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THE JAMES D. PHELAN 
 CELTIC COLLECTION 
 
A^^l 
 
FESTIVAL TALES, 
 
FESTIVAL TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "POEMS," "THE SLINGSBY PAPERS," ETC. 
 
 " Pray you sit by us, 
 And tell 's a tale," 
 
 " Tell o'er thy tale again." 
 
 ShAKSF£AB£. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 M. H. GILL AND SON, 
 
 50 UPPER SACKVILLE-STREET. 
 1879. 
 
^Ua^ ^l/^^Mtt^ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 HE Tales of which this Volume is com- 
 posed are selected from amongst a 
 great many which, with one excep- 
 tion, appeared in various periodicals in Eng- 
 land and Ireland. They had a reception 
 sufficiently favourable to induce me to ven- 
 ture on their reproduction in the present form. 
 I have made a few not very important 
 changes in some of them, and have curtailed 
 others, so as to give, I hope, a continuity to 
 the whole. 
 
 The experiment of putting out these com- 
 positions for the second time is made not 
 without some diffidence. The taste of the 
 
 780663 
 
iv PREFA CE. 
 
 public has in many respects changed since 
 their original appearance : what pleased once 
 may not please again. 
 
 Two of the Tales, " Christmas Eve," and 
 "Turned to the Wall," are now republished 
 by the kind permission of Messrs. Cassell, 
 Petter and Galpin. 
 
 John Francis Waller. 
 

 
 
 
 I^^S^Q^s 
 
 [^^ 
 
 ^.■^-. 
 
 SSS- 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ^jm 
 
 gUgai 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 !Nf.w Year's Day. — Abraham Scrimble's Will i 
 
 St. Valentine's Day. — The MartjT 28 
 
 Easter Day, — St, Mary's- Super-Mare 74 
 
 All Hallow Eve. — Snap-apple Night at Castle Shngby . 99 
 
 The Feast of All Souls. — The Count of Castel Vecchio 131 
 
 Christmas Eve. — A Tale of Two Travellers 201 
 
 Innocents' Day*. — Turned to the "Wall 234 
 
 New Year's Eve. — Sno-sred up — Balancing the Books . , 269 
 
FESTIVAL TALES 
 
 Ktb) gear's Sag. 
 
 ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOW ALL THE SCRIMBLES MET IN OLD JEWRY, TO "HEAR SOME- 
 THING TO THEIR ADVANTAGE." 
 
 XE fine summer's day, in tlie year of our Lord 
 1853, there was assembled, in the chambers 
 of Mr. Reuben Levi, in Old Jewr}', in the 
 city of London, the whole family of the Scrimbles, who 
 had come up from Somersetshire upon the following 
 invitation, which was advertised in the Times news- 
 paper : — 
 
 " The next of kin of Abraham Scrinible, of Cincinnati, in the 
 State of Ohio, America, and formerly of the county of Somerset, 
 
2 NEW FEAR'S DAF. 
 
 in England, lately deceased, are requested to attend at my cham- 
 bers in No. 972 B Old Jewry, on Monday, the 20th day of June 
 next, at the hour of twelve o'clock, where they will hear of some- 
 thing to their advantage. 
 
 "Reuben Levi." 
 
 Well, sure enough, they were all there in wondering 
 expectation. There was a tradition amongst the 
 youngsters of the family about Abraham Scrimble. He 
 had quarrelled with his father, and gone off, no one 
 ever knew where, till the advertisement at once in- 
 formed them of his death, and the place where he had 
 resided. The clock of St. Paul's had scarcely struck 
 twelve, when Mr. Levi, accompanied by another gen- 
 tleman, entered the apartment where the Scrimbles 
 were congregated. 
 
 " The next of kin of Mr. Abraham Scrimble, I pre- 
 sume .?" said the man of law, making an oecumenical 
 bow to the assembled Scrimbles. 
 
 " Yes, yes," was the response from a dozen voices, 
 or thereabouts. 
 
 "Bless me," said the lawyer, "what a fortunate man 
 Mr. Scrimble was to have so many next of kin !" 
 
 "Well, I don't know, I'm sure," said the other gen- 
 tleman, drily, " but we shall see. Pray proceed to 
 business, Mr. Levi." 
 
 " Gentlemen and ladies," said that gentleman, exa- 
 mining a paper, " I find that the late ]\Ir. Abraham 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 3 
 
 Scrimble had, when he left this country, two sisters 
 and one brother." 
 
 " So he had," said one of the company ; " there was 
 his brother Ebenezer, my father — he is dead, and left 
 five of us ;" and with a sweep of his hand the speaker 
 indicated his two brothers and two sisters. 
 
 "Ver}.' good," said the man of law; "you are, then, 
 next of kin in the fourth degree. Well, then, Kezia 
 was the name of one of his sisters, wasn't it .''" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; Kezia was his eldest sister." 
 
 " Is she living or dead .^" 
 
 "Dead as a door nail." 
 
 "Good, again," said Mr. Levi. " Did she leave any 
 issue .^" 
 
 "I should hope not," was the reply, "seeing that 
 she was never married ; and, up to the last hour of her 
 life — and she lived to be over seventy — she maintained 
 the reputation of being an immaculate old maid." 
 
 "In that case, sir," said Mr. Levi, turning to the 
 other gentleman, " Aunt Kezia is clean out of the 
 way — an unfruitful branch in the family tree. We will 
 write her down as Ob. S. P." 
 
 "And what may that mean ?' asked one of the next 
 of kin. 
 
 "Oh, that's a short way we have of stating that she 
 died without issue." 
 
 B 2 
 
4 A^EW FEAR'S DAT. 
 
 " If that's all, you may write it down with a safe 
 conscience." 
 
 And Mr. Levi accordingly jotted down the letters 
 Ob. S. P. after Aunt Kezia's name. 
 
 " Now, what about the other sister }" 
 
 " That was my mother, Dorcas," said another mem- 
 ber of the family ; " she married her own cousin-ger- 
 man." 
 
 "Just so," said ]\Ir. Levi ; " I have it all here." 
 
 "Have you.'*" said the other. "Well, then, maybe 
 you have something about me there, too ?" 
 
 " JMaybe I have. Who are you ?" 
 
 " I'm the consequence of that auspicious union — Jacob 
 Scrimble, at your service." 
 
 "And your father and mother ?" 
 
 " Dead these fifteen years." 
 
 " Your brothers and sisters, are they alive ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Dead, too ?" 
 
 " No. They ain't dead, because they never were 
 alive ; and they ain't alive, because they never were 
 born — I was an only child." 
 
 " Ah ! I understand : well, you are another next of 
 kin in the fourth degree." 
 
 " I'm a cousin-german of old Abraham," said a little 
 man, of about fifty years of age; "I'm a son of his 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 5 
 
 uncle Amos, and the rest of his children died very 
 young." 
 
 "Then," replied the man of law, "you are also re- 
 lated to the deceased in the fourth degree. And now 
 as to all the rest ?" 
 
 "Oh, they're distant relations — fortieth cousins, as 
 the saying is, and have just come to keep us com- 
 pany." 
 
 The investigation of kindred having been thus con- 
 cluded, the other gentleman advanced to the table, and 
 taking from the breast-pocket of his coat a packet, he 
 opened it with great formality, and thus addressed 
 the company : — 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen of the Scrimble family, I 
 hold in my hand the last will and testament of my de- 
 ceased friend, the late Abraham Scrimble. He died 
 some three months since in the town of Cincinnati, 
 full of years, and not empty of cash. As one of his ex- 
 ecutors, I shall now read you the part of his will which 
 concerns you. * Item — As it was the will of God that I 
 should quarrel with my father, and leave my native 
 land before my brothers and sisters were grown up to 
 quarrel with, and having no issue of my own to leave 
 my money to, and not knowing what relatives I have in 
 England, I bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars 
 to whichever of my next of kin shall first attain the age 
 
6 NEW FEAR'S DAT. 
 
 of twenty-one years after my decease, and make proof 
 of his having attained his majority, before either of my 
 executors, or the proper authority of the place where 
 he shall be resident at the time. And the residue of 
 my worldly goods and substance I leave as follows.' 
 But that does not concern the present company," said 
 Mr. Hucklebones, refolding the paper, and redeposit- 
 ing it in his pocket. "And now, Mr. Levi, be so good, 
 pray, as to inform us who is to get the five thousand 
 dollars ?" 
 
 " Why, I\Ir. Hucklebones, here are the next of kin — 
 Ebenezer's five children. Pray, what are your names }" 
 
 " I'm Esau, the eldest ; then there is " 
 
 " What's your age ?" 
 
 " I'm twenty ; and I'll be twenty-one the first day of 
 January next, of all days in the year." 
 
 "Well, then, we needn't ask anything about your 
 brothers or sisters. Kezia is out of the way, and next 
 comes Mr. Jacob, Dorcas's only child. Pray, what may 
 your age be, Mr. Jacob ?" 
 
 "The same as cousin Esau's to a day. The brother 
 and sister had a run for it, you see." 
 
 "Ay, cousin Jacob, but you know I was born three 
 hours before you." 
 
 "That's no matter," said ]Mr. Levi, " ' de minimis non 
 curat lex ;'' the law takes no account of such trifles as a 
 
ABRAHAM SCRLMBLE' S WILL. 7 
 
 few hours. You will both be of age the same mo- 
 ment — the very instant after the clock strikes twelve at 
 night on the 31st of December next." 
 
 "This is a ver}' strange case," said Mr. Huckle- 
 bones ; " it strikes me that neither of these young gen- 
 tlemen will be entitled to the legacy, or that they 
 should divide it." 
 
 " They cannot divide it," said the lawyer. Two wo- 
 men sometimes may make one heir, being, I suppose, 
 considered as equal only to one man ; but there can no 
 more be two males entitled to one property than two 
 suns in the heavens, Mr. Hucklebones. Therefore I 
 think this is a '^ casus omissus ;^ and in such case " 
 
 " In such a case the money comes to me, Gideon 
 Scrimble," said the elderly cousin, "as you say I am 
 also one of the next of kin." 
 
 " Well, so you are. But when do you expect to at- 
 tain your age of twenty-one, Mr. Gideon }" 
 
 "Oh, he's been and done it nigh thirty years ago," 
 said Esau, chuckling. 
 
 " So much the better — ain't it ?" retorted Gideon. 
 "I've performed the condition beforehand, and am 
 ready to receive the money this instant." 
 
 " I should rather think, sir," said ]\Ir. Hucklebones, 
 " that you have run a long chalk beyond the winning- 
 post, and at the wTong side of it, too ; and before you 
 
8 NEW FEAR'S DAF. 
 
 can get back again, some of these young folks will 
 have come up and won the race." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Levi ; " ]\Ir. Gideon is quite out 
 of the question ; he will never attain the age of twenty- 
 one in his present state of existence, and time, Mr. 
 Hucklebones, is * of the essence of the contract,' as the 
 lawyers say ; and therefore I am disposed to consider 
 this as a case of a lapsed legacy, and the money must 
 sink into the residue, and go to the Cosmopolitan Rag- 
 ged College of Cincinnati." 
 
 All the next of kin of Abraham Scrimble, deceased, 
 looked dismayed at this announcement. They would 
 have gladly come to any compromise so as to divide 
 the bone amongst them, rather than that it should be 
 picked by a transatlantic academy of half-naked Yan- 
 kee boys. At last Jacob said — 
 
 " The m.oney is to be given to the person who shall 
 first reach twenty-one — ain't it }" 
 
 "Yes, just so." 
 
 " Well, then, w-e must all wait awhile. Who can tell 
 which of us will be first of age ; I may die, or Esau, 
 or both, and then one of the others would step into our 
 places." 
 
 " Upon my word, that's very true. Mr. Hucklebones, 
 we were overlooking that fact altogether." 
 
 " I think so," said the executor ; " we are all prema- 
 
A BRA HA M SCRLMBL E'S WILL. 9 
 
 ture. I therefore propose that we all assemble here 
 half-an-hour before midnight on the last day of the 
 year, and we shall then be in a condition to decide 
 who shall be entitled to the legacy. Are you agreed, 
 ladies and gentlemen ?" 
 
 A general assent was given, whereupon Mr. Huckle- 
 bones bowed himself out of the room, and Mr. Levi 
 bowed out all the next of kin of Abraham Scrimble, 
 late of Cincinnati, in the State of Ohio, deceased. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOW ESAU SCRIMBLE TOOK TIME BY THE FORELOCK. 
 
 The great clock of St. Paul's had pealed out the 
 half-hour before midnight upon the last day of De- 
 cember, 1853, when Mr. Reuben Levi again entered 
 his chambers in Old Jewry, accompanied as before by 
 Mr. Hucklebones, the executor of the late Mr. Abra- 
 ham Scrimble, of Cincinnati. 
 
 " Happy to see you all, ladies and gentlemen," said 
 the man of law. 
 
 "All alive and well, I see," said Mr. Hucklebones. 
 "Ah, Mr. Esau, I see you are not likely to die before 
 you come of age, and so give either of your pretty sis- 
 ters there a chance. Mr. Gideon, your humble ser- 
 
10 Ni:W FEAR'S DAY. 
 
 vant ; have you made much lee-way against the stream 
 of time since last I had the pleasure of seeing you ? 
 How much Jinder fifty may you be by this ?" 
 
 Gideon was about to return a snappish reply to this 
 mauvaise plaisanlrie, when Mr. Hucklebones suddenly 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Bless my soul, where is JMr. Jacob ; nothing has 
 happened to him, I hope ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Esau; ''he suddenly dis- 
 appeared about a fortnight ago, at w^hich time he was 
 in excellent health and spirits ; but none of us have 
 since heard or seen anything of him." 
 
 "How strange!" said Mr. Levi. "Did you adver- 
 tise for him in the public papers ?" 
 
 "Why, no," said Esau; "we had no particular inte- 
 rest in bringing him here to-night, you know ; but we 
 drained out the fish-pond at Scrimbleton, and had the 
 river dragged, but he didn't turn up in either." 
 
 "Very strange, indeed, and I must say very myste- 
 rious, too 1" said the man of law, with a lowering coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "Ah, poor fellow!" said Mr. Hucklebones, " do you 
 remember the observation which he made when we 
 were all here last summer — ' I may die, or Esau,' said 
 he. 'Tis very strange, indeed — very strange ; I hope 
 his words may not turn out true as to himself." 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. n 
 
 ''Well," said Mr. Levi, "now to business, as time is 
 precious. Since our last meeting I have made all ne- 
 cessary searches, and find the pedigree of the family 
 has been stated correctly. It seems to me, therefore, 
 that the only person who will be in a condition to 
 claim this legacy is Mr. Esau Scrimble, supposing that 
 anything has happened to his cousin Jacob, which I 
 confess I have much reason, from the peculiar circum- 
 stances of the case, to fear ;" and again the lawyer 
 looked loweringly at Esau. "Are you prepared, sir, to 
 prove, by a certificate attested by the proper autho- 
 rity — I mean when the time comes — your age of 
 twenty-one ?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Here is a copy of the registry of my 
 birth, and it is duly certified and signed by the rector 
 of the parish, and by Squire Bolderly, the nearest jus- 
 tice of the peace. Be so good as to see that it is all 
 right." 
 
 " Put up the paper, put it up, sir, please, for the pre- 
 sent," said Afr. Levi coldly, thrusting back the proffered 
 document. "The time is not yet come — many a slip 
 between the cup and the lip, Mr. Esau. Who knows 
 but your poor cousin Jacob may arrive before mid- 
 night." 
 
 " Well, maybe he may, Mr. Levi," replied Isaac, 
 with an incredulous toss of his head ; " I've no doubt 
 
12 NEW YEA R ' 6" DA V. 
 
 he will, if he's anywhere within the British dominions. 
 Jacob was always a wide-awake fellow, and just the 
 man not to neglect the main chance." 
 
 At this moment there was a loud knock at the door 
 of the outer chamber, that made every one start, and 
 Esau turn pale. Mr. Levi's clerk opened the door, and 
 ushered a man muffled up in a cloak into the inner de- 
 partment. The man took off his cloak very delibe- 
 rately, and then sat down, after which he took his 
 watch from his fob, and looked at the hour, and said — 
 
 " II, 43' 22"." 
 
 "May I ask, sir," said Mr. Levi, "your business ?' 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Ilucklebones, "I'll tell you what 
 brings him here. This is Mr. Pinionwheel, the great 
 chronometrician. You know, Mr. Levi, you said, 
 'time was of the essence of the contract,' and so I 
 thought it best to have the highest living authority 
 upon that point, and I requested Mr. Pinionwheel to 
 attend here to-night, to keep a sharp look out upon 
 the time." 
 
 "I can't sufficiently admire your forethought, sir," 
 said the lawyer, with as near an approach to a smile as 
 he ever allowed his features the relaxation of indulging 
 in. "Pray, sit down, Mr. Pinionwheel." 
 
 That gentleman took his seat, and the next instant 
 the clock of Saint Paul's told the third quarter. 
 
ABRAHAM SC KIMBLE'S WILL. 13 
 
 " Right, within three seconds," said ]\Ir. Pinion- 
 wheel, again consuhing his watch. 
 
 "While we are waiting, Mr. Hucklebones," said one 
 of the fortieth cousins, " perhaps you will be so kind as 
 to tell us something about oxir deceased relative. Did 
 he leave much property }" 
 
 " A pretty considerable amount, sir — something over 
 200,000 dollars." 
 
 " How much may that be of our money .?" 
 
 "Well, near/'scooo." 
 
 " Indeed — and did he leave no bequests to his rela- 
 tives in general — nothing to buy mourning-rings, you 
 know ?" 
 
 "Not a cent." 
 
 "And who gets all these dollars, may I ask, sir ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly: he left 1000 dollars to Lilly, and 
 1000 dollars to Snowball, besides giving each of the 
 girls her freedom — remarkably nice niggers they are — 
 twenty dollars to each slave on the estate, a trifle of 
 10,000 dollars each to myself and my co-executor, and 
 the residue to the Cosmopolitan Ragged School of 
 Cincinnati." 
 
 " I suppose, sir, the will is all regular ?" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't know; but Mr. Levi can 
 answer that question, I suppose." 
 
 "All right and formal," said the gentleman appealed 
 
1 4 NE W } 'EA R ' S DA Y. 
 
 to. "The duplicate is in my possession, and may be 
 inspected by any member of the family of Scrimble. 
 Here it is, gentlemen." 
 
 The lawyer spread the will on the table, and the 
 company amused themselves reading it over, by way of 
 passing the time. It was a hopeless investigation ; 
 there was not a cent, as Mr. Hucklebones said, left to 
 any of the Scrimbles, except the 5000 dollars; and 
 there was not a flaw in the document, not a blot, nor 
 an erasure ; and at the foot was the testator's name, in 
 big, sturdy, independent characters, with a dash at the 
 end, as much as to say, "There's the handwriting of a 
 man of sound and disposing mind, memory, and dis- 
 cretion, who knows what he's about, and doesn't care 
 a straw who is pleased or who isn't, by jingo !" And 
 so time sped on, when Mr. Hucklebones, addressing 
 Mr. Pinionwheel, said — 
 
 " Pray, sir, what may the hour be .^" 
 
 "Eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes, forty-three se- 
 conds, Greenwich time," said the horologer, oracu- 
 larly. 
 
 " Coming pretty close up to time, Mr. Esau," re- 
 marked the executor. 
 
 "In less than two minutes more, you'll cease to be 
 an infant, sir," added the lawyer, and then " 
 
 " Rat ! tat 1 tat 1 tat 1! A furious peal at the outer 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 15 
 
 door. The clerk sprang from the high stool in the 
 office, where he had just gone off in a dose, and in one 
 bound he was at the door. A young man rushed in 
 breathless, and then looking at his watch, said — 
 
 " It just wants one minute yet of twelve o'clock." 
 
 " Less by two seconds, sir," said Mr. Pinionwheel, 
 authoritatively, after having examined his timekeeper. 
 
 " Oh ! hang your two seconds !" cried the stranger, 
 impatiently. " Mr. Levi, allow me to introduce myself 
 to you, sir — Mr. Lynxley, sir, at your service — ^junior 
 partner of the firm of Swift and Lynxley, Clifford's 
 Inn." 
 
 " Pray be seated, my dear sir," said Mr. Levi, hand- 
 ing his brother chip a chair. " May I ask to what I am 
 indebted for the honour of this visit at such an unsea- 
 sonable — at least, such an unbusiness-like hour 't I 
 may say it is now midnight." 
 
 "And no mistake," added Esau Scrimble ; " for there 
 goes the clock of Saint Paul's." 
 
 And accordingly the heavy strokes of the hour were 
 pealed out one by one from old Saint Paul's clock- 
 tower, falling, as it were, upon the startled ear of the 
 sleeping city, and telling that swarming hive of human 
 beings that they had now entered upon another year of 
 existence. 
 
1 6 NE W FEAR ' S DA V. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW TIME LEFT ESAU SCRIMBLE IN THE LURCH. 
 
 There was a profound silence in the inner chamber of 
 Mr. Reuben Levi during the short space in which Old 
 Time, with his iron tongue, was registering the mo- 
 mentous point in his progress which we have just indi- 
 cated. 
 
 When the reverberation of the last clang had died 
 away among the dusty books on the cobwebbed 
 shelves, Esau Scrimble rose up, and stepping forward 
 to the table at which IMr. Hucklebones was sitting, 
 thus addressed the executor: — 
 
 " I have now, sir, the honour to lay before you the 
 formal proofs of my having at this present moment at- 
 tained the age of twenty-one years. Here is a copy 
 taken from the registry kept in the parish church of 
 Scrimbleton-on-the-Hill, duly attested by Parson Smith- 
 son and Squire Bolderly. You will see it is quite satis- 
 factory." 
 
 The executor of the will of Abraham Scrimble, de- 
 ceased, took the document, and read it over slowly and 
 carefully. He then handed it to Mr. Levi, who likewise 
 having read it, asked — 
 
ABRAHAM SCRTMBLF.'S WILL. 17 
 
 "Can you prove that these signatures are in the 
 handwriting of the Parson and the Squire ?" 
 
 "Oh! that's easily done; I can depose to the fact 
 myself, and so can Naomi here, and so can Ruth, and 
 so can Joash, and so can " 
 
 "That will do— that will do," said Mr. Levi ; "show 
 them the document, please." 
 
 The paper passed through the hands of all the 
 Scrimbles there assembled, who, with one accord, 
 pronounced the signatures to be genuine. The execu- 
 tor and his legal adviser now consulted together for a 
 moment, and then Mr. Hucklebones said — 
 
 "The proof seems quite satisfactor}-, Mr. Esau; and 
 you would, of course, be entitled to the legacy under 
 my deceased friend's will, if there were any certainty 
 that no other claimant would come forward. It is 
 however, quite possible that your cousin Jacob may yet 
 make his appearance, and you know that he attained 
 his majority at the same moment as yourself." 
 
 "Well, and suppose that he did, and suppose that he 
 does turn up, still I am entitled to the legacy as having 
 first made the proper proof of having attained my ma- 
 jority. I have taken legal advice upon the words of 
 the will, and am assured that such is their true con- 
 struction. Will you be so good, Sir, as to read them .-" 
 Mr. Hucklebones read the words — " I bequeath to 
 c 
 
1 8 A'FW FEAR 'S BAF. 
 
 whichever of my next of kin shall first attain the age of 
 twenty-one years, after my decease, and make proof of 
 his having attained his majority, before either of my 
 executors, or the proper authority of the place where 
 he shall be resident at the time." 
 
 " Well, I\Ir. Levi, what do you say as to this point of 
 law?" 
 
 " Upon my word, Mr. Hucklebones, I think there's 
 something in it, Sir. Pray, Mr. Esau, may I ask whose 
 opinion you have taken ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Sir ; I have taken the opinion of Mr. 
 Beetle, and here it is." 
 
 "A very sound opinion, Sir, is jNIr. Beetle," said the 
 man of law, perusing the paper. " He is certainly 
 quite in favour of your construction of the clause, Mr. 
 Esau. I\Ir. Lynxley, may I ask you to look at this, and 
 tell me what you think ?" 
 
 Mr. Lynxley took the case, and, having cast his eye 
 over it, said — 
 
 " I should not, of course, presume to put my opinion 
 in competition with Mr. Beetle's, under any circum- 
 stances ; but I confess I am strongly disposed to think 
 he is right. I have seen a similar opinion of Mr. 
 Perker upon the same point." 
 
 "Very good," said Esau, "I am quite contented to 
 abide by the opinions of the legal gentlemen here pre- 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 19 
 
 sent, Mr. Hucklebones, and I trust you will be guided 
 by them, too." 
 
 Mr. Hucklebones was about to reply, when Mr. Lynx- 
 ley interrupted him. 
 
 " Your pardon, my dear Sir, for a moment. Permit 
 me now to explain to you and Mr. Levi how I happen 
 to be here at what he very properly calls an unseason- 
 able hour. I come on behalf of my client, Mr. Jacob 
 Scrimble. May I request, Mr. Hucklebones, that you 
 will have the goodness to look at this document." 
 
 Mr. Lynxley placed in the hands of the executor a 
 paper which the latter read first to himself, and then 
 aloud : — 
 
 " This is to certify that Mr. Jacob Scrimble, of Scrimbleton, in 
 the County of Somerset, and Kingdom of England, comes now be- 
 fore me, and produces a certain paper ^vl^ting which is now proved 
 by two faithworthy witnesses here present to be a true cojjy of the 
 original certificate of the baptism of the said Jacob Scrimble, depo- 
 sited in the parish church of Scrimbleton-upon-the-Hill, whereby it 
 appears that the said Jacob Scrimble has now attained his full age 
 of twenty-one years. Given under my hand and seal of office, this 
 first day of January, 1854, at one minute past twelve o'clock, P. M. 
 
 " Prefect of the Seine, Paris. 
 " Present — 
 
 "Dickon Grubb, 
 "Dobbin Bumble, 
 " Both of Scrimbleton-on-thc-IIill, 
 yeomen." 
 
 C 2 
 
20 NEW FEAR'S DAV. 
 
 I\Ir. Hucklebones laid down the paper, and stared 
 silently at INIr. Levi, and Mr. Levi stared at I\Ir. Lynx- 
 ley. Then everybody stared at Esau, and Esau stared 
 at ever}'body. At length Esau broke the silence, and 
 exclaimed vehemently — 
 
 *"Tis a forgery, an impossibility, and as such I de- 
 nounce it." 
 
 " My good Sir, 'tis neither the one nor the other," 
 replied Mr. Lynxley, with a sort of triumphant calm- 
 ness. " That it is not a forgery, I will prove to the 
 satisfaction of the gentlemen here when the original 
 certificate shall arrive from Paris by the next mail. 
 Neither is it an impossibility, inasmuch as I received it 
 not ten minutes since at the Electric Telegraph Office." 
 
 "Well, and suppose you did," replied Esau; "I in- 
 sist the document must have been ante-dated." 
 
 "Oh, don't imagine it," said INIr. Lynxley, with the 
 same provoking calmness ; " Mr. Jacob has managed 
 matters too well for that. You will find it will turn out 
 accurate to the minute." 
 
 " Gammon !" said Esau. " Will you tell me that what 
 was written on the ist of Januan,-, 1854, in Paris, could 
 reach London on the 31st of December, 1853 .^" 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes," said Mr. Lynxley. "I'll tell you 
 how 'twas all arranged, for I had the pleasure of leav- 
 ing everything in train when I left Paris this, or rather 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 21 
 
 yesterday, morning. You are all aware, gentlemen, 
 that there is a difference of ten minutes between Paris 
 and London time." 
 
 "No!" said Mr. Pinionwheel, emphatically, "9', 
 z\", 28." 
 
 "Oh, bother!" said Mr. Lynxley, impatiently; "'tis 
 all the same thing. Well, when the clock at the Tele- 
 graph Office in Paris struck twelve on the night of the 
 31st of December — the certificate was proved before 
 the Prefect of the Seine, who was kind enough to at- 
 tend there for the purpose — the message was then 
 despatched on the instant — I had a cab all ready at the 
 Lothbury office of the company, and received the de- 
 spatch just in time to reach this before twelve o'clock." 
 
 "Well, then," said Esau, "even suppose so, I was 
 before Jacob with my proof. His certificate is dated 
 one minute after twelve. I made my proof the moment 
 after the clock struck." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Lynxley, "Jacob's proof was then 
 complete. Are you quite sure you did not take two 
 minutes in making yours } But he must have been 
 before you, for I had the evidence of it in my pocket 
 here before you produced your certificate." 
 
 " If so, then, Jacob was too soon." 
 
 " No ; you were too late." 
 
 "Jacob wasn't of age at the time." 
 
22, NEW YEAR 'S DAT. 
 
 " Not if he were in London ; but he was in Paris." 
 
 " We both came of age the same moment." 
 
 " Pardon me — Jacob went to Paris to be of age be- 
 fore you." 
 
 " Fudge ! Then, at that rate, if I went to Jericho, I 
 should have been of age before him." 
 
 "Decidedly; but you didn't, you know, and that 
 makes all the difference." 
 
 Esau was fairly driven into a corner, and didn't know 
 what further to say. Mr. Lynxley turned to the execu- 
 tor, and his adviser, and drawing from his pocket-book 
 a paper, he read as follows : — 
 
 " Gentlemen, in the name of my client, Mr. Jacob 
 Scrimble, I now demand the legacy of 5000 dollars, 
 bequeathed by the will of Abraham Scrimble, deceased, 
 to which he claims to be entitled, under the terms of 
 the said will ; and I hereby caution you against paying 
 the said sum, or any portion thereof, to any other per- 
 son or persons, except to the said Jacob Scrimble, or 
 his attorney, lawfully authorised thereto." 
 
 And as he so spoke, Mr. Lynxley handed the paper 
 to Mr. Hucklebones with a polite bow. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Hucklebones, "I'm blest if this 
 ain't the queerest business I ever was engaged in dur- 
 ing all my life. That Mr. Jacob is about the most 
 go-ahead fellow in all creation, I calculate. He has 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 23 
 
 gone a-head of old Father Time himself, and run slick 
 into the new year before him. What am I to do, ]\Ir. 
 Levi?" 
 
