, and returned in his best and gayest spirits. He spoke of the 
 Fairmans during the evening with the same kind feeling and good-humour 
 that had always accompanied his allusions to them and their proceedings, 
 and grew at length eloquent in the praises of them both. The increasing 
 beauty of the young mistress, he said, was marvellous, " Ah," he added 
 slyly, and with more truth, perhaps, than he suspected, " it would have 
 
CALEB STUUELY. '295 
 
 done your eyes good to-day, only to have got one peep at her." I sighed, 
 and be tantalized me further. He pretended to pity me for the inconsiderate 
 haste with which I had thrown up my employment, and to condole with 
 me for all I had lost in consequence. " As for himself," he said, " he had, 
 upon further consideration, given up all thought of marriage for the pre- 
 sent. He should live a little longer and groAv wiser ; but it was not a 
 pleasant thing, by any means, to see so sweet a girl taken coolly off by a 
 young fellow,"who, if aH he heard was time, was very likely to have an 
 early opportunity." I sighed again, and asked permission to retire to 
 rest; but my tormentor did not grant it until he had spoken for half an 
 hour longer, when he dismissed me in a state of misery incompatible with 
 rest, in bed, or out of it. My heart was bursting when I left him. He 
 could not fail to mark it. J To my surprise, he made another excursion to 
 the parsonage on the following day ; and, as before, he joined me in the 
 evening with nothing on his lips but commendation of the young lady 
 whom he had seen, and complaint at the cruel act which was about to rob 
 them of their treasure ; for he said, regardless of my presence or the des- 
 perate state of my feelings, " that the matter was now all but settled. 
 Fairman had made up his mind, and was ready to give his consent the very 
 moment the young fellow was bold enough to ask it. And lucky dog he is 
 too," added the kind physician, by way of a conclusion ; " for little puss 
 herself is over head and ears in love with him, or else I never made a right 
 prognosis." 
 
 "I am much obliged to you, sir," I answered, when Dr. Mayhew paused; 
 " very grateful for your hospitality. If you please, I will depart to-morrow. 
 I trust "you will ask me to remain no longer. I cannot do so. My business 
 
 in London " 
 
 " Oh, very well ! but that can wait, you know," replied the doctor, in- 
 terrupting me. '" I can't spare you to-morrow. I have asked a friend to 
 dinner, and you must meet him." 
 
 '•' Do not think me ungrateful, doctor," I answered ; " but positively J 
 must and will depart to-morrow. I cannot stay." 
 
 " Xonsense, man — you shall. Come, say you will, and I eng-age, if your 
 intention holds, to release you as early as you like the next day. I have 
 promised my friend that you will give him the meeting, and you must not 
 refuse me. Let me have my way to-morrow, and you shall be your own 
 master afterwards." 
 
 " Upon such terms, sir," I answered immediately, " it would be un- 
 pardonable if I persisted. You shall command me ; on the following day 
 I will seek my fortunes in the world again." 
 
 * Just so," replied the doctor, and so we separated. 
 
 The character of Dr. Mayhew was little known to me. His goodness of 
 heart I had reason to be acquainted with ; but his long-established love of 
 jesting, his intense appreciation of a joke, practical or otherwise, I had yet 
 to learn. In few men are united as happily as they were in him, a steady 
 application to the business of the world, and an almost unrestrained indul- 
 gence in its harmless pleasantries. The grave doctor was a boy at his 
 fireside. I spent my last day in preparing for my removal, and in rambling 
 for some hours amongst the hills, with which I had become too familiar to 
 separate without a pang. Long was our leave-taking. I lingered and 
 hovered from nook to nook, until I had expended the latest moment which 
 it was mine to give. With a burdened spirit I returned to the house, as 
 my thoughts shifted to the less pleasing prospect afforded by my new 
 position. I shuddered to think of London, and the fresh vicissitudes that 
 awaited me. 
 
296 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 It wanted but a few minutes to dinner when I stepped into the drawing- 
 room. The doctor had just reached home, after being absent on profes- 
 sional duty since the morning. The visitor had already arrived ; I had 
 heard his knock whilst I was dressing. Having lost all interest in the 
 doings of the place, I had not even cared to enquire his name. What 
 was it to me ? What difference could the chance visitor of a night make 
 to me, who was on the eve of exile ? None. I walked despondingly into 
 the room, and advanced with distant civility towards the stranger. His 
 face was from me, but he turned instantly upon hearing my step, and I 
 
 beheld Mr. Fairman. I could scarcely trust my eyes. I started and 
 
 retreated. My reverend friend, however, betrayed neither surprise nor 
 discomposure. He smiled kindly, held out his hand, and spoke as he 
 was wont in the days of cordiality and confidence. What did it mean ! 
 
 " It is a lovely afternoon, Stukely," began the minister, " worthy of the 
 ripe summer in which it is born." 
 
 " It is, sir," I replied ; " but I shall see no more of them," I added in- 
 stantly, anxious to assure him that I was not lurking with sinister design 
 so near the parsonage — that I was on the eve of flight. " I quit our friend 
 to-morrow, and must travel many miles away." 
 
 " You will come to us, Stukely," answered Mr. Fairman mildly. 
 
 "Sir!" said I, doubting if I heard aright. 
 
 "Has Doctor Mayhew said nothing then?" he asked. 
 
 I trembled in every limb. 
 
 " Nothing, sir," I answered. " Oh, yes ! I recollect — he did — he has— 
 but what have I — I have no wish- — no business " 
 
 The door opened, and Dr. Mayhew himself joined us, rubbing his hands, 
 and smiling, in the best of good tempers. In his rear followed the faith- 
 ful Williams. Before a word of explanation could be offered, the latter 
 functionary announced "dinner" and summoned us away. The presence 
 of the servants during the meal interfered with the gratification of my 
 unutterable curiosity. Mr. Fairman spoke most affably on different 
 matters, but did not once revert to the previous subject of discourse. I 
 was on thorns. I could not eat. I could not look at the minister without 
 anxiety and shame ; and whenever my eye caught that of the doctor, I was 
 abashed by a look of meaning and good-humoured cunning, that was half 
 intelligible and half obscure. Rays of hope penetrated to my heart's core, 
 and illuminated my existence. The presence of Mr. Fairman could not 
 be without a purpose. What was it, then"? Oh, I dared not trust myself 
 to ask the question ! The answer bred intoxication and delight, too sweet 
 for earth. What meant that wicked smile upon the doctor's cheek'? He 
 was too generous and good to laugh at my calamity. He could not do it. 
 Yet the undisturbed demeanour of the minister confounded me. If there 
 had been connected with this visit so important an object as that which I 
 longed to believe was linked with it, there surely would have been some 
 evidence in his speech and manner, and he continued as cheerful and un- 
 disturbed as if his mind were free from every care and weighty thought. 
 " What can it mean?" I asked myself, again and again. "How can he 
 coolly bid me to his house, after what has passed, after his fearful anxiety 
 to get me out of it? Will he hazard another meeting with his beloved 
 daughter ? — Ah, I see it ! " I suddenly and mentally exclaimed ; " it is 
 clear enough — she is absent — she is away. He wishes to evince his friendly 
 disposition at parting, and now he can do it without risk or cost." It was 
 a plain elucidation of the mystery — it was enough, and all my airy castles 
 tumbled to the earth, and left me there in wretchedness. Glad was I 
 when the dinner was concluded, and eager to withdraw. I had resolved 
 
CALEB STUKELT. 297 
 
 to decline, at the first opportunity, the invitation of the incumbent. I 
 did not wish to grieve my heart in toasting my eyes upon a scene crowded 
 with fond associations, to revoke feelings in which it would be folly to in- 
 dulge again, and which it were well to annihilate and forget. I was about 
 to beg permission to leave the table, when Dr. Mayhew rose ; he looked 
 archly at me when I followed his example, and requested me not to be in 
 haste ; " he had business to transact, and would rejoin us shortly." Baying 
 these words, he smiled and vanished. I remained silent. To be left 
 alone with Mr. Fairman, was the most annoying circumstance that could 
 happen in my present mood. There were a hundred things which I burned 
 to know, whilst I lacked the courage to enquire concerning one. But I 
 had waited for an opportunity to decline his invitation. Here it was, and 
 I had not power to lift mv head and look at him. Mr. Fairman himself 
 did not speak for some minutes. He sat thoughtfully, resting his fore- 
 head in the palm of his hand— his elbow on the table. At Length he 
 raised his eyes, and, whilst my own were still bent downward, I could feel 
 that his were fixed upon me. 
 " Caleb," said the minister. 
 
 It was the first time that the incumbent had called me by my Christian 
 name. How strangely it sounded from his lips ! How exquisitely grateful 
 it dropt upon my ear ! 
 
 " Tell me, Caleb," continued Mr. Fairman, " did I understand you right ? 
 Is it true that Mayhew has told you nothing]" 
 
 "Nothing distinctly, sir," I answered— "I have gathered something 
 from his hints, but I know not what he says in jest and what in earnest.'' 
 " I have only her happiness at heart, Stukely — from the moment that 
 you spoke to me on the subject, I have acted solely with regard to that. 
 I hoped to have smothered this passion in the bud. In attempting it, I 
 believed I was acting as a father should, and doing my duty by her." 
 The room began to swim round me, and my head grew dizzy. 
 " I am to blame, perhaps, as Mayhew says, for having brought you to- 
 gether, and for surrounding her with danger. I should have known that 
 to trifle with a heart so guileless and so pure was cruel and unjust, and 
 fraught with perilous consequences. I was blind, and I am punished for 
 my act." 
 
 I looked at him at length. 
 
 "I use the word deliberately— punished, Stukely. It is a punishment 
 to behold the affection of which I have ever been too jealous, departing 
 from me, and ripening for another. Why have I cared to live since Heaven 
 took her mother to itself— but for her sake, for her welfare, and her love \ 
 But sorrow and regret are useless now. You do not know, young man, a 
 thousandth part of your attainment when I tell you, you have gained her 
 young and virgin heart, I oppose you no longer — I thwart not — render 
 yourself worthy of the precious gift." 
 
 " I cannot speak, sir ! " I exclaimed, seizing the hand of the incumbent 
 in the wildness of my joy. " I am stupified by this intelligence ! Trust 
 me, sir — believe me, vou shall find me not undeserving of your generosity 
 
 and " 
 
 " ]S"o, Stukely. Call it not by such a name. It is anything but that ; 
 there is no liberality, no nobility of soul, in giving you what I may not 
 now withhold. I cannot see her droop and die, and live myself to know 
 that a word from me had saved her. I have given my consent to the pro- 
 secution of your attachment at the latest moment — not because I wished 
 it, but to prevent a greater evil. I have told you the truth ! It was due 
 
298 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 to us both that you should hear it ; for the future look upon me as vour 
 father, and I will endeavour to do you justice." 
 
 There was a stop. I was so oppressed with a sense of happiness, that 
 I could find no voice to speak my joy or tell my thanks. Mr. Fairman 
 paused, and then continued. 
 
 " You will come to the parsonage to-morrow, and take part again in the 
 instruction of the lads after their return. You will be received as my 
 daughter's suitor. Arrangements will be made for a provision for you. 
 Mayhew and I have it in consideration now. When our plan is matured, 
 it shall be communicated to you. There need be no haste. You are both 
 young — too young for marriage— and we shall not yet fix the period of 
 your espousal." 
 
 My mind was overpowered with a host of dazzling visions, which rose 
 spontaneously as the minister proceeded in his delightful talk. I soon 
 lost all power of listening to details. The beloved Ellen, the faithful and 
 confiding maiden, who had not deserted the wanderer although driven 
 from her father's doors — she, the beautiful and priceless jewel of my 
 heart, was present in every thought, and was the ornament and chief of 
 every group that passed before my warm imagination. Whilst the in- 
 cumbent continued to speak of the future, of his own sacrifice, and my 
 great gain — whilst his words, without penetrating, touched my ears, and 
 died away — my soul grew busy in the contemplation of the prize, which, 
 now that it was mine, I scarce knew how to estimate. Where was she 
 then ? How had she been ] To how many days of suffering and of trial 
 may she have been doomed ] How many pangs may have wrung that 
 noble heart before its sad complaints were listened to, and mercifully 
 answered 1 I craved to be at her side. The words which her father had 
 spoken had loosened the heavy chain that tied me down — my limbs were 
 conscious of their freedom — my spirit felt its liberty — what hindered in- 
 stant flight ? In the midst of my reverie Dr. Mayhew entered the room 
 — and 1 remember distinctly that my immediate impulse was to leave the 
 two friends together, and to run as fast as love could urge and feet could 
 carry me — to the favoured spot which held all that I cared for now on 
 earth. The plans, however, of Doctor Mayhew interfered with this desire. 
 He had done much for me, more than I knew, and he was not the man to 
 go without his payment. A long evening was yet before us, time enough 
 for a hundred jokes, which I must hear, and witness, and applaud, or I 
 was most unworthy of the kindness he had shown me. The business 
 over for which Mr. Fairman had come expressly, the promise given of an 
 early visit to the parsonage on the following day, an affectionate parting 
 at the garden gate, and the incumbent proceeded on his homeward road. 
 The doctor and I returned together to the house in silence, and one of us 
 in partial fear ; for I could see the coming sarcasm in the questionable 
 smile that played about his lips. Not a word was spoken when we resumed 
 our seats. At last he rang the bell, and Williams answered it 
 
 " Book Mr. Stukely by the London coach to-morrow, Williams," said 
 the master ; " he positively must and will depart to-morrow." 
 
 The criminal reprieved — the child, hopeless and despairing at the ; 
 suffering parent's bed, and blessed at length with a firm promise of 
 amendment and recovery, can tell the feelings that sustained my flutter- 
 ing heart, beating more anxiously the nearer it approached its home. I 
 woke that morning with the lark — yes, ere that joyous bird had spread 
 its wing, and broke upon the day with its mad note— and I left the 
 doctor's house whilst all within were sleeping. There was no rest for me 
 
CALEB STUKELY. ^99 
 
 away from that abode, whose gates of adamant, with all their bars and 
 fastenings, one magic word had opened — whose sentinels were withdrawn 
 — whose'tcrrors had departed. The hour* were all too long until 1 claimed 
 my new-found privilege. Morn of the mellow summer, how beautiful is 
 thy birth ! How soft— how calm— how breathlessly and blushingly thou 
 stealest upon a slumbering world ; fearful, as it seems, of startling it ! 
 How deeply quiet, and how soothing, are thy earliest sounds— scarce 
 audible— by no peculiar quality distinguishable, yet thrilling and intense ! 
 How doubly potent falls thy witching influence on him whose spirit pas- 
 sion has attuned to all the harmonies of earth, and made but too suscep- 
 tible ! Disturbed as I was by the anticipation of my joy, and by the 
 consequent unrest, with the first sight of day, and all its charms, came 
 peace— actuaFand profound. The agitation of my soul was overwhelmed 
 by the prevailing stillness, and I grew tranquil and subdued. Love ex- 
 isted yet— what could extinguish that %— but heightened and sublimed. 
 It was as though, in contemplating the palpable and lovely work of heaven, 
 all selfishness had at once departed from my breast— all dross had sepa- 
 rated from my best affections, and left them pure and free. And so I 
 walked on, happiest of the happy, from field to field, from hill to hill, 
 with no companion on the way, no traveller -within my view— alone with 
 nature and my heart's delight." " And men pent up in cities," thought I, 
 as I went along, " would call this— Solitude." I remembered how lonely 
 I had felt in "the busy crowds of London— how chill, how desolate, and 
 forlorn, and marvelled at the reasoning of man. And came no other 
 thoughts of London, and the weary hours passed there, as I proceeded on 
 my delightful walk 1 Yes, many, as Heaven knows, who heard the invo- 
 luntary matin prayer, offered in gratefulness of heart, upon my knees, and 
 in the open fields, where no eye but one could look upon the worshipper, 
 and call the fitness of the time and place in question. The early mowers 
 were soon a-foot ; they saluted me and passed. Then, from the humblest- 
 cottages issued the straight and thin column of white smoke— white as 
 the snowy cloud— telling of industry within, and the return of toil. Now 
 labourers" were busy in their garden plots, labouring for pleasure and de- 
 light, ere they strove abroad for hire, their children at their side, giving 
 the utmost of their small help— young, ruddy, wild, and earnest workmen 
 all ! The country day is up some hours before the day in town. Life 
 sleeps in cities, whilst it moves in active usefulness away from them. 
 The hills were dotted with the forms of men before I reached the parson- 
 age, and when I reached it, a golden lustre from the mounting sun lit up 
 the lovely house with fire— streaming through the casements, already 
 opened to the sweet and balmy air. 
 
 If I had found it difficult to rest on this eventful morning, so also had 
 another — even here — in this most peaceful mansion. The parsonage gate 
 was at this early hour unclosed. I entered. L T pon the borders of the 
 velvet lawn, bathed in the dews of night, I beheld the gentle lady of the 
 place ; she was alone, and walking pensively — now stooping, not to pluck, 
 but to admire, and then to leave amongst its mates some crimson beauty 
 of the earth — now looking to the mountains of rich gold piled in the 
 heavens, one upon another, changing in form and colour, blending and 
 separating, as is their wondrous power and custom, filling the maiden's 
 soul with joy. Her back was towards me ; should I advance, or now re- 
 tire ? Vain question, when, ere an answer could be given, I was already 
 at the lady's side. Shall I tell of her virgin bashfulness, her blushes, her 
 trembling consciousness of pure affection 1 Shall I say how little her 
 tongue could speak her love, and how eloquently the dropping tear told 
 
300 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 all 2 Shall I describe our morning's walk, her downward gaze — my pride] 
 — her deep, deep silence, my impassioned tones, the insensibility to all 
 external things — the rushing on of envious Time, jealous of the perfect 
 happiness of man 1 The heart is wanting for the task — the pen is shaking 
 in the tremulous hand. Beautiful vision ! long associate of my rest, sweet- 
 ener of the daily cares of life, shade of the heavenly one — beloved Ellen ! 
 hover still around me, and sustain my aching soul — carry me back to the 
 earliest days of our young love, quicken every movement with enthusiasm 
 — be my fond companion once again, and light up the old man's latest 
 hour with the fire that ceased to burn when thou fled'st heavenward ! 
 Thou hast been near me often since we parted here ! Whose smile but 
 thine has cheered the labouring pilgrim through the lagging day ] In 
 tribulation, whose voice has whispered peace— whose eye hath shone upon 
 him, like a star, tranquil and steady in the gloomy night % Linger yet, 
 and strengthen and hallow the feeble words that chronicle our love ! 
 