 "Upon my word, my dear Sir," said the gentleman 
 appealed to, " I think the only safe course for you will 
 be to retain the money, and let the parties take the opi- 
 nion of a court of equity. 'Tis a very nice question ; 
 ain't it, I\Ir. Lynxley .?" 
 
 " Oh, very nice, indeed,^^ said the latter gentleman, 
 nibbing his hands together with manifest pleasure. 
 
 " I am under the guidance of my legal adviser," said 
 Mr. Hucklebones, "and must decline to pay any of the 
 claimants, whom I leave to their legal remedies." 
 
 "I'll spend the last shilling I have in the world," 
 said Esau, " rather than suffer myself to be tricked out 
 of my rights in this way." 
 
 " Tricked ! did you say, Mr. Esau .?" asked Mr. Lynx- 
 ley, with very peculiar emphasis. " Who played the 
 first trick. Sir } Who took advantage of a needy cou- 
 sin's poverty, and induced him to leave the country, 
 upon a solemn promise not to return till after the expi- 
 ration of the year that is just past .^ And what did you 
 give your cousin Jacob, Sir } Why, just /'so in hand, 
 and a bond for/'so more, to be paid upon this day, 
 provided he fulfilled the conditions you imposed upon 
 him. Well, Sir, he has fulfilled the conditions ; he is 
 
24 NEW YEAR'S DAF. 
 
 still in Paris, and I have his instructions to request the 
 payment of this bond (and he exhibited the instrument 
 to Esau) within four-and-twenty hours." 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I do," said Esau, in a rage. " He 
 has not kept the terms of the agreement, as in honour 
 bound." 
 
 " Honour!" said Lynxley, with a sneer, "Then, Sir, 
 I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of taking le- 
 gal steps to enforce payment. And so, gentlemen, I 
 wish you all a good morning, and a happy new year." 
 And I\Ir. Lynxley bowed to the company, and retired. 
 
 Gideon Scrimble now came forward, and said — 
 
 " Mr. Hucklebones, I beg to give you notice that I 
 do not withdraw my claim to the legacy of my late 
 worthy cousin Abraham. And though I have said 
 little, I have thought all the more ; and I have made 
 up my mind to be at you as well as the rest. And so I 
 wish you a good morning, and a happy new year." 
 And Gideon retired upon the heels of Mr. Lynxley. 
 
 Then Mr. Hucklebones and Mr. Levi arose, and the 
 latter took the various papers which had been laid on 
 the table, and folded them carefully up, and put them 
 in a tin box, labelled " Scrimble's Executors," and 
 locked the box, and put the key in his pocket. And 
 then he and Mr. Hucklebones politely bowed out all 
 the kin Scrimble ; and as they went down stairs, Esau 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 25 
 
 could hear the executor and his lawyer indulging in 
 low, chuckling laughter, as if they thought the whole 
 transaction one of the finest jokes in the world. 
 
 But it was no joke, at least to some of the parties. 
 Mr. Lynxley forthwith sued Esau upon the bond at law, 
 and Esau obtained an injunction in equity to restrain 
 Jacob from levying the amount. The executor very 
 shortly after went back to Cincinnati, having arranged 
 the private affairs that brought him to England. Esau 
 forthwith instituted a suit in the courts at Cincinnati, to 
 recover the legacy of old Abraham, and not having any 
 favourable opinion of Yankee jurisprudence, he went 
 over to superintend the warfare personally. Seeing 
 this, Jacob took alarm, and did the same. Gideon 
 would, no doubt, have followed them both, but unfor- 
 tunately he was struck down by a fit of apoplexy just 
 after he had packed up all his moveables. They put, 
 by his own desire, " 50" upon his coffin-plate, but it is 
 strongly suspected that he was at least five years older, 
 and the mistake can only be accounted for upon the 
 .supposition that he was constantly endeavouring to 
 make lee-way against Time, as Mr. Hucklebones face- 
 tiously expressed it, in the hope that he might ulti- 
 mately get back to one-and-twenty ; and so he surely 
 would, and in a very few years, at the rate of retrogres- 
 sion just mentioned, had not Death stepped in to the 
 
26 NEW FEAR'S DAF. 
 
 aid of outraged Time, and thus rtiarred the ingenious 
 scheme, as he does many another, and will do, as long 
 as there is a schemer in the world subject to the laws 
 of mortality. The contest was thus reduced to the 
 single point, so strangely raised between Esau and 
 Jacob. The lawyers of Esau were confident of suc- 
 cess. The lawyers of Jacob said it was impossible he 
 could fail. Mr. Hucklebones' lawyer was of opinion 
 that neither Esau nor Jacob could claim the legacy, 
 and that it fell into the residue. This opinion having 
 been communicated to the Governor and Trustees of 
 the Cosmopolitan Ragged College of Cincinnati, they 
 forthwith gave their lawyer instructions to intervene 
 in the suit, and put forward their claim, and so he 
 did without a moment's delay. Thus the great suit 
 of Scrijnble v. Scrimble was constructed. It went on 
 merrily — so far as the lawyers were concerned — and 
 acrimoniously, as regarded the litigants ; there was 
 plenty of ink-shedding, and plenty of dollar-shedding 
 too ; the lawyers were incessantly opening their mouths 
 in court ; and the clients as frequently obliged to 
 open their purses out of court. The counsel for Esau 
 contended that the question of priority of birth was 
 purely a question of fact. The counsel for Jacob con- 
 tended it was purely a question of law. The counsel 
 for the Cincinnati Ragged College insisted it was a 
 
ABRAHAM SCRIMBLE'S WILL. 27 
 
 mixed question of law and fact. The Court decided 
 upon sending an issue to a jury, " Wliether Esau, the 
 plaintiff, or Jacob, the defendant, first attained the age 
 of twenty-one years?" The jury returned a verdict, 
 "That Esau, the plaintiff, and Jacob, the defendant, 
 attained their age of twenty-one years at the same mo- 
 ment." Thereupon the Cincinnati Ragged College 
 claimed the judgment of the Court in their favour, and 
 the Court gave judgment accordingly. From this judg- 
 ment the plaintiff appealed, and the cause w'as trans- 
 ferred to the Supreme Court of Appeal at Washington. 
 How it has fared there has not as yet been announced 
 to the rest of the kin Scrimble residing in Somerset- 
 shire. Each party reports with great confidence as to 
 his own prospect of ultimate success ; and, in fact, the 
 matter has caused a very pretty schism amongst the 
 Scrimbles, one party ranging themselves with Esau, 
 and the other with Jacob ; the consequence of which 
 is, that the family never meet at the usual festival ga- 
 therings of Christmas or Easter without going to log- 
 gerheads upon the question. On one point alone are 
 both Esauites and Jacobites fully agreed — namely, that 
 whichever of the litigants shall succeed, he will not be 
 a dollar the better of the legacy of old Abraham Scrim- 
 ble, of Cincinnati, in the State of Ohio, in America. 
 
^t. Falcntme's Bag. 
 
 THE IMARTYR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OONLIGHT in the city ! What a striking 
 and solemnizing sight ; how suggestive of 
 thoughts that daylight never stirs within us. 
 Life locked for a season in the arms of Death ! The 
 stony giant lies outstretched before us, snatching from 
 the turmoil and excitement of day a short repose, to 
 invigorate him for the same ever-recurring and ever- 
 wasting turmoil and excitement to which the first ray 
 of morning awakes him. The wanderer in the silent 
 street hears the echoes of his own footfalls, where a 
 few hours before the tread of a thousand steps, the 
 rush, the roar, the struggle of life, stunned and dis- 
 tracted him. Houses gleam, silent and bleak, in the 
 
THE MARTYR. 29 
 
 pale, cold light from which, in day, the tide of anima- 
 tion incessantly pours out upon the thoroughfares of 
 existence. Not a throb without tells that the pulse of 
 life is beating, but the blood has flowed back upon the 
 heart of the city, as though it lay in a trance. Grief 
 and joy, passion, avarice, and ambition, all seem at 
 rest amid the scenes where, by day, they reign and 
 revel. 
 
 " Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields and to the sky, 
 Ali bright and glittering in the smokeless air." 
 
 The calm breath of night comes with renovating fresh- 
 ness upon the brow, as if it stole in from the pure 
 countr}' upon the unguarded slumber of the city, un- 
 polluted with the reeking vapours, and smoke, and 
 steam of the thronging human hive. 
 
 "The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the ver)- houses seem asleep, 
 And all that mighty heart is l}"ing still." 
 
 jMoonlight in Rome I ^^'ho that has seen it may for- 
 get it ever } The Rome of our own time should so be 
 seen. The garish sunlight suits not best the spectral 
 city. She is a city of past memories, of faded glories, 
 of devastated grandeur. And so — if you would rebuild 
 her shattered walls, rear up her prostrate columns, re- 
 
30 ^7: VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 store her ruined fanes, and renovate her palaces — 
 wander through her regions when the moon is at the 
 full, that the things and beings of to-day may not mar 
 3'our spirit as it goes back into the past. Then will 
 Rome the Imperial arise before you ; then will you 
 truly understand how, though she be fallen from her 
 high estate, and shorn of her world-wide dominion, 
 still she is Rome the Eternal. Eternal in her glorious 
 memories ; Eternal in her influences upon all nations, 
 for all share in the borrowed light of her arts, her wis- 
 dom, her learning, and her laws ; Eternal in h.er his- 
 tory, which yet fills the foreground of the \Vorld's 
 annals. 
 
 .' It was midnight, a few days before %l>e" Ides- of" Feb- 
 ruary, in the year of the City 1023, and the 270th of 
 the Redemption. The moon was then nigh its full, 
 and poured down in a flood of mild and luminous 
 glory upon the peerless city of Rome — the Rome of the 
 Csesars — ere the Goth or the Vandal had sacked her 
 palaces, or kings of Christendom, more destructive 
 than the Barbarians, filched away her precious monu- 
 ments, her marbles, and her statuary ; ere the fury of 
 the Bourbon swept away in a desolating tide over all 
 that Alaric and Genseric had spared, that Charle- 
 magne and Robert of Sicily had left uninjured. 
 
 Passing along that portion of the Suburra that lay be- 
 
THE MARTYR. 3 1 
 
 tween the Esquilian and Coelian Hills, a figure, wrapped 
 closely in the coarse woollen toga which was worn by 
 the meaner citizens, wended his cautious way north- 
 westward, till he stood before the Flavian Amphi- 
 theatre, in later times known as the Colosseum. It was 
 a sight that at such a moment might arrest the atten- 
 tion of the most indifferent or the most pre-occupied. 
 Of this latter, it would seem, was he who now checked 
 his steps, and flung from off his head the portion of 
 his gown which had been drawn from his right shoul- 
 der so as to form the ordinary substitute for the pileus. 
 The act disclosed a head singularly venerable ; a few 
 scant locks of long, white hair flowed down from the 
 back portion along his neck : save these, the head was 
 bald. A face, strongly marked and stern, bore traces 
 of the grief and suffering which the conflict of powerful 
 feelings with controlling principles ever leaves on the 
 features ; but his eye was still keen, black, and full of 
 animation. On the first glance you would have pro- 
 nounced him old, but a second look would have as- 
 sured you he was old before his time, and had seen 
 many sorrows and trials. 
 
 The old man threw back from his head the lappet of 
 his gown, and gazed long and intently upon the pile 
 before him. It was a glorious sight, that stupendous 
 mass of buildings, as it then stood in all its integrity. 
 
32 ST. VALENTINE' S DAY. 
 
 An oval of the most graceful form and magnificent di- 
 mensions, covering an area of ground as extensive as 
 that upon which the largest pyramid of Egypt reposes, 
 and faced with travertina stone, rose to the height of 
 more than a hundred and fifty feet. The four stories 
 of which it was composed exhibited each order of 
 architecture in their proper succession, the basement 
 being the severe Doric, the upper the florid and grace- 
 ful composite, surmounted by an attic. The light of 
 the moon, falling slantly athwart the face of the build- 
 ing, exhibited a chequered superficies of light and 
 . shade, whose picturesque effect could not be sur- 
 passed. In the ground story, the open archways, or 
 vomitories, which, to the number of eighty, gave ac- 
 cess at equal distance all round to the interior, were 
 filled, some wholly, some partially, with the moonlight, 
 according to the aspect they presented to the planet, 
 and some lay buried in deep, black darkness ; and so 
 in the two succeeding stories, the light, as it fell upon 
 the corresponding arches, displayed, more or less, the 
 huge statues, to which they served as niches ; and as 
 the shadows of the projecting columns which sustained 
 the entablatures crossed the forms or played flickering 
 upon the massive features, when light clouds passed 
 athwart the moon, the stone seemed endued with life, 
 as if realizing the fabled story of Pygmalion. Spectral 
 
THE MARTYR. ^^ 
 
 and cold, they stood in their places, and it required no 
 stretch of fancy to believe them the ghosts of those 
 who, within the area of this beautiful circus, had 
 fought and bled, and died in a savage and unprovoked 
 conflict with their fellow-men, or had fallen beneath 
 the lacerating jaws of furious beasts. 
 
 Something of this sort appeared to cross the mind of 
 the man, as his eye in its circuit passed along those 
 marble effigies, whose features, as the shadows stirred 
 along them, seemed at that moment trembling and 
 twisting, as with the contortions of suffering. A spasm 
 as of pain passed along his brow, and his lip quivered 
 as he spoke in low emphatic tones of passion : — 
 
 "Oh, drunken — drunken with the blood of saints 
 and of martyrs ! What marvel if their mangled bodies 
 be suffered to haunt the scenes of their slaughter, 
 and to testify against their murderers, as their souls 
 cease not, day and night, to cry to God for vengeance 
 on those who have spilled their righteous blood. Yea, 
 the ver)' gore-soaked stones might cry aloud against 
 them and thee, thou den of unclean beasts ! How 
 long, O Lord ! holy and true, dost thou not judge and 
 avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth !" 
 
 The old man shook his hand denouncingly ; and his 
 utterance was choked with passion. In a moment, 
 however, and by a violent effort, he mastered his feel- 
 
 D 
 
34 ST. VALENTINE'S DAT. 
 
 ings, and looking sorrowfully up to heaven, he struck 
 his breast, and cried — 
 
 " ' Miserere mei, Domine.' Have mercy upon me, 
 
 Lord ! miserable sinner that I am ! Who am I that 
 
 1 should invoke Thy wrath, to whom vengeance alone 
 belongeth ? Father, it may be that Thou reservest 
 this place for a vessel of mercy and not of wrath. 
 Haply, when the earth shall be filled with the know- 
 ledge of Thee, as the waters cover the sea, that the 
 cross of Thy dear Son may be planted in this unholy 
 circus, and the life-blood of Thy martyrs be worn 
 away from its pavement by the feet of pilgrims and 
 the knees of supplicating thousands. Even so, Lord, 
 let it be, if it is Thy will." 
 
 The Christian bowed his head with a sigh, and 
 reverently making the sign of the cross on his fore- 
 head, drew the lappet again over his head, and 
 proceeded upon his solitary walk. Skirting the south- 
 ern and western circuit of the Flavian amphitheatre, 
 the old man passed on through the small archway 
 for foot passengers in the eastern portion of the Arch 
 of Constantine, and reached the space before the Tem- 
 ple of Venus and Rome. But the solitary paused not 
 to contemplate the scene before him, but, with a pass- 
 ing glance, pursued his mission. Yet well might 
 that scene win more than a passing glance. Raised 
 
THE MARTYR. 35 
 
 on its ample platform, and reached at each angle by 
 a flight of marble steps, between which rose a stately 
 colonnade of white pillars, stood the Temple, its fluted 
 Corinthian columns of Parian marble supporting a roof 
 sheeted with bronze-gilt tiles, which caught the pale, 
 modest rays of the moon, and sent them back blushing 
 and ruddy from the rude, ungenial contact. Close to 
 the Temple stood the colossal figure of bronze, one 
 hundred and twenty feet high, from which the head of 
 Nero had been removed to make way for that of 
 Apollo, now radiant with mimic sunbeams, while 
 nearer to the Arch of Constantine spread the spacious 
 • basin of the Meta Sudans. A fair and a tranquillizing 
 sight was it to look upon the jet of plenteous and 
 pure water that flung itself out of the high conical 
 fountain upwards into the clear moonlight sky, and 
 then disparting circularly in every direction as it 
 reached its highest elevation, it fell back into the 
 broad marble basin, and, as the filmy threads of 
 water glittered in the moonlight, it looked like the 
 silvery plumage of some giant helmet. And sweet 
 and most soothing, too, was the low monotonous chant 
 of the falling waters in the silent night, as they met 
 the still waters of the pool beneath. One could fancv 
 it the gentle, joyous greeting with which fair spirits, 
 that have left heaven to wander awhile upon earth, 
 
 D 2 
 
36 ST. VALENTINE'S DAV. 
 
 throw themselves again into the bosoms of their sister 
 spirits, when their wandering is over. Perhaps these 
 sweet sounds did unconsciously break in upon the 
 reverie of the old man, for he looked up for a moment 
 and opened the fold of his gown, as it were to let 
 the grateful freshness of the vapour to his bosom. But 
 it was not for sights like these, beautiful though they 
 were, that the old man was abroad to-night. Onward 
 he hurried by the Sacred Way, passing through the 
 Arches of Titus and Fabius, and between the Roman 
 Forum and the Forum of Caesar, Heeding not the 
 wondrous congregation of arches, temples, and grace- 
 ful columns that shot upwards into the heavens, the 
 old man pressed forward still, till passing near the 
 Arch of Septimius Severus, and the Temple of Con- 
 cord, he stopped at the base of a strongly built and 
 gloomy edifice, that even then bore the marks of great 
 antiquity. This was the Mamertine prison. Ascend- 
 ing a flight of stone steps, cut through the hill, that 
 led to an entrance on the second story, the person 
 whose course we have been tracing stepped softly up 
 to a door of solid oak, studded with huge rivets of 
 iron, and smote the wood gently with his hand, re- 
 peating the act twice, at intervals. After the third 
 signal, a voice from within asked — 
 
 " Who Cometh hither ?" To which he outside re- 
 plied : — 
 
THE MARTYR. 37 
 
 " Peace be with thee." 
 
 Then the door was cautiously opened, just suffi- 
 ciently to allow a man to pass through, and was again 
 as cautiously closed when the old man had entered. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 At the time we write of, the ancient prison of the 
 Mamertine, which Ancus Martins had built in what 
 was once the centre of the city, was still made use 
 of for the reception of criminals charged with more 
 than ordinary guilt ; and amongst these were many 
 Christian converts, as the " Acts of the Martyrs," in 
 which it is frequently mentioned, abundantly testify. 
 The upper story of this dismal prison had now its 
 tenant, and towards it two persons were directing 
 their steps. One was a young girl just entering upon 
 womanhood ; the other an old man — he whom we 
 have been following through the silent streets of 
 Rome. The girl held in her hand a small lamp, and 
 was evidently the guide to the gloomy passage they 
 were traversing. Her step was firm and unhesitating, 
 and she carried the light apparently rather to guide 
 the feet of her companion who followed her than her 
 own, for she held it above her head, and rather behind 
 
3 8 ST. VALENTINE ' 6" DA Y. 
 
 her, so that its rays fell just before his face, leaving 
 hers in darkness, while the old man, even with the 
 aid of the light, stepped unsteadily and doubtfully. 
 At length they reached the strong oaken door of the 
 dungeon, and paused for a moment, for the voice of one 
 from within was audible. He was sustaining his spirit 
 with the memory of familiar and beloved words, and the 
 old man, as he caught them, joined with moving lips, 
 which gave no outward sound. 
 
 " Out of the depths have I cried unto the Lord. 
 
 " Lord, hear my voice ; let thine ears be attentive to 
 the voice of my supplications. 
 
 " I wait for the Lord ; my soul doth wait, and in his 
 word do I hope. 
 
 " My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that 
 watch for the morning." 
 
 There was a pause of a moment, and then the sounds 
 were resumed : — 
 
 " Why art thou so heavy, O my soul ? and why art 
 thou so disquieted within me? Oh, put thy trust in 
 God, for I will yet give him thanks, which is the help 
 of my countenance and my God." 
 
 The voice of the prisoner ceased, and the girl, com- 
 mitting the lamp to her companion, drew forth from her 
 girdle a large key and unlocked the door ; then, with- 
 drawing the bolts, they entered the chamber. The faint 
 
THE MARTYR. 39 
 
 rays of the lamp, struggling through the gloom of the 
 prison, showed the form of a man seated on a straw 
 pallet, and fettered, both hands and feet. At first he 
 moved not ; but the voice of his visitor quickly aroused 
 him. 
 
 " Valentinus," said the old man to the prisoner, iu 
 solemn and gentle accents — " Valentinus, my brother, 
 the peace of the Lord be with thee." 
 
 The prisoner sprang upon his feet, the chains 
 clanking upon his limbs as he moved forward. 
 
 " Callistus, beloved friend and master! is it indeed 
 thyself.? God, then, has blessed my eflbrts, and thou 
 art safe. But tell me quickly, who has escaped beside 
 thee .?" 
 
 Callistus turned hesitatingly towards the young girl, 
 but replied not. Valentine understood the meaning of 
 the movement. 
 
 " Brother, thou mayest speak freely before this dear 
 child ; a light is even now arising to her out of darkness. 
 Look at her and doubt not." 
 
 Callistus now, for the first time, bent a scrutinizing 
 look upon the maiden. She stood retiringly near the 
 door, as if ready to depart, yet loth to do so undismiss- 
 ed. Her arms were crossed upon her bosom with an 
 air as meek as it was gentle. Her head was slightly 
 inclined forward, and her thick black hair fell in long 
 
40 ST. VALENTINE' S DAY. 
 
 showers to her shoulders, displaying, as it parted in 
 front, a face thin, pale, and pensive, though not un- 
 happy ; but the fixed expression of her open eyes, and 
 the countenance slightly upturned, told the poor girl's 
 doom — she was blind. 
 
 " Thou mayest indeed speak all thy mind before 
 our good child Nerea. She knows all that has be- 
 fallen me, and by her aid it is that I have been able 
 to communicate with thee." 
 
 "If this be so," said Callistus, "I will speak freely. 
 Know, dear Valentinus, that the timely intelligence 
 thou gavest to thy friends has saved them. When 
 Calpurnius, the prefect, sought them beyond the Es- 
 quiline Gate, he found none. Alas ! I fear thou didst 
 purchase their safety with thy own peril." 
 
 " It is even so," said the other, " but I repent it 
 not. Calpurnius and his guard came upon me in the 
 burial ground of the people. My intercourse with 
 the Christians was proved, and I answered not falsely 
 the questions of one in power, nor denied the name 
 of Christ, and so I was haled hither, for what doom 
 I know not." 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! we are at our wits' end, and in great 
 peril ; our souls are always in our hands. But say, 
 how dost thou fare, in this sad dungeon, my Valen- 
 tinus .'■" 
 
THE MARTYR. 41 
 
 " God hath raised up friends to me even here, and 
 when I had almost said the darkness should cover 
 me, then indeed was my night turned into day. My 
 sufferings, and it may be my patience, have found 
 favour with the keeper of my prison, Asterius, the 
 chief officer of the prefect. He has eased my chains, 
 though he cannot unloose them, and supplied my 
 bodily wants, though he may not remove me from 
 this gloomy dungeon. But, above all, my dear Cal- 
 listus, it hath pleased our Great Master to give this 
 poor lamb to me, to lead her into the fold; her ears 
 have greedily drunk in the divine truth, and God 
 hath given her a soul of light within her darkened 
 body. Is it not so, dear Nerea } Tell the good 
 Bishop Callistus, my child." 
 
 The girl moved reverently forward as she heard 
 the holy title of the stranger, and sinking down on 
 her knees, at the spot whence she heard his voice, 
 said very gently, yet fervently : — 
 
 " It is indeed so. Venerable father, and thou, my 
 dear teacher, pray for me." 
 
 " She is a catechumen," said Valentine, " and ear- 
 nestly desires fuller admission into the Church. I 
 will answer for her; and at a fitting time I would that 
 she receive the rite of baptism at thy hands. Mean- 
 time, I beseech thee to perform that ceremony which 
 
42 ST. VALENTINE' S DAY. 
 
 our Church designs should teach catechumens to con- 
 fess their sins, and to review their consciences." 
 
 Deeply moved, Callistus said, *' Be it even so, 
 brother." 
 
 Then he stooped down, and taking up a portion 
 of the damp clay, he touched her eyes with it, and 
 laying his hands solemnly upon the head of the still 
 kneeling girl, said : — 
 
 "The Lord enlighten thee, my daughter! And 
 now leave us for a season. We have that to speak of 
 which must be discussed in private, and thou, too, 
 shouldst retire, and meditate in secret upon the cere- 
 mony which has admitted thee into the higher state 
 of catechumens." 
 
 Then the girl rose from her knees and departed. 
 
 Long and earnest converse did the two Christian 
 men hold during that lonely night. The prospects 
 of the persecuted Church of Christ occupied the hearts 
 of these faithful and courageous men, and the im- 
 minent peril of the one, and the uncertain and scarce 
 less perilous state of the other, were well-nigh for- 
 gotten in their deeper anxiety for the welfare of the 
 dispersed and afflicted band amongst which they had 
 both so recently communed and worshipped. The 
 hours passed sadly and silently by whilst they were 
 thus occupied. At length Nerea's low knock was 
 
THE MARTYR. 43 
 
 heard at the door, and she came in and warned them 
 of the danger to which Callistus's long tarrying would 
 expose them. And so the venerable bishop arose 
 and embraced Valentinus, then blessing them both, 
 he resigned himself once more to the guidance of the 
 sightless girl, and left the dungeon. The moon had 
 long set, and the grey cold light of morning was dawn- 
 ing along the summit of the Esquiline Hill, when 
 Callistus made his way towards the countr}- through 
 the Suburra and the gardens of Maecenas. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The sun had set cloudlessly on the day succeeding 
 the night in which Callistus and Valentinus held their 
 conference. As his last rays fell upon the city, ere 
 he sank beneath the Janiculum, they lit up the wind- 
 ing course of the yellow Tiber, the mausoleum and 
 circus of Adrian, and the imperial gardens lying at 
 the foot of the Vatican Hill ; then, leaving these in 
 twilight, the golden flush spread along the horizon, 
 touching the lofty ridge of western hills along their 
 summits, and throwing out against the clear sky the 
 grey ruins of the Arx Janiculensis, the most ancient 
 fortress of Rome, built by Ancus Martins, to protect 
 
44 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 the river from the depredations of Etruscan pirates. 
 Night quickly followed upon the still short twilight, 
 and the light, scant and dim even at noon, which 
 struggled into the dungeon of the Mamertine through 
 the single small opening high up near the roof, had 
 become fainter and fainter to the eye of the solitary 
 watcher, till at length it vanished altogether, leaving 
 him in utter darkness. He was not, however, left 
 much longer to his solitary meditations. The bars of 
 his prison door were shot back, then it was softly open- 
 ed, and Nerea's lamp again illuminated his darkness. 
 The girl bore in one hand a lamp, in the other a 
 basket containing a small flask of wine, some fruit, 
 and a loaf of fine bread, and moving with unerring 
 foot to the low stool which stood by the wall, she 
 placed them upon it. 
 
 " Dear master," said she, turning her face in the 
 direction where the clank of the fetters told her 
 Valentine was sitting, " pardon me that I am some- 
 what late this evening. I tarried not willingly, but 
 of constraint ; but now I bring you somewhat to refresh 
 you. Ah ! that I dared do more for your comfort." 
 
 " My ever kind and good child, thou hast procured 
 me all that is needful ; what my great Master and 
 His blessed Apostles often wanted. Truly God has 
 sent thee to minister strength to my body, as His 
 
THE MARTYR. 45 
 
 holy angels are ever about me to sustain my soul 
 when it faints and is distrustful. God will surely 
 bless thee, who ministerest thus even to the most 
 unworthy of His servants 1" 
 
 The maiden took the hand which the priest had 
 laid kindly upon her head, and carr}^ing it to her lips, 
 kissed it with reverent gentleness ere she released 
 it. After a moment she put her hand into the folds 
 of her vesture, and drawing forth a few flowers, she 
 said : — 
 
 " Dear father, I have brought you the earliest vio- 
 lets of Rome. I plucked them this morning on a 
 bank beyond the Tiber; their fragrance caught my 
 senses as I wandered in the fresh morning air, after 
 I left thee last." 
 
 The priest took the flowers, and rubbed them in 
 his hands ; then inhaling their odour, said : — 
 
 "Now, dear Nerea, are they not doubly sweet .^ 
 As the broken spirit is the sacrifice that God best 
 loveth, so is the odour of the crushed flowers sweetest 
 to the sense. Our Heathen wise men exhort us to 
 be patient in tribulation ; but the wisdom that cometh 
 from above teacheth us to rejoice in it. Is not this 
 a gracious revelation that shows us how to extract 
 joy from sorrow, as our old fable tells of one who 
 turned everything he touched into gold .''" 
 
 " I know already," said the girl solemnly and 
 
46 ^7-. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 sadly, " that sorrow and privation teach us patience. 
 When I wander with any of my companions in the 
 gardens beyond the Tiber, and hear their joyous 
 exclamations at the beautiful hues of flowers, the 
 green of the fields, and the golden light of the sun, 
 I understand them not, save that those hues must 
 be sweet as the scent of flowers and herbs, and 
 the light of the sun like the song of birds. Ah! 
 well do I remember when with a young playmate I 
 first sat by the side of a fountain, and she laughed out 
 gleefully, and cried, * See, see, Nerea ; oh, beautiful ! 
 there are thou and I in the fountain, dancing and 
 glittering like Naiades.' Then said I : — 
 
 " * Nay, thou art mocking me, Glycera. We are 
 both here together on the bank, and yet thou sayest 
 we are in the water. It cannot be, silly one.' 
 
 " But she persisted and said — 'It is even as I say, 
 Nerea.' 
 