 It would be impossible to conceive a woman more eminently fitted to 
 fulfil the duties of her station, than tbe gentle creature whose heart it 
 had been my happiness and fortune to make my own. Who could speak 
 so well of the daughter's obedience as he who was the object of her hourly 
 solicitude % Who could behold her tenderness, her watchfulness and care, 
 and not revere the filial piety that sanctified the maid % The poor, most 
 difficult of mankind to please, the easily offended, the jealous and the 
 peevish, were unanimous in their loud praise of her, whose presence filled 
 the foulest hut with light, and was the harbinger of good. It is well to 
 doubt the indigent when they speak evil of their fellows ; but trust them 
 when, with one voice, they pray for blessings, as they did for her, who 
 came amongst them as a sister and a child. If a spotless mind be a trea- 
 sure in the wife, if simplicity and truth, virtue and steadfast love, are to 
 be prized in her who plights her troth to man, what had I more to ask — 
 what had kind nature more to grant \ 
 
 Had all my previous sufferings been multiplied a hundred times, I 
 should have been indemnified in the month that followed my restoration 
 to the parsonage. Evening after evening, when the business of the day 
 was closed, did we together wander amongst the scenes that were so dear to 
 us — too happy in the enjoyment of the present, dwelling with pleasure on 
 the past, dreaming wildly — as the young must dream — of the uncreated 
 future. I spoke of earthly happiness, and believed it not a fable. What 
 could be brighter than our promises % What looked more real — less likely 
 to be broken ] How sweet was our existence ! My tongue would never 
 cease to paint in dazzling colours the days that yet awaited us. I num- 
 bered over the joys of a domestic life, told her of the divine favour that 
 accompanies contentment, and how angels of heaven hover over the house 
 in which it dwells united to true love. Nor was there wanting extrava- 
 gant and fanciful discourse, such as may be spoken by the prodigal heart 
 to its co-mate, when none are by to smile and wonder at blind feeling. 
 
 " Dear Ellen," have I said, in all the fulness of my passion — " what a life 
 is this we lead ! what heavenly joy ! To be for ever only as we are, were 
 to have more of God's kindness and beloved care than most of earthly 
 creatures may. Indissolubly joined, and in each other's light to live, and 
 in each other's sight alone to seek those blessings wedded feelings may 
 bestow — to perceive and know ourselves as one — to breathe as one the 
 ripe delicious air — to fix on every object of our mutual love the stamp and 
 essence of one living heart — to walk abroad, and find glad sympathy in 
 all created things — this, this is to be conscious of more lasting joy — to 
 have more comfort in the sight of God, than they did know, the happy 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 301 
 
 parent pair, when heaven smiled on earth, and earth was heaven, con- 
 nected both by tenderest links of love." 
 
 She did not answer, when my soul ran riot in its bliss. She listened, 
 and she sighed, as though experience cut off the promises of hope, or as 
 if intimations of evil began already to cast their shadows, and to press 
 upon her soul ! 
 
 Time flew as in a dream. The sunny days passed on, finding and leaving 
 me without a trouble or a fear— happy and entranced. Each hour disco- 
 vered new charms in my betrothed, and every day unveiled a latent grace. 
 How had I merited my great good fortune \ How could I render myself 
 worthy of her love? It was not long before the object of my thoughts, 
 sleeping and waking, became a living idol, and I, a reckless worshipper. 
 
 Doctor Mayhew had been a faithful friend, and such he continued, look- 
 ing to the interests of the friendless, which might have suffered in the ab- 
 sence of so good an advocate. It was he, as I learned, who had drawn 
 from the incumbent his reluctant consent to my return. My departure 
 following my thoughtless declaration so quickly, was not without visible 
 effect on her who had such deep concern in it. Her trouble was not lost 
 upon the experienced doctor ; he mentioned his suspicion to her father, 
 and recommended my recall. The latter would not listen to his counsel, 
 and pronounced his diagnosis hasty and incorrect. - The physician bade 
 him wait. The patient did not rally, and her melancholy increased. The 
 doctor once more interceded, but not successfully. Mr. Fairman received 
 his counsel with a hasty word, and Dr. Mayhew left the parsonage in anger, 
 telling the minister he would himself be answerable no longer for her 
 safety? A week elapsed, and Dr. Mayhew found it impossible to keep 
 away. The old friends met, more attached than ever for the parting 
 which both had found it difficult to bear. The lady was no better. They 
 held a conference— it ended in my favour. I had been exactly a month 
 reinstated, when Dr. Mayhew, who could not rest thoroughly easy until 
 our marriage was concluded, and, as he said, " the affair was off his hands," 
 took a convenient opportunity to intimate to Mr. Fairman the many ad- 
 vantages of an early union. The minister was anxious to postpone the 
 ceremony to a distant period, which he had not courage himself to name. 
 This Mayhew saw, and was well satisfied that, if my happiness depended 
 on the word of the incumbent, I should wait long before I heard it volun- 
 tarily given. He told me so, and undertook to bring the matter " to a 
 head" with all convenient speed. He met with a hundred objections, for 
 all of which he was prepared. He heard his friend attentively, and with 
 great deference, and then he answered. What his answers were, I cannot 
 tell — powerful his reasoning must have been, since it argued the jealous 
 parent into the necessity of arranging for an early marriage, and commu- 
 nicating with me that same day upon the views which he had for our 
 future maintenance and comfort. 
 
 Kothing could exceed the gratification of Dr. Mayhew, that best and 
 most successful of ambassadors, when he ran to me — straight from the 
 incumbent's study — to announce the perfect success of his diplomacy. 
 Had he been negotiating for himself, he could not have been in higher 
 spirits. Ellen was with me when he acquainted me, that in three months 
 the treasure would be my own, and mine would be the privilege and right 
 to cherish it. He insisted that he should be rewarded on the instant with 
 a kiss; and, in the exuberance of his feelings, was immodest enough to 
 add, that " if he wasn't godfather to the first, and if we did not call him 
 Jacob after him, he'd give us over to our ingratitude, and not have another 
 syllable to say to us." 
 
302 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 It was a curious occupation to contemplate the parent during the weeks 
 that followed — to observe all-powerful nature working in him, the chast- 
 ened and the upright minister of heaven, as she operates upon the weakest 
 and the humblest of mankind. He lived for the happiness and prosperity 
 of his child. For that he was prepared to make every sacrifice a father 
 might — even the greatest— r-that of parting with her. Was it to be ex- 
 pected that he should be insensible to the heavy cost 1 Could it be sup- 
 posed that he would all at once resign the dear one without a quiver or a 
 pang? There is a tremor of the soul as well as of the body, when the 
 knife is falling on the limb to sever it, and this he suffered, struggling for 
 composure as a martyr, and yet with all the weakness of a man. I have 
 watched him closely, and I have known his heart wringing with pain, as 
 the eye of his child sparkled with joy at my approach, whilst the visible 
 features of his face strove fiercely to suppress the rising selfishness. He 
 has gazed upon her, as we have sat together in the cheerful night, won- 
 dering, as it seemed, by what fascination the natural and deep-rooted love 
 of years could be surpassed and superseded by the immature affection of 
 a day — forgetful of her mother's love, that once preferred him to her sire. 
 In our evening walks I have seen him in our track, following from afar, 
 eager to overtake and join us, and yet resisting the strong impulse, and 
 forbearing. He could not hide from me the glaring fact, that he was en- 
 vious of my fortune, manifest as it was in every trifling act ; nor was it, 
 in truth, easier for him to conceal the strong determination which he had 
 formed to act with honour and with justice. No angry or reproachful 
 word escaped his lips ; every favour that he could show me he gladly 
 proffered ; nay, many uncalled-for and unexpected, he insisted upon my 
 receiving, apparently, or, as I guessed, because he wished to mortify his 
 own poor heart, and to remove from me the smallest cause for murmuring 
 or complaint. I endeavoured not to be unworthy of his liberality and con- 
 fidence ; and the daughter, who perceived the conflict in his breast, re- 
 doubled her attention, and made more evident her unimpaired and child- 
 like love. 
 
 It wanted but a month to the time fixed for our union, when Ellen 
 reached her twentieth year. On that occasion, Dr. Mayhew dined with us, 
 and passed the evening at the parsonage. He was in high spirits ; and 
 the minister himself more gay than 1 had known him since our engage- 
 ment. Ellen reflected her father's cheerfulness, and was busy in sustaining 
 it. All went merry as a marriage-bell. Ellen sang her father's favourite 
 a i rs . — played the tunes that pleased him best, and acquired new energy 
 and power as she proceeded. The parent looked upon her with just pride, 
 and took occasion, when the music was at its loudest, to turn to Mayhew, 
 and to speak of her. 
 
 " How well she looks ! " said he, " how beautiful she grows ! " 
 
 " Yes," answered the physician, " I don't wonder that she made young 
 Stukely's heart ache. What a figure the puss has got !" 
 
 " And her health seems quite restored ! " 
 
 " Well, you are not surprised at that, I reckon. Best assured, my friend, 
 if wc could only let young ladies have their way, our patients would 
 diminish rapidly. Why, how she sings to-night ! I never knew her voice 
 so good — did you?" 
 
 " Oh, she is happy, Mayhew ; all her thoughts are joyful ! Her heart is 
 revelling. It was very sinful to be so anxious on her account." 
 
 " So I always told you ; but you wouldn't mind me. She'll make old 
 bones." 
 
 " You think so, do you]" 
 
CALEB STUXELY. 303 
 
 '•' Why, look at her yourself, and .say whether we should be justified in. 
 thinking otherwise. Is she not the picture of health and animation i" 
 
 " Yes, May hew, but her mother " 
 
 " There, be quiet will you ] The song is over." 
 
 Ellen returned to her father's side, sat upon a stool before him, and 
 placed her arms upon his knee. The incumbent drew her head there, and 
 touched her cheek in playfulness. 
 
 " Come, my friend," exclaimed the physician, " that isn't allowable by 
 any means. Recollect two young gentlemen are present, and we can't be 
 tantalized." 
 
 The minister smiled, and Ellen looked at me. 
 
 " Do you remember, doctor," enquired the latter, u this very day eleven 
 years, when you came over on the grey pony, that walked into this room 
 after you, and frightened us all so V 
 
 " Yes, puss, I do very well ; and don't I recollect your tying my wig to 
 the chair, and then calling me to the window, to see how I should look 
 when I had left it behind me, you naughty little girl ! " 
 
 " That was very wrong, sir ; but you know you forgave me for it." 
 
 " Xo, I didn't. Come here, though, and I will now." 
 
 She left her stool, and ran laughing to him. The doctor professed to 
 whisper in her ear, but kissed her cheek. He coughed and hemmed, and, 
 with a serious air, asked me what I meant by grinning at him. 
 
 "Do you know, doctor," continued Ellen, "that this is my first, birth- 
 day, since that one, which we have kept without an interruption. Either 
 papa or you have been always called away before half the evening was 
 over." 
 
 " Well, and very sorry you would be, I imagine, if both of us were called 
 away now. It would be very distressing to you ; wouldn't it V 
 
 " It would hardly render her happy, Mayhew," said Mr. Fairman, K to be 
 deprived of her father's society on such an occasion." 
 
 "Xo, indeed, papa," said Ellen, earnestly, '-'and the good doctor does 
 not think so either." 
 
 "Doesn't he, though, you wicked pussy ] You would be very wretched, 
 then, if we were obliged to go ? Xo doubt of it, especially if we happened 
 to leave that youngster there behind us." 
 
 " Ellen shall read to us, Mayhew," said the incumbent, turning from the 
 subject. " You will find Milton on my table, Caleb." 
 
 As he spoke, Ellen imparted to her friend a look of tenderest remon- 
 strance, and the doctor said no more. 
 
 The incumbent, himself a fine reader, had taken great pains to teach his 
 child the necessary and simple, but much neglected art of reading well. 
 There was much grace and sweetness in her utterance, correct emphasis, 
 and no effort. An hour passed delightfully with the minister's favourite 
 and beloved author; now the maiden read, now he.- He listened with 
 greater pleasure to her voice than to his own or any other, but he watched 
 the smallest diminution of its power — the faintest evidence of failing- 
 strength — and released her instantly, most anxious for her health and 
 safety, then and always. 
 
 Then arose, as will arise from the contented bosom of domestic piety, 
 grateful rejoicings — the incense of an altar glowing with love's offerings ! 
 Past time was summoned up, weighed with the present, and, with all the 
 mercies which accompanied it, was still found wanting in the perfect and 
 unsullied happiness that existed now. " The love of heaven," &aid the 
 minister, "had never been so manifest and clear. His labours in the 
 service of his people, his prayers on their behalf, were jsot unanswered 
 
304 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 Improvement was taking place around him ; even those who had given 
 him cause for deepest sorrow, were already turning from the path of error 
 into that of rectitude and truth. The worst characters in the village had 
 been checked -^by'the example of their fellows, and by the voice of their 
 own conscience, (he might have added, by the working of their minister's 
 most affectionate zeal,) and his heart was joyful — how joyful he could not 
 say — on their account. His family was blessed — (and he looked at Ellen 
 with a moistened eye) — with health, and with the promise of its continu- 
 ance. His best and oldest friend was at his side ; and he, who was dear 
 to them all on her account whose life would soon be linked with his, was 
 about to add to every other blessing, the advantages which must follow 
 the possession of so good a son. What more could he require ] How 
 much more was this than the most he could deserve ! " 
 
 Doctor Mayhew, touched with the solemn feeling of the moment, became 
 a serious man. He took the incumbent by the hand, and spoke. 
 
 " Yes, Fairman, we have cause for gratitude. You and I have roughed 
 it many years, and gently enough do we go down the hill. To behold the 
 sufferings of other men, and to congratulate ourselves upon our exemption, 
 is not the rational mode of receiving goodness from Almighty God — yet 
 it is impossible for a human being to look about him, and to see [family 
 after family worn down by calamity, whilst he himself is free from any, and 
 not have his heart yearning with thankfulness, knowing, as he must, how 
 little he merits his condition. You and I are happy fellows, both of us : 
 and all we have to do, is to think so, and to prepare quietly to leave our 
 places, whilst the young folks groAV up to take them. As for the boy there, 
 if he doesn't smooth your pillow, and lighten for you the weight of old 
 age as it comes on, then am I much mistaken, and ready to regret the steps 
 which I have taken to bring you altogether." 
 
 i There was little spoken after this. The hearts were full to the brink 
 — to speak was to interfere with their consummate joy. The doctor was 
 the only one who made the attempt, and he, after a very ineffectual endea- 
 vour to be jocose, held his peace. The Bible was produced. The servants 
 of the house appeared. A chapter was read from it by the incumbent — a 
 prayer was offered up, and then we separated. 
 
 I stole to Ellen as she was about to quit us for the night. " And you, 
 dear Ellen," I whispered in her ear, "are you, too, happy T' 
 
 " Yes, dearest ," she murmured with a gentle pressure, that passed like 
 wildfire to my heart. " I fear too happy. Earth will not suffer it." 
 
 "We parted, and in twelve hours those words were not without their 
 meaning. 
 
 W 7 e met on the following morning at the usual breakfast hour. The 
 moment that I entered the apartment, I perceived that Ellen was indis- 
 posed — that something had occurred, since the preceding night, to give 
 her anxiety or pain. Her hand trembled slightly, and a degree of pertur- 
 bation was apparent in her movements. My first impression was, that she 
 had received ill news, for there was nothing in her appearance to indicate 
 the existence of bodily suffering. It soon occurred to me, however, that 
 the unwonted recent excitement might account for all her symptoms — that 
 they were, in fact, the natural consequence of that sudden abundance of 
 joyous spirits which I had remarked in her during the early part of the 
 evening. I satisfied myself with this belief, or strove to do so — the more 
 easily, perhaps, because I saw her father indifferent to her state, if not 
 altogether ignorant of it. He who was ever lying in wait — ever watching 
 — ever ready to apprehend the smallest evidence of ill health, was, on this 
 morning, as insensible to the alteration which had taken place in the 
 
CAKEB STUKELY. 305 
 
 darling object of his solicitude, as though he had no eyes to see, or object 
 to behold ; so easy is it for a too anxious diligence in a pursuit to over- 
 shoot and miss the point at which it aims. Could he, as we sat, have 
 guessed the cause of all her grief — could some dark spirit, gloating on 
 man's misery, have breathed one fearful word into his ear, bringing to life 
 and light the melancholy tale of distant years — how would his nature have 
 supported the announcement — how borne the? but let me. not antici- 
 pate. I say that I dismissed all thought of serious mischief, by attributing 
 at once all signs of it to the undue excitement of the festive night. As 
 the breakfast proceeded, I believed that her anxiety diminished, and with 
 that passed away my fears. 
 
 At the end of the pleasure-garden of the parsonage was a paddock, and 
 immediately beyond this another field, leading to a small valley of great 
 beauty. On one side of " the Dell" as it was called, was a summer-house, 
 which the incumbent had erected for the sake of the noble prospect 
 which the elevation commanded. To this retreat Ellen and I had fre- 
 quently wandered with our books during the progress of our love. Here 
 I had read to her of affection and constancy, consecrated by the immortal 
 poet's song. Here we had passed delightful hours, bestowing on the future 
 the same golden lustre that made so bright the present. In joy, I had 
 called this summer-house " the Lover's Bower" and it was pleasing to us 
 both to think that we should visit in our after-days, for many a year, and 
 with increasing love, a spot endeared to us by the fondest recollections. 
 Thither I bent my steps at the close of our repast. It wanted but two 
 days to the time fixed for the resumption of our studies. The boys had 
 returned, and the note of preparation was already sounded. I carried my 
 task to the retreat, and there commenced my labours. An hour fled 
 quickly whilst I was occupied somewhat in Greek, but more in contempla- 
 tion of the gorgeous scene before me, and in lingering thoughts of her 
 whose form was never absent, but hovered still about the pleasure or the 
 business of the day. The shadow of that form was yet present, when the 
 substance became/risible to the bodily eye. Ellen followed me to the 
 " Lovers Bower" and there surprised me. She was even paler than before 
 — and the burden of some disquietude was written on her gentle brow ; 
 but a smile was on her lips — one of a languid cast — and also of encourage- 
 ment and hope. I drew her to my side. Lovers are egotists ; their words 
 point ever to themselves. She spoke of the birthday that had just gone 
 by; the tranquil and blissful celebration of it. My expectant soul was 
 already dreaming of the next that was to come, and speaking of the in- 
 creased happiness that must accompany it. 
 
 Ellen sighed. 
 
 " It is a lover's sigh !" thought I, not heeding it. 
 
 " Whatever may be the future, Caleb," said Ellen seriously, but very 
 calmly, " we ought to be prepared for it. Earth is not our resting-place. 
 "We should never forget that. Should we, dearest]" 
 
 " Xo, love ; but earth has happiness of her kind, of which her children 
 are most sensible. "Whilst we are here, we live upon her promises." 
 
 " But oh, not to the exclusion of the brighter promises that come from 
 Heaven ! You do not say that, dear Caleb]" 
 
 " X o, Ellen. You could not give your heart to him who thought so ; 
 howbeit, you have bestowed it upon one unworthy of your piety and ex- 
 cellence." 
 
 "Do not mock me, Caleb," said Ellen blushing. "I have the heart of 
 a sinner that needs all the mercy of Heaven for its weaknesses en. I faults 
 I have ever fallen short of my duty." 
 
 x 
 
306 CALEB STUKELY. 
 
 "You are the only one who says it. Your father will not say so, and I 
 question if the villagers would take your part in this respect." 
 
 " Do not misunderstand me, Caleb. I am not, I trust, a hypocrite. I 
 have endeavoured to be useful to the poor and helpless in our neighbour- 
 hood — I have been anxious to lighten the heaviness of a parent's days, 
 and, as far as I could, to indemnify him for my mother's loss. I believe 
 that I have done the utmost my imperfect abilities permitted. I have no- 
 thing to charge myself with on these accounts. But my heavenly Father," 
 continued the maiden, her cheeks flushing, her eyes filling with tears — 
 " oh ! I have been backward in my affection and duty to him. I have 
 not ever had before my eyes his honour and glory in my daily walk — I have 
 not done every act in subordination to his will, for his sake, and with a 
 view to his blessing. But he is merciful as well as just, and if his punish- 
 ment falls now upon my head, it is assuredly to wean me from my error, 
 and to bring me to himself." 
 