 " Then was I angry ; and I thrust my hand into 
 the fountain, and I found nought but the fleeting 
 waters, that moved to my touch; and I said, 'Now 
 know I of a surety that thou deceivest me.' But 
 others of our playmates came up, and Glycera asked 
 them was it not so ; and they said, indeed it was. 
 But one whispered softly, yet not so softly as to es- 
 cape my ear, ' Hush, Glycera, thou dost forget Nerea 
 
THE MARTYR. 47 
 
 is blind.' Then I felt what it was to be blind ; and I 
 wept sore that night when alone in my chamber. 
 By degrees I grew tranquil : and I sported again 
 with my companions, and learned to believe that 
 the world had many lovely things which I could 
 never know, and to bear my fate with patience. Ah ! 
 will the time come, dear teacher, when shall I learn 
 to rejoice in my afflictions, as thou sayest a Chris- 
 tian ought .^" 
 
 "Even so, my Nerea, will it yet be, I trust, that 
 thou shalt say, ' It is good for me that I have been 
 afflicted.' I have prayed for thee without ceasing, 
 through the watches of the night, my daughter ; and it 
 may be that I shall find favour with the Lord, and 
 that thou shalt taste and see how gracious God is. 
 But thou must have faith, and I, too — I to work, 
 and thou to believe in the name of Him through 
 whom I work." 
 
 The priest arose, and stood for some moments 
 buried in profound contemplation. At length he 
 said : — 
 
 " And now, daughter, leave me for a season : I 
 would be alone ; and take thou again with thee the 
 fruit and wine, for this kind goeth not out by prayer 
 and fasting. When it is midnight, come to me 
 again." 
 
48 ST. VALENTINE' S DAY. 
 
 The girl did as Valentine desired her, and, pass- 
 ing from the prison, he was again left alone. 
 
 How the priest was occupied during the hours 
 that intervened, we may not say, for none have re- 
 corded it. That he spent the time in earnest prayer 
 and holy meditation, it may be well believed, for 
 when Nerea again sought the cell at midnight, she 
 found Valentine on his knees beside his couch of 
 straw, absorbed and motionless. Neither the draw- 
 ing of the bolts, nor the grating of the door had 
 touched his senses, or roused him from his ecstatic 
 reverie. When at length he arose from his kneeling 
 posture, the face of the priest shone with a heavenly 
 lustre of one who had been in communion with his 
 great spiritual Master. Then he took from his bosom 
 a parchment roll, wherein were recorded, by the 
 Holy Evangelists, the things which Jesus had done 
 when on earth. And he sat down on his pallet, and 
 the girl on the low stool before him, and he read 
 to her how Christ had opened the eyes of the blind 
 Bartimeus, and had given sight to the man who was 
 blind from his birth, and whom He sent to wash in 
 the pool of Siloam. And the saint discoursed long 
 and ardently to the listening girl, opening the mys- 
 teries of the wondrous faith for which he had for- 
 saken all the earth holds dear, and was even then 
 
THE MARTYR. 49 
 
 willingly in bonds and imprisonment. Hours passed 
 thus in exhortation, mingled with prayer and words 
 of comfort. And now Valentine paused, and once 
 again his spirit was wrapt in divine communion. 
 Then he arose and stood up, and the girl knelt down, 
 and he cried : — 
 
 *' Oh Lord my God, let this child receive her 
 bodily sight, as thou hast shed thy light upon her 
 spirit." 
 
 The dim lamp shed its flickering rays upon the 
 upturned face of the maiden, as she fixed her sight- 
 less orbs, suffused with tears, on the saint. Then 
 he touched her eyes and said : — 
 
 "According to thy faith be it unto thee." 
 
 A shudder past over the pallid features of the ex- 
 cited and awe-touched girl, when lol the light of 
 the lamp sank in the exhausted vessel, and they 
 were left in darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was about the hour of noon, on the day following 
 the events we have last recorded. The sun that 
 looked down on the Forum Romanum beheld a sight 
 of surpassing splendour and architectural magnifi- 
 
 E 
 
so ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 cence. Temples reared their beautiful porticos of 
 white marble on every side — triumphal arches spanned 
 the ways, and graceful columns shot up into heaven. 
 Halls where justice was dispensed, and ambassadors 
 met to discuss treaties — spots where the people as- 
 sembled, and rostra whence orators addressed them 
 — all were there still. Beneath the porticos that 
 ran round this wondrous mart, were the shops of 
 tradesmen and goldsmiths, and money-changers. 
 While on the hills that rose above it, on either side, 
 were the imperial residences of the Csesars, and the 
 citadel and temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. Where 
 now are all these.? Some still stand, weather-stained 
 and defiled, doing battle bravely against time and 
 fate, the flame and the earthquake. Some show a 
 ruined shaft or tottering pediment, and others have 
 perished utterly, and antiquarians and historians delve 
 and plod through the desolate rubbish, and quarrel 
 about the site of things that once filled the eyes and 
 ears of mankind. 
 
 But to-day the Forum Romanum was thronged, as 
 usual, with crowds of inhabitants, some hurrying to 
 and fro on their various avocations, some entering 
 the dififerent temples, some pacing the arched porti- 
 cos. Here were groups of merchants, there knots 
 of idlers retailing the news of the day, discussing 
 
THE MARTYR. 5 1 
 
 the merits of a popular orator, or criticizing the 
 newest play or poem, while in another place might 
 be seen vendors of goods displaying their wares. 
 Upon the steps of the Comitium, half a dozen per- 
 sons were collected in earnest conversation, and their 
 number was constantly augmented by loiterers, who 
 were attracted to the spot by the gesticulations of 
 the speakers. A spruce little barber was engaged in 
 an animated discussion with a burly soldier, while the 
 crowd gathered around them, listening with wonder- 
 ing attention. 
 
 "I tell thee, Thraso," said the little man, "it is 
 no fable, but as true as that I am Fabius, the bar- 
 ber of the Suburra. I had it from one whom I shaved 
 this morning, and who had it from Drusus, the slave 
 of Asterius." 
 
 "Thou hast too many vouchers for thy story, 
 good Fabius," said the soldier. Hadst thou seen it 
 with thine own eyes, instead of through the tongues 
 of so many, I might make shift to believe thee. 
 Credat Judaus, say I." 
 
 " Hear him now, my masters," said the little bar- 
 ber, appealing to the bystanders. "Those men of 
 war are no better than infidels. They will scarce 
 believe in Jupiter, unless they see him brandishing 
 his thunderbolt." 
 
52 ST. VALENTINE'S DAK 
 
 "What is this marvellous news, good tonsor?" 
 said one who had just come up to the group. " I 
 am but newly come from the country, and would fain 
 learn what is stirring." 
 
 " Worshipful Lysippus," replied the barber with 
 an obeisance, *' thou shalt hear it on the instant, and 
 judge if I have not good warrant for what I relate. 
 By Castor and Pollux," he continued, eyeing the 
 soldier askance in the confidence of being under the 
 protection of one of his best customers, "he is no 
 true man who doubts the word of an honest citizen," 
 
 A shout of laughter from the crowd followed the 
 sally of the valiant barber, while one of his neigh- 
 bours slapped him on the back, crying : — 
 
 " Well said, brave Fabius. Habet. Thou hast given 
 the soldier a home-thrust. By Bacchus, I will stand 
 a flask of Sicilian wine that thou hast the best of it. 
 The shears against the sword any day." 
 
 "Peace, friends," said Lysippus, "and let us hear 
 the story." 
 
 "Well, then," said the barber, "you must know 
 that as I shaved a certain personage this morning, 
 an honourable gentleman, and a notary of fair report 
 as any in the city, he asked me, as usual, what was 
 the news, whereupon I replied I had not as yet had 
 any, for it was early. Nay, then, said he, thou hast 
 not heard " 
 
THE MARTYR. 53 
 
 " Oh, Venus ! have done with thy babbling. To 
 the point, friend, in the name of Jupiter." 
 
 " Well, then, in brief, the notarj' told me that 
 Drusus told him that the daughter of Asterius — thou 
 knowest poor Nerea — the blind girl, had got her 
 sight by the favour of I know not which of the gods, 
 and can now see as well as you or I." 
 
 "Papae!" cried Lysippus, "a mar\-el truly. Why 
 the maid was blind from her birth. Good Fabius, 
 I fear the notar}' has been putting a jest upon thee. 
 Away, man, and mind thy stall, or thou mayest get 
 into the hands of the prefect, and scarce come off 
 with a dose of hellebore." 
 
 " Who is right now, my masters ?" said Thraso, 
 exultingly. "Come, Simo, and pay me that flask of 
 Sicilian : thou hast lost it fairly." 
 
 The laugh was now turned relentlessly against the 
 little tonsor. He slunk away discomfited and grum- 
 bling ; the group dispersed, and each one joined some 
 other party, [to loiter or to labour, as their tastes or 
 duties dictated. 
 
 But the tale of the barber fell not altogether upon 
 unfruitful soil. There are few stories that will not 
 gain credence with some one. By degrees, the ru- 
 mour spread through other channels, and gained con- 
 firmation from quarters more faithworthy than a 
 
5+ ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 loquacious barber of the Suburra: and ere the sun 
 had set, the wonderful tale was noised about through- 
 out Rome, as a fact beyond all controversy, and a 
 matter that had been brought under the prefect's 
 notice. 
 
 And indeed there was good foundation for these 
 reports. The situation which Asterius held, as the 
 chief officer of Calpurnius, the prefect of the city, 
 made concealment, if it were sought for, a matter 
 not easily to be accomplished. But in truth, such did 
 not seem to be the object of him or his family. The 
 father loved his child tenderly, for she was an only 
 one and motherless, and that tenderness was infinitely 
 augmented by the poor girl's calamity. Her blind- 
 ness, while it made her an object of solicitude and 
 dependence to her parent, increased his love by keep- 
 ing her constantly in his thoughts and much in his 
 presence, and the devotion with which she returned 
 his care, added to the gentle and almost cheerful 
 patience with which she endured her privation, served 
 to draw more closely around the heart of the father 
 those bonds of affection which nature had originally 
 tied with no weak hand. Nerea, as she grew up, was 
 able, in some sort, to repay the kindness of her parent. 
 She had learned to traverse the jMamertine prison, 
 and to aid her father in his custody. She knew each 
 
THE MARTYR. 55 
 
 cell, and could reach it with speed and certainty in 
 the hours of darkness, and though her nature was 
 sensitive, yet was it kind and compassionate, and so 
 she took a deep interest, if not a pleasure, in visiting 
 the cells, and supplying comforts to its inmates, as 
 far as the prison discipline would allow. Nerea was, 
 therefore, well known in her own locality ; and when 
 at early morning, or eventide, she passed towards the 
 Palatine Bridge, on her way to the gardens on the 
 further side of the Tiber, or even, on rare occasions, 
 ventured to thread her way across the Forum, there 
 was always sure to be a ready hand to remove from 
 her path any casual obstruction. JNIany a commiserat- 
 ing and respectful look was turned on her, and many 
 a kind greeting was offered to the blind girl of the 
 Mamertine. 
 
 When Valentine was thrown into the Mamertine 
 prison, which was some weeks previous to the visit of 
 Callistus, Nerea's occupation brought her acquainted 
 with him. His resignation under his trial quickly 
 interested the girl in no ordinary degree. Her kind 
 and compassionate attention to him excited on his 
 part a corresponding interest in her. And the Chris- 
 tian found, unexpectedly, that Providence had afforded 
 him, even in his dungeon, an opportunity of preach- 
 in? the faith for which he was then in bonds, that 
 
S6 ST. VALENTINE'S DAV. 
 
 occupied his mind and alleviated his sorrow. By de- 
 grees he opened to her the sublime truths of his re- 
 ligion, and in his auditress he found a willing disciple. 
 The infirmity of the poor girl, while it shut her out, 
 in a great measure, from the contemplation of sen- 
 sible objects, left her mind free for the reception of 
 the things that lie beyond and above the senses. 
 And so, from day to day, she listened to the disclo- 
 sure of the unseen realities of spiritual life, and her 
 soul meditated upon them in the hours of that bodily 
 darkness which was ever present to her. Thus it 
 was that when, by her assistance, a sure message was 
 conveyed to the Christian band which was then suffer- 
 ing from the recently revived persecution in Rome, 
 and that Callistus visited the cell of Valentine, she 
 had so far advanced in the knowledge and belief of 
 the true faith as to be accounted fit for the ceremony 
 of imposition of hands and anointing of the eyes, 
 which the bishop, on the assurance of her catechist, 
 had administered. 
 
 Who shall describe the sensations of awe and amaze- 
 ment, of delight and holy thankfulness which agi- 
 tated the soul of the once blind maiden, when the 
 light of day, beaming upon her eyes, disclosed to 
 them the innumerable wonders of the fair world 
 around her ? Who shall tell the joy of her father's 
 
THE MARTYR. 57 
 
 heart at the marvellous and to him searce credible 
 event ? Weeping upon the bosom of her parent all 
 was told. Asterius hastened to the cell, and poured 
 forth his gratitude in disordered words. And Valen- 
 tine lost not the opportunity which the occasion of- 
 fered. In profound and humble adoration, the saint 
 first poured out his heart before the Father of light 
 and life, and then directed the agitated heart of his 
 keeper to the knowledge of Him by whose power 
 the miracle was wrought. And then the young maid 
 silently joined them, and the three remained together 
 for many hours, the priest teaching, the parent and 
 child listening. So the work of conversion went on, 
 and two more souls were added to the Church of 
 Christ. 
 
 Meantime the strange event was noised abroad, 
 first in vague and conflicting rumours, and then more 
 circumstantially, till at length the fame of it reached 
 the ears of the prefect of the city. The jurisdiction 
 of that officer was, at the time we write of, most 
 comprehensive, embracing not only matters of police, 
 but almost every civil and criminal case. Duty cast 
 upon him the investigation of the report. A rigid 
 inquiry followed, which resulted in the establishing 
 of the fact, and the manner in which it had taken 
 place. It was too momentous, both as regarded the 
 
58 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 religion of the State and the position of the Chris- 
 tians, to be dealt with by the prefect, and, in the ab- 
 sence of the Emperor Claudius (then in Pannonia), 
 the magistrate referred without delay to the Senate 
 an occurrence which he deemed involving the crime 
 of sorcery, Asterius and Nerea were summoned to 
 the presence of that august tribunal. Proof of the 
 fact was easy, for many were there who could attest 
 that she who tranquill)', almost fearlessly, raised her 
 mild intelligent eyes to look on her judges was in- 
 deed the blind daughter of the keeper of the Mamer- 
 tine. But proof was needed not: father and daughter 
 avowed the fact, and declared that they, too, were 
 Christians. The double crime of being disciples of 
 the false religion, and implicated in practices of for- 
 bidden arts and sorcery, was established "against Val- 
 entine, Asterius, and Nerea. The former was con- 
 demned to death, and the two latter were removed, 
 and cast fettered into the prison where they had so 
 often tended others, and ministered to the comforts 
 of the sufferinsr. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Morning dawned upon the Imperial City, and the 
 rays of the sun shone down upon the palaces of the 
 
THE MARTYR. ' 59 
 
 Caesars, the domes of temples, and the summits of 
 triumphal arches and lofty columns. It was the i6th 
 day of the kalends of March, being, according to our 
 computation of time, the 14th of February. 
 
 As the rays of day penetrated through the open- 
 ing high up in the wall of one of the cells in the 
 Mamertine prison, it diffused through the dungeon 
 a dim and partial twilight, which fell upon the figures 
 of four persons. With three of these we are already 
 familiar. Valentine lay in profound meditation on 
 his pallet, and near him were seated, also in bonds, 
 Asterius and Nerea ; the fourth wore the garb of a 
 soldier of the prefect's guard, — the watch who had 
 been set on the prisoners during the night ; but, as 
 he turned his face, the light fell upon its features 
 and revealed those of Callistus. Through the agency 
 of some friends of Asterius, the bishop had contrived 
 to assume the dress and take the place of the soldier 
 whose duty it was during that night to keep watch 
 upon the prisoners within the cell, and thus was he 
 enabled to minister comfort and spiritual consolation 
 to them during this season of sore trial, and for the 
 last time to partake of the sacred elements with Val- 
 entine. And now Callistus advanced towards Valen- 
 tine, and touching him with his hand, said : — 
 
 "Brother, I may not tarry much longer; the light 
 
6o ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 of morning is growing strong, and the watch will soon 
 come to relieve me." 
 
 Valentine arose, and answered : — 
 
 *' It is, indeed, even as thou sayest, and my time 
 draws nigh. I am now ready to be offered up. Shall 
 I not rejoice that I am accounted worthy to suffer, 
 even as did our beloved Paul himself, who lay in 
 chains and darkness in this very dungeon where we 
 now are .^" 
 
 "Is there, then, no hope of escape.?" said Asterius. 
 " Hast thou conveyed my message and the ring to 
 him whom I mentioned, O Callistus .?" 
 
 " I have so done," replied the bishop ; " but hope 
 of aid in that quarter is vain, — the Senate may not 
 be interfered with on this point." 
 
 " Yet there is one other chance of life left for 
 Valentine. Say thou wilt permit it } Ah, will not 
 I and mine joyfully peril life and limb for him who 
 has given me and my Nerea light and life ?" 
 
 The bishop shook his head dissentingly ; but Val- 
 entine arose, and said almost sternly : — 
 
 "Is this, then, Asterius, the fruit that thou bear- 
 est of my teaching.? Wouldst thou violate the law, 
 and oppose thyself to the powers that are set over 
 us } Surely I have shown thee that they are ordained 
 of God, and that obedience to them in all things 
 
THE MARTYR. 6i 
 
 that God permits them to enforce, is the Christian's 
 duty. Grieve my spirit no more with such thoughts, 
 but let the few moments that remain for us to pass 
 together be employed to a better purpose. Father," 
 he continued, turning towards Callistus, "what hinders 
 that these should be baptized .^ I have already in- 
 structed them thereunto, and I would the more joy- 
 fully leave this earthly tabernacle knowing that these 
 my children in the Lord had received the gift and 
 grace, and that, in the day when He maketh up his 
 jewels, they too may be His." 
 
 "I will do thy desire in this matter, dear brother," 
 answered the bishop. " I may the more safely dis- 
 pense with the longer probation which the Church in 
 ordinary cases wisely directs, seeing that the hand 
 of| God has visibly vv^orked in their case, and also 
 that they are. themselves in peril of their lives, and a 
 more convenient opportunity may never arise." 
 
 Saying this, the good bishop took the vase of water 
 which stood beside the pallet, and pouring forth 
 some of it into the drinking cup, prepared himself 
 for the solemn rite. ^Meantime, Asterius and Nerea, 
 having been previously instructed by Valentine as to 
 their deportment and duty, stood forward before the 
 bishop, turning their faces towards the west, and 
 stretching out their fettered hands, each in turn 
 said: — 
 
62 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 '■^ 1 renounce Satan and his works, and his pomps, and 
 his service, and his angels, and his inventions, and all 
 things that belong to him or are subject to him.''' 
 
 Then they struck their hands together, to denote 
 more emphatically by gesture their abhorrence of 
 their great spiritual adversary. After this renunci- 
 ation came the vow or covenant of obedience to their 
 new Master. As in the former ceremony, the early 
 Christians turned towards the west as the region of 
 darkness, whose power they renounced, so in this 
 they changed their position, facing the east, — the 
 region of light, the place of the rising sun, which 
 was the type of the Sun of Righteousness whom they 
 now sought, and by this change symbolizing their 
 turning from darkness to light— from Satan to Christ. 
 Thus turning, and with hands and eyes lifted up to 
 Heaven, the parent and child made th^ir profession 
 in the appointed words: — 
 
 '' I give myself up to thee, Christ, to be governed by 
 thy laws." 
 
 Then Callistus put to them several questions with 
 regard to their belief in the summary of faith contain- 
 ed in the creed, which when they had answered, he 
 took the water, and making over it the sign of the 
 cross, consecrated it by the prayer used in the liturgy 
 of the ancient Church. After this he divested them 
 
THE MARTYR. 63 
 
 of their garments, so far as their bonds would permit,- 
 and performed the rite of baptism by aspersion, or 
 sprinkling, which was, on extraordinary occasions, 
 then allowed to be substituted for the more general 
 practice of immersion, and signing their foreheads 
 thrice with the sign of the cross in the name of the 
 Persons of the Trinity, he admitted them into the 
 visible Church of Christ. 
 
 The sacrament Avas scarce administered when the 
 measured tread of feet without the door warned those 
 in the prison that the time for relieving the watch 
 had arrived. Callistus, lifting up his hands, bestowed 
 on the three the benediction which was given to the 
 Christians : — 
 
 " The Lord bless thee and keep thee ; The Lord lift up 
 the light of his countenance upon thee and bless thee." 
 
 Then he flung himself upon the neck of Valentine, 
 and cried, "Alas! my brother, the Lord support 
 thee." And Valentine replied : — 
 
 " Surely, I know He will ; but weep not for me, for 
 I feel to die is gain." 
 
 Upon this the clank of the opening door was heard, 
 and Callistus said softly : — 
 
 "The Lord keep thee in all thy ways. Assuredly 
 I will be near thee at the last." 
 
 Then placing on his head the helmet, and con- 
 
64 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 cealing his person in the folds of his robe, he ad- 
 vanced to the entrance of the prison, and passed 
 forth. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The dawn of morning had brightened into broad 
 daylight, Rome had shaken off her night-sleep, and 
 life was again astir in her. By degrees the busy 
 crowds were again pouring into the streets ; the fo- 
 rums began to fill with occupants ; the waggons were 
 entering the city from the country, and the bustle of 
 daily traffic was once more resumed. Groups of per- 
 sons began insensibly to congregate about the Arch 
 of Septimius Severus, and the Temples of Concord, 
 of Fortune, and of Jupiter Tonans. Others might 
 be seen ranged in tiers along the steps that wound 
 round the Mamertine prison from the eastern angle 
 of it, and ominously named the Scala Gemomce, from 
 the groans of those who thus ascended to the dun- 
 geons ; while more began to perch themselves be- 
 tween the pillars which formed the long colonnade of 
 the Tabularium, whence they looked down upon the 
 scene below. It was manifest, from the expectant 
 looks of the people, and the disposition to take up 
 
THE MARTYR. 65 
 
 their position on the highest steps they could attain, 
 that some spectacle had drawn them together. Every 
 favourable spot for observation was now occupied by 
 dense masses of people, when a little man forced his 
 way hurriedly up the flight of steps leading to the 
 portico of the temple of Concord. Touching the 
 foot of a man who stood above him, the new-arrived 
 addressed him in a breathless tone : — 
 
 "I beseech thee, by all the gods, dear Simo, give 
 me thine hand that I may climb up beside thee." 
 
 " Impossible, Fabius," said he who was thus ear- 
 nestly entreated. " Were I to stoop down to aid thee, 
 I would lose my balance and fall from my place ; 
 besides, there is not room here for a lizard." 
 
 "Nay, but indeed thou must not desert me in this 
 strait, Simo. I will not take much space, thou know- 
 est ; and I promise thee we shall have a cup of wine 
 together when all is over. I will repay thee that 
 thou lost to Thraso the other day, and with usury." 
 This last argument was not without effect. Simo 
 made shift to give the barber his hand, and with 
 some difficulty and disturbance of his neighbours at 
 both sides, who did not fail to vent their annoyance 
 in that choice phraseology in which the Roman popu- 
 lace were adepts, the little man was hoisted up by 
 the side of his friend. 
 
 F 
 
66 ST. VALENTIXE'S DAT. 
 
 " How happens it, Fabius, that thou art so late 
 to-day ? It is not thy wont to be the last where 
 aught is to be seen or heard." 
 
 "Thou sayest true, Simo. I was just stepping out 
 of my shop, a good half hour since, when one who 
 would not be denied entered, and sitting down, forced 
 me to shave his beard. But hast seen aught yet ?" 
 
 " Nothing : but tell me, what knowest thou of this 
 matter ? " 
 
 " What know I ? Much, my masters," — for the little 
 barber always made it a point to address himself to 
 every one within hearing. "This Valentinus is one 
 of the most obstinate of this Jewish sect, and, like 
 his creed, bears no loyalty to Caesar, or love to the 
 gods. Not only did he refuse to do sacrifice to the 
 gods, but he blasphemed and contemned them, and 
 averred there was no God but he who raised the in- 
 surrection in Judea at the time of our Emperor Ti- 
 berius." 
 
 " They are truly an arrogant sect, and disturbers 
 of public tranquillity withal," said one of the group. 
 
 "Ay," responded another, "'tis a malignant super- 
 stition; they hate mankind, and practise in secret 
 loathsome rites. I have heard that they partake of 
 Thyestean feasts, devouring young children and 
 drinkine: their blood." 
 
THE AIARTYR. 67 
 
 "But you have not yet heard the strangest piece 
 of this fellow's audacity," resumed the barber. "You 
 all know, doubtless, how that it pleased the gods to 
 give sight to the blind girl Nerea, when she was 
 lately praying in the Temple of the goddess Fortuna 
 hard by. Well, this Valentinus, hearing of the mi- 
 racle, gives out that it was he wrought it through the 
 power of his God. And he had so bewitched the 
 girl with his spells and potions, that she would not 
 gainsay him, though it is alleged there were many 
 witnesses present in the Temple when she was 
 cured." 
 
 " Hush," cried Simo, " here comes the prefect's 
 guard ; they will pass near us presently." 
 
 As he spoke the eyes of all were turned in the ' 
 direction in which he pointed. A strong guard of 
 soldiers was seen moving from the base of the steps 
 leading to the IMamertine prison. Presently they 
 came opposite the spot where Fabius and his auditors 
 were collected. In the midst of the company of 
 soldiers walked one on whom all eyes were fixed — 
 a man about the prime of life, and of the middle 
 stature. His bared head was erect, and the brown 
 hair fell adown it in light curls. His full blue eyes 
 were turned slightly towards heaven, as in contem- 
 plation of things beyond the earth. Full of sweet- 
 
 F2 
 
68 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 ness and love was his whole countenance, and there 
 played around it a soft and almost radiant expres- 
 sion, which resembled less a smile than the influence 
 of some rapturous feeling. Firmly and calmly he 
 walked along ; and when the shouts and revilings 
 of the brutal populace from time to time assailed 
 him, he looked up at his persecutors with unper- 
 turbed eyes, that had more of pity than anger in their 
 placid survey. Such was Valentine, the Christian 
 priest, who, by the sentence of the Senate, was now 
 led forth to his execution. The band of soldiers, 
 with their prisoner, moved slowly onwards through 
 the crowds that pressed upon them on every side, 
 and, winding along the base of the Capitoline Hill, 
 they passed the forums of Augustus and Trajan, and 
 through the ancient wall of the city, built by Servius 
 Tullius, into the Flaminian Way. The populace in 
 the forums, as soon as the party had passed, rushed 
 forward, by various ways, through the Campus Mar- 
 tius, to gain the Flaminian Gate, and the whole of 
 that long road which now forms the magnificent 
 street of the Corso was lined with a dense mass of 
 human beings as Valentine and his guards passed 
 along. At length they reached the gate in the walls 
 of Honorius and Valerian, which then formed the 
 northern boundary of the city, and passed into the 
 
THE MARTYR. 69 
 
 open space beyond it. Here was the spot upon which 
 preparation had been made for carrying into execu- 
 tion the sentence against the Christian. Being placed 
 in the midst, the prefect of the city came forward, 
 and, for the last time, put to him the question which 
 was to decide his fate, — for it was the established 
 custom, even at the last moment, to remit the sen- 
 tence, if the condemned renounced his faith and 
 sacrificed to the gods. 
 
 " Valentinus, art thou a Christian ?" 
 
 And Valentine said : — 
 
 "lam." 
 
 Then the prefect again addressed him, and said : — 
 
 " Wilt thou renounce Christ, and swear by the 
 name of Caesar } — wilt thou do sacrifice to the gods ?" 
 
 Whereupon Valentine replied : — 
 
 " Thy gods are the work of men's hands, and thy 
 religion the device of their corrupt hearts. There 
 is no god but the God whom Christians serve." 
 
 At a sign from the prefect two men came forward, 
 and they stripped Valentine of his outward robe, so 
 that he stood in his tunic. At this moment an old 
 soldier from behind touched him, and said softly : — 
 
 " Courage, Valentine. Be strong in the Lord." 
 
 The face of the priest beamed with joyful alacrity 
 as he recognised the voice of Callistus. 
 
70 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 " Dominus illuminatio mea," cried he, looking up. 
 " The Lord is my light in this hour of my trial with 
 the powers of darkness. God is our refuge and 
 strength, — a very present help. In him have I put 
 my trust ; I will not be afraid what man can do 
 unto me." 
 
 The soldiers were then proceeding to tie a ban- 
 dage around his eyes ; but Valentine said gently : — 
 
 " Suffer me to depart with unmuffled sight. I would 
 willingly look my last upon the heavens." 
 
 The men, apparently moved by his entreaty, looked 
 towards the prefect, who suffered his request to be 
 granted, being contented that his hands should be 
 bound. While this was doing, the Christian priest 
 seemed to lose sight of the things around him, and 
 to be absorbed wholly in spiritual contemplation. 
 His eyes were intently fixed on the bright sky, to 
 the eastward, and his lips moved with words which 
 the multitude understood not. But one there was, 
 nigh at hand, who knew them, and rejoiced in the 
 midst of the trial of his brother, as he heard these 
 ejaculations : — 
 
 " Who shall separate us from the love of Christ } 
 Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, 
 or nakedness, or peril, or sword .^" 
 
 " In all these things we are more than conquerors, 
 through Him that loved us. 
 
THE MARTYR. 71 
 
 " Neither death nor life, nor angels, nor princi- 
 palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things 
 to come, shall be able to separate us from the love of 
 God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." 
 
 Callistus bowed his head in resignation and hope. 
 
 "Father," sighed he, "not our will, but thine be 
 done." 
 
 A swaying of the multitude, and a shout, caused 
 him to look up; and the headless and bleeding trunk 
 of the martyr, Valentine, lay before him ! 
 
 *'The blood of the mart}TS is the seed of the Church." 
 The blood of God's saints was not shed in vain on 
 the soil of pagan Rome. Scarce a century elapsed 
 before a Church, bearing his name, stood on the 
 spot where Valentine had suffered ; and in later time, 
 another was erected to his memor}^, near the Ponte 
 Molo ; and when Christian emperors swayed the 
 Roman sceptre, the Fiaminian Way and Gate, through 
 which the saint passed on his way to his martyrdom, 
 were known as the Via and Porta Valentiniana. 
 