 The maid covered her moistened cheek, and sobbed loudly. I was fully 
 convinced that she was suffering from the reaction consequent upon ex- 
 treme joy. I was rather relieved than distressed by her burst of feeling, 
 and I did not attempt for a time to check her tears. 
 
 " Tell me, dear Caleb, " she said herself at length, " if I were to lose 
 you — if it were to please Heaven to take you suddenly from this earth, 
 would it not be sinful to murmur at his act 1 ? Would it not be my duty 
 to bend to his decree, and to prepare to follow you V 
 
 " You would submit to such a trial as a Christian woman ought. I am 
 sure you would, dear Ellen — parted, as we should be, but for a season, and 
 sure of a reunion." 
 
 "And would you do this?" enquired the maiden quickly. "Oh, say 
 that you would, dear Caleb ! Let me hear it." 
 
 " You are agitated, dearest. We will not talk of this now. There is 
 grace in heaven appointed for the bitterest seasons of adversity. It does 
 not fail when needed. Let us pray that the hour may be distant which 
 shall bring home to either so great a test of resignation." 
 
 " Yes, pray, dear Stukely ; but should it come suddenly and quickly — 
 oh, let us be prepared to meet it." 
 
 " We will endeavour, then ; and now to a more cheerful theme. Do we 
 go to Dr. Mayhew's, as proposed 1 We shall spend a happy day with our 
 facetious, but most kind-hearted friend." 
 
 Ellen burst again into a flood of tears. 
 
 " What is the matter, love '?" I exclaimed. " Confide in me, and tell the 
 grief that preys upon your mind." 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, Stukely," she answered rapidly ; " it may be no- 
 thing after all ; but when I woke this morning — it may, I hope for your 
 sake that it is nothing serious — but my dear mother, it was the commence- 
 ment of her own last fatal illness." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, as if her speech had failed her — coughed sharply, 
 and raised her handkerchief to her mouth. I perceived a thick, broad 
 spot of blood, and shuddered. 
 
 " Do not be frightened, Stukely," she continued, shocked fearfully her- 
 self. " I shall recover soon. It is the suddenness — I was 'unprepared. 
 So it was when I awoke this morning— and it startled me, because I heard 
 it was the first bad symptom that my poor mother showed. ]STow, I pray 
 you, Stukely, to be calm. Perhaps I shall get well ; but if I do not, I shall 
 be so happy,— preparing for eternity, with you, dear Caleb, at my side. 
 You promised to be tranquil, and to bear up against this day ; and I am sure 
 you will — yes, for my sake — that I may see you so, and have no sorrow." 
 
CALEB STUEELY. 307 
 
 I took the dear one to my bosom, and. like a child, cried upon her neck. 
 What could I say [ In one moment I was a bankrupt and a beggar — 
 my fortunes were scattered to the winds — my solid edifice was stricken by 
 
 the thunderbolt, and lay in rains before mo ! Was it real ! 
 Ellen grew calmer as she looked at me, and spoke. 
 " Listen to me, dearest Stukely. It was my duty to acquaint you with 
 this circumstance, and I have done so. relying on your manliness and love. 
 You have already guessed what I am about to add. My poor father"— 
 her lips quivered as she said the word—" he must know nothing for the 
 present. It would be cruel unnecessarily to alarm him. His heart would 
 break. He must be kept in ignorance of this. You shall see Mayhew ; 
 he will, I trust, remove our fears. Should he'eonfirm them, he can com- 
 municate to papa." Again she paused, and her tears trickled to her lips, 
 which moved convulsively. 
 
 " Do not speak, inv beloved," I exclaimed. " Compose yourself. TVe will 
 return home. Be it" as you wish. I will see Mayhew immediately, and 
 bring him with me to the parsonage. Seek rest — avoid exertion." 
 
 1 know not what conversation followed this. I know not how we reached 
 our home again. I have no recollection of it. Three times upon our road 
 was the cough repeated, and, as at first, it was accompanied by that hideous 
 sight. In vain she turned her head away to escape detection. It was im- 
 possible to deceive my keen and piercing gaze. I grew pale as death as I 
 beheld on each occasion the frightful evidence of disease; but the maiden 
 pressed mv hand, and smiled sweetly and encouragingly to drive away mv 
 fears. She did not speak— I had forbidden her to do so ; but her looks- 
 full of tenderness and love— told how all her thoughts were for her lovei — 
 all her anxiety and care. 
 
 At mv request, as soon as we arrived at home, she went to bed. I saw 
 the incumbent— acquainted him with her sudden illness— taking care to 
 keep its nature secret— and then ran for my life to Dr. Mayhew's residence. 
 The very appearance of blood was to me. as it is always to the common 
 and uninformed observer, beyond all doubt confirmatory of the worst sus- 
 picions—the harbinsrer of certain death. There is something horrible in 
 its sight, presented In such a form ; but not for itself do we shrink as we 
 behold it— not for what it is, but for what it awfully proclaims. I was 
 frantic and breathless when I approached the doctor's house, and half stu- 
 pified when I at length stood before him. 
 I told my errand quickly. 
 
 The doctor attempted instantly to mislead me, but he failed in his de- 
 sign. I saw, in spite of the forced smile that would not rest upon his lips, 
 how unexpectedly and powerfully this news had come upon him - how se- 
 riously he viewed it. He could "not remove my miserable convictions by 
 his own abortive efforts at cheerfulness and unconcern. He moved to 
 his window, and strove to whistle, and to speak of the haymakers who 
 were busy in the fields, and of the weather : but the more he feigned to 
 regard mv information as undeserving of alarm, the more convinced I 
 grew that deadlv mischief had taken place. There was an air about him 
 that showed him ill at ease ; and in the midst of all his quietude and in- 
 difference, he betraved an anxiety to appear composed, unwarranted by 
 an ordinary event. " Had the illness been trifling, indeed, he could have 
 afforded to." be more serious and heedful. 
 
 '•' I will be at the parsonage some time to-day. You can return without 
 me, Stukelv." 
 
 " Dr. Mavhew," I exclaimed, " I entreat, I implore you not to trme with 
 mc ! I can bear anything but that. Tell me the worst, and I will not 
 
 x 2 
 
308 CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 shrink from it. You must not think to deceive me. You are satisfied 
 that there is no hope for us ; I am sure you are, and you will not be just 
 
 and say so." 
 
 " I am satisfied of no such thing," answered the doctor quickly. 1 
 should be a fool, a madman, to speak so rashly. There is every reason to 
 hope, I do believe, at present. Tell me one thing— does her father know 
 of it V s 
 
 « He does not." 
 
 '•' Then let it still be kept a secret from him. Her very life may depend 
 upon his ignorance. She must be kept perfectly composed— no agitation 
 —no frightened faces around her. But I will go with you, and see what 
 can be done. I'll warrant it is nothing at all, and that puss is well over 
 her fright before we get to her." 
 
 Again the doctor smiled unheal thf ally, and tried, awkwardly enough, to 
 appear wholly free from apprehension, whilst he was most uncomfortable 
 with the amount of it. 
 
 The physician remained for half an hour with his patient^ and re- 
 joined me' in the garden, when he quitted her. He looked serious and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 "There is no hope then]" I exclaimed immediately. 
 
 " Tush, boy !" he answered ; " quiet— quiet. She will do well, I hope- 
 eventually. She has fever on her now, which must be brought down. 
 While that remains there will be anxiety, as there must be always— when 
 it leaves her, I trust she will be well again. Do you know if she has 
 undergone any unusual physical exertion?" 
 
 « I do not." ... 
 
 " I confess to you that I do not like this accident ; but it is impossible 
 to speak positively now. Whilst the fever lasts, symptoms may be con- 
 founded and mistaken. I will watch her closely." 
 
 " Have you seen her father ]" 
 
 "I have: but [ have told him nothing further than he knew. He 
 believes her slightly indisposed. I have calmed him, and have told him 
 not to have the child disturbed. You will see to that?" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 And now mark me, Stukely. I expect that you will behave like a man, 
 and as you ought. We cannot keep Fairman ignorant of this business. 
 Should it go on, as it may— in spite of everything we can do— he must 
 know it. You have seen sufficient of his character to judge how he will 
 receive the information which it may be my painful lot to take to him. I 
 think of it with dread. It has been my pleasure to stand your friend — 
 you must prove mine. I shall expect you to act with fortitude and calm- 
 ness, and not, by weakness and self-indulgence, to increase the pain that 
 will afflict the parent's heart ; for it will be sufficient for Fairman to know 
 only what has happened, to give up every hope and consolation. You 
 must be firm on his account, and chiefly for the sake of the dear girl, who 
 should not see your face without a smile of confidence and love upon it. 
 Do you hear me ] I will let you weep now," he continued, noticing the 
 tears which prevented my reply, " provided that you dry your eyes, and 
 keep them so from this time forward. Do you hear me V 
 
 " Yes," I faltered. 
 
 " And will you heed me V' 
 
 " 1 will try," I answered, as firmly as I might, with every hope within 
 me crushed and killed by the words which he had spoken. 
 - « Very well. Then let us say no more, until we see what Providence is 
 doins; for us." 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 309 
 
 The fever of Ellen did not abate that day. The doctor did not leave the 
 house, but remained with the incumbent— not, as he told his friend, 
 because he thought it necessary so to do, but to keep the word which he 
 had given the night before — viz. to pass the day with him. He was sorry 
 that "he had been deprived of their company at his own abode, but he 
 could make himself quite comfortable where he was. About eleven 
 o'clock at night, the doctor thought it strange that Robin had not broug 
 his pony over, and wondered what had happened. 
 
 " Shall we send to enquire V asked Mr. Fairman. 
 '- "Oh no!" was the quick answer, "that never can be worth while. 
 We'll wait a little longer." 
 
 At twelve the doctor spoke again. "Well, he must think of moving; 
 but he was very tired, and did not care to walk." 
 
 " Why not stay here, then ? I cannot see, Mayhew, why you should be 
 so uneasy at the thought of sleeping out. Come, take your bed with us 
 for once." 
 
 " Eh 1 — well — it's very late — suppose I do." 
 
 Mayhew had not been shrewd enough, and, with his ready acquiescence, 
 the minister learned all. 
 
 I did not go to bed. My place was at her door, and there I lingered till 
 the morning. The physician paid his last visit shortly after midnight, 
 and had given orders to the nurse who waited on the patient, to call him 
 up if necessary, but on no account to disturb the lady if she slept or was 
 composed. The gentle sufferer did not require his services, or, if she did, 
 was too thoughtful and too kind to make it known. Early in the morning- 
 Doctor Mayhew came — the fever had increased — and she had experienced 
 a new attack of haemoptysis the moment she awoke. The doctor stepped 
 softly from her room, and deep anxiety was written on his brow. I fol- 
 lowed him with eagerness. He put his finger to his lips, and said — 
 " Remember, Stukelv ! " 
 
 " Yes, I will— I do ; but is she better ! " 
 
 " Xo — but I am not discouraged yet. Everything depends upon extreme 
 tranquillity. Xo one must see her. Dear me — dear me ! what is to be 
 said to Fairman, should he ask )" 
 
 "Is she placid !" I enquired. 
 
 " She is an angel, Stukelv," said the good doctor, pressing my hands, 
 and passing on. " When we met at breakfast, the incumbent looked hard 
 at me, and seemed to gather something from my pale and careworn face. 
 When Mayhew came, full of bustle, assumed, and badly too, as the shal- 
 lowest observer could perceive, he turned to him, and in a quiet voice 
 asked—"' If his child was much worse since the previous night V 
 
 " Xot much," said Mayhew. " She will be better in a short time, I 
 trust." 
 
 " May I see her]" enquired the father in the same soft tone. 
 " Xot now— by-and-bye, perhaps : I hope to-morrow. This is a sudden 
 attack, you see— any excitement may prolong it : it wouldn't be well to 
 give a chance away. Dont you see that, Fairman]" 
 
 '•' Yes," said the minister, and from that moment made no further men- 
 tion of his daughter during breakfast. The meal was soon dispatched. 
 Mr. Fairman retired to his study— and the doctor prepared for his depar- 
 ture. He promised to return in the afternoon. 
 
 " Thank God !" he exclaimed as he took leave of me at the gate, " that 
 Fairman remains so very unsuspicious. This is not like him. I expected 
 to find him more inquisitive." 
 
310 CALEB STTJKELY. 
 
 " I am surprised," I answered ; " but it is most desirable that lie should 
 
 continue so." 
 
 « y es — y es \)j all means — for the present at all events." 
 
 Throughout the day there was no improvement in the patient's symp- 
 toms. The physician came according to his promise, and again at night. 
 He slept at the parsonage for the second time. The minister betrayed no 
 wonder at this unusual act, showed no agitation, made no importunate en- 
 quiries. He asked frequently during the day if any amendment had 
 taken place; but always in a gentle voice, and Avithout any other reference 
 to her illness. As often as the doctor came, he repeated his wish to visit 
 his dear child ; but receiving for answer, " that he had better not at 
 present," he retired to his study with a tremulous sigh, but offering no 
 remonstrance.' 
 
 The doctor went early to rest. He had no inclination to spend the 
 evening with his friend, whom he hardly cared to see until he could meet 
 him as the messenger of good tidings. I had resolved to hover, as I did 
 before, near the mournful chamber in which she lay ; and there I kept a 
 weary watch until my eyes refused to serve me longer, and I was forced 
 against my will, and for the sake of others, to yield my place and crawl to 
 my repose. As I walked stealthily through the house, and on tiptoe, fear- 
 ful of disturbing one beloved inmate even by a breath— I passed the 
 incumbent's study. The door was open, and a glare of light broke from 
 it, and stretched across the passage. I hesitated for a moment— then lis- 
 tened, but hearing nothing, pursued my way. It was very strange. The 
 clock had just before struck three, and the minister, it was supposed, had 
 been in bed since midnight, " His lamp is burning," thought I — " he 
 has forgotten it. I was on the point of entering the apartment— when I 
 was deterred and startled by his voice. My hand was already on the door, 
 and I looked in. Before me, on his knees, with his back towards me, was 
 my revered friend — his hands clasped, and his head raised in supplication. 
 He was in his dress of the day, and had evidently not yet visited his pil- 
 low. I waited, and he spoke — 
 
 " Kot my will," he exclaimed in a piercing tone of prayer — " not mine, 
 but thy kind will be done, Lord ! If it be possible, let the bitter cup 
 pass from me ; but spare not, if thy glory must needs be vindicated. 
 Bring me to thy feet in meek, and humble, and believing confidence— all 
 is well, then, for time and for eternity. It is merciful and good to remove 
 the idol that stands between our love and God. Father of mercy, enable 
 me to bring the truth home, home to this most traitorous, this lukewarm, 
 earthy heart of mine — a heart not worthy of thy care and help. Let me 
 not murmur at thy gracious will — oh ! rather bend and bow to it — and 
 kiss the rod that punishes. I need chastisement ; for I have loved too 
 we ll— too fondly. I am a rebel, and thy all-searching eye hath found me 
 faithless in thv service. Take her, Father and Saviour. I will resign 
 
 her — I will bless the hand that smites me— I will" he stopped; and 
 
 big tears, such as drop fearfully from manhood's eye, made^known to 
 Heaven the agony that tears a parent's heart, whilst piety is occupied in 
 healing it. 
 
 It is not my purpose to recite the doubts and fears, the terrible suspense, 
 the anxious hopes, that filled the hours which passed whilst the condition 
 of the patient remained critical. It is a recital which the reader may well 
 spare, and I avoid most gladly. At the end of a week, the fever departed 
 from the sufferer. The alarming symptoms disappeared, and confidence 
 flowed rapidly to the soul again. At this time the father paid his first 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 311 
 
 visit to Lis child. He found her weak and wasted ; the violent applica- 
 tions which had been necessary for her safety had robbed her of all 
 strength — had effected, in fact, a prostration of power, which she never 
 recovered, from which she never rallied. Mr. Fairman was greatly 
 shocked, and asked the physician for his opinion now. The latter declined 
 giving it until, as he expressed himself, " the effects of the fever, and her 
 attack, had left him a fair and open field for observation. There was 
 a slight cough upon her. It was impossible for the present to say whe- 
 ther it was temporary and dependent upon what had happened, or whether 
 
 it resulted from actual mischief in her lung." 
 
 ******* 
 
 A month has passed away since the physician spoke these words, and to 
 doubt longer would be to gaze upon the sun and to question its brightness. 
 Mavhew has told the father his worst fears, and bids him prepare like a 
 Christian and a man for the loss of his earthly treasure. It was he who 
 watched the decay of her mother. The case is a similar one. He has no 
 consolation to offer. It must be sought at the throne of Him who giveth, 
 and hath the right to take away. The minister receives the intelligence 
 with admirable fortitude. We are sitting together, and the doctor has 
 just spoken as becomes him, seriously and well. There is a spasm on 
 the cheek of the incumbent, whilst I sob loudly. The latter takes me by 
 the hand, and speaks to the physician in a low and hesitating tone. 
 
 '•' Mavhew," said he, " I thank you for this sincerity. I will endeavour 
 to look the terror in the face, as I have struggled to do for many days. It 
 is hard— but through the mercy of Christ it is not impracticable. Dear 
 and oldest friend, unite your prayers with mine, for strength, and holiness, 
 and resignation. Cloud and agitation are at our feet. Heaven is above 
 us. Let us look there, and all is well." 
 
 We knelt. The minister prayed. He did not ask his Master to sus- 
 pend his judgments. He implored him to prepare the soul of the afflicted 
 one for its early flight, and to subdue the hearts of them all with his 
 grace and holy spirit. Let him who doubts the efficacy of prayer seek to 
 clear his difficulty in the season of affliction, or when death sits grimly at 
 the hearth — he shall be satisfied. 
 
 If it were a consolation and a joy in the midst of our tribulation to be- 
 hold the father chastened by the heavy blow which had fallen so suddenly 
 upon his age, how shall I express the ineffable delight— yes, delight, 
 amidst sorrow the most severe— with which I contemplated the beloved 
 maiden, upon whose tender years Providence had allowed to fall so great 
 a trial. Fully sensible of her position, and of the near approach of death, 
 she was, so long as she could see her parent and her lover without distress, 
 patient, cheerful, and rejoicing. Yes, weaker and weaker as she grew, 
 happier and happier she became in the consciousness of her pure soul's in- 
 crease. Into her ear had been whispered, and before her eyes holy spirits 
 had appeared with the mysterious communication, which, hidden as it is 
 from us, we find animating and sustaining feeble nature, which else would 
 sink, appalled and overwhelmed. There was not one of us who did not 
 live a witness to the truth of the heavenly promise, " as thy days, so shall 
 thy strength be;" not one amongst the dearest friends of the sufferer, who 
 did not feel, in the height of his affliction, that God would not cast upon 
 his creatures a burden which a Christian might not bear. But to her 
 especially came the celestial declaration with power and might. An angel, 
 sojourning for a day upon the earth, and preparing for his homeward flight, 
 could not have spread his ready wing more joyfully, with livelier anticipa- 
 
312 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 tion of his native bliss, than did the maiden look for her recall and 
 blessed ascension to the skies. In her presence I had seldom any grief ; 
 it was swallowed up and lost in gratitude for the victory which the dear 
 one had achieved, in virtue of her faith, over all the horrors of her situa- 
 tion. It was when alone that I saw, in its reality and naked wretched- 
 ness, the visitation that I, more than any other, was doomed to suffer. 
 For days I could scarcely bring myself to the calm consideration of it. 
 It seemed unreal, impossible, a dream — anything but what it was — the 
 direst of worldly woes — the most tremendous of human punishments. 
 