 The stranger who now visits Rome may wander 
 over the scene of our story ; yet how changed its 
 aspect and fortunes ! He can enter through the mag- 
 
72 ST. VALENTINE' S DAY. 
 
 nificent gate, the " Porta di Popolo," which the genius 
 of Canina has constructed, and pass down through 
 the palaces that line the Corso on either side. He 
 may wander through her forums ; but he will look 
 in vain for the living grandeur of the imperial city — 
 
 " tra 1' erbe 
 
 Cercando i grandi avanzi e le superbe 
 Reliquie dello splendor latino." 
 
 Her temples are prostrate ; her palaces unroofed 
 and in ruins; her arches and columns defaced and 
 broken. All so changed that the antiquarian pauses 
 often in doubt, amidst the lonely and half-unburied 
 ruins around, before he will venture to pronounce to 
 what temple belong the still beautiful shafts that 
 meet his eye, or fix the spot where the citizens met 
 in their assembly, or the orators pleaded for their 
 clients. 
 
 Yet over the pagan ruins and the pagan memories 
 rise on every side the Christian shrines. Many a 
 cross is now planted, and many a pilgrim prays in 
 the area of that circus which drank the blood of 
 Christ's saints, as it flowed in rivers on its stones. 
 And if the memory of Valentine arise to the mind, 
 as the visitor lingers near the Roman Forum let 
 
THE MARTYR. 73 
 
 him turn his footsteps to the Church of San Pietro 
 in Carcere, and he will be shown the Mamertine 
 prison, with some of its steps still remaining ; and the 
 cell where Paul lay in chains, and Valentine made 
 converts. 
 
 Note. — St. Valentine, whose festival day is the 14th Februan-, 
 is called a Bishop in someof the modem Calendars; but the ancient 
 historians of the Church and all the l^Iartyrologies which I have 
 been able to consult call him simply "Presbyter.'' There was, no 
 doubt, an African bishop of that name, but he who suffered martyr- 
 dom in Rome had not attained to that rank in the Church. 
 
ISa&ter Bag. 
 
 ST. MARY'S-SUPER-MARE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH, 
 
 Hamlet. — Has this fellow no feeling of his business ? he sings 
 
 at grave-making. 
 Horatio. — Custom has made it in him a property of easiness. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 F I am to have the selection of the place of 
 my last repose — which it is not at all likely 
 that I shall — I know no spot of earth where 
 I should more willingly lie down and stretch my bones 
 at full length, than in the churchyard of St. Mary's- 
 super-Mare. There is not a sweeter, sunnier nook 
 in the south of England; a greener or a softer sod 
 one may find nowhere ; a calmer or more sequestered 
 
ST. MARY' S-SUPER-MARE. 75 
 
 hiding-place, where the life-wearied soul may lay 
 down his burden of humanity till the great day when 
 he shall once more clothe himself in his mortal coil. 
 Not, indeed, that I am very fastidious about such 
 matters; though I confess to a weakness, if you will 
 so call it. I would not wish to lie in a city burial- 
 ground, huddled away into some close, smoky cor- 
 ner, intruding upon the former tenant of the spot, 
 and in my turn to be disturbed and disarranged for 
 the next visitant; committing posthumous offences 
 against society, by adding to the poisonous miasma 
 of the thronged and festering charnel-house. 
 
 'Twas a fine, bright, airy day in the end of March. 
 The wind swept freshly over the dark, solemn yew 
 trees in the churchyard, and whistled through the 
 louvred windows of the church tower, shaping itself 
 into wild, strange voices, that rose and fell fitfully 
 upon the ear. Upon the western side of the church- 
 yard, just where the shadows of the yew trees in- 
 vaded the bright golden sunshine that fell upon the 
 greensward — for the sun had now passed the meri- 
 dian some hours, and was sinking in the heavens — 
 a hale old man, in a smock frock, with thick-soled 
 shoes, and old leathern leggings, was delving knee- 
 deep in the soil. 'Twas the sexton at his customary 
 occupation, digging a grave. From time to time he 
 
76 EASTER DAY. 
 
 sang, in a low, pleasant voice, a snatch of an old 
 ballad to cheer him at his toil ; and, as he met now 
 and then a bone, he tilted it up lightly on his mat- 
 tock, and laid it aside, with that habitual care which 
 a gardener would show in removing a stone from a 
 flower-bed, but without any of that reverence which 
 is generally felt for the remains of the dead. Two 
 or tliree little children were sporting about, hiding 
 behind the tomb-stones, and now and then showing 
 their merry, chubby faces, glowing with health, above 
 some white, cold slab, laughing out shrilly, and mock- 
 ing and flouting, as it were, the chill, stern repose 
 of death. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Robin," said a voice near the 
 old man; "I have been looking for you down in the 
 village, and the old dame told me I would find you 
 here." 
 
 The sexton looked up, and saw a young farmer 
 of the neighbourhood, who had been lately married. 
 "Ah! Master Gubbins, is that you.? Good after- 
 noon to you. And how is your pretty mistress, these 
 times.?" 
 
 "Faith, bravely, Robin. But I want a cast of your 
 office." 
 
 The old fellow looked at the young one with a 
 subdued humour, such as a sexton might be supposed 
 not improperly to indulge in, as he asked, — 
 
ST. MARF'S-SUPER-MARE. 77 
 
 "What office, Master Gubbins? Nothing this way, 
 I suppose ?" and he cast up a mattock- full of fresh 
 loam by way of illustration. 
 
 " Oh no, thankee ; no, not just at present," answered 
 the farmer, with a hearty laugh. " We shall have 
 a few of the neighbours at the Grange this evening, 
 and my 3Iissus sent me to fetch you and the fiddle • 
 she says there'll be no sport without you." 
 
 "Business first, Master Gubbins; business first, and 
 pleasure after. This here job must be finished in 
 an hour ; the parson sent word that the funeral would 
 be here by four o'clock. 
 
 "Whose funeral, goodman?" asked the farmer; 
 "who is dead in these parts .'^" 
 
 "Oh, only the lady that came last month with 
 her husband to lodge down at Dame Ashley's. No- 
 body knows anything about them but the young cu- 
 rate, for they never stirred out except of an evening 
 to take a walk. The old dame says she was far gone 
 in a decline when she came here, and the poor thing 
 wasted away from day to day. They say the gentle- 
 man is a painter, or something of that sort, from 
 London. Well, IMaster Gubbins, I'll be off to the 
 Grange as soon as the funeral is over, and I have 
 laid the last sod on this here grave. It won't be my 
 fault, by no means, if you haven't a merry night 
 on't." 
 
78 EASTER DAY. 
 
 The old fellow thereupon set to digging with re- 
 doubled energy, and the young man went his way. 
 After a time old Robin rested on his mattock, 
 and surveyed his work with the self-satisfied air of 
 a man who is proud of his skill ; then he gave an 
 artistic touch or two along the margin to make it 
 smooth and trim ; and, wiping his face with the 
 sleeve of his frock, he sat down on the edge of 
 the grave, and drawing from his pocket a piece of 
 bread and some cheese, he commenced to munch them 
 leisurely. It was a strange subject for contempla- 
 tion — that hard-featured old man sitting in the grave 
 which he had just prepared for the young and 
 lovely dead — sitting and eating, and then smoking 
 his pipe, and sucking in his lean jaws as he inhaled 
 the pleasant odour! Life and Death, as it were, 
 meeting upon neutral ground, and suspending for a 
 season their ancient, world-long feud, and looking 
 each upon the other with undisturbed eye. And yet 
 is it not well that it should be so? If every living 
 man may say, as truly as did David to Jonathan, 
 "there is but one step between me and death;" — 
 if the darker phantom ever follows the brighter one, 
 as closely as the shadow follows upon the sunlight ; 
 — if, in the words of one of our poets — words strangely 
 prophetic of his own destiny — 
 
ST. MARr S-SUPER-MARE. 79 
 
 "Death is here, and death is there, 
 Death is busy everywhere ; 
 All around — within, beneath. 
 Above is death, and we are death !" — 
 
 is it not indeed well that man should learn to fami- 
 liarise himself with the contemplation of a doom that 
 is inevitable? It is God's ordinance, and Nature's 
 prompting, that man shall cherish and love his life 
 — that he shall do with diligence whatsoever his hand 
 findeth to do, undismayed by any slavish fear of 
 death. We may not indeed rob death of his power, 
 though we may disarm him of his terrors; not by a 
 brutish insensibility, but by a manly preparation. For 
 my own part, I believe that the man who thinks most 
 upon death is practically most energetic in the use 
 of life. Above all, he will be so if he look upon the 
 grave not only as the gate of death, but as the gate 
 of life too. And so while, like old Robin, he may 
 walk all day amongst tombs, he will do more; he 
 will in thought stoop down and enter in, as did the 
 disciples, and hear spiritual voices proclaiming that 
 death holds no soul in thraldorft — that the occupant 
 of the grave " is not here, for he is risen." 
 
 I am not disposed to think that reflections such as 
 these occupied the mind of the old sexton of St. 
 Mary's-super-Mare. At all events, when he had 
 
8o EASTER DAT. 
 
 finished his frugal meal, and smoked out his pipe, 
 he went to work again right heartily, and ere long 
 completed his task to his entire satisfaction. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE GATE OF DEATH. 
 
 " Von dem Dome, 
 Schwer und bang, 
 Tont die Glocke 
 Grabgesang, 
 
 Ernst begleiten Hire Trauerschlage 
 Einen Wandrer aut dem letzten Wege." 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 The sun had sunk more than half way down the 
 heavens, and the old yew trees cast their shadows 
 longer, and deeper, and more solemn, over the 
 churchyard of St. Mary's-super-Mare. And now the 
 clock chimed out the hour of four ; and then from 
 the tower the bell pealed forth at intervals its slow, 
 monotonous, dirge-like notes — sounds which ever fall 
 sadly on the ear, for they tell of the spirit that has 
 passed away. In a few moments the gate of the 
 churchyard was thrown open, and a funeral proces- 
 sion passed through it, and moved onwards towards 
 the new-made grave. Few, indeed, were they who 
 
ST. MARrS- SUPER-MARE. 8i 
 
 composed that little train ; the half-dozen men who 
 bore the palled coffin, and as many more to relieve 
 them, with one or two of the shopkeepers from the 
 village, and old Dame Ashley's son. Before the 
 coffin walked the young curate of the parish, in his 
 white surplice, reading at intervals those sublime and 
 solemnizing sentences which proclaim Christ as the 
 resurrection and the life, and announce that the dead 
 shall rise in their flesh, and behold the Redeemer 
 with their eyes. And close behind that shell — close, 
 as if he were jealous that even the air of heaven 
 should intervene between him and the all-beloved — 
 w^alked, with bowed head and unsteady step, a young, 
 slight, pale man, noticing nothing around him, ab- 
 sorbed in the silent grief that gave no outward sign. 
 And now the psalms are said, and the coffin is 
 lowered down to its final resting-place, and the 
 young curate has pronounced those versicles so 
 deeply confessing man's misery and weakness ; so 
 full of wailing humiliation, of importunate prayer, 
 that no one can hear them for the first time with an 
 unmoistened eye, nor for the hundredth time with an 
 unmoved heart. And the poor bereaved husband 
 stood the while at the grave's edge, and hung over 
 as if he too would have fallen into it ; and he hid 
 his face in his hands, that none might see his grief; 
 
 G 
 
83 EASTER DAY. 
 
 and when old Robin, fixing his eye on the curate, 
 flung down, with all the precision of a practised 
 hand, the clay upon the coffin — once — twice — thrice — 
 the mourner shuddered sensibly, as if then, indeed, 
 he felt that death had come in bodily form and 
 ravished for ever from him the life of his life, thrust- 
 ing a cold hand into his bosom and plucking 'forth 
 his heart, leaving him to live henceforth as best he 
 might without it. 
 
 How long he may have remained thus insensible 
 to external objects, the young man knew not. At 
 length a hand was laid gently upon his shoulder, and 
 a low, kind, yet solemnly cheerful voice addressed 
 him : — 
 
 "Come, my dear !\Ir. Travers, you must not sor- 
 row as one that has no hope. Let me lead you 
 hence, now ; you must come with me to my quiet 
 bachelor's fireside. If I may not minister to your 
 consolation, I shall not at least disturb your sorrow. 
 Come, my dear sir." 
 
 The young widower looked up. All had gone 
 from the churchyard except themselves and old 
 Robin, the sexton, who was methodically replacing 
 the green sods upon the grave, already filled up. 
 Travers mastered his emotion sufficiently to reply to 
 the curate :— 
 
ST. MARr S-SUPER-MARE. 83 
 
 " Sir, I thank you ; but I cannot, indeed I cannot — 
 at least not just now. I would be alone, if you 
 please." 
 
 The curate knew enough of the human heart, and 
 of the man beside him, to be sensible how vain a 
 thing it is to reason down human sorrow in the first 
 rush of its overflow ; and he had seen enough of 
 the sweet spirit, whose body lay beneath them, not to 
 wonder at the intensity of the survivor's grief. So 
 he pressed kindly his hand, and went his way in 
 silence. Old Robin, meantime, worked away with 
 the imperturbable steadiness of forty years' profes- 
 sional habit. He had witnessed such scenes as this 
 oftener than he could number. Some people might 
 grieve more, and some less ; one might linger at the 
 grave side longer than another; but then Robin did 
 not take any note of these distinctions, and he ranged 
 them all in the common category of "folks that take 
 
 on for a while at first, and then " So, when he 
 
 had laid down the last sod, and given it a final pat- 
 ting with the back of his mattock, he shouldered 
 that implement, and took his departure to get his 
 fiddle, and contribute to the pleasures of the evening 
 at Farmer Gubbins's, of the Grange. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 EASTER DAY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE GRAVE. 
 "As the cloud is consumed and vanished away; so he that 
 goeth down to the grave shall come up no more." — Job, vii. 9. 
 
 Lower and lower sunk the sun in the heavens ; and 
 deeper and deeper fell the shadows of the dark yew 
 trees athwart the churchyard of St. Mary's-super- 
 Mare, till they swallowed up in their gloom the 
 new-made grave wherein the young dead had been 
 so lately placed. One lay stretched along the cold, 
 damp sod, motionless in all the abandonment of 
 despair. At length, Frederick Travers arose slowly 
 from the ground, and sat down upon a tombstone 
 close by the grave of his beloved. Then passed in 
 review before his mind the events of the last few 
 months ; yet dim in their colouring, and indistinct 
 in their outlines, more like the visions of a distem- 
 pered dream, or the figures which the shade of the 
 phantasmagoria cast upon the screen at midnight, 
 than the realities of life. There stood before him 
 the fair young maiden, high-born and tenderly nur- 
 tured ; she whom he had long loved in secret with 
 a hopeless, yet irrepressible passion. Then came the 
 
Sr. MARr S-SUPER-MARE. 85 
 
 sweet, yet tumultuous hour of the heart's revelations, 
 when the head of the proud, rich man's daughter 
 lay on the bosom of the poor painter, and the pure, 
 meek, loving soul of the maiden confessed the power 
 of genius and of worth. Another scene, and the 
 tearful, trembling girl steals forth in the shadow of 
 the evening, and the painter meets her, and leads 
 her lovingly, yet reverently, as he would have guided 
 a stainless angel out of heaven, till he places her 
 beneath his matron sister's roof. Yet another scene, 
 and the merry bells peal out in a far-away sylvan 
 hamlet — the homestead of his happy boyhood ; and 
 now, a happier man, he leads the patrician's daugh- 
 ter to the altar steps, and she becomes the painter's 
 bride. Ah ! how bright are the colours that paint 
 this scene upon his memory and his brain I how 
 tender and warm the light that bathes and enwraps 
 these two blissful creatures that pass along the field 
 of imagination's vision ! But, lo ! the light fades, the 
 shadows arise, and the scene changes. See that fair 
 young matron again — oh ! too fair now, for the roses 
 on that sweet cheek are paling; the lustre in that 
 pure, deep well of truthfulness — that meek, dove-like 
 eye — is growing dim and troublous ; for a father's 
 curse has found her, and the breath of the maledic- 
 tion withers her beauty, and weighs down her soul ! 
 Then comes sickness of body with sorrow of heart ; 
 
86 EASTER DAY. 
 
 the wasting form — the feeble limbs. And now they 
 seek a milder region ; and with trembling haste and 
 troubled heart, her husband bears her southward. 
 Then comes another change — fading, fading, day by 
 day — the curse ever preying upon her gentle and 
 remorseful soul. Yet does she cling with an un- 
 divided and undiminished love to him for whom she 
 has given up so much in this world — for whom she 
 has risked so much in the world to come. And he, 
 the poor, stricken, maddened husband, how does he 
 cling to hope, even where there is no room to hope ! 
 how does he watch, and tend, and crush down to 
 calmness, for her sake, the agony of a bursting and 
 rebellious heart ! But in vain, all in vain : the gloom 
 deepens, deepens into the darkness of night, as the 
 last scene rises to view — the sick chamber, the heavy 
 air — the closed curtains, the long, long, deep night 
 of unuttered — unutterable sorrow and silent watch- 
 ing ; the quick-drawn breathing, the fluttering pulse, 
 the languid head, tossing restlessly in a vain eifort 
 for repose : then comes the wan, sickly, cold dawn 
 of the morning, and then the dim eye lightens with 
 a faint illumination of ineftable love ; and the poor, 
 thin, w^hite hand faintly presses his own ; and then — 
 but he sees no more : the vision vanishes ; the dream 
 gives place to the horrible reality before him — a green 
 fresh mound swelling up above the black earth that 
 
ST. MARrS-SUPER-JIARE. 87 
 
 holds what was his all in the world. And where is 
 she now ? Can the grave answer him that awful 
 question ? What hope is there beyond the tomb ? 
 The black shadow of the yew trees hung like a 
 heavy mantle over that grave, and the words of Job 
 came across his soul as an answer to his question. 
 "I go whence I shall not return; even to the land 
 of darkness, and the shadow of death. A land of 
 darkness, even as darkness itself and of the shadow 
 of death, without any order, and where the light is 
 darkness." With a bitter, despairing cry, he closed 
 his eyes, and fell back upon the tombstone. 
 
 When Travers arose to consciousness from the 
 stupor of his grief, the short twilight had faded 
 away, and given place to night. The thin, pale cres- 
 cent of the young moon was now glittering in a 
 blue, tranquil sky, and myriads of stars were diffus- 
 ing their tremulous light through the vault of hea- 
 ven, and down upon the low-lying earth ; but they 
 brought no comfort to the soul of the mourner; his 
 grief was yet too fresh and too strong to endure 
 consolation. All things on earth spoke to him of 
 gloom and sorrow ; all in heaven of a majesty remote, 
 sublime, serene, and inaccessible — untouched, as it 
 were, with a feeling of man's infirmity or misfor- 
 tune ; too high for man's degradation ; too holy for 
 man's sinfulness. Yes, that moon and those stars 
 
88 EASTER DAY. 
 
 spoke to him in language of awful reproof; their 
 light fell upon his spirit but to make it all the 
 darker. " How," they seemed to say, " can man be 
 justified with God ? or how can he be clean that is 
 born of a woman ? Behold even to the moon, and 
 it shineth not ; yea, the stars are not pure in his 
 sight. How much less man, that is a worm ; and 
 the son of man, which is a worm." 
 
 With slow and tottering steps the young man 
 passed forth from the dwellings of the dead. At 
 the gate of the churchyard he turned once again to 
 look at the grave of her whom he had loved so 
 truly; but it was now undistinguishable in the gloom 
 of night. A dreadful hopelessness chilled his heart. 
 He felt as the father of his race may have felt when 
 he turned his steps from Eden, and saw the sword 
 of the cherubim intercept his return for ever. Aye, 
 there stood Azrael with his sword, separating the 
 living from the dead : the dead ! oh, mystery of 
 mysteries ! where are they } what are they } " The 
 living know that they shall die ; but the dead know 
 not anything, neither have they any more a reward, 
 for the memory of them is forgotten. Also their 
 love, and their hatred, and their envy is now pe- 
 rished ; neither have they any more a portion for 
 ever in anything that is done under the sun." 
 
Sr. MA Rr S- SUPER-MA RE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE LIGHT FROM THE CROSS. 
 " To them which sat m the region and shadow of death light 
 is sprung up." — Matt. iv. i6. 
 
 When I see a church, especially in the countr}- 
 parts, rising in the midst of its peaceful graveyard, 
 -with the tombs and graves all around, I feel how 
 strong is the instinct which leads man to seek sup- 
 port and protection from the Deity at that dread 
 hour, when the soul takes her departure from the 
 body upon an untried and unknown journey. How- 
 ever successfully we may withdraw ourselves from 
 God during life. Death, his janitor, is sure to force 
 us at last into his presence. And while the soul 
 awaits her doom from God, men place the body 
 within the precincts of some spot which its maker is 
 supposed more particularly to sanctify ; there to lie 
 till the day when all flesh shall arise, and the soul 
 shall reclothe herself in her garments of humanity. 
 
 The church of St. iMar}'s-super-Mare was one of 
 those beautiful old structures which, in mediaeval 
 times, had arisen through our land : cruciform, with 
 a tow-er rising from the intersection of the transept, 
 whence sprang a tapering spire, surmounted by a 
 
90 EASTER DAY. 
 
 gilded cross. The doorway was pointed gothic, and 
 the eastern window caught the light upon the many- 
 tinctured glass of its ornamented rose. All around 
 lay the graves of the departed, like sheep gathering 
 round the great shepherd ; fearfully, yet confidingly 
 sheltering, as it were, from the influences of the 
 " prince of the power of the air," beneath the guar- 
 dianship of a mightier still, before whom all powers 
 and principalities bow down. The dead that slept 
 here were countless ; but amongst that silent host 
 there was now but one living man, as silent and 
 well nigh as motionless as they. It was Travers : 
 and now he sat once again beside the grave of his 
 dead wife. Through the long night he had kept 
 his vigil of woe in his lonely chamber, and towards 
 the morning's break had fallen, in the exhaustion of 
 his physical strength, into a dull, deep, dreamless 
 sleep, from which he had not awoke till the day 
 was already advanced. And here he was again, 
 drawn by the spell of his deep love, watching over 
 the casket whence Death had stolen the jewel — the 
 broken bowl from which the precious essence had 
 been poured out. How impassable is the trackless 
 gulf between the dead and the living, when Faith is 
 not at hand to bridge it over 1 — how undiscernible 
 the regions where the departed spirits abide, if no 
 light from Revelation dispels the gloom ! Faith was 
 
Sr. niARrS-SUPER-iVARE. 91 
 
 yet weak in the heart of Travers, and the sublime 
 truths of Revelation had been to him hitherto but 
 a cold and barren speculation, that exercised the 
 powers of his reason, but touched not the springs of 
 his affections. And hence it was that doubts and 
 fears distracted him, and the sorrows of death com- 
 passed him round about. Did the sweet spirit that 
 had passed away still exist in its own individuality 
 and consciousness } would it again hold communion 
 with his own spirit, when he, too, should lay down 
 the flesh ? or was it absorbed and lost in the great 
 universal Spirit whence it had issued, even as the 
 ripple sinks back upon the ocean from whose bosom 
 it has arisen } And then his soul inquired — " How 
 are the dead raised up, and with what body do they 
 come?" 
 
 His heart failed him, as all these thoughts crossed 
 his mind, and his soul found no comfort. Deep, 
 dense clouds overcast the face of heaven, and shut 
 out the pleasant light of the sun, and deeper clouds 
 hung over his spirit, as he sat, in the desolation of 
 his heart, with the sense that he had lost his treasure 
 in this Nvorld, without the assurance that he should 
 find it in a world to come. 
 
 " Oh !" cried he, " for some sign from heaven to 
 resolve my doubts — to guide me through the gloom !" 
 
92 EASTER DAY. 
 
 At this moment the clouds, \vhich, since morning, 
 had hung heavily around the sun, were now riven 
 asunder by the light breeze that sprang from the 
 south-west, and out broke the bright sunbeams, al- 
 most from the mid-heaven, and the glorious rays shot 
 downwards, and fell upon the gilded cross on the 
 summit of the steeple, till it glowed like living fire ; 
 then the light went rippling, like a yellow wave, 
 down the sloping side of the spire, till, reaching its 
 base, it leaped across the projecting tower, and there, 
 athwart the fresh green grave, lay the shadow of the 
 cross ! 
 
 When the mind is weakened by suffering, or over- 
 strained by the tension of strong feeling, it is predis- 
 posed towards the supernatural. Travers received the 
 casual illumination of the sunlight as indeed a sign 
 from heaven — as an answer to the cry of his spirit. 
 While he gazed in silent awe upon the grave, a voice 
 spoke to him in solemn yet encouraging accents — 
 " To them that sat in darkness and the shadow of 
 death, light is sprung up." 
 
 Travers raised his eyes reverently; in his excited 
 state of mind, he half expected to see some celestial 
 visitant beside him. The mild, sympathising face of 
 the young curate met his gaze. 
 
 " I have been to seek you at your lodgings, Mr. 
 
ST. MARY' S-SUPER-MARE. 93 
 
 Travers," said he ; " and Dame Ashley told me you 
 had gone out. I had little doubt where I should 
 find you. Come, dear sir, you have indulged your 
 grief as far as it is fitting ; you must now hear the 
 voice of the comforter." 
 
 With a gentle violence the minister constrained 
 the mourner, and taking his arm within his own, 
 they both went forth from the churchyard through a 
 small turnstile that led by a path along the fields. 
 The soft influences of spring were already beginning 
 to be felt ; the day now became brighter, for, with 
 the noon, the clouds gradually dispersed. Buds were 
 swelling upon the trees ; the thorn and privet in the 
 hedges were putting forth their tender, green leaves : 
 the violet was sending up its fragrance like incense, 
 and the daisy, and primrose were specking the pas- 
 tures with silver and gold ; while, from the bending 
 sprays the birds were trilling forth their songs of 
 joy. The heart is never insensible to the sweet in- 
 fluences of the external world. Nature is to the phy- 
 sical man what God is to the spiritual man. Even 
 the heart of Travers felt touched with a gentle com- 
 placency that was as balm to his sorrow. And now 
 his companion spoke to him of the earthly spring — 
 of the seed that is sown and hidden away in the 
 earth, dying first, that it may be quickened after : 
 
94 EASTER DAY. 
 
 thence he led him to consider the heavenly spring — 
 the resurrection from the dead ; how that which is 
 sown a natural body is raised a spiritual body ; how 
 it is sown in corruption, in dishonour, and in weak- 
 ness, to be raised in incorruption, in glory, and in 
 power. And so he reasoned, till, at length, the per- 
 plexed and doubting spirit found comfort and hope 
 in the future ; and, looking down into the grave, he 
 saw its gloom penetrated by a light that shone from 
 beyond it — the glory of that life which cometh after 
 death. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DEATH AND LI FE. 
 
 " Christ ist erstanden ! 
 Freude dem Sterblichen, 
 Den die verderblichen, 
 Schleichenden, erblichen 
 Mangel umwanden." 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 The bells are chiming out with a joyous peal from 
 the tower of the church of St. ]\Iary's-super-Mare, 
 and the beautiful old pile is bathed in the splen- 
 dour of a cloudless morning sunshine. Groups of 
 simple country-folk, with happy faces, and in holi- 
 
ST. MARr S-SUPER-MARE. 95 
 
 day apparel, throng the churchyard, and enter 
 through the antique porch into the nave. It is 
 Easter-day. The service of the Church commences, 
 and the sweet trebles of children and the deeper 
 voices of men join in the triumphant hymn that 
 proclaims, — "The Lord is risen!" When the ser- 
 vice was concluded, the young curate entered the 
 pulpit. His pale face was agitated for a moment 
 with strong emotion, for he knew that there was 
 amongst the congregation an auditor who came 
 there with an anxious spirit, that looked up to him 
 for comfort and support, and he felt the deep re- 
 sponsibility cast upon him to discharge his mission. 
 The young man discoursed eloquently, for he spoke 
 from the fulness of his heart. He told of the first 
 Adam who was made a living man, whom all the 
 angels of God beheld with wonder in his sinless 
 and perfect glory — with all that was communicable 
 of God's essence poured into him ; so that Deity 
 became visibly mirrored forth to the hierarchy of 
 heaven. Then he narrated the sad, strange history 
 of his fall ; of his 
 
 "first disobedience, and the fruit 
 
 Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world ;" 
 
 and so he discoursed of death — death of the body 
 
96 EASTER DAY. 
 
 and death of the soul. Then he opened out the 
 whole economy of God's dealing with man ; the 
 wondrous and merciful provision which, at the very 
 hour of man's fall, was made for his restoration ; 
 how, at length, in the fulness of time, Death, the 
 dread victor of the first Adam, was himself van- 
 quished by the great quickening Spirit, the last 
 Adam ; and he spoke of that great mystery, the 
 resurrection from the dead, as that upon which the 
 hope of man was based — that which gave Chris- 
 tian philosophy its pre-eminence and perfection, 
 and brought life and immortality to light. Passing 
 from this theme beyond the grave, he pictured forth 
 the things of that invisible world which the spirit 
 of prophecy has revealed to the eye of faith ; that 
 sure and steadfast hope which is the anchor of the 
 soul, that we shall be again united to those whom 
 we love ; that if the grave is the gate of death, 
 death is itself the vestibule of life, beyond whose 
 shadowy portals lie, immeasurably spread out, the 
 regions of immortality. Travers sat behind the 
 shadow of a pillar, eagerly drinking in the words 
 of comfort ; and, as his brow leaned against the 
 cold stone, tears swelled up in his eyes and blinded 
 his vision : they were the first he had shed since 
 the hand of his dead wife lay pulseless within his 
 
ST. MARY' S-SUPER-MARE. 97 
 
 own for the last time. Oh no, not for the last 
 time ; he now indeed felt there was for him a re- 
 union beyond the grave. The life of this world 
 shrivelled up like a scroll before his mind, while 
 the life beyond this world expanded till it filled, 
 as it w^ere, the whole field of his spiritual vision. 
 Even in this hour of his affliction his soul was ele- 
 vated with a strange joy, and he felt how Easter 
 was, indeed, a day of glory, and of triumph, and 
 of hope, to the Christian Church ; that if the an- 
 gels of God celebrated with songs of adoration 
 and love that day whereon they led their King down 
 from heaven, and arrayed him reverently in the 
 panoply of flesh, and retired wonderingly, leaving 
 him upon the battle-field to war with the two 
 dread spiritual . foes — Sin and Death — with what 
 shouts of jubilation, and praise, and honour, did 
 they receive again the warrior after " the noise of 
 the battle," with "garments rolled in blood," when 
 he had burst open the gates of hell, and destroyed 
 the body of Sin, dragging Death captive at his 
 chariot-wheels, and leading with him, in his triumph, 
 thousands of liberated souls from the depths of 
 Hades ! If the Christmas hymn be one of peace 
 and joy that " a son is born," the Easter anthem 
 
 H 
 
98 EASTER DAY. 
 
 should be one of triumphant exultation that " the 
 Lord is risen ! " 
 
 And Travers passed again into the world, sobered, 
 indeed, yet cheerful ; not broken down by sorrow, 
 but sustained by the hope which had dawned upon 
 his heart on that Easter-day. He looked hence- 
 forth upon life as one who must die ; upon death, 
 as one who shall live beyond it. By degrees he 
 gained a name and a fame ; but he sought no new 
 alliance, ever faithful to the memory of his first 
 love. Ere a year had passed, a chaste and simple 
 tomb of pure marble rose over the green, grassy 
 sods that covered the remains of his beloved. 
 IMany a year has since come and gone — the snows 
 of Christmas and the sunshine of Easter — and he 
 who now wanders among the graves in the church- 
 yard of St. I\Iary's-super-Mare may see upon a 
 marble slab, surmounting a tomb on the western 
 side, the inscription : — 
 
 MILLICENT TRAVERS : 
 
 and beneath it, in letters sharper and fresher — 
 
 ALSO 
 FREDERICK TRAVERS, HER HUSBAND. 
 
mi Balloto mz. 
 
 SNAP-APPLE NIGHT AT CASTLE SLINGSBY. 
 
 [F there is any zoological specimen more worthy 
 than another of being hermetically sealed in 
 a glass-case, or corked up in a bottle of spirits 
 of wine, it is an old bachelor without bile or bitter- 
 ness — one who is at the same time fond of children 
 and of their grandmothers — the playfellow of the young 
 and the counsellor of the old — who flirts with 
 young girls, and squires old ones — who can dance, 
 play whist, drink tea, talk scandal, or ride a fox- 
 hunt — who is all things to all men, and everything 
 in the world to every woman. Just such a speci- 
 men is my good uncle, Saul Slingsby — the delight 
 of all who know him for miles round — the grand 
 projector of pic-nics and steeple-chases — a steward 
 at every subscription ball, and croupier at ever)' club 
 dinner. How Saul escaped matrimony is a marvel 
 
 H 2 
 
,00 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 to every one, for he was a good-looking and a 
 manly fellow. I think myself that he owed his 
 safety to the immensity of his philogyny : the lover 
 of all womankind could never afford to incarcerate 
 his aflfections within the sphere of one of the sex. 
 Had he lived in Turkey, he would have been the 
 happy husband of a thousand wives. But he lives 
 in Ireland, and is, therefore, a bachelor. The Slings- 
 bys all cluster about Uncle Saul at all the great 
 festivals, as bees about th}Tne flowers, or butterflies 
 in a sunny meadow. He is the sole survivor of a 
 multitude of younger brothers and sisters, and has 
 a large ancient house all to himself — as large as 
 his heart, and as ready as that heart to take every 
 mother's son of us into its warmest corners, and 
 cherish us with true parental love. Of course, we 
 all eat our apples and nuts with him ; and I set 
 out this afternoon to form one of the many friends 
 around his festive mahogany. The day was a de- 
 licious one for the season, grey, breezeless, and 
 full of repose ; a slight, thin haze had succeeded 
 a sharp hoar-frost, and the sun shone out with a 
 shorn splendour ; but there was a cool healthiness 
 in the air that braced the limbs, and sent the 
 blood flowing brisk and joyously through the veins, 
 under the stimulus of exercise. The trees were 
 
SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. loi 
 
 now showing their leafless branches, exposing to 
 view the birds' nests, which erst the summer foliage 
 had sheltered ; while here and there an odd tree 
 still struggled to keep its leaves against frost and 
 wind, the horse-chesnut and the elm, with their 
 rich, sunny unber ; the brown beech, the deep rus- 
 set-coloured oak. How silent was all around ! The 
 fields no longer rang with the merry laughter of 
 the reapers and corn-binders ; here and there a few 
 men and women were digging out the scant crop of 
 diseased potatoes, but the voice of gladness did not 
 cheer their labour ; the solitary' ploughman drove 
 his horses through the stubble, breaking the silence 
 ever and anon with his plaintive whistle ; the groves 
 were not now vocal with warblings of birds, for the 
 winds had been busy in their leafy haunts r '• ' '' ' 
 
 " The gusts of October had rifled the thorn, 
 Had dappled the woodland, and umbered the plain," 
 
 though at inten'als the note of the blackbird and 
 the thrush broke startlingly on the ear from 
 some still sheltered dingle. But the little house- 
 sparrow is still hopping and twittering and chirp- 
 ing, and rendered more bold by the sharp winds 
 and the nipping frosts, he comes from the hedge, 
 and picks up the grain at the bam door; or perch- 
 
I02 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 ing on threshold and window-sills, looks timidly 
 into the cheery rooms, and watches the movements 
 of the inmates ; or sitting on the black thorn, 
 "pipes plaintive ditties, with a low, inward voice, 
 like that of a love-tainted maiden, as she sits apart 
 from her companions, and sings soft melodies to 
 herself, almost without knowing it." I strolled 
 along, full of pleasant fancies, and as I looked 
 around me, and watched the lengthening shadows 
 on hill and plain, the beautiful verses of Keble, 
 written for this very season, came to my mind : — 
 
 " ^\Tiy blow'st thou not, thou ^\intr}' \\-ind, 
 Xow every leaf is bro%\Ti and sear, 
 And idly droops, to thee resigned, 
 
 The fading chaplet of the year ? 
 Yet wears the pure aerial sky. 
 Her s'unmer veil, half drawn on high, 
 Of silvery haze, and dark and still 
 The shadows sleep on every slanting hill. 
 
 ' ' How quiet shows the woodland scene ! 
 Each flower and tree, its duty done, 
 Reposing in decay serene, 
 
 LUce wear}' men when age is won. 
 Such calm old age as conscience pure, 
 And self- commanding hearts ensure, 
 Waiting their summons to the sky. 
 Content to Uve, but not afraid to die." 
 
SNAP- A PPLE NIGHT. i o 3 
 
 So musing, I stood, as the sun was setting, be- 
 fore the ancient entrance into Uncle Saul's demesne. 
 In the apex of a semi-circle, which swept inwards 
 from the road, rose two high, square, limestone 
 pillars of rusticated masonry, surmounted by an- 
 tique urns of the same material, but the stone, 
 though unbroken and carefully preserved, had lost 
 its original colour, and looked dark and weather- 
 stained, and the tooth of time was visible in that 
 appearance, which architects have denominated "ver- 
 miculated." From these piers swung an enormous 
 gate of iron, the rails of which were all arrow- 
 headed, and between the cross-bars you could see 
 many a fantastic scroll, elaborately wrought, accord- 
 ing to the fashion of by-gone times. At either 
 side, the sweep of coped stonework was terminated 
 by a pier, similar in style to those I have men- 
 tioned, beyond which stood a square, stone lodge, 
 with a high slated roof that ran to a point in the 
 centre, topped by a wooden ornament. I swung 
 open one valve of the gate and passed up the long, 
 straight, formal avenue of beech trees tilh I reached 
 the house. JNIy approach was not unnoticed, nor 
 unannounced, for a multitude of dogs, of all sizes, 
 ages, and species, broke out into a clamorous salu- 
 tation, ranging through every note of the canine 
 
104 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 diapason, from the deep bay of the house-dog to 
 the' shrill, snappish challenge of the little, wir}-- 
 haired terrier. But I was a friend amongst that 
 honest-hearted population, and the storm soon sank 
 down to pleasant whinings and caressing gambols. 
 And thus escorted, I mounted the flight of broad 
 stone steps that led to the door of one of those fine old 
 mansions which are still to be seen in the interior 
 of the countr}' — none of your gingerbread things, 
 that you see at Kingstown and Dalkey, with their 
 gables and gazaboes, and little windows stuck in all 
 sorts of queer places in the roof — young Eliza- 
 ■ bethans, just come from nurse, with their white, shining 
 faces, and flaring green-painted doors — but a noble 
 square pile of solid masonry, not ashamed to show 
 its honest face without a mask of whitewash upon 
 it, pierced with innumerable windows, too narrow, 
 I admit, for more modern taste, yet large enough 
 withal to afford a pleasant look out for a couple of 
 young lovers (if they cared for a look out), and to 
 let in sunbeams and air enough for the low-ceiled 
 rooms within. Well, the door opened, and there 
 stood the worthy master, with outstretched hand 
 and smiling face, welcoming " the last of the 
 Slingsbys," for all the others had arrived before me. 
 I shall not trouble mv readers with an introduc- 
 
SNAP- APPLE NIGHT. 105 
 
 tion to all the Slingsbys, nor detail all the good things 
 that passed into our mouths or out of them during 
 dinner. Imagine us, then, the last dish having dis- 
 appeared and the dessert laid on the table, sipping 
 our wine and toying with the fruit in all the languid 
 fastidiousness of sated appetite. If there is one half- 
 hour in the twenty-four more delectable than another, 
 believe me it is the half-hour that succeeds to a good 
 dinner. If " the half-hour before dinner" is pro- 
 verbially the most iriste and formidable of the day, 
 the half-hour after dinner is the most delightful. A 
 delicious lassitude steals over the body. The beat 
 of the pulse is full, regular, and tranquil, telling that 
 every function plays smooth and cheerily, with as 
 little creak or friction as the cranks and pistons of 
 a steam-engine after the engineer has gone round 
 them with his tin oil-can, and lubricated the joints 
 and pivots. A pleasant haze rises around the brain, 
 through which every external object is conveyed to 
 the sensorium in coleur-de-rose, and every thought is 
 mellowed in the intellect. And surely our after-dinner 
 half-hour was a happy one. Jest and banter went 
 round gleefully ; incidents of former merry meetings 
 were remembered with a smile, and the absence of 
 some loved one, a participant of them, was noted with 
 a sigh — aye, and a glistening tear in the eye of a fair 
 
io6 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 sister or cousin ! were the departed spirit watching 
 about us, as I fondly and fully believe, those tears 
 would be to it precious and holy. Then we had 
 toasts and sentiments, and all the old-world fashions 
 and gallantries of the good old times. At last some 
 one drank to the health of Uncle Saul, coupled with 
 the name of a once fair belle, to whom he was sup- 
 posed, according to a tradition in the family, to have 
 almost paid particular attentions, now a buxom widow 
 of two defunct husbands, and as many comfortable 
 jointures. 
 
 Saul was nearly overpowered with the roar of plau- 
 dits that followed, but he rallied with admirable dex- 
 terity. He returned thanks with great good-humour 
 for the intended honour, which he modestly declined 
 availing himself of, and proceeded to make a "con- 
 fession of faith" upon the subject of matrimony, by 
 which he had always been guided. " I hold it," said 
 he, "that where parents have discharged their obli- 
 gations to the state by rearing up a very large family, 
 some of their progeny may ' take it easy,' and not 
 push population forward too rapidly. Now in such 
 cases I think the good old adage of 'first come first 
 served' entitles the eldest child to rely on his privilege 
 of primogeniture, and claim exemption from the cares 
 and responsibilities of married life. Upon this prin- 
 
SNAP- APPLE NIGHT. 107 
 
 ciple I have acted, and I have no reason to complain, 
 nor has society either ; for I have vicariously rendered 
 to it all that it could reasonably demand, in the fine 
 family of nieces and nephews around me [great ap- 
 plause]. Besides, I am somewhat of Sir Boyle Roche's 
 opinion. I don't see what posterity did for me, that 
 I should put myself to any trouble for posterity, who, 
 I am certain, will be very inferior, physically and in- 
 tellectually, to our ancestors. So convinced am I of 
 the constant deterioration of our species, that I would 
 infinitely prefer, were it in my power, to reproduce 
 my grandfather, and so turn the progress of genera- 
 tion back upon its source, till, becoming better and 
 better each move, we should at last come back to our 
 first parents, who, I have no doubt, would agitate a 
 ' repeal of the fall,' as folks now-a-days do a ' repeal 
 of the Union,' and with as fair a chance of success. 
 But come, it is time to be moving, as I see the bottle 
 has ceased to do so. I hear the fiddle in the great 
 hall, and they want but our presence to commence 
 the sports." 
 
 We all took the hint, and followed Saul into the 
 apartment he mentioned. It was a room of ample 
 dimensions, with a large fire-place midway down it, 
 in which peat and bog-wood were blazing with a rush 
 of flame up the ample chimney, that threw a strong 
 
1 8 ALL HALLOW E VE. 
 
 red glare on the walls, and made the lights look dim 
 and sickly. Two chairs were placed upon a table, 
 which was drawn close to the lower-end wall, and on 
 them were perched a fiddler and a piper, both of whom 
 had their full complement of eyes and limbs (a thing 
 somewhat unusual with such folk), and rather more 
 than their full complement of strong waters within 
 them (a thing not at all unusual in such cases). Far- 
 ther up the room stood a huge tub filled with water, 
 and from the centre of the ceiling hung the grand 
 attraction of the night — the apparatus for the snap- 
 apple — two cross-sticks, carrying on their points apples 
 and candles alternately. At the other end of the room 
 a table was well-furnished with nuts, apples, and other 
 eatables; and upon a stool in the corner reposed a 
 barrel of home-brewed ale, with a black-jack standing 
 expectantly under the spigot. The servants were all 
 in their best attire, and were standing respectfully to 
 receive us, while two or three substantial farmers, with 
 their wives and children, had come by express invi- 
 tation to join in the merry-making. I shall not de- 
 scribe the games and sports of All hallow eve though, 
 alas 1 the time is fast coming when they shall be mat- 
 ters of history, and I know no place save this where 
 they are still maintained in their integrity. I shall 
 however leave to our ingenious and erudite friend, 
 
SNAP-APPL E NIGHT. i o 9 
 
 William Wilde, in some future pages of his " Popular 
 Superstitions," to enlarge upon the subject ; to tell 
 you how the young maid steals out in the dark night 
 to sow the hemp-seed, chaunting the spell — 
 
 "Hemp-seed, I sow thee. 
 Hemp-seed, I hoe thee, 
 You that's my true love, come after and show thee ;" 
 
 and then she looks fearfully over her left shoulder to 
 see the form of him who is to be her true love ; to 
 describe the mystery of "turning the shift," and the 
 more daring and unholy tampering with the fiend in 
 the spell of " reeling the yarn," and saying the Lord's 
 Prayer backwards. Let me, however, linger a moment 
 over the pleasant and innocent pastimes of snapping 
 apples, burning nuts, diving for money, fortune-telling 
 and forfeits, singing songs, and telling stories, to say 
 nothing of dancing and love-making, the former to 
 be found at ever}^ Irish gathering, from wake to wed- 
 ding — the latter at ever)' gathering in every land since 
 the world began. INIay it so continue till the world's 
 end : indeed, the world will run a great chance of end- 
 ing when this pleasant custom falls into disuse. 
 
 At a signal from Uncle Sam the sports commenced, 
 and we were all hard at work in no time. I don't 
 mean to recount what feats I performed — whether I 
 
no ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 caught the apple or the candle, what pretty girls I 
 danced or flirted with, or burned as sweethearts, or 
 how they behaved when subjected to that fiery ordeal. 
 Fancy yourself for a moment beside me (would that 
 you were so in reality), and look around the festive 
 scene. See that strong, young fellow : he is the best 
 man in the country round at throwing the sledge, and 
 yet he cannot for the life of him catch the apple from 
 the cross, though his great jaws open wide enough to 
 encompass a pumpkin. There he goes again with a 
 dash as if it were made of granite, but the apple has 
 turned only the faster from him, and the avenging 
 candle comes swift upon him, covering his chaps with 
 grease and smut, and singeing his whiskers, and so he 
 retires from the vain pursuit, for the laugh is loud 
 against him. What chance have )^ou, my pretty little 
 maiden } the apple is too large for your mouth, and 
 the flaring candle will blister that downy cheek if 
 you fail. Well, she is trying, nevertheless. May 
 Venus and Pomona befriend her! A mischievous 
 rival has sent the swing twisting round like lightning. 
 " Fair play ! fair play !" cries many a manly voice ; 
 but the sly little one waits quietly till the string is 
 now twisted almost to its utmost, and the swing is 
 going round slower and slower, just before it changes 
 its revolution and uncoils the cord. There now she 
 
SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. 1 1 1 
 
 pushes forward her little head as gently as a spaniel 
 puts out its nose to a lady's caressing hand, and the 
 cunning little thing has coaxed off the apple, no-body 
 knows how, but there it is triumphantly between her 
 red lips, looking as if it had grown together with them 
 from the one stem. Well, leave them to their sport, 
 and watch that girl who is binding up her rich black 
 hair in a hard knot on the back of her head, before 
 she dives for the shilling. Pop, in goes her head, 
 but she raises it quickly out again with a sob and 
 a cry, for the water has rushed into her mouth and 
 eyes, and well-nigh choaked and blinded her ; and 
 now she lets loose her long hair, which falls down 
 her neck and shoulders dripping with the sparkling 
 drops, and reminding one of a mermaid, with her 
 tresses decked with sea gems. This is a difficult feat, 
 and few adventure it, but many are content to "bob 
 for apples" instead ; so let us pass on. You see now, 
 " on the floor," two of the best dancers in the province 
 at reel or jig; and the " musicianers" are playing a 
 jig, whose galvanising powers would set a dead bear 
 dancing, Sagart na m-buataise — " the priest of the 
 boots," or, as it is commonly called, " the priest in 
 his boots." There's footing for you ! Talk of pol- 
 kas, and mazurkas, boleros or tarantulas, quadrille 
 or cotillon, I aver there is nothing in the world to 
 
1,2 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 equal an Irish jig, in the way of saltation, INIark 
 with what exquisite accuracy the time of the air is 
 kept by the beat of the foot, the swing of the body, 
 the motion of the hands, and the snap of the fin- 
 gers. How they "humour the tune," giving ex- 
 pression to every change and tone of sentiment. 
 With what an air of bold gallantry, mingled with 
 coaxing droller}-, the young man flings his arms 
 about the girl, as he twirls her round till her tiny 
 feet are well-nigh lifted off the ground. How co- 
 quettishly she disengages herself, and, with a look 
 half shy, half sly, retreats as he advances. How 
 disdainfully she flounces round, while, imitating her 
 example, he turns on his heel with a nonchalant 
 air that would do credit to one of your first-rate 
 town puppies. I aver that an Irish jig is the per- 
 fection of dancing, the poetr}' of motion, the drama 
 of the feet; and if you can show me anything to 
 compare with it, either in lordly saloons or on vil- 
 lage greensward, then will I, Jonathan Freke Slings- 
 by, burn my quill, break my lyre, and retire into 
 a monaster)' of Trappists for the rest of my life. 
 There now, the dance is over, and the young couple, 
 somewhat flurried, sit down to recover their breath. 
 Hush ! look at that dark-eyed fellow, with the brown 
 hair and black silk kerchief tied loosely round his 
 
SNAP- APPLE NIGHT. 1 1 3 
 
 neck : mark how he clears his throat with a cough, 
 and stares with all his might at the ceiling, though 
 there is not so much as a fly creeping on it. That's 
 the surveyor, our " primo tenore;" he's going to 
 give us a song — listen. 
 
 THE rake's apology. 
 
 Now hush ! dearest Katlileen, give over 
 
 Upbraiding a lover so true ; 
 I swear, though you say I'm a rover, 
 
 My heart is still faithful to you. 
 Then where is the use in your doubting, 
 
 Or breaking my heart -with your sighs ; 
 Those sweet lips were not made for pouting 
 
 And anger will spoil your mild eyes. 
 
 The world, dear, is given to railing, 
 
 <jod forgive 'em that call me a rake ; 
 'Tis yourself that's the cause of my failing, 
 
 For I love the whole sex for your sake. 
 Sure 'tis pride of you makes me a rover 
 
 To wake, and to dance, and to fair ; 
 I'm stiU trying at each to discover 
 
 A girl with yourself to compare. 
 
114 ^LL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 And so, just in making the trial, 
 
 I'm forced still to touch and to taste ; 
 Though 'tis hard, tliere's no good in denid, 
 
 An hour from beside you to waste. 
 But their beauties leave no more impression 
 
 Than calm waters take from the breeze ; 
 Sit down now, and hear my confession, 
 
 I'll make a clean breast at your knees. 
 
 Eileen Bawn has a fine neck and bosom, 
 
 But her waist feels so tightened and quare; 
 Rose has bright eyes, but still I don't choose 'em, 
 
 \\lien you gaze in them long they've a stare. 
 Mave looks shapely and plump— 'tis all dressing, 
 
 And Norah's lips please one 2X first. 
 But then they won't do for much pressing. 
 
 They're so ripe you're afraid that they'll burst. 
 
 So now, all experiments over, 
 
 I come back more faithful and true ; 
 And I vow, on the word of a lover, 
 
 There's no girl half so perfect as you. 
 Then, Kathleen, cheer up, and believe me 
 
 I'll love you whatever betide ; 
 One word, and that fair hand just give me, 
 
 I'll wander no more from your side. 
 
SIVA P-A PPLE NIGHT. 1 1 5 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo !" That's a real old Irish air, and 
 a fine one too ; 'tis called " Shaun Staal," and a great 
 favourite over the country. But y^& must now in- 
 spect the nut-burning; and I shall expound to you, 
 as we look on, the manner in which auguries are 
 taken in this mystery. A lad or a lass who wishes 
 to learn if his or her lover will be fickle or faithful, 
 places two nuts on the bar — one to represent the 
 person making the experiment, the other the se- 
 lected sweetheart. If the nut cracks, or jumps off" 
 the bar, the lover will prove unfaithful ; if it blaze 
 or burn, the lover will be true ; and if the nuts burn 
 both together, then is the omen the happiest of all, 
 for the parties are sure to be married. Look closely 
 into the faces of the young people, who are cluster- 
 ing anxiously round the fire at this simple divination, 
 and you cannot fail to read the heart's history in 
 the blush, the sigh, the eye sparkling or dimmed, 
 the brow bright or clouded. There, too, is a love 
 episode at the far end of the room. See that young 
 pair, who, thinking only of themselves, know not 
 that others' eyes are upon them. The old woman 
 is telling them their fortune upon the cards ; and 
 a bright one it is, if we may conjecture from the 
 happy glance of the girl and the triumphant air of 
 the young man. But I hear Uncle Saul's voice, call- 
 I 2 
 
1 16 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 ing cheerily — " Come, Jack Bishop, 'tis the survey- 
 or's call, and he has knocked you down for a song." 
 Jack, besides his great good-humour and dramatic 
 power, has one of the finest voices, which he ma- 
 nages with exquisite skill and taste, and, what is very 
 rare with great singers, is the most obliging fellow 
 in the world. 
 
 "With all my heart, Saul," was Jack's ready an- 
 swer; "I'll give you a song of Jonathan's, to a 
 beautiful air of Terence Magrath's — a real modern 
 antique : 'tis called — 
 
 MARY OF THE CURLS. 
 
 As oak-leaves, when autumn is turning them sere, 
 Is the hue of my o^v^l Mar)''s beautiful hair; 
 And light as young ash-sprays, that droop in the grove, 
 Are the ringlets that wave round the head that I love. 
 
 Dear Mary ! each ringlet, so silken and fine. 
 
 Is a fetter that round my poor heart you entwine ; 
 
 And if the wide ocean I roamed to the west, 
 
 It woiild still draw me back to the maid I love best. 
 
SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. 1 1 7 
 
 Like stars that shine out from the calm summer sky 
 Are the glances that beam from yoirr melting blue eye ; 
 Your lips red as poppies, your cheeks bright as mom ; 
 And your bosom and neck white as blossoms of thorn. 
 
 The stars may shine down on the whole world at night, 
 But your eyes. Mar}', dear ! should give me all their light. 
 Let the poppies and blossoms be plucked by who ^nll. 
 If those dear lips and bosom be kept for me still. 
 
 Not more sportive and hght is the young lambldn seen, 
 Than your foot in the dance on our o\ni viDage green ; 
 And my fond eye still wanders wherever you move 
 'Midst all the maids seeldng for her that I love. 
 
 The winter is past, and the Shrovetide is nigh ; 
 
 Dear Mary ! no longer be cruel or shy. 
 
 I've a home to receive you, a hand to sustain, 
 
 And a heart that ^\^ll love you wliile hfe shall remain. 
 
 Jack Bishop's song was received with plaudits. 
 When the surveyor, who was a great traveller, and a 
 very learned individual, stept forward, and said — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Master Jonathan : but I am 
 
ii8 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 thinking that's not just all out your own compos- 
 ing." 
 
 "Why not?" said I, 
 
 "Because, sir, 'tis mighty like an ould song they 
 sing in the county Clare, called 'TTldipe na 5-ciab,' 
 which signifies in the English vernacular, ' Mary of 
 the Curls.' I remember only the first verse of it 
 now (and he repeated it in Irish). I think you will 
 allow, sir, there is a very remarkable resemblance to 
 the first verse of your song." 
 
 "Maybe so," said I. 
 
 Jack Bishop enjoyed my confusion most mali- 
 ciously, but Uncle Saul covered my retreat by wish- 
 ing all a pleasant night, and so we retired to the 
 drawingroom. 
 
 "Jonathan," said my uncle, when we were all 
 seated, " you should never pawn off a translation as 
 an original." " Nor an original as a translation," 
 slily interposed Jack Bishop, sotte voce. 
 
 Amongst the company was a little man, whom 
 nobody seemed to know, yet he made himself very 
 much at his ease. I first noticed him in the great 
 hall, watching the dancers with a quiet wonder through 
 every evolution ; inspecting the divers for shillings, 
 and mechanically opening and shutting his mouth, 
 as if registering each snap at the apple on the twirl- 
 
S.VA P- APPLE NIGHT. 1 1 9 
 
 ing-cross ; and all the while he spoke not a word, 
 nor moved from his seat near the fire, till he fol- 
 lowed us back on the invitation of Uncle Saul. Let 
 me describe this little man for you. I will begin 
 with his head. In shape, it resembled a pear, with 
 the larger end downward, which was represented by a 
 pair of fat, juicy cheeks, that hung over a white 
 cravat, wrapt pudding-wise around his thick, short 
 neck. His eyes were round, aud somewhat protrud- 
 ing, with a leaden, sleepy stare ; his forehead rose 
 conically, and bald, and over his whole face was a 
 flush that spoke eloquently of London porter; while 
 here and there an erubescent pimple bloomed out, 
 whose parentage was, beyond all question, a dash of 
 brandy, or "cold Avithout." His body was punchy 
 and corpulent, and covered with a ydlow waistcoat, 
 surmounted by a blue coat, with brass buttons ; dark 
 inexpressibles clothed his upper limbs, and leggings 
 of the same colour were buttoned over his lower. 
 " Come, Mr. Tupps," said my Uncle Saul, "what will 
 you take .?— this is excellent whiskey, or perhaps you 
 prefer the brandy." Tupps brightened up. "The 
 brandy, if you please, Mr. Slingsby ; I rayther prefer 
 it — they say 'tis good for the stomach. No sugar, 
 thank you, sir, but just a leetle shade of cold water." 
 The name "Tupps" at once solved the mystery of 
 
120 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 the little man's presence, for Saul had told me that 
 he sold his wool in the morning to a Lancashire 
 buyer of that name ; and the little gentleman's dia- 
 lect now assured me that I had the professional 
 wool-gatherer before me. 
 
 Songs, sentiments, charades, and forfeits, having 
 each in turn contributed to the general entertain- 
 ment, at length some mischief-loving spirit put it 
 into the heart of Saul to tamper with Mr. Tupps' 
 taciturnity. " I\Ir. Tupps, the company are waiting 
 for your song." " Well, I'm sure, sir," said Tupps, 
 " I don't know now as how I ever sung a song in 
 my lifetime." " Salt and water for Mr. Tupps," 
 cried Saul. " Nay, nay, ]Mr. Slingsby, if a toast or 
 
 a sentiment will do " " Well, then, ]\Ir. Tupps 
 
 pray let us have it." Tupps replenished his glass, 
 turned up his eyes to the ceiling, and then looking 
 pleasantly around him, said, as he raised his glass, 
 " 'A dry fleece and a wet skin.^ Gentlemen and ladies, 
 your very good healths — all." A roar of laughter fol- 
 lowed this professional sentiment. But Saul was at 
 the little man again. " Upon my word, ]\Ir. Tupps. 
 that's being rather hard on the graziers ; I think, 
 however, that you are entitled to rely upon it in 
 mitigation of punishment, and we shall be content 
 to dispense Mith one-half of the penalty. Which 
 
SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. 121 
 
 will you prefer, the salt or the water ?" " That's 
 Hobson's choice, sir; I'm blest if I know which to 
 choose. Well, sir, I'll tell you a stor}-, if you please." 
 " Bravo !" said Saul. " Now, then, ]\Ir. Tupps, we're 
 all attention." 
 