 I remember vividly a day passed in the chamber of the resigned crea- 
 ture, about two months after the first indication of her illness. Her dis- 
 ease had increased rapidly, and the signs of its ravages were painfully 
 manifest in her sunken eye, her hectic cheek, her hollow voice, her conti- 
 nual cough. Her spirit became more tranquil as her body retreated from 
 the world — her hopes more firm, her belief in the love of her Saviour — 
 his will and power to save her, more clear, and free from all perplexity. 
 I had never beheld so beautiful a sight as the devoted maid presented to 
 my view. I had never supposed it possible to exist ; and thus, as I sat at 
 her side, though the thought of death was ever present, it was as of a 
 terror in a milk-white shroud — a monster enveloped and concealed beneath 
 a robe of beauty. I listened to her with enchantment whilst she spoke of 
 the littleness of this world, and the boundless happiness that awaited true 
 believers in the next — of the unutterable mercy of God, in removing us 
 from a scene of trouble whilst our views were cloudless, and our hopes 
 sure and abiding. Yes, charmed by the unruffled air, the angelic look, I 
 could forget even my mortality for a moment, and feel my living soul in 
 deep communion with a superior and brighter spirit. It was when she 
 recalled me to earth by a reminiscence of our first days of love, that the 
 bruised heart was made sensible of pain, and of its lonely widowed lot. 
 Then the tears would not be checked, but rushed passionately forth, and 
 as the clouds shut out and hid the one brief glimpse of heaven, flowed 
 unrestrained. 
 
 Her mind was in a sweet composed state during the interview to which 
 I allude. She had pleasure in referring to the days of her childhood, 
 and in speaking of the happiness which she had found amongst her native 
 hills. 
 
 " How little, Caleb," she said, " is the mind occupied with the thoughts 
 of death in childhood — with any thoughts of actual lasting evil ! We can- 
 not see these things in childhood — we cannot penetrate so deeply, or throw 
 our gaze so far, we are so occupied with the joys that are round about us. 
 Is it not so I Our parents are ever with us. Day succeeds to day — one so 
 like the other — and our home becomes our world. A sorrow comes at 
 length — a parent dies— the first and dearest object in that world ; then all 
 is known, and the stability of life becomes suspected." 
 
 '• The home of many," I replied, " is undisturbed for years." 
 
 " Yes, and how sweet a thing is love of home ! It is not acquired, I am 
 sure. It is a feeling that has its origin elsewhere. It is born with us ; 
 brought from another world to carry us on in this with joy. It attaches 
 to the humblest heart that ever throbbed." 
 
 " Dear Ellen ! " I exclaimed, " how little has sorrow to do with your 
 affliction!" 
 
 " And why, dear Caleb ? Have you never found that the difficulties of 
 the broad day melt away beneath the influences of the quiet lovely night ? 
 Have you never been perplexed in the bustle and tumult of the day, and 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 313 
 
 has not truth revealed itself when all was dark and still] This is my 
 night, and in sickness I have seen the eye of God upon ine, and heard his 
 words, as I have never seen and heard before ! " 
 
 It was in this manner that she would talk, not more disturbed, nay. not 
 so much, as when in happier times I have heard her speak of the troubles 
 and anxieties of her poor villagers. Xo complaint— no mournful accents 
 escaped her lips. If at times the soaring spirit was repressed, dejected, 
 the living— the loved ones whom she must leave behind her— had posses- 
 sion of her thoughts and loaded them with pain. Who would wait upon 
 her father ? Who would attend to all his little wants ! Who could under- 
 stand his nature as she had learned it — and who would live to comfort and 
 to cheer his days ? These questions she has asked herself, whilst her only 
 answers have been her struggling tears. The days Avere travelling fast J 
 each one taking from the doomed girl years of life. She dwindled and 
 wasted, and became at length less than a shadow of her former self. Why 
 linger on the narrative ? Autumn arrived, and, with the general decay- 
 she died. A few hours before her death she summoned me to her bedside, 
 and acquainted me with her fast approaching dissolution. " It is the day," 
 she said, speaking with difficulty — " I am sure of it. I have watched that 
 branch for many days — look — it is quite bare. Its last yellow leaf has 
 fallen — I shall not survive it." I gazed upon her; her eye was brighter 
 than ever. It sparkled again, and most beautiful she looked. But death 
 was there — and her soul eager to give him all that he could claim ! 
 
 "You are quite happy, dearest Ellen!" I exclaimed, weeping on her 
 thin emaciated hand. 
 
 " Most happy, beloved. Do not grieve — be resigned — be joyful. I have 
 a word to say. Xurse," she continued, calling to her attendant — " the 
 drawing." 
 
 The nurse placed in her hand the sketch which she had taken of my 
 favourite scene. 
 
 "Do you remember, love]" said she. "Keep it, for Ellen — you loved 
 that spot — oh, so did I ! — and you will love it still. There is another 
 
 sketch, you will find it by-and-bye — afterwards — when I am It is in mv 
 
 desk. Keep that too, for Ellen, will you ? It is the last drawing I have 
 made." 
 
 I sat by and bit my lips to crush my grief; but I could not be silent 
 whilst my heart was breaking. 
 
 " You should rejoice, dear," continued Ellen solemnly. " We did not 
 expect this separation so very soon ; but it is better now than later. Be 
 sure it is merciful and good. Prepare for this hour, Caleb ; and Avhen it 
 eomes, you will be so calm, so ready to depart. How short is life ! Do 
 not waste the precious hours. Bead from St. John, dearest — the eleventh 
 chapter. It is all sweetness and consolation." 
 
 The sun was dropping slowly into the west, leaving behind him a deep 
 red glow that illuminated the hills, and burnished the windows of the sick- 
 chamber. The wind moaned, and, sweeping the sear leaves at intervals, 
 threatened a tempest. There was a solemn stillness in the parsonage, 
 around whose gate — weeping in silence, without heart to speak, or wish to 
 make their sorrow known — were collected a host of humble creatures — ■ 
 the poorest but sincerest friends of Ellen — the villagers who had been her 
 care. They waited and lingered for the heavy news, which they were told 
 must come to them this day ; and prayed secretly — every one of them, old 
 and young — for mercy on the sufferer's soul ! And she, whose gentle 
 spirit is about to flit, lies peacefully, and but half-conscious of the sounds 
 that pass to Heaven on her behalf. Her father, Alayhew, and I, kneel 
 
314 CALEB STUEELY. 
 
 round her bed, and the minister, in supplicating tones, where nature does 
 not interpose, dedicates the virgin to His favour whose love she has 
 applied so well. He ceases, for a whisper has escaped her lips. We listen 
 all. "Oh, this is peace!" she utters faintly, but most audibly, and the 
 scene is over. 
 
 " It is a dream," said the minister, when we parted for the night— I 
 with the vain hope to forget in sleep the circumstances of the day— the 
 father to stray unwittingly into her former room, and amongst the hundred 
 objects connected with the happy memory of the departed. 
 
 The picture of which my Ellen had spoken I obtained on the following 
 day. It was a drawing of the church and the burial-ground adjoining it. 
 One grave was open. It represented that in which her own mortal re- 
 mains were deposited, amidst the unavailing lamentations of a mourning 
 
 village. 
 
 In three months the incumbent quitted Devonshire. The scenery had 
 no pleasure for him, associated as it was with all the sorrows of his life. 
 His pupils returned to their homes. He had offered to retain them, and 
 to keep his incumbency for the sake of my advancement ; but, whilst I saw 
 that every hour spent in the village brought with it new bitterness and 
 grief, I was not willing to call upon him for so great a sacrifice. Such a 
 step, indeed, was rendered unnecessary through the kind help of Dr. 
 Mayhew, to whom I owe my present situation, which I have held for forty 
 years with pleasure and contentment. Mr. Fairman retired to a distant 
 part of the kingdom, where the condition of the people rendered the presence 
 of an active minister of God a privilege and a blessing. In the service of 
 his Master, in the securing of the happiness of other men, he strove for 
 years to deaden the pain of his own crushed heart. And he succeeded— 
 living to bless the wisdom which had carried him through temptation ; 
 and dying, at last, to meet with the reward conferred upon the man who, 
 by patient continuance in well-doing, seeks for glory, and honour, and im- 
 mortality —ETERNAL LIFE. 
 
 The emplovment obtained for me by the kind interest of Dr. Mayhew, 
 which the return of so many summers and winters has found me steadily 
 prosecuting, was in the house of his brother— a gentleman whose name is 
 amongst the first in a profession adorned by a greater number of high- 
 minded, honourable men, than the world generally is willing^ to allow. 
 Glad to avail mvself of comparative repose, an active occupation, and a 
 certain livelihood, I did not hesitate to enter his ofiice in the humble 
 capacity of clerk. I have lived to become the confidential secretary and 
 faithful friend of my respected principal. 
 