 " Well, then, gentlemen," said Tupps, after he had 
 cleared his throat with a cough, and then moistened 
 it with a gulp of brandy and water, " I shall relate 
 to you an adventure which once befell myself in this 
 country, and which I shall ever look upon as a most 
 extraordinary and providential escape. It is now 
 over six years since I was travelling one evening in 
 the West of Ireland, on my way to the fair of Bally- 
 beg, which you all know is a great wool fair. There 
 was no regular conveyance to the town, and I had 
 hired a car at the village where the stage-coach had 
 set me down. The road was wild and lonely, wind- 
 ing through a mountain-gorge, and I confess that I 
 did not feel altogether at my ease as I sat with my 
 back defencelessly turned to the tattered wretch who 
 drove me, and to whom a guinea would be sufficient 
 temptation to knock me on the head. I had a con- 
 siderable sum of money about me, and my mind 
 involuntarily recurred to all the stories of murders 
 and robberies in Ireland, which one reads of every 
 
122 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 day in the papers. One hears a great deal, gentle- 
 men, about ' the good old times,' but, for my part, 
 I think that in many respects they might better be 
 called 'the bad old times.' Roads were bad, travel- 
 ling was bad, inns were bad. A man could not tra- 
 vel a hundred miles on his lawful calling in less 
 than two or three days, and was obliged to take 
 pistols and blunderbusses, and the Lord knows what, 
 about him, as ten to one he would fall in with some 
 Jack Sheppard or Dick Turpin by the way, who was 
 sure to ease him of his purse, and might slit his 
 throat into the bargain. But give me our own 
 times — they are the real 'good times,' Free trade, a 
 big loaf, fine inns and railroads ; ay, the railroads, 
 gentlemen, they are the grandest invention of the 
 age. A man can now travel his couple of hundred 
 miles between breakfast and dinner, without losing 
 his time changing horses every ten miles, or his 
 money, paying guards and coachmen. And then, 
 you're so safe. To be sure you sometimes run the 
 risk of being walked into by a runaway train, or 
 blown up by a bursting boiler ; but what is that com- 
 pared to the danger which one often was in, even 
 when I was a boy, of being encountered by highway- 
 men on some lonely common, having your pockets 
 turned inside out, and vour brains blown about your 
 
SNAP- APPLE NIGHT. 123 
 
 ears before you had time to bless yourself. He 
 would be a smart, as well as a bold, fellow, now-a- 
 days, who would hop over a railway-fence of a dark 
 night, and step into the middle of the line to lie in 
 wait for the train, and bid it * stand and deliver,' as 
 it comes tearing down upon him, puffing smoke and 
 spitting fire. Well, gentlemen, to come back to my 
 stor}', I was amusing myself with such pleasant 
 thoughts as these, and, to confess the truth, they 
 did not help much 'to make my mind easier. The 
 sun had set, and the night was coming on very dark. 
 Occasionally we passed some fellow loitering on the 
 road side — I'm sure no good purpose brought him 
 out at such an hour — and the driver, which I thought 
 very suspicious, was sure to know him, and salute 
 him with ' God save you, Mick,' or ' Good-night, 
 Paddy.' At last, just as we turned an angle of the 
 road at a little grove of fir-trees, two men jumped 
 out over the ditch and ordered the driver to stop. 
 I desired him to whip on as fast as he could, but 
 the rascal drew up his horse in a moment. Now, 
 ladies, you can fancy that this was enough to make 
 any man nervous. They were stout, wicked-looking 
 young chaps, with big sticks in their hands ; and I 
 could see, dark as the night was, something sticking 
 out of the breast of one of their coats, that I could 
 
124 ALL HALLOW EVE. 
 
 swear was a pistol. ' How many miles is it to Bally- 
 beg?' asked the fellow with the pocket pistol. 'Just 
 two from the cross-roads below there, your honour,' 
 replied the carman. ' Well, my lad, you must give 
 us a lift in — the gentleman will make no objection.' 
 ' Och ! not the laste in life, sir,' said the rascal, 
 without as much as asking my leave — ' Up with ye, 
 gentlemen.' So up they got and no mistake, the fel- 
 low with the pocket pistol beside me, and the other 
 beside the driver. I'm blest if I was not all over 
 in a swither when I felt the fellow's breath upon me, 
 and knew how completely I was in his power. Well, 
 he soon began to question me, asking where I came 
 from, what was my business, and where I meant to 
 stop for the night. You may be sure I gave him as 
 little information as possible, and I never felt more 
 relieved in the whole course of my life than when 
 we drew up at the inn at Ballybeg. The house was 
 a small one, and it w'as very crowded, so I could 
 with difficulty get accommodation, being obliged to 
 take a bed in a double-bedded room. As I came 
 back to have my bag fetched up, I caught a sight 
 of the two fellows who travelled with me in conver- 
 sation with the car-driver, and I heard him say, ' Oh, 
 never fear, them sort of chaps has money enough in 
 their pockets, I'll be bound, if a body could only get 
 
SNAP- APPLE NIGHT. 1 2 5 
 
 a sight of it ;' these were the very words, for I shall 
 never forget them. Well, I went into the travellers'- 
 room, and having got a bit of something comfort- 
 able for supper, and a glass or two of grog — they 
 had no brandy in the house, gentlemen — I went up 
 to my bed-room. I don't know how it was, but I 
 felt very nervous and uncomfortable, for I couldn't 
 get the thoughts of the two ill-looking fellows out 
 of my head. At last I went to bed, but I took care 
 to put my pocket-book under my pillow, and left the 
 candle lighting. I might as well have not gone to 
 bed, for I could not get a wink of sleep ; and I no 
 sooner closed my eyes than I fancied the chap with 
 the pocket-pistol was fumbling under my pillow for 
 my pocket-book. I continued tumbling and turning 
 in this way, I don't know how long, but I'm sure it 
 could not be far from midnight, when the door 
 opened, and what was my horror to see the two 
 desperadoes entering on tip-toe. They looked about 
 the room, and one of them stepped up to my bed- 
 side and peered into my face. I pretended, you 
 may be sure, to be fast asleep, but I saw him plainly 
 enough give a knowing wink and a smile to the 
 other, and whisper, 'The very man, by Jupiter, and 
 he's fast asleep.' He then examined the window, 
 and I have no doubt in the world they intended to 
 
1 26 ALL HALLO W EVE. 
 
 have got away through it after having robbed me. 
 The other fellow had his back turned to me, but I 
 saw him taking the pistol from his breast and lay it 
 on the table. ' That driver is a prime lad,' said he, 
 ' I got a full charge of the right sort from him.' 
 ' That's lucky,' said the other, * and now to business ; 
 the house is quiet, and Uis Just the time for taking 
 notes.^ Ladies and gentlemen, I felt that the critical 
 moment which was to decide my fate had arrived. 
 I seized my pocket-book, sprang out of bed, and 
 flinging my inexpressibles across my arm, I darted 
 out of the door, which I closed after me, and gained 
 the kitchen, I know not how, in safety. My first 
 notion was to fly from the house, but the rain was 
 coming down in torrents, and I should be certain to 
 lose my life if I went out half-naked in the wet and 
 cold. Fortunately I saw a settle-bed in the corner, 
 which was unoccupied. I locked the door, stirred 
 the fire, and threw myself in the settle, holding my 
 pocket-book in one hand and my inexpressibles in 
 the other, to be prepared for any emergency. Strange 
 to say, I fell asleep, in spite of all my endeavours to 
 keep awake. At length I was aroused by a violent 
 knocking at the door, and a woman's voice calling 
 out, 'The divil take you, Lanty, what's come over 
 you at all, to be locking yourself in that-a-way ? 
 
SXAF-A PPLE NIGHT. 1 2 7 
 
 Open the door, I tell you.' I rose, and found the 
 day had just broken ; so, slipping on my inexpres- 
 sibles, I opened the door, and the housemaid bolted 
 
 in upon me. ' Wisha, the divil take Oh, the 
 
 Lord between us and harm ! who are you at all ? 
 cried the girl, starting back. I explained to her that 
 I had come down to sleep in the kitchen, as I had a 
 great objection to occupy a room with strangers, 
 and begged her to step up to No. 15, and fetch me 
 my clothes. Off she went, and returned in a few 
 moments with my apparel, saying, ' Why, sir, there's 
 nobody at all in the room ; the two gentlemen that 
 slept in the big bed went away just now.' Well, 
 you may be sure I felt thankful for my extraordinar}- 
 deliverance from the villians, who, it was plain enough, 
 had decamped before any one was stirring, having the 
 fear of the bridewell before their eyes. I returned to 
 the room and finished my sleep ; but I thought it 
 the wisest course to say nothing about w^hat happened 
 in the night, as the landlord might say I was injuring 
 his house, and bring me into trouble. And now, 
 ladies and gentlemen, I think you will agree with 
 me in saying this was a ver}- singular adventure." 
 
 During Mr. Tupps's narrative, his auditory were 
 all attention ; but had any one looked at Bishop or 
 myself he would have seen amazement depicted on 
 
12 8 ALL HALLOW E VE. 
 
 ever)' feature of our faces. Jack now advanced to- 
 wards IMr. Tupps, and, beckoning me forward, we 
 stood before him. Looking fixedly in his face, Jack 
 said, " Pray, Mr. Tupps, did you ever see us before ?" 
 The little man looked long and bewiJderedly in our 
 faces. At length he said, "Well, I'm blest now — no, 
 it can't be — yes, it is. Why, upon my credit you are 
 very like the fellows — ahem ! I beg pardon, the indi- 
 viduals — who thought to — a — a — who travelled into 
 Ballybeg with me." " The very identical fellows, Mr. 
 Tupps, as you are pleased to call us — wicked-looking 
 fellows — ill-looking dogs. Eh, sir .^" "Well but, gen- 
 tlemen, I really did not know you were present ; be- 
 sides, you had terrible beards and whiskers then, and 
 you wore no shirt-collars. But, indeed, I cannot 
 understand the thing at all. Were you not really 
 highwaymen.?" "Pray, sir, say that again," said 
 Jack, looking most comically ferocious ; " I did not 
 exactly hear the word you made use of." " Nay, sir, 
 I mean no offence, I assure you ; but, perhaps you'll 
 be so kind as to explain the matter, for I'm blest if I 
 know what to think." " That's easily done. My friend 
 and myself were making the tour of the western 
 counties on foot, and were fortunate enough to meet 
 your car, so as to get a ' lift' into Ballybeg. The only 
 room left at the inn was the one in which we were 
 
SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. ii^ 
 
 all put, and having paid our bill at night, -sve were 
 off in the morning by daybreak. I confess we were 
 quite unable to account for your bolting so suddenly 
 out of the room, but we thought you had been asleep, 
 and had gone out in a fit of somnambulism." " Well, 
 well, but what do you say about your conversation 
 with the car-driver.^" "Why, he was complaining 
 that you declined to give him any gratuity." "And 
 so I did, because he took you up without my leave. 
 What did you mean by saying that the driver had 
 given you a charge of the right sort .^" " Oh, the 
 fellow was grateful for a few shillings we gave him, 
 and put me in the way of filling my ' pocket-pistol ' 
 with some genuine potheen whiskey." "Dear, dear! 
 how strange. Well, there's but one thing more 
 which, if you can clear up, I shall admit that I 
 wronged you. Why did you say that it was just the 
 hour for taking notes } Can you deny that you said 
 these very words, sir }" " Ha 1 ha ! ha 1" shouted Bi- 
 shop. " jMr. Slingsby must explain that to you ; he 
 is answerable for having unkennelled you." " That 
 I will," said I. " You must know, sir, that we were 
 in the habit of keeping a journal of our tour, and 
 made it a practice to note down whatever had oc- 
 curred to us worthy of remark during the day. I as- 
 
1 30 ALL HALLO W E VE. 
 
 sure you, 'Six. Tupps, you occupied a very considerable 
 portion of our diary that night." 
 
 The shame and confusion of ]\Ir. Tupps was now 
 complete. I thought he would have sunk into the 
 earth. At length Uncle Saul, in pity to his suffer- 
 ings, came to the rescue. " Upon my word, I\Ir. 
 Tupps, I do not at all wonder at your having fallen 
 into the mistake you did. I am sure I should have 
 been ver}' much frightened if I were in your place. 
 You showed admirable presence of mind to decamp 
 with your baggage, and in good order. And now I 
 will give you a song myself, and you must all fill 
 j'our glasses to pledge me in the toasts, and join in 
 the chorus." 
 
 After Uncle Saul's song, 'twas near the "small 
 hours," and so ended our "All Hallow Eve." 
 
^Df JF^ast of ail Souls. 
 
 THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 travellers' fare. 
 NE cannot readily imagine a wilder or more 
 desolate spot than the rude inn or post- 
 house of Monteroni, that stands, or stood 
 some thirty years ago, midway between Rome and 
 Civita Vecchia. I had left the Eternal City at 
 noon, and lumbered across the savage and solitary 
 wastes that stretch westward along the ancient 
 " Via Aurelia," and thence by the desolate sea- 
 shore, in one of the worst vetturas, having as mv 
 companions an elderly invalid gentleman and his 
 daughter, both English. The former was a type of his 
 class, grave, and rather taciturn, with a profound con- 
 tempt for everjihing that was not English, and venting 
 
1 3 2 THE FEA ST OF ALL SO UL S. 
 
 bis querulous observations on bad roads, slow travel- 
 ling, and villanous culinary compounds, the miserable 
 substitutes for the roast beef of home. The young 
 lady was a genuine disciple of the school of romance, 
 which British boarding-schools and French novels 
 have produced in great abundance, with a pale face, 
 blue eyes, full and pensive, and profusion of rich 
 brown hair. Night fell around us chill and cheerless — 
 for it was November — ere we reached the inn where 
 we were to pass the hours till morning. When we 
 entered, through the stable, the only sitting-room 
 which the house afforded — half kitchen, half coifee- 
 room — three or four peasants were seated loungingly 
 at a large table, consuming a homely supper of dark 
 bread, grapes, and fish, to which were added some 
 ilasks of the vino dell paese, which, to say the truth of 
 it, is in that region execrable enough. The looks of 
 these fellows were anything but agreeable, though 
 sufficiently picturesque. They eyed us with a rude 
 gaze, and then resumed their occupation ; and, as 
 they hewed large slices off the loaf with their long, 
 sharp-pointed clasp knives, that served alike for the 
 purpose of life and death as occasion required, and 
 conversed with each other in a rough, rude jargon, 
 unlike the soft accents which we had been accustomed 
 to hear from the Bocca Romana, one could not help 
 
THE COUXT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 135 
 
 associating them with the bandits and cut-throats 
 that at no very distant period filled the Campagna 
 di Roma, to the terror of all peaceable travellers. 
 Some thoughts of this sort seemingly passed through 
 the mind of the Englishman, and were still more 
 evidently pourtrayed on the intelligent face of his 
 daughter. In a short time their repast was finished, 
 and they rose, stretched their huge limbs, yawned, 
 braced the thongs that bound their leggings, and 
 stuck their clasp knives in their sashes, while one 
 of the party threw a few silver pieces on the table. 
 These a dirty dishevelled ragazza picked up, and, 
 handing them their change, consisting of some small 
 copper coins, they departed, without taking further 
 notice of us, to our infinite satisfaction. Meantime 
 the girl removed the debris of the peasants' supper, 
 swept the table with a towel, flung over it a linen 
 cloth, coarse, and not over clean, and placed knives, 
 spoons, and horn drinking-cups — the scanty and 
 hasty preparations for our meal. 
 
 In a few moments more, a huge ladle had drawn 
 up, from a caldron that smoked over the fire, a liquid 
 which one better skilled in such things than I am 
 would find it diflJcult to classify under an appro- 
 priate head in the department of gastronomy. A 
 Frenchman would call it soup maigre ; an Englishman 
 
134 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 would pronounce it greasy water : a dog would have 
 suspected that it was the washings of dishes, with 
 an undue quantity of the aqueous element super- 
 added ; at all events, a fair analysis would have 
 detected the presence of animal substance, infini- 
 tesimally diluted, together with a liberal admixture 
 of meal, vegetables, and herbs of a strong and un- 
 savory odour. I was hungry and cold, tolerably 
 young then — for, alas 1 it is a great many years ago 
 — and had a strong stomach, and was well used to 
 rough fare, so I contrived to swallow down a fair 
 share of the composition. 
 
 My male companion, encouraged by my perform- 
 ance, essayed a spoonful — aye, and got it down ; but 
 his powers of endurance could go no farther, and, 
 with an exclamation graced with an English exple- 
 tive that I need not repeat, he thrust the plate at 
 arm's length from him. The young lady looked at 
 her share with an expression of distress so ludi- 
 crously piteous, that I could scarce refrain from laugh- 
 ing outright. This was our first course. Next came, 
 from the same teeming vessel that supplied the soup, 
 a mass of flesh, which might have been beef, or 
 might not — I am not Tartar enough to pronounce 
 upon horse-flesh, and, certes, the fibres of a nice 
 young colt, if boiled for two hours or so, might have 
 
THE COUXT OF CAS TEL VECCHIO. 135 
 
 been as tender. This was distributed amongst us, 
 and, in order to make it more tempting, oil, vinegar, 
 pepper and mustard were laid before us. In a 
 frenzy of desperation, the old gentleman turned upon 
 some fish, bread and cheese, which were now pro- 
 duced, and, calling for the best wine that the house 
 afforded, washed down his meagre supper with a 
 draught or two. The girl contrived to procure a 
 few grapes and figs, which, being the production of 
 Nature, were at least palatable. While we were thus 
 engaged, the sound of wheels and the tinkle of 
 horse-bells were heard without, and in a few minutes 
 we were joined by two others. They were travellers 
 like ourselves — the one a man of, it might be, about 
 five-and-thirty, to judge from his figure, and the 
 raven blackness of his hair and moustache ; but the 
 sharp, worn appearance of his features, and the bald- 
 ness of his high, pale forehead, told either of more 
 years or of something that made each year count 
 double : the last seemed the more probable, from the 
 wild restlessness of his sunken and brilliant eyes, 
 that contrasted touchingly with a melancholy languour 
 that overspread his visage. His companion was a 
 short, thickset, and remarkably strong man, with a 
 frank, placid countenance, and, to judge from his 
 manner — at once respectful yet familiar — he seemed 
 
136 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 to occupy the position of a favoured though inferior 
 companion. The former seated himself at the table, 
 after a courteous salutation of our party, and the 
 second very methodically proceeded to the inexhaus- 
 tible cauldron, and took upon himself to inspect the 
 contents. 
 
 The result seemed to be unsatisfactory in the ex- 
 treme, for he flung back the ladle with an emphasis 
 that sent the liquid splashing and hissing into the 
 fire, and, uttering a thoroughbred Gallic Sacre-e-e ! 
 that did our hearts good, walked out of the room. 
 
 In a short time he returned with a little packet in 
 his hand, and seizing a small earthen vessel, filled 
 it with hot water ; he then threw in a square of port- 
 able soup, and, in a moment, set a plate before his 
 companion, which exhaled an odour that was at once 
 tantalizing and refreshing. 
 
 This done, he once more took the ladle, and, 
 fishing up the nondescript flesh, sat down leisurely 
 at a little distance, and commenced his own supper. 
 The other now, for the first time, broke the silence 
 observed amongst us. 
 
 "I fear," said he, and his speech showed he was 
 a Frenchman, " you have fared but badly, unless you 
 had the good fortune to have made some provision 
 beforehand." 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 137 
 
 " Infernally," said the old gentleman ; " it is a 
 choice between starvation and poison." 
 
 " Let me offer you something that will insure you 
 against either fate," replied the unknown. " Pierre 
 has a few more cakes of soup left, which, as we 
 shall be at Rome to-morrow^ we can spare." 
 
 The offer was accepted by the old gentleman and 
 his daughter. For myself, I had contrived to satisfy 
 my wants in the way of eating, and declined. 
 
 By degrees we fell into conversation, as travellers, 
 when they meet, are wont to do. The stranger's 
 observations were acute and lively, but had, withal, 
 something eccentric about them ; and he passed ra- 
 pidly from one subject to its very opposite — from a 
 gay jest to a pathetic reflection — with a facility and 
 frequency that showed a mind as restless as it was 
 inquisitive. And now our Hebe produced coffee, 
 which Pierre took upon himself to prepare, and in 
 a few minutes we had each a cup of cafe 7iero as 
 warm and fragrant as heart could desire. Having 
 inspected our sleeping apartments, and found them 
 as desolate as the principal chamber, the Englishman 
 and I returned to the salon. The wind, meantime, 
 had risen to a gale, and came in gusts wild and 
 sudden, beating against the windows till they rattled 
 and creaked, while, at intervals, the surges of the not 
 
138 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 distant sea broke on the ear in low and melan- 
 choly moanings. The fire sank lower in the huge 
 chimney, and a sense of cheerlessness was creeping 
 through the large gloomy chamber. The hour of 
 retiring had arrived, but none of us seemed disposed 
 to seek the solitude of our chambers in so wild a 
 night and so cheerless a house. The old gentleman 
 wrapped his travelling cloak around him, and shawled 
 his daughter closely. The stranger arose and walked 
 to and fro, and Pierre poked out some faggots w^hich 
 he flung on the fire, for the girl had gone to her 
 bed. 
 
 "What a terrible night!" said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Aye, aye. The wind has glorious gambolling 
 around the old gables," said the unknown excitedly. 
 " How I love such a tantamararc" 
 
 "The lonliness is quite depressing," said the young 
 lady, looking timidly around her. " One is reminded 
 of the ' Castle of Otranto' and the romances of ]\Irs. 
 Radcliffe, and expects to see bandits or ghosts glid- 
 ing out of those dark recesses." 
 
 " Ghosts ! ghosts !" said the unknown, in a wild, 
 tremulous voice ; " who expects to see ghosts }" 
 
 "Nay," said I, "none here, I hope; for myself, I 
 have no such expectation, as I do not believe in 
 such visitants." 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 139 
 
 " Do you not ?" responded he quickly ; I do, for 
 I have seen ghosts — aye, hundreds of them." 
 
 " I will not dispute any man's experience," said I, 
 "and when I shall see, I too shall believe." 
 
 There was a pause of a few moments, during which 
 the stranger's eyes gleamed with a restless and turbid 
 light, and his lips moved as if communing with him- 
 self. Then he said aloud to me, in answer to my 
 last obser\-ation — 
 
 " I could tell you a tale to remove your scepticism ;" 
 at the same time time looking furtively around, as 
 if in search of some one. 
 
 " Perhaps, then, you will favour us with the narra- 
 tion. I can scarcely imagine a more fitting time or 
 place ; and, as JNIademoiselle seems as little inclined 
 for retiring as ourselves, I dare say she wdll have no 
 objection." 
 
 The young lady assented with anxious alacrity ; 
 even the old gentleman showed symptoms of curio- 
 sity. 
 
 So we all prepared to listen. 
 
140 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE RIDE BY MIDNIGHT. 
 
 "Well then," said the Frenchman, "you must know 
 that last year I chanced, when in Germany, to make 
 the acquaintance of a young Sicilian nobleman " 
 
 At this moment Pierre, who had been absent from 
 the room seeing to his master's accommodation for 
 the night, re-entered. The unknown suddenly became 
 silent, as he caught the eye of Pierre fixed upon him. 
 The expression of the man's countenance was singular, 
 and, to me, inexplicable. It seemed that of remon-. 
 strance, almost stern, yet melancholy and respectful. 
 He uttered not a word, but his master responded to 
 the look, whose language he seemed to understand. 
 
 "Nay, good Pierre, it must be so ; I cannot sleep, 
 and it will do us all good. Do not thwart me, I pray 
 you." 
 
 The other sighed, and seemed to submit, though 
 evidently with no good will. The ghost-seer then 
 continued. 
 
 " The Sicilian and I soon became intimate, and our 
 intimacy ripened into friendship ; for he was one to 
 love. Frank, light-hearted, and high-spirited, the 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 141 
 
 world -was all sunshine to him, for he knew no care 
 and he had no want. He was the son of the old 
 Count of Castel Vecchio, one of the wealthiest nobles 
 of the island, whose estates lay along the rich plain 
 of Catania, and being an only child, he had the pros- 
 pect, at no distant day, of inheriting an ample inde- 
 pendence. We proposed rambling together through 
 Switzerland and Italy, and then visiting his paternal 
 estates, to which he cordially invited me. Intelligence 
 of the sudden and dangerous illness of the old Count 
 frustrated our plans, and my friend,.hurried homewards, 
 first exacting from me a promise that I would meet 
 him in Sicily, and be present at his marriage with a 
 Neapolitan lady, whom he was engaged to espouse 
 in the ensuing winter. INIeantime, I pursued my 
 wanderings alone. At Geneva, I again heard from 
 my friend, announcing the death of his father almost 
 immediately on his arrival, and pressingly renewing 
 his invitation. From the young Count I did not hear 
 again ; a circumstance that gave me no uneasiness, 
 as the uncertainty of my movements precluded com- 
 munication. I loitered through the summer and 
 autumn in the beautiful scenes of Helvetia and Italy 
 and at length, upon the first of November, I found 
 myself in the town of Catania. A few hours brought 
 me to the residence of my friend, an ancient pile, as 
 
142 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 its name denoted, strongly fortified, and buried amid 
 the gloom of pine woods, that, even at this season, 
 cast the shadows of their dark-green foliage athwart 
 the heavy towers and deep moats. 
 
 As I drove into the large court-yard, beneath the 
 heavy archway of black and frowning masonrv, there 
 was an air of solitude which surprised me. No atten- 
 tive menials came forward to meet me, and the loud 
 echoing baying of an old hound was the only answer 
 to the clang of the horse's hoofs on the pavement. I 
 descended from my carriage, and rang more than once 
 at the massive oaken door, when at length a white- 
 headed servitor appeared, and, to my inquiries, stated 
 that the Count was at home, and then leading me 
 to the saloon, retired with my card to inform his mas- 
 ter. As I looked around me, there was, I scarce knew 
 what, that chilled and disheartened me. The room 
 was in disarray. A walnut escritoire lay open, at 
 which some one had evidently been recently writing, 
 and on a table beside were piles of old deeds and 
 papers, while in a corner of the room stood a large 
 chest, strongly corded, and near it trunks, valises, and 
 travelling bags. I had scarcely time to make this 
 survey when the door opened, and my friend threw 
 himself into my arms. 
 
 "'Enrico carissimo, come mi rallcgro di riviJcrii?' cned 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 143 
 
 he, ^vith a warmth that told me there was no change 
 in his heart, at all events. 
 
 " 'Dear Ferdinand, I embrace you with my whole 
 heart !' and I pressed him again, with the love of a 
 brother. But how is this ?' said I, after a moments 
 sur\'ey. ' You are not well, my friend. Where is 
 your bright smile and your gay looks ? Has aught 
 befallen since I heard from you 7 
 
 " ' Sit down, dear friend,' said he, ' and share my 
 sorrows, as you have heretofore shared my joys.' 
 
 " My heart sank at his words, as I flung myself 
 on a fauteuil beside him. 
 
 " 'You know of my father's death, Henr}-,' com- 
 menced my friend, ' but you know not, nor indeed did 
 I when I wrote to you, the sad results that have fol- 
 lowed it. Listen, then, to my story ; though a sad, 
 it will be a brief one. I hurried here, after part- 
 ing from you, with the utmost speed, to find, alas ! 
 my dear father in the last extremity. A shock of 
 paralysis had struck him down ; he knew me, but 
 was unable to speak, though he made most pitiable 
 efforts to do so, for something was evidently lying 
 heavily on his mind, which he sought to disclose — 
 but in vain : he soon became insensible, and he 
 died the next day. After I had discharged the last 
 duties to my parent, and investigated my affairs, I 
 
144 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 found, from memoranda in his hand-writing, that I 
 was a beggar. An unfortunate passion for gambling 
 had of late taken possession of my father, and totally 
 absorbed him. He lost portions of his estates, one 
 after another, and at length, a few days before his 
 death, he staked his all, even the castle in which 
 we now sit, in a desperate attempt to repair his for- 
 tunes, and lost. A nobleman of Messina, whose 
 success in gaming has been the surprise of all who 
 knew him, won the last remnant of our paternal lands. 
 My father signed the fatal deed that made it over 
 for ever, returned home, and was seized with the 
 attack that terminated his life; and, strange to say, 
 the winner did not long survive him. I was soon 
 called upon to resign to a stranger the home of my 
 ancestors. I thought to impugn the deed — but in 
 vain, for there was no one living to throw light on 
 the transaction. And now, dear Henry, what re- 
 mains for me but to seek some honourable means 
 of living ? To-morrow I leave this Castle, and with 
 the remnant of my fortune, and the sale of family 
 jewels, I mean to try a soldier's life.' 
 
 " ' And your marriage, my poor friend .^' said I. 
 
 " ' I have voluntarily relinquished an alliance that 
 was the dearest wish of my heart. It would be dis- 
 honourable to pursue it.' ' Well, well,' he resumed 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 145 
 
 cheerily, after a thoughtful pause, *it becomes not a 
 young heart and a strong arm to despair. Aide toi 
 et le del faidera is the hopeful proverb of your country. 
 Come, I have something still in the old chateau to 
 refresh a friend, and you must be weary after your 
 travel.' 
 
 "After our repast, we wore away the hours in 
 devising schemes for the future, and midnight was 
 approaching when I sought repose. The chamber 
 to which I was conducted was in one of the wings 
 of the castle, with a large window looking out 
 northward. The walls were hung with tapestry, 
 save one end, which was panelled with dark oak, in 
 the centre of which hung a full-length portrait. 
 I raised the light to examine it, and saw that it was 
 a cavalier in the prime of life, mounted on a black 
 charger. The face and figure bore a strong resem- 
 blance to those of my friend, and the eye glowed 
 with the fire of life, and seemed to follow me with 
 an intense gaze as I moved from side to side. I 
 know not how long I gazed, as if fascinated, and 
 at length, throwing a few billets of wood in the 
 ample grate, I flung myself on the bed, without 
 undressing. The night was wild and wintry, and 
 dark clouds scudded over the heavens, through 
 which the watery rays of the full moon, from time 
 
 L 
 
146 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 to time, struggled with a fitful illumination. The 
 agitating recital I had just heard banished sleep 
 from my eyes, and, as I looked through the chamber, 
 the logs blazed up suddenly, and threw their flicker- 
 ing light on the picture opposite me, till I almost 
 fancied, as the glare played upon it, that the eye 
 kindled and the features moved. Midnight pealed 
 out while I thus watched in a sort of dreamy re- 
 verie, unable to withdraw my eyes from the portrait. 
 I cannot say what time passed thus, till I closed my 
 eyes in very weariness, A ringing sound, as of the 
 champing of a bit when the bridle rein is drawn, 
 suddenly aroused me, and in the dubious light I 
 beheld the cavalier dismount from his steed, and 
 approach the bed, I gazed in mute terror on the 
 wild yet melancholy face ; then, recovering from the 
 horror that bound my senses, I said, ' In heaven's 
 name, who are you, and what is your mission ?' 
 
 " ' It is not too late yet,' said the figure, in a hollow 
 voice. * Know you that this is the Eve of All Souls } 
 Arise and come with me.' 
 
 "A spell was on me that I could not resist; I 
 arose. The cavalier stept back towards the horse, 
 his cold black eyes still fixed upon me. ' IMount,' 
 said he. I obeyed mechanically. The figure sprang 
 up behind me, and, seizing the rein, shook it im- 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 147 
 
 petuously. The steed sprang wildly forward with 
 a start, as if struck with the spur, and, bounding 
 through the window that yielded to his touch, his 
 iron hoofs the moment after rang upon the payment 
 in the court-yard. A gust of wind swept howling 
 by us, the huge valves of the oaken gate swung 
 open, and we dashed through the troubled moon- 
 shine into the dark forest of pine trees. The night 
 air blevv on my brow refreshingly, and my first feel- 
 ings of terror became overmastered or absorbed in 
 a state of intense and sublime excitement. I know 
 not how to describe my sensations, I was, as it 
 were, in a new and higher existence, and in a sub- 
 tler element. Every corporeal sense seemed en- 
 dowed with keener powers of perception, and my 
 mind became suddenly expanded and elevated, as gas 
 mounts and dilates when the pressure is removed 
 from it. I saw every thing at a glance ; I compre- 
 hended every thing as by intuition. I felt a strange 
 struggle of contending principles, that made the 
 blood rush wildly from the heart to the brain, and 
 back again — a sort of ecstasy that was neither 
 wholly pleasure or pain, delight or awe, but an un- 
 blending combination of each of them. For a time 
 our course was through the dark and tangled wood, 
 and we sped fonvard, unchecked by fallen trees or 
 L 2 
 
148 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 dense brushwood, the glimpses of the moonshine 
 now glinting on us through the openings of the 
 forest, and, anon, the darkness shrouding us in its 
 ebon mantle. Then we emerged upon the open 
 plain ; when, lo ! right before us rose in the dis- 
 tance the cone of the mighty Monte Gibello, puffing 
 up into the heavens its sulphury breath. 
 
 The rank grass lay in luxuriant vegetation, even 
 at this season, beneath the hoofs of the wild horse, 
 but his feet brushed swiftly over it, as lightly as 
 those of the grasshopper in the summer, as, with 
 out-stretched neck, and dilated nostril, he seemed 
 to devour the space that lay before us. A small, 
 bright stream ran winding through deep pasture 
 land, glittering in the moon-beams like a silver 
 snake. One bound, and we were at its margin — 
 another, and it w^as left behind, and I heard but 
 for a moment the gurgling song of its waters. 
 
 And now our path became broken, for the surface 
 of the ground undulated in knolls and dells. We 
 approached the base of Etna, passing in our transit 
 hamlets and shepherds' huts. How lovely, even in 
 this hour of night, was the scene around ! The 
 acclivity hung like a vast expanded garden of pri- 
 maeval nature. Surpassingly beautiful shone the 
 landscape, as in a troubled sleep — light and shadow 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 149 
 
 flitting over its features, as the soul hovers in dreams 
 over the face of a sleeping child. The orange and 
 the lemon trees still were arrayed in their golden 
 fruit, the pomegranates flung their fragrance around, 
 and the vines waved their graceful branches in the 
 night breeze — while the fair bosom of the earth 
 shone with jewel-flowers of a thousand hues. A 
 sound came on the wing of the wind. It was the 
 solemn clang of the convent bell from a neighbour- 
 ing grove of Ilex ; and, as the holy pealing passed 
 athwart us, I felt the steed tremble from neck to 
 flank, and start forward with a new and wild energy. 
 Away — away — still climbing upwards. The romantic 
 loveliness of the garden clime is left behind and 
 below ; the odour of fruit and flower comes faint 
 upon the senses, but the sultry breath of the bitumi- 
 nous volanco taints the air. Now we skirt groves of 
 chesnuts, poplars, and cork-trees ; anon, we plunge 
 into a dense forest of oak, beech, and pine. Then 
 we tread crashingly amid a gloom and waste of 
 black lava, like streams arrested and charred in their 
 course by the blighting spell of a demon. With 
 dash and strain we reeled onwards, over the black 
 shingles, into a dark and desolate ravine, stretching 
 upwards and onwards, spurning the scarped rocks, 
 whose sides looked as if vitrified by the fire-flood 
 
1 5 o THE FEA ST OF ALL SO UL S. 
 
 that from the world's birth had poured over them. 
 And then wc emerged upon a wild, trackless, soli- 
 tary desert heaped up steeply into the sky — a sub- 
 lime, solemn mountain of ashes, piled in mournful 
 and appalling grandeur around the crater of Monte 
 Gibello. Oh, sublime majesty of nature ! How my 
 soul absorbed thy wondrous and fearful beauty, as 
 it were without the aid of the dim, dull, tardy 
 senses of the body. Time seemed expanded, as 
 if seconds discharged the work of years. Space 
 seemed contracted and crushed together for my 
 spirit-vision, till I saw the smallest and nearest 
 objects, the mightiest and most distant, crowded 
 together, and yet unconfused before me. The dark 
 sea rolled far off, eastv/ard, rippling against the 
 distant promontories of Calabria; while, inland, 
 stretched around us, the forest belts that we had 
 pierced through, the mighty torrents of lava that 
 streaked and cauterised the mountain sides ; and, 
 lower still, the sweet villages, the church spires, 
 and the sylvan huts lay sleeping securely, with 
 cattle browsing on the rich tranquil pastures, and 
 by the sides of gleaming waters. Overhead, the 
 moon rushed through the masses of billowy clouds — 
 now swallowed up in their dark volumes, now 
 bursting out among the patches of blue sky — 
 speeding on like a storm-tossed vessel through the 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 151 
 
 boiling ocean. Onward and upward still ! through 
 the ashes that flew from the feet of the horse as 
 the light sand on the desert, till the hot and sul- 
 phurous breath of the crater swept stiflingly upon 
 my forehead. There, in the solemn night, the inner 
 life of the world was struggling out of its mighty 
 body — the soul of one of the leviathans that swim 
 through the ocean of space mounting up to the 
 great creative soul of the universe. A lurid light, 
 mingled with the dusky vapour that rolled up from 
 the throat of the mountain, and a dull muffled roar, 
 like the breathings of a thousand furnace-blasts, 
 issued from the depths below. Onward and up- 
 ward no more ; for the steed stands on the narrow 
 crust of the crater's edge — one gaze on the glorious 
 expanse of heaven — one glance at the gleaming sea 
 and the beautiful earth — 'One, and no more ! With 
 a bound and wild snort, the black steed plunged 
 headlong downwards. The fuliginous waves of 
 vapour boil around me, strangling my breath, and 
 forcing my eyeballs to start from their sockets. Sti- 
 fling heat, and the glow of red carbon amid the 
 darkness of hell — the splash of scalding water, and 
 the shower of blinding ashes. All these I per- 
 ceived for a moment, with intense and vivid distinct- 
 ness ; and then — the nothingness of the death- 
 trance ! " 
 
1 5 2 THE FEA ST OF A LL SO ULS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE POTION. 
 
 The Frenchman paused suddenly in his strang-e nar- 
 rative. From the time that he commenced the de- 
 scription of his wild midnight ride, he had become 
 gradually more and more excited by the subject. 
 His eyes moved restlessly at times, and then were 
 fixed, with a wild, dilated glare, as on some object 
 that filled their whole vision. Perspiration stood 
 in perceptible moisture on his forehead, he breathed 
 hard and hurriedly, and he spoke with a nervous and 
 agitated manner, and in a voice that, at times, sank 
 to a low impressive whisper. At last, as he described 
 the fatal bound into the crater, he actually seemed 
 to us all to be undergoing the suffering which he 
 described, and, as he ceased to speak, I expected to 
 see him swoon away. 
 
 The effect of his story on his auditor}^ was different, 
 according to the age and temperament of each. The 
 elderly gentleman was at first phlegmatic and listless, 
 then he stared at the narrator more in amazement 
 than from interest in the tale, till at last, when the 
 speaker stopped, he said, half-aloud — 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 153 
 
 " Bless my soul ! I never saw so strange a person 
 in my life." 
 
 The young lady was quite a study. With head in- 
 clined forward and lips apart, she devoured the won- 
 drous narrative. Her blue eyes filled with tears at the 
 Count's misfortunes ; she sighed, shuddered, and trem- 
 bled by turns, and, when the terrible catastrophe 
 was suddenly announced, she shrieked outright. 
 
 For myself, I had heard and read so many surprising 
 things in my wanderings about the world, for the 
 truth of all of which there was ever some one or other 
 ready to do battle or stake his existence, if necessary ; 
 and I had, besides, more than once, seen with my 
 own eyes and heard with my own ears what, if these 
 organs had not deceived me most scandalously, trans- 
 cended the limits of ordinary credulity ; so that I 
 learned to suspend, as much as possible, my credence, 
 without taking upon me to discredit any man's asser- 
 tions. In short, I adopted, though perhaps in a dif- 
 ferent spirit, the sentiment of our own Wordsworth, 
 that 
 
 " He is oft the wisest man 
 Who is not wise at all." 
 
 There was another auditor, if such he may be called, 
 — I mean Pierre. When his master began his narra- 
 
154 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 tive, the man, with an air of quiet resignation, thrust 
 his hand into a capacious pocket in the breast of his 
 coat, whence he drew forth a round and shallow papier 
 mdche box, on the lid of which was a soiled and 
 scratched picture of two Flemish boors sitting socially 
 with their pipes and tankards. Opening the box, he 
 took out a piece of tobacco, and proceeded with great 
 deliberation to cut it in small pieces, which he then 
 rubbed together in his hands. This done, he took 
 from the same pocket a stained meerschaum, with a 
 short stem of cherry-wood — it was, no doubt, his great- 
 est solace of life, so he kept it always next to his heart. 
 This he filled with tobacco, and then returning to the 
 fireside, he lit his pipe, and betook himself leisurely 
 to the beatitude of smoking. What his contempla- 
 tions were, if any, it would be hard to divine, for the 
 outward man was all repose, save the pufi"s of smoke 
 that, at regular intervals, curled from the corner of his 
 mouth. His master's tale, if it reached his senses at 
 all, failed apparently to move him in any way. Once, 
 indeed, when the former, in describing the clang of 
 the horse's hoof on the pavement of the castle court- 
 yard, smote his hands sharply together, Pierre looked 
 up at him with a long inquisitive inspection ; then, 
 rising from his seat, he left the room, and returned 
 in a few minutes with a small leathern case and a 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 155 
 
 vessel of water. The tranquillity of his smoking pro- 
 cess was, however, incurably disturbed, and he glanced 
 from time to time at his master, as the excitement 
 of the latter increased, till, at the moment when the 
 young lady uttered the scream, which I have already 
 recorded, Pierre arose, poured some water into one 
 of the drinking-horns, and, taking from the leathern 
 case a little phial, he dropped into the water a small 
 quantity of dark brown liquid, and, stepping over to 
 his master, handed the cup to him to drink. 
 
 " Prenez en, Monsieur," said he, in a tone which 
 partook of chagrin, as well as of commiseration. 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! I knew well how it would be." 
 
 The master took the cup in silence, and swal- 
 lowed its contents. In a moment he revived, and 
 soon became composed, and turning with a kind 
 smile to the servitor, said — 
 
 "Nay, good Pierre, it is nothing. I am quite 
 well again, you see." 
 
 Pierre made no reply, but, taking the cup from 
 his master's hand, replaced it on the table ; but, 
 as he returned to his nook by the chimney, I could 
 hear him grumbling to himself — 
 
 " Que j'e suis sot de le permettre ; mats que peut on 
 dire au—" The last word of the sentence was lost 
 in the distance, and went up the chimney with the 
 smoke. 
 
1 5 6 THE FEA ST OF A LL SO UL S. 
 
 Common civility required that we should all apolo- 
 gise for being in some sort the cause of disturbing 
 our strange companion. We expressed our regret, 
 and added our entreaties that he would not resume 
 a narrative which had already moved him so deeply. 
 But, while the old gentleman and I did so with 
 entire sincerity, I thought the entreaty of our fair 
 companion, though full of tenderness and pity, 
 was not as pressing as it might have been. In 
 fact, I suspected her of a desire to hear all the re- 
 maining horrors of the story, which was too strong 
 to be overcome even by her own excitement, or 
 that of the narrator. 
 
 " Nay, indeed, Monsieur," said the girl, " you 
 must not distress yourself for our gratification. Though 
 your tale is wonderfully interesting, still I should 
 be sorry to " 
 
 She was quickly relieved from any fears or scru-. 
 pies which she might have entertained, by the 
 Frenchman saying, in a tone of impatience that 
 precluded all further interference on our parts — 
 
 " Pray say no more about the matter, or you 
 will distress me. I do not mean to retire for some 
 time, as I know I should not sleep ; besides," he 
 continued, looking at Pierre, " I must finish what I 
 have beffun." 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 157 
 
 We offered no longer any opposition, and our 
 companion, after a few moments of silence, resumed 
 his tale. The draught which Pierre had administer- 
 ed operated most powerfully in composing both 
 the mind and body of the Frenchman. His voice 
 was now low, gentle, solemn, even plaintive, and 
 the train of thought that introduced the next scene 
 of his extraordinary narrative harmonised with the 
 tones in which he spoke. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HADES. 
 
 "Who is there that believes that the soul of man, 
 when it leaves its tenement of clay, visits not again 
 the scenes of its former joys and sorrows? Who, 
 that ever cherished father or mother, kinsfolk or 
 friends, even as himself — that loved some beautiful 
 being dearer still than his own soul — who, when 
 they are ravished from him, could bear up against 
 the weight of his sorrow, did he not believe that 
 those beloved spirits moved about him — that they 
 were the warmth in the sunbeams that makes his 
 heart lighter, the freshness in the breeze that cools 
 his aching temples — that they hover about him in 
 
158 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 the stillness of night, and manifest themselves to 
 his spiritual eyes in visions that the clouded senses 
 of the body cannot appreciate? How gladly do 
 we turn from the cold delusions of the living to 
 the mystic realities of what men call the dead. How 
 immeasurably happier are we in our spiritual con- 
 verse with the disembodied than in our intercourse 
 with those whose souls we cannot see, for the im- 
 penetrable walls of their dark prison-house. And 
 then, as they soothe our sorrows, so can we assist 
 to lighten their sufferings. As they prayed with 
 us, and for us, while in the flesh, so now pray we 
 for them, while in their spiritual purgation. Such 
 is the faith of our Church, though I know many 
 of you Anglican reformers hold it to be 'a fond 
 thing vainly invented.' Have you never heard how, 
 near a thousand years ago, a pious monk of Clugny 
 left his cloister, and toilfully journeyed over land 
 and sea, till he reached the holy city where his 
 Heavenly Master died ; and when he had fasted 
 and wept and prayed on Calvary, he turned his 
 steps homeward again. The hand of heaven guided 
 his course, so that he passed through Sicily in his 
 route. He was one who pried into the hidden 
 things of nature, for his spiritual senses were not 
 obscured by fleshly indulgence, and so he was im- 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 159 
 
 pelled by a strong desire to see ]Mount Etna, and 
 witness the majesty of God in the fire and brim- 
 stone of the nether world, as he had seen it in the 
 thunder and lightnings of heaven, in the storms on 
 the sea, and the shakings of the earth. It was on 
 the feast of All Saints that he toiled up the moun- 
 tain sides, and night had fallen on him before he 
 reached its summit. At length, when it was past 
 midnight, he stood on the edge of the dark gulf 
 which the tradition of the country believed to be 
 the mouth of Hades. It was a calm, still night, 
 and the mountain lay in dark repose ; a thin vapour 
 alone told of the fires that slumbered within. Then 
 the monk heard the sounds of wild wailing, and 
 groans, mingled with cursings. But his heart was 
 bold and his faith strong, and he crossed himself 
 devoutly, and prajed to Him in whom the devils 
 believe and tremble. Then he listened attentively, 
 and after a little while he could distinguish words, 
 and he became spiritually cognizant of their mean- 
 ing, and, though he was full of awe and wonder, 
 yet he rejoiced exceedingly. They whose voices he 
 heard were the evil spirits, the enemies of mankind, 
 and they howled with rage and impotent malice 
 against the holy monks of his own monastery of 
 Clugny, because that their prayers and supplica- 
 
i6o THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 tions had wrested from the powers of those evil 
 ones many souls of the departed. Then the good 
 monk returned on his way full of thanksgiving 
 and joyfulness, and when he reached his own coun- 
 try he related to his abbot — whose name was Odilo — 
 all that he had heard. Thereupon the abbot ques- 
 tioned him as to the day when this happened, and 
 finding it was on the morning of the 2nd of No- 
 vember, he straightway appointed that the anni- 
 versary of that day should be ever after observed 
 in his monastery, and he ordained that prayers 
 should be made thereon for all departed souls. 
 And so it was continued, till in later times the 
 Pope established it to be a general holiday through- 
 out the Christian world, as the ' Commemorazione dei 
 Udeli defonti.' 
 
 "When consciousness returned to me I found 
 myself lying by the bank of a wide and dark roll- 
 ing river. The scene around me was wild and 
 gloomy. A region arid and desolate stretched be- 
 side and behind me, shut in by steep inaccessible 
 mountains, upon which no verdure bloomed. All 
 was savage solitude — no living thing was within 
 ken of my eye. As my sight became familiar with 
 the darkness, I descried beyond the broad river 
 a red twilight, as of distant fires glowing upon a 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. i6i 
 
 sterile plain that stretched far away beyond my 
 vision. By degrees I perceived this plain was throng- 
 ed with pale spectral forms, flitting restlessly to 
 and fro as the bleak winds swept them about. 
 Then faint, and solemn, but in tones of unspeak- 
 able sweetness, came down, as from the upper 
 world, the chanting of earthly voices, and I recog- 
 nised the sublime sentences of our Church, assigned 
 to the service for the departed souls of men — 
 
 'Juslorum ariimcE in manii Dei sunt, ei non tanget 
 illos tormentum maliticB. Visi sunt occults insipienti- 
 U771 vio)-i, illi autejii sunt in pace^ 
 
 "As these words floated in the air, the spectral 
 beings ceased to move about, and stood listening, 
 their pallid and anguish-marked faces turned up- 
 wards in the mute agony of supplication, and I felt 
 that the prayers of the just were ascending to hea- 
 ven in urgent entreaties for those who were under- 
 going the trial of the purgatorial flames. Then I 
 beheld the faces of many of those shadows brighten, 
 and the flames glowing less fiercely around them, 
 while the black stains upon their forms waxed faint- 
 er. But others knew no remission of their sufler- 
 ings from the holy strain : the sin-marks spotted 
 them as darkly as before, and the flames wrapped 
 them with unabated fury. While I gazed in breath- 
 
 M 
 
162 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 less Avonder, a form radiant with mild and heavenly 
 lustre stood at one side of the ghostly throng, and 
 they whose sufferings were mitigated turned anx- 
 iously towards him ; but the others hid their faces 
 in despair, and their low groanings fell upon my 
 ear and chilled my heart. 
 
 "Then I heard again the low sweet solemn sounds 
 from above, and these words reached me — 
 
 ' Vcniie ad vie omnes qui laboratis et onerati estis, et 
 ego reficiam vos. AllcluJaJ 
 
 "As they heard the sounds, the spirits that looked 
 upon the angel moved towards him, and the light of 
 his countenance fell upon them and bathed them with 
 its illumination, and they grew whiter and purer in 
 its radiance, and the trouble of their faces was light- 
 ened. And now I turned my eyes towards the wretch- 
 ed ones afar off, and, lo ! a form, tall as a giant and 
 black as a wintry tempest, stood beyond them, and 
 the wail of their anguish swelled upon the air when 
 they looked upon him. Then one amongst them 
 cried aloud, with an exceeding bitter cry. But a 
 voice, mild yet stern, said unto him — 
 
 " ' As yet there is no remission for thee. Thou 
 didst enjoy thy sin to the last. Thou tookest the 
 unwary in thy snare, and despoiled the orphan and 
 the innocent of his heritage. The accursed love of 
 
THE COUXT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 163 
 
 gold held thee to the last, and thou didst die with 
 the patrimony of another in thy gripe I' 
 
 "Then the wretched spectre said, 'Who accuseth 
 me ?' Thereupon forth stood a form from out the 
 crowd, and I knew it to be that of him who had 
 brought me thither over the plain and the mountain. 
 And he said — 
 
 " ' I accuse thee. The wrongs and sorrows of my 
 child will not let me rest in the grave. Restore that 
 whereof thou hast robbed him.' 
 
 " Then said the angel, 
 
 " ' Prefer thy charge.' 
 
 "And the spirit said, 
 
 " ' With false dice did he win my fair lands ; he 
 brought me to an untimely death, and my heir to 
 ruin.' 
 
 "And the other was silent, and denied not the 
 accusation. Then said the angel to the accusing 
 spirit, 
 
 " ' Thy punishment is just ; thy soul was covetous, 
 and thou hast reaped the fruits of thy sin.' 
 
 "And the other answered, 
 
 "'I am justly punished, let me suffer; but my 
 child'— 
 
 "A shade of ineffable commiseration passed over 
 the bright countenance of the angel, and he said, 
 ii 2 
 
1 64 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 " ' INIighty is the po-^ver of love ! Thy prayer shall 
 prevail for thy child. Let him restore that which 
 he hath taken by fraud.' 
 
 "Then the dark and gigantic form stepped forward 
 and said, 
 
 " ' It may not be. The heritage has been made 
 over by his own deed : he may not revoke it.' 
 
 "But the other said, sternly, 
 
 " 'Thy power goeth not thus far, nor shalt thou 
 countervail the decrees of mercy.- Where is the 
 deed ?' 
 
 "Again the dark one spoke, 
 
 " 'Thou canst not recall the past. Who shall say 
 that the issue w'ould not have been the same had there 
 been no treacherous dealing ? He sought a gambler's 
 chance and wrought a gambler's sin. Shall he not 
 abide a gambler's fate ? Is he innocent because the 
 other is more guilty ? I appeal to thy own laws of 
 justice ! ' 
 
 " 'Thou hast appealed to justice,' said the angel. 
 ' Be it so. Let time roll back.' 
 
 "In a moment the whole scene vanished from my 
 sight, as the magic vision in a wizard's mirror, and I 
 was in darkness." 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 165 
 
 "After a time a pale light shone near me, and I per- 
 ceived it streamed from a lamp. The rays revealed 
 to me a large and richly furnished room, with a table 
 in the midst, whereon stood an antique candelabrum. 
 At the table were seated two men, one of whom I 
 recognised as the Cavalier of the Castel Vecchio ; the 
 other was the fonn of him whom he had accused. 
 They were engaged in play, and dice lay before them. 
 The Count took up the dice, and as he looked at them 
 in the light of the lamp he saw that they were loaded, 
 and he cast them away and demanded others. Then 
 one whom I had not seen before, a fair youth, gave 
 him other dice. And the two men played, and the 
 Count lost the first game. Then they played again, 
 and the Count won, and so they were equal. There 
 was a pause of a moment, and a pang of agony made 
 the face of the Count grow pale, and his lip quivered. 
 He sighed deeply, and said, in a low stifled voice, 
 
 " ' My son, my son !' 
 
 " But the brow of the other grew black, and he 
 said impetuously, 
 
 " ' Proceed with the game. Thou canst not ques- 
 tion the result. I will abide by it.' 
 
 " Then they played again, and the adversary of the 
 Count threw the highest on the dice, and a smile 
 of triumph lit up his dark eye as the other took them 
 up. I watched with my whole soul intent upon the 
 
1 6 6 THE FEA ST OF A LL SO ULS. 
 
 issue. He threAv, and his throw was as high as that 
 against him. One chance more remained, and each 
 threw in turn, and the Count uttered a crj' of joy. 
 He had won ! There was a moment of silence, after 
 which I heard a voice saying, 
 
 " 'Bring forth the deed.' 
 
 "The fair youth came forward to the table, and 
 laid upon it a parchment and materials for writing. 
 Then the voice said to him who had lost, 
 
 " ' Thou hast had justice even according to what 
 man calls justice. Tear off the seal and the hand- 
 writing of him thou hast defrauded.' 
 
 "Then the form, slowly and reluctantly, as if 
 forced by a power he could not resist, arose from 
 his seat, and tore off a portion of the parchment, 
 and the fair youth took it and held it in the flames 
 of the lamp until it was consumed. Again I heard 
 the voice saying to the same form, 
 
 " 'Write now on the back of the parchment that 
 thou dost release and annul the claim that thou didst 
 gain by fraud.' 
 
 "The form took the pen and wrote as he was 
 commanded. When it was done the voice said, 
 
 " 'Now, sign thy name thereto.' 
 
 " iNIutely and slowly the form obeyed, and suddenly 
 a gust of wind swept through the chamber. The 
 flame of the lamp rose up in the air, and all was 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 167 
 
 darkness. The storm caught me up as it were upon 
 its wings. I heard the thundering sound of hoofs, 
 as I was borne with the speed of the whirlwind 
 through the night air, and the next moment I found 
 myself in the chamber in the Castle upon the black 
 steed, in the self-same spot, where I mounted him. 
 I felt him pant and tremble beneath me, and, rearing 
 wildly up, he fell back upon me to the ground. How 
 long I lay insensible, I know not, but when I opened 
 my eyes, the broad light of day streamed through 
 the large window upon me as I lay beneath the pic- 
 ture of the mounted cavalier, which had fallen from 
 the panel where it hung the night before. I extri- 
 cated myself from beneath the weight of the pon- 
 derous picture frame, and, when I stood upright, my 
 brain reeled, I felt chill and dizzy, and my limbs 
 ached, as if I had undergone violent and fatiguing 
 exercise. 
 
 "Again I flung myself on the bed, and, despite the 
 thoughts that passed confusedly through my mind, 
 I soon sank into deep and dreamless sleep." 
 
i68 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE CONSULTATION. 
 
 "The creaking of the chamber door awoke me, and 
 ■when I opened my eyes, the young Count of Castel 
 Vecchio stood at my bedside. 
 
 " ' Caro amico^ said my friend ' I fear I have 
 broken in upon your slumber. I came to learn how 
 you have slept during the wild and blustry night. 
 The wind has been howling through the old castle, 
 as though it mourned the departure of its old inha- 
 bitants. Ah ! what is this I see ? — my father's pic- 
 ture fallen from its place. This is, indeed, an ill 
 omen ; but omens now cannot affect me. It seems 
 he, too, warns me that we can stay here no longer.' 
 
 " ' This, then, is your father's portrait, dear Fer- 
 dinand,' said I. ' How strange !' 
 
 " ' What is strange } ' said the Count, 
 
 "'Do not ask me at present,' said I. I will rise 
 now and join you presently in the salon! 
 
 "'What! in your clothes still, Henri,' cried the 
 Count in surprise, seeing me full dressed as I arose. 
 ' Is it possible that you lay thus through the night ? I 
 fear you have slept but uncomfortably.' 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. ibq 
 
 " ' It is true, Ferdinand, that I did not undress,' 
 I replied, evading an answer to his last observation ; 
 ' but you know of old that I am a genuine traveller, 
 and care not about such things.' 
 
 " My friend left me, and I arranged myself with- 
 out delay. While I bathed my hot and aching 
 brows with cold water, I reviewed the extraordinary 
 scenes of the past night. All was clear, distinct 
 and vivid before my mind, as palpable as any 
 events of my life. I tried to believe it was but a 
 dream, but dream never wore such reality as all 
 that I now looked back upon. And, then, there 
 was the picture to stamp all with the certainty of 
 truth. I raised the heavy frame and set it upright ; 
 I looked at it with the expectation that the noble 
 form of the old Count would again address me : but 
 no, the lips were close and mute ; and yet, I thought — 
 nay I almost felt — that the keen black eye looked 
 into my very soul, and commanded me to work out 
 the mission of the past night, while the coal-black 
 steed stood out from the canvas as if instinct with 
 energy, and the veins of the head and limbs seemed 
 as if swollen with recent and violent exertion. I 
 hurried to the salon, and met my friend, and found 
 him busied in preparations for travelling. 
 
 " ' This is but scant courtesy for my friend,' said 
 
170 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 he, with a melancholy smile, 'to constrain him to 
 leave the roof so soon, which he has come so far to 
 visit. But I am no longer its master.' 
 
 " ' You will accompany me, dear Henri, to IMessina. 
 To-morrow I sail thence for Italy.' 
 
 " ' Dear Ferdinand,' I replied, with emotion, ' I 
 will not leave you, be your fate what it may. Whe- 
 ther you depart hence, or stay, myself, my fortune, 
 my life are yours.' 
 
 "'A thousand thanks, dear Henri,' said the Count. 
 ' Your friendship I prize dearly — dearer than ever, 
 more I need not say. But why do you speak of 
 staying here ? The IMarchese comes here at noon 
 by appointment, to receive what I have no longer 
 the right by law to retain. The moment I surrender 
 the keys of the old castle, I leave it for ever.' 
 
 " A pang of manly grief shook his frame, and he 
 sank on a chair and hid his face in his hands. 
 
 " I reverenced his grief, and was silent. I felt 
 the language of common-place commiseration would 
 be an insult to his sorrow, and I refrained. In 
 a few moments he recovered his tranquillity, and rose 
 up erect and firm. His eye shone with a proud and 
 almost haughty lustre, and brought forcibly to my mind 
 that of the old Count, as I had seen it in the picture. 
 