 As I have progressed noiselessly in the world, and rather as a spectator 
 than an actor on the broad stage of life, it has been no unprofitable task 
 to trace the career of those with whom I formed an intimacy during the 
 bustle and excitement of my boyhood. Not many months after my intro- 
 duction into the mysteries of law, tidings reached my ears concerning 
 Mr. Clayton— he had left his chapel suddenly. His avarice had led him 
 deeper and deeper into guilt ; speculation followed speculation, until he 
 found himself entangled in difficulties, from which, by lawful means, he 
 was unable to extricate himself. He forged the signature of a wealthy 
 member of his congregation, and thus added another knot to the compli- 
 cated string of his delinquencies. He was discovered. There was not a, 
 man aware of the circumstances of the case who was not satisfied of his 
 guilt ; but a legal quibble saved him, and he was sent into the world 
 again, branded with the solemn reprimand of the judge who tried him for 
 his life, and who bade him seek existence honestly— compelled to labour, 
 
CALEB STUKELY. 315 
 
 SB he would be, in a humbler sphere of life than that to which he had 
 hitherto employed his undoubted talents. To those acquainted with the 
 working of the "system" of disaent, it will not be a matter of surprise 
 that the result was not such as the good judge anticipated. It so happened 
 that, at the time of Mr. Clayton's acquittal, a dispute arose between the 
 minister of his former congregation and certain influential members of 
 the same. The latter, headed by a fruiterer, a very turbulent and conceited 
 personage, separated from what they called the church, and set up another 
 rdi in opposition. The meeting-house was built, and the only question 
 that remained to agitate the pious minds of the half-dozen founders wits — how 
 to let the pews! Mb. Clayton", more popular amongst his set than ever, was 
 invited to accept the duties of a pastor. He consented, and had the p 
 been trebled they would not have satisfied one half the applications which, 
 in one month, were showered on the victorious schismatics. Here, for a 
 few years, Mr. Clayton continued ; his character improved, his fame more 
 triumphant, his godliness more spiritual and pure than it had been even 
 before he committed the crime of forgery. His ruling passion, notwith- 
 standing, kept firm hold of his soul, and very soon betrayed him into the 
 commission of new offences. He fled from London, and I lost sight of 
 him. At length I discovered that he was preaching in one of the northern 
 counties, and with greater success than ever — yes, such is the fallacy of 
 the system — with the approbation of men, and the idolatry of women, to 
 whom the history of his career was as familiar as their own. Again cir- 
 cumstances compelled him to decamp. I know not what these were, nor 
 could I ever learn; satisfied, however, that from his nature money must 
 have been in close connexion with them, I expected soon to hear of him 
 again ; and I did hear, but not for years. The information that last of all 
 I gained was, that he had sold his noble faculties undiagmaedly to the arch 
 enemy of man. He had become the editor of one of the lowest news- 
 papers of the metropolis, notorious for its Eadical politics and atheistical 
 blasphemies. 
 
 Honest, faithful, and unimpeachable John Thompson ! Friend, husband, 
 father— sound in even- relation of this life — thou noble-hearted English- 
 man ! Let me not say thy race is yet extinct. Xo ; in spite of the change 
 that has come over the spirit of our land — in spite of the rust that eats 
 into men's souls, eternally racked with thoughts of gain and traffic— in 
 spite of the cursed poison insidiously dropped beneath the cottage eaves, 
 by reckless, needy demagogues, I trust my native land, and still believe, 
 that on her lap she cherishes whole bands of faithful children, and firm 
 patriots. Not amongst the least inducements to return to London was 
 the advantage of a residence near to that of my best friend and truest 
 counsellor. I cannot number the days which I have spent with him and 
 his unequalled family — unequalled in their unanimity and love. For years 
 no Sunday passed which did not find me at their hospitable board ; a 
 companion afterwards in their country walks, and at the evening service 
 of their parish church. The children were men and women before it 
 pleased Providence to remove their sire. How like his life was good John 
 Thompsons death ! Full of years, but with his mental vision clear as in 
 its dawn, aware of his decline, he called his family about his bed, and to 
 the weeping group spoke firmly and most'cheerfully. 
 
 "He hadTlived his time," he said, "and long enough to see his children 
 doing well. There was not one who caused him pain and fear — and that 
 was more than every father of a family could say — thank God for it ! He 
 didn't know that he had much to ask of any one of them. If they con- 
 tinued to work hard, he left enough behind to buy them tools ; and if they 
 
3 I 6 CALEB STUKELT. 
 
 didn't, the little money he had saved would be of very little use. There 
 was their mother. He needn't tell 'em to be kind to her, because their 
 feelings wouldn't let them do no otherwise. As for advice, he'd give it to 
 them in his own plain way. First and foremost, he hoped they never viould 
 sew their mouths up — never act in such a way as to make themselves 
 ashamed of speaking like a man;" and then he recommended strongly 
 that they should touch no bills bid such as they might cut wood with. The 
 worse that could befall 'em would be a cut upon the finger ; and if they 
 handled other bills they'd cut their heads off in the end, be sure of it. 
 "■ Alec," said he at last — " you fetch me a bundle of good sticks. Get them 
 from the workshop." Alec brought them, and the sire continued — " Now, 
 just break one a-piece. There, that's right — now, try and break them al- 
 together. ~No, no, my boys, you can't do that, nor can the world break 
 you so long as you hold fast and well together, Disagree and separate, 
 and nothing is more easy. If a year goes bad with one, let the others see 
 to make it up. Live united, do your duty, and leave the rest to Heaven." 
 So Thompson spake ; such was the legacy he left to those who know from 
 his good precept and example how to profit by it. My friendship with 
 his children has grown and ripened. They are thriving men. Alec has in- 
 herited the nature of his father more than any other son. All go smoothly 
 on in life, paying little regard to the broils and coutests of external life, 
 but most attentive to the in-door business. All, did I say 1 — I err. Ex- 
 ception must, be made in favour of my excellent good friend, Mr. Robert 
 Thompson. He has in him something of the spirit of his mother, and 
 finds fault where his brethren are most docile. Catholic emancipation he 
 regarded with horror — the Reform bill with indignation ; and the onward 
 movement of the present day he looks at with the feelings of an individual 
 waiting for an earthquake. He is sure that the world is going round the 
 other way, or is turned topsy-turvy, or is coming to an end. He is the 
 quietest and best-disposed man in his parish — his moral character is with- 
 out a flaw — his honesty without a blemish ; yet is his mind filled with de- 
 signs which would astonish the strongest head that rebel ever wore. He 
 talks calmly of the propriety of hanging, without trial, all publishers of 
 immorality and sedition — of putting embryo rioters to death, and granting 
 them a judicial examination as soon as possible afterwards. Dissenting 
 meeting-houses he would shut up instanter, and guard with soldiers to 
 prevent irregularity or disobedience. '•'Things," he says, "are twisted 
 since his father was a boy, and must be twisted back — by force — to their 
 right place again. Ordinary measures are less than useless for extraordi- 
 nary times, and he only wishes he had power, or was prime minister for a 
 day or two." But for this unfortunate monomania, the Queen has not a 
 better subject, London has not a worthier citizen, than the plain-spoken, 
 simple-hearted Robert Thompson. 
 
 In one of the most fashionable streets of London, and within a few 
 doors of the residence of royalty, is a stylish house, which always looks as 
 if it were newly painted, furnished, and decorated. The very imperfect 
 knowledge which a passer-by may gain, denotes the existence of great 
 wealth within the clean and shining walls. Nine times out of ten shall you 
 behold standing at the door, a splendid equipage — a britzska or barouche. 
 The appointments are of the richest kind — the servants' livery gaudiest 
 of the gaudy — silvery are their buttons, and silver-gilt the horses' harness. 
 Stay whilst the big door opens, and then mark the owner of the house and 
 the britzska. A distinguished foreigner, you say, of forty or thereabouts. 
 He seems dressed in livery himself ; for all the colours of the rainbow are 
 upon him, Gold chains across his breast — how many you cannot count 
 
CALEB STTJKELY. 3 1 7 
 
 at once — intersect each other curiously ; and on every finger sparkles a 
 precious jewel, or a host of jewels. Thick mustaches and a thicker beard 
 adorn the foreign face ; but a certain air which it assumes, convinces you 
 without delay that it is the property of an unmitigated blackguard. 
 Reader, you see the ready Ikey, whom we bave met oftener than once in 
 this short history. Would you know more? Be satisfied to learn, that be 
 exists upon the follies and the vices of our high nobility. He has made 
 good the promises of his childhood and his youth. He rolls in riches, 
 
 and is a fashionable money-lender. 
 
 Dark were the shadows which fell upon my youth. The indulgent 
 reader has not failed to note them — with pain it may be — and yet, I trust, 
 not without improvement. Yes, sad and gloomy has been the picture, 
 and light has gleamed but feebly there. It has been otherwise since I 
 carried, for my comfort and support, the memory of my beloved Ellen 
 into the serious employment of my later years. With the catastrophe of 
 her decease, commenced another era of my existence — the era of self- 
 denial, patience, sobriety, and resignation. Her example dropped with 
 silent power into my soul, and wrought its preservation. Struck to the 
 earth by the immediate blow, and rising slowly from it, I did not mourn 
 her loss as men are wont to grieve at the departure of all they hold most 
 dear. Think when I would of her, in the solemn watches of the night, 
 in the turmoil of the bustling day — a saint beatified, a spirit of purity 
 and love — hovered above me, smiling in its triumphant bliss, and whis- 
 pering peace. My lamentation was intercepted by my joy. And so 
 
 throughout. Have I been irritated by the small annoyances of the world, 
 her radiant countenance — as it looked sweetly even upon death — has risen 
 to shame and silence my complaint. Repining at my humble lot, her 
 words — that estimated well the value, the nothingness of life compared 
 with life eternal — have spoken the effectual reproof. As we advance in 
 years, the old familiar faces gradually retreat, and fade at length entirely. 
 Forty long years have passed, and on this bright spring morning the 
 gentle Ellen steals upon the lawn, unaltered by the lapse of time. Her 
 slender arm is twined in mine, and her eye fills with innocent delight. 
 Not an hour of age is added to her face, although the century was not yet 
 born when last I gazed upon its meek and simple loveliness. She vanishes. 
 Is it her voice that tb rough the window flows, borne on the bosom of the 
 vernal wind 1 Angel of Light, I wait thy bidding to rejoin thee I 
 
 TELE END. 
 
 Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Angel Court, Skinner Street London- 
 

 
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