 " ' Pardon me this weakness, Henri. It is the 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 171 
 
 first that you or any man has witnessed, and I trust 
 shall be the last. I am not one to give way to 
 despair. Have I not youth, and health, and strength, 
 a strong heart and a clear conscience } Why then 
 should I not hope ? And now to our meal, for 
 there is much to be done ere noon, and I feel that 
 heaven has kindly sent you to aid and sustain me.' 
 
 " ' Most truly do I believe so,' said I ; ' and I 
 cannot help expecting a happier issue of these trials 
 than you hope for. My arrival at such a critical 
 time looks something more than casual.' 
 
 " An incredulous and melancholy smile passed 
 over the features of the Count, and the subject 
 dropped. During breakfast, we conversed on in- 
 different topics, and each detailed what had occurred 
 since our separation. 
 
 " When the repast was ended, I said to my friend, 
 
 " ' Were you acquainted with the late Marchese ?' 
 
 " ' Not at all. He spent much of his time in Italy, 
 and only returned to the neighbourhood of Messina 
 after my departure from this island.' 
 
 " ' What character did he bear ?' 
 
 "' Indifferent enough, I believe. In early life he 
 was a man of dissolute and prodigal habits, and 
 wasted a noble patrimony. In later years he be- 
 came, as is not uncommon with such persons, penu- 
 
1 7 2 THE FEA ST OF ALL SOC L S. 
 
 rious and avaricious in the extreme, and ere he died 
 it is said that he more than restored his ruined 
 fortunes.' 
 
 " ' And his son ?' 
 
 "'I have scarcely ever seen him, but I believe he 
 has a fair reputation. His father and he had, they 
 say, but little intercourse, and the son was in Ger- 
 many when the old Marchese died.' 
 
 " ' Good. Tell me now, Ferdinand, did your father 
 never communicate to any one the circumstances 
 under which he transferred this property to the 
 Marchese ?' 
 
 " * Never, that I could learn. Save ser\-ants there 
 were none to whom he could do so, and he was 
 not a man who confided in those below his own 
 station. I was absent when he lost his estate, as I 
 told you, and only became aware of the fact after 
 his death.' 
 
 " ' Did you see the deed ?' 
 
 " ' Certainly, and inspected it narrowly. I must 
 do the young IMarchese the justice to say that he 
 frankly afforded me every facility: but he had no 
 information to give, beyond the fact of the instru- 
 ment, which, he said, he found amongst his father's 
 papers after his death.' 
 
 " 'Well, Ferdinand,' said I, 'I cannot help enter-* 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTE L VECCHIO. 173 
 
 taining a strong conviction that the old Marchese 
 did not fairly come by the deed. You say the pro- 
 perty was won at gaming ?' 
 
 " ' So it would appear, from the latest document 
 I have found in my father's handwriting.' 
 
 "'And I firmly believe,' I rejoined, 'that the 
 Marchese won by foul play. There are such things 
 as false dice.' 
 
 " My friend started, and for a moment remained 
 in thoughtful silence ; at length he said — 
 
 " ' Something I heard of this IMarchese I now 
 remember, which would almost lead me to think 
 your suspicion may not be ill-founded. There was 
 a report that he left Rome suddenly, in consequence 
 
 of an affair with the Prince de B , in which his 
 
 character suffered.' 
 
 " ' Now, listen to me, Ferdinand,' said I. ' Sit 
 down quietly beside me,' — he was walking hurriedly 
 up and down the room — ' for I have much to tell. 
 I pledge my existence and my honor as a gentleman 
 that the Marchese cheated your father with false 
 dice. May Heaven enable me to establish this fact 
 as surely as I believe it !' 
 
 " I then related to him my strange adventures of 
 the past night. He listened to me with profound 
 attention to the end. 
 
1 74 THE FEA ST OF A LL SOUL S. 
 
 " ' San/issima Maria! die viaraviglia!' at last he 
 ejaculated. * Be it a dream, or vision, or reality, 
 I believe it has figured forth the truth. Who shall 
 say, Henri, how soul may communicate with soul ? — 
 how the spirits of the departed may visit us, even 
 in these latter days, for important purposes, as we 
 know they did in times of old ? — how the spirit of 
 the living may wander forth from the body when it 
 lies buried in a sleep that is the similitude of 
 death l! I have myself seen, in Vienna, things too 
 wonderful almost for credence, but that I was con- 
 strained not to disbelieve. But how are we to turn 
 to account this supernatural revelation 7 
 
 " ' Na}-, you must leave that to me. I have not 
 been made the instrument of this spiritual communi- 
 cation to no purpose. I shall persevere in working it 
 out. Leave me for a space to my own reflections, 
 while you proceed with other matters.' 
 
 " ' Be it so, my friend,' said the Count. ' At all 
 events, I know the worst that can happen, and I 
 am prepared for it.' 
 
 "'Coraggiof my friend,' said I, rising from my 
 seat, and pointing to the motto beneath his armorial 
 bearings, that were blazoned over the mantelpiece, 
 I added, 'A Dio mi fido : forget not the trust of 
 vour ancestors.' 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 175 
 
 " I passed out through the oriel window that 
 opened on a terrace facing the north-east. The 
 day was serene, though dark and somewhat warm, 
 and the wind, that had been high through the night, 
 was now sunk to a calm. Dark masses of clouds 
 still hung in the heavens, but blue streaks of ether 
 broke through them here and there cheerily. 
 
 "As I surveyed the rich fields, over which the 
 cattle were peacefully browsing, the dark forests of 
 pine, oak, and beech, the growth of centuries, and 
 caught the gleam of placid streams straying through 
 the verdant plains, I felt as if they were endued 
 with a voice that said to me — we shall not pass away 
 from the race that has lived and died amongst us. 
 I strode to the northward angle of the gravelled 
 platform, and my eye caught the whole southern 
 ascent of Monte Gibello. There it was, such as I 
 had witnessed in my mystical transit — its base smil- 
 ing in rich verdure, the pomegranate, and lemon, 
 and orange, the trailing vine hanging in its grace- 
 ful festoons ; above these, the dense dark forests, 
 the gloomy ravines, the lava torrents, like ribs bared 
 by fire ; and, higher still, the cone of smooth ashes 
 surmounted by the crater, puffing forth its hot and 
 smoky breath into the sky. While I marked all 
 these, for the first time, they seemed to me as 
 
176 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULB. 
 
 familiar as if I had trodden them a hundred times, 
 and I felt the reality of all that I had gone through. 
 I was aroused from my contemplations by the sound 
 of horses moving rapidly, and the roll of wheels on 
 the shingles. 
 
 "This ceased suddenly, and the clang of a bell 
 smote startlingly on my ear. In a moment after, the 
 wheels again rolled more slowly along the pavement. 
 I looked at my watch, and, finding it was just noon, 
 I re-entered the apartment w'here I had left the 
 Count of Castel Vecchio." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE POINT OF HONOR. 
 
 "When I again stood within the salo7i, I perceived 
 the Count standing beside the tall mantelpiece that 
 surmounted the antique fire-place. He held in his 
 hands a large panel of dark oak, on which he was 
 o-azing with a contemplation so profound that he 
 did not notice my approach, nor the sounds that 
 had caused my return. As I drew near him, I found 
 that the object which absorbed him was the portion 
 of the woodwork on which the armorial bearings to 
 which I have already referred were painted : he had, 
 
THE COUNT OF CAST EL VECCHIO. i-j-j 
 
 no doubt, separated from the surrounding timber 
 in which it had been inserted, and torn down this, the 
 last record of his ancestry ; a solemn divesting of his 
 name and pedigree from the pile that had for ages 
 recognised his race as its owners. I laid my hand 
 gently on his shoulder, and he turned his face 
 towards me, with a smile, proud, yet melancholy. 
 
 *' ' It was the last tie that bound me to the old 
 castle,' said he, * and it's now severed. Henceforth, 
 I am but a stranger.' 
 
 " ' It was not well done, Ferdinand,' I answered 
 reproachfully. ' Have you, then, disavowed your 
 faith in that trust upon which your forefathers re- 
 lied ? With the assistance of that God in whom 
 they trusted, you shall yet see it restored to its 
 place.' 
 
 " At this moment, the old servitor entered, and, 
 with a dejected voice, full of the most respectful 
 
 sj-mpathy, said, 'The Marchese di N is without, 
 
 Sir, and desires to know if it be your pleasure to 
 receive him T 
 
 "The Count started slightly, and his face grew 
 pale as death, but his eye was bright, and almost 
 stem, as he replied, composedly, 
 
 " ' Conduct the Marchese within, without delay. 
 Say I await him.' 
 
 N 
 
1 7 8 THE FEA ST OF A LL SO ULS. 
 
 " In a short time the servant re-appeared, ushering 
 in the INIarchese, and then retired, closing the door 
 after him. The Count stepped forward a few paces, 
 and incHned his head with a cold and formal saluta- 
 tion. The Marchese bowed profoundly, and with 
 deep respect. It was a touching sight to see the 
 young noble, landless and houseless, standing in the 
 midst of the room in his desolation and ruin, with 
 his household gods prostrated around him ; the apart- 
 ment cheerless and in disarray, partaking, as it were, 
 of the wretchedness of this, the last of its ancestral 
 line. If aught on the part of the Marchese could 
 have aggravated the distress of the Count's position, 
 there w-as nothing in his deportment to do so. 
 
 " ' Conte del Castel Vecchio,' said he, 'fl have 
 come here by your own appointment. If your pre- 
 parations be not complete, I shall most willingly 
 depart, and await your perfect convenience.' 
 
 "'By no means, Sir,' said the Count, proudly, 'the 
 INIarchese commands here, and I am ready to do 
 what remains to be done. My arrangements are all 
 made. INIy friend,' pointing to me, ' will assist me 
 in this business.' 
 
 "The Marchese turned towards me with a courteous 
 inclination. For the first time, I looked attentively 
 at his face, and was struck with the feeling that it 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 179 
 
 was in some way not entirely unknown to me. The 
 resemblance to him whom I had seen engaged at play 
 with the old Count was too striking to be mistaken. 
 
 " ' I am acquainted with the circumstances under 
 which your lordship is here,' said I, addressing him ; 
 * may I ask to see the deed by which you claim .?' 
 
 " 'Assuredly,' said he ; 'it is but reasonable. I have 
 brought it with me.' 
 
 "The Marchese drew from the pocket of his travel- 
 ling coat a small box, and, opening the lock with a 
 gold key attached to his watch chain, took out a 
 folded parchment. We approached the table, and he 
 unfolded the document. It had the appearance of a 
 deed drawn in the usual formal manner. I commenced 
 to peruse it, and found it stated that Antonio Carlo, 
 Conte del Castel Vecchio, was indebted to Giambat- 
 
 tista, Marchese di N , in a large sum of money, 
 
 which was specified ; and that the former, in order to 
 discharge the debt, thereby conveyed to the latter the 
 Countship of Castel Vecchio, in the Piano di Catania 
 and kingdom of Sicily, with the castle, and all the 
 signorial rights and privileges annexed to it. The 
 description of the lands, and the technicalities of 
 the legal phraseology made up the rest of the 
 writing. When I had arrived towards the end, I 
 N 2 
 
I So THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 turned back the last fold, upon which the seals and 
 signatures of the parties to the contract are to be 
 found. The Count and the INIarquis stood each at a 
 different side of me, and opposite the one to the other. 
 Both started as if struck with a bolt of thunder, and 
 gazed at each other in silence. Neither seal nor sig- 
 nature was attached to the deed, A portion of "the 
 parchment had been manifestly removed, and, as it 
 would seem, burned off, for the edge was irregular 
 in its outline, and had a black, shrunk, charred ap- 
 pearance. The Marchese seized the deed, and in- 
 spected it with the most minute scrutiny ; then laid 
 it again on the table. 
 
 " ' Sir Count,' said he, ' here is something which 
 I cannot understand. Since last I produced this 
 document for your satisfaction it has never been 
 taken from this box, to my knowledge ; the key I 
 always carry about my person, and the Paris lock 
 would defy the most skilful mechanist in Sicily. 
 There is no trace of tampering,' he observed, looking 
 narrowly at the lock and hinges ; ' and yet there must 
 have been some treachery. Speak, Conte del Castcl 
 Vecchio, can you throw light on it ?' 
 
 " The Count's eye lit up fiercely, and a hot flush of 
 indignation mounted to his brow. 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. i8i 
 
 *' ' Does your lordship dare to couple my name with 
 such a word as treachery ? You shall learn that I 
 have not lost my honour with my lands.' 
 
 "The [Marchese was about to reply, when I inter- 
 posed : 
 
 " * Gentlemen, let me entreat you both to be tran- 
 quil. This is a matter of business, and not to be 
 discussed in hot blood and angry recriminations.' 
 
 " * I appeal to the honor of the Count,' said the 
 Marchese, 'which I believe to be above suspicion. 
 Were not your father's signature and the seal of the 
 Counts of Castel Vecchio attached to this parchment 
 when last you saw it ? 
 
 " The Count was on the point of replying, but I 
 promptly prevented him. 
 
 " 'However, that may be,' said I, 'the Count is 
 not called on to answer your question. You come 
 hither claiming his estates, upon the allegation of a 
 legal conveyance of them. It is for you to establish 
 that claim.' 
 
 " ' Nay, nay, Henri,' said the Count, waving his 
 hand impatiently, 'I shall never stand on such a 
 pitiful defence. IMy Lord ]\Iarchese has appealed to 
 my honour, and shall not do so in vain. It is true, 
 as he says, my father's hand and seal were both to 
 the document when I saw it. How it is that they 
 
i8z THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 are not there now is as unknown to me as to the 
 Marquis.' 
 
 "'Count,' said the latter, 'I expected no less from 
 you ; and I entirely believe what you have asserted.' 
 
 "'I decline to avail myself of the present condition 
 of this instrument,' said the Count, firmly. ' Let us 
 proceed as if it were as perfect as it was on the day 
 I saw it.' 
 
 "The Marchese looked at the Count for a moment 
 in silence. There was less of wonder than admiration 
 and deep respect in his look. Contradictory feelings 
 seemed struggling in his mind as he looked from 
 the parchment to the Count, and from the latter to 
 the parchment again. At length he said, slowly, and 
 with some hesitation : 
 
 " ' Count of Castel Vecchio, I have a proposition 
 to make for your consideration and that of your 
 friend. If you will now pay me one-half of the debt, 
 for the discharge of which your father sold these 
 estates to mine, I shall re-convey them to you ; or, 
 should you not be prepared to do so at present, I 
 shall be ready to abide by the same arrangement at 
 any time within twelve months, upon your paying me 
 the sum I have mentioned, with interest.' 
 
 "'I thank you, my lord,' said the Count, in a 
 softened voice. ' I am not insensible to the gene- 
 
THE COUNT OF CAST EL VECCHIO. 183 
 
 rosity of your offer, though I may not accept it. 
 Your right, whatever it be, goes to the entire.' 
 
 " ' Permit me,' said I, addressing the two nobles, 
 * to lay before you my views of this matter. Let me, 
 too, entreat your lordship to bear with me, if, in so 
 doing, I shall say anything which may surprise or 
 displease you ; and believe that I entertain the high 
 respect for you which your conduct to-day entitles 
 you to.' 
 
 "The IMarquis silently bowed in acknowledgment, 
 and I proceeded : 
 
 " ' It is now plain that, on legal grounds, the INIar- 
 
 ch^se di N cannot establish a right to the 
 
 territory of Castel Vecchic' 
 
 " I looked at each as I said this. Neither of them 
 ventured to dissent from my statement. 
 
 "'Well, then,' I continued, 'the transaction rests 
 entirely upon the laws of honour between two men, 
 who, I am convinced, hold those laws to be of the 
 most binding obligation. The contract which the Count 
 feels he is bound to ratify, the Marchese believes he is 
 justified in honour to enforce. Is it not so ? 
 "Each, in silence, bowed his assent. 
 "'You have heard, then, my lord, that the debt 
 due by the Count's father to your's was contracted in 
 gambling 7 
 
184- THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 " '1 have heard so from the Count himself. Other- 
 wise, I know nothing of the circumstances, save from 
 the deed itself.' 
 
 " ' That it was of the nature I mention, your lord- 
 ship shall soon have proof. Be so good,' I continued, 
 addressing the Count, * to show his lordship the note 
 which I read last night.' 
 
 " The Count took from the escritoire a folded 
 paper, which I opened and read aloud : — 
 
 '■'■'■ To my S071. Ruined, and by your father^ s madness. 
 The patn?nony of your aticestors will never be yours. 
 Ln a mo?ne?it of desperation, L played with the Marquis 
 
 di N . Alas ! his good fortime never wavers, and 
 
 I lost ! Lost all — lajtds and house I L feel that I shall 
 not live to hear your reproaches. You ivill accord for- 
 giveness and prayers to the dead. — C.A^ 
 
 "I handed the note to the Marchese. 
 
 " ' I cannot doubt what you assert,' said he. ' Still, 
 upon the principles of honour to which you have 
 referred, and by which we are both disposed to abide, 
 it is a debt as binding as any other.' 
 
 " ' Undoubtedly, my lord : if honourably and fairly 
 won.' 
 
 "The Marquis started, and coloured with dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 " ' Remember your promise to be patient,' said I, 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTE L VECCHIO. 185 
 
 'and hear me out. I believe, and I solemnly assert, 
 
 that the Marchese di N , your father, did not 
 
 fairly win from the father of my friend.' 
 
 " ' How, Sir,' commenced the iMarchese, in rising 
 
 indignation ; ' do you mean to ?' With a strong 
 
 effort, he controlled his feelings, and continued more 
 calmly: 'Proceed, Sir; let us have the proofs of 
 your assertion.' 
 
 "'I have proofs, my lord,' said I, 'which to my 
 own soul have brought conviction the most solemn 
 and irresistible. How far you may deem them as 
 cogent, I know not.' 
 
 " ' Of that I shall judge,' replied the other, 'when 
 I shall have heard them.' 
 
 "I own I felt much unwillingness to detail the 
 strange incidents, which I have already mentioned, to 
 the IMarchese. Not only might he receive the nar- 
 rative with utter disbelief, as an idle dream, but be 
 disposed, perhaps, to view it as a dishonest attempt 
 to impose on the well-known credulity of his country- 
 men in relation to supernatural things ; and, besides, 
 there was much, no matter in w^hat light he might view 
 the tale, which was calculated to offend him deeply, 
 in reference to the memory and conduct of his father. 
 While I thus hesitated, the scenes of the night passed 
 again in review before me, when suddenly I remem- 
 
1 86 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 bered what, strange to say, had somehow escaped 
 from my recollection, I mean the release which the 
 form in the vision was forced to endorse on the 
 cancelled deed. In a moment, I took the parch- 
 ment, and turning the back of the last skin, I saw 
 some writing endorsed upon it, to which was attached 
 the name and seal of the late Marquis. 
 
 " 'There is something here,' said I, 'which may su- 
 persede the necessity of my entering into further proof. 
 Listen.' And I read as follows: — '/, Giambattista di 
 
 N , do Jierchy acknoivledge and declare that the sum in 
 
 this deed stated as due to me by the Conte del Castel Vecchio 
 was neither a laiv/ul, Just, or honourable debt, and that the 
 conveyance of the estates herein is without consideration. I 
 do, therefore, hereby annul a7id make void this deed, aiid, in 
 sign thereof have fakeji off the seal a7id signature of the said 
 Count thereto, and I enjoin on my heir to caiicel this instru- 
 ment.^ 
 
 " To this was affixed the signature and seal of the 
 late Marquis of N . 
 
 "It would be quite impossible to convey an ade- 
 quate idea of the surprise and horror depicted in 
 the countenance of the Marchese, as I read the fore- 
 going. When I had ended, he reached forth his 
 hand, took up the parchment, and examined every 
 word and character of the endorsement. He then 
 
THE COUNT OF CAST EL VECCHIO. i%i 
 
 slowly replaced it upon the table. After a long and 
 thoughtful pause, he said : 
 
 " * This is more mysterious and unaccountable than 
 the disappearance of the seal. If it were here when 
 last I saw the deed, it could scarcely have escaped 
 my notice. The handwriting is surely that of my 
 father, 'and, — merciful Heaven ! can it be 1 — it bears 
 date, "The Feast of All Souls, i8— ." Even this 
 very day. Either the hand of God or the machina- 
 tions of the devil are in this matter.' 
 
 " * The latter it can scarcely be,' I observed ; ' when 
 we consider all the circumstances of the case.' 
 
 " ' I know not,' said the INIarquis. ' I can see no 
 clue to this mystery. You said, Sir, you had proofs 
 
 of ' the young man hesitated, from a natural 
 
 horror of pronouncing his father's name, coupled with 
 false play — ' proofs, I mean, of the circumstances 
 under which the late Count lost at play with my 
 father. I entreat you to let me hear them.' 
 
 " I felt that, after what had already occurred, I 
 could not now refuse to put the IMarquis in possession 
 of the revelations made to me. I accordingly replied : 
 
 " ' As it is your wish, my lord, I shall not withhold 
 from you my reasons for believing that, as the writing 
 acknowledges, the debt was neither a lawful, just, or 
 honourable one.' 
 
1 88 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 "I then made the Marquis acquainted with all of 
 which I had previously informed the Count. When I 
 reached the part that related to his unhappy father, 
 he became profoundly agitated, and, sinking in his 
 chair, he buried his face in his hands. When I 
 ended, the INIarquis arose. His countenance was 
 pale, and as if full of humiliating shame, and traces 
 of tears were in his eyes. He took the deed in his 
 hand, and, bearing it to the fire, cast it upon the 
 smouldering logs of firewood, and watched till it was 
 slowly consumed. Neither myself nor the [Count in- 
 terrupted him by w'ord or movement. There was 
 that about him, and in the manner in which he ad- 
 dressed himself to the work he had to do, which 
 commanded our reverence, and forbade us to check 
 him. When the parchment was a shrivelled and 
 shapeless mass, he heaved a deep sigh, that spoke 
 less of regret than of a relieved spirit, and, turning 
 to my friend, said : 
 
 " ' I have obeyed the injunction of the dead, and 
 have destroyed all evidence of claim to your property. 
 I rejoice that my soul has not to bear the weight of 
 despoiling you, however unwittingly, of that to which 
 I have no just right. I will now leave you, Count of 
 Castel Vecchio. May you be happy in your ancestral 
 possessions. But, ere I go, let me have the consola- 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 189 
 
 tion of knowing that you acquit me of all knowledge 
 of the means by which this false claim was acquired. 
 I could not bear to be thought lowly of by one 
 whom I have learned to respect so highly.' 
 
 " ' [Marquis, ' cried my friend, deeply moved, * I do 
 acquit you from my soul. Sufier me to embrace you 
 as a friend from henceforth.' 
 
 " The Count held out his hand, which the other 
 grasped in silence ; but I could see that his framiC 
 shook with the violence of the varied emotions that 
 agitated him. A few hours after, the iMarquis took 
 his departure. The young men took leave of each 
 other with a mutually cordial respect, and assurances 
 of meeting again. 
 
 " Ferdinand, too, left the Castle that evening, and 
 I accompanied him ; but he did not go as an out- 
 cast from the home of his forefathers, never to re- 
 visit it. On the contrary, full of hope, he departed 
 for Italy, to communicate the strange and sudden 
 change in his fortunes to her for whose sake he 
 chiefly prized them. Ere we left the house, I took 
 upon myself two tasks — one was, to see the picture 
 of the old mounted cavalier safely and securely 
 suspended from the wall of the sleeping apartment 
 whence it had fallen ; the other I performed with 
 my own hands, replacing in the wainscot, over the 
 
1 90 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 mantelpiece in the salon, the armorial bearings of the 
 Counts of Castel Vecchio. When I had done so, I 
 led Ferdinand into the room, just as we were about 
 departing. We both stood before the tablet ; and, 
 as I repeated solemnly to him the pious motto of 
 his race, 'A Dio mi fido,' he raised his hat reverently 
 from his brow, bowed low his bared head in silent 
 thankfulness to Him whose name I uttered, and 
 then threw himself, sobbing, into my arms. Oh ! 
 how fully I understood the happiness of that 
 moment !" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SUNSHINE AFTER STORM. 
 
 " Time passed on, as he passes ever, Ti>ne, the 
 unchangeable, the inexorable, the constant ; and 
 vet, who seems to each one who views him so 
 diverse in his nature and appearance. To some, he 
 comes dancing along with the springy step of 
 vouth, crowned with flowers, and led onward with 
 the song and the dance. For others, he rushes 
 wild, turbid, and rapid as the torrent swollen with 
 the rains of winter; like it, too, sweeping away 
 bank and barrier, and the fair smiling prospects that 
 
THE COUXT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 191 
 
 the husbandman has prepared with all his provi- 
 dence for summer. 
 
 Upon some, how stealthily he creeps ! they hear not 
 his step and they mark not his progress till they find 
 he has been with them, passing over some sweet spot 
 of their heart's garden ; leaving the marks of his feet 
 upon its verdure, and of his scythe amongst its flowers. 
 And, oh ! there are those who measure anxiously 
 the journey he has to make to some distant point — 
 the goal of some crowning happiness, or the respite 
 from some life-consuming sorrow — the moment when 
 they shall lay aside their heavy burden, and lie 
 down wearied to take their long, dreamless slumber. 
 Still, for each and for all of these, he is the same 
 in reality. As lusty and as strong as the day he 
 first issued forth from eternity upon his mighty 
 journey, his pace is ever unchanging ; he knows no 
 hurry, no loitering, no turning backwards, or aside ; 
 but onward, onward ever, pressing with resistless 
 purpose towards the shadowy precincts of that eter- 
 nity which is once more to receive him. 
 
 "Time passed on, and I again found myself travel- 
 ling from Catania along the road that led to Castel 
 Vecchio. It was spring — that season the loveliest of 
 the year; all the brighter for the gloom of winter, 
 now passed and gone ; full of the vivifying influences 
 
192 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 of renascent life in all living things. The tender 
 green was on the corn and the grass, the herb and 
 the tree were bursting and filling with the bud and 
 the young green leaf. The earth was vocal with the 
 chirping of the cicada and the hum of the toiling 
 bee, as he plunged deep in the bells of the flowers, 
 or sipped the sweet out of the fragrant thyme ; the 
 heavens rang with the warblings of innumerable 
 birds, while the sportive squirrels sprang from tree 
 to tree. It was near evening, and I threw myself 
 back in my calash, to enjoy the pleasurable sense 
 of nature's loveliness. I turned my eyes from the 
 charms of the earth, and looked eastward along 
 the beautiful and tranquil sea. It stretched far 
 away, tideless and calm, and glowing beneath the 
 radiance of the setting sun ; while, skirting along 
 the low line of the horizon, the clouds that were 
 dim a few hours ago now caught the sun's rays, 
 which touched them with the true power of the 
 fabled IMidas, and turned them into gold — or, rather, 
 into a ruddy hue such as we see taken by burnished 
 copper. 
 
 As I watched these brilliant tints, they brought 
 forcibly to mind how wonderfully the workings of 
 God's moral providence are typified in the natural 
 world ; how hope and happiness grow out of des- 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 193 
 
 pair and sorrow, even as the golden panoply of even- 
 ing is the child of the cloud and the vapour lit up 
 by the sunshine. 
 
 " I remembered my last visit to the Castle : ah ! 
 how different were the circumstances under which 
 I now returned. I had but yesterday left my dear 
 friend Ferdinand at Naples, after witnessing his 
 espousal to the lovely and faithful girl whose heart 
 had still clung to him, through weal and through 
 woe, and I now hurried on before them, to see that 
 the old castle was in readiness, with its brightest 
 face, to receive the Couijt and his bride. Again I 
 drove up to the ancient gateway, and my postilion 
 rang at the ponderous oaken door; but the summons 
 was now answered with alacrity, and cheery faces 
 met me in anxious expectation. I passed into the 
 house, and had to answer many a kindly inquire- 
 about the Count and Countess, and heard on every 
 side hopes expressed of their speedy return. After 
 I had given such orders as I thought necessary for 
 the reception of the Count, and partaken of the 
 good cheer of my old acquaintance, the ancient 
 ser^•ito^, I reclined in the bay-window of the salon, 
 in pleasant rumination. At length, my old acquaint- 
 ance entered, with two antique candelabra in his 
 hand, and, setting them down on the table, said : 
 
1 94 THE FEA ST OF A LL SO ULS. 
 
 ' Pardon, Eccelenza, I would wish to know in what 
 apartment you will sleep to-night ? I fear that in 
 which you slept on your former visit was not comfort- 
 able.' 
 
 " * I should particularly desire to sleep in it again 
 to-night,' said I. 
 
 "'As you please, Eccelenza,' said the man, and 
 retired. 
 
 " That night I passed in the panelled chamber. 
 The cavalier, on his black charger, was there just 
 as I had left him, and the last object which my 
 eye recognised, ere it closed in slumber, was that 
 of the old Conte del Castel Vecchio. But my sleep 
 was dreamless and pleasant, and I rose in the morn- 
 ing thoroughly refreshed, and with a buoyant and 
 hopeful spirit. At noon I stood on the steps of the 
 heavy gothic portico, as a gay travelling chariot, drawn 
 by four spirited horses, dashed through the gateway 
 and along the court-yard, and pulled up short and 
 suddenly beside me. The Count was on the ground 
 in a moment, and in my embrace. The next instant 
 he turned quickly around, and tenderly gave his 
 arm to the Countess, and led her within the porch. 
 As he held a hand of each in his, he exclaimed, 
 
 " ' Dearest Francesca, dear Henri, how happy am 
 I with such a wife, and such a friend !' 
 
THE COUXT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 195 
 
 " We were all moved, as the thoughts of the past, 
 its perils, and its sorrows, at that moment involuntarily 
 arose upon our memories, and we entered the house 
 in silence. I shall not profane the sacred privacy of 
 the domestic hearth, by recounting the happy evening 
 which I passed with my friend and his bride. On the 
 morrow, I felt that it would be well to leave them 
 alone for the intercommunings of their own hearts, 
 so I determined on a solitar}- ramble through the sur- 
 rounding countr)\ I mounted one of the Count's 
 horses, and rode through the Piano di Catania, and 
 thence to the foot of iNIount Etna. 
 
 " Oh ! how vividly was ever}- step of the way painted 
 on my memor}- — wood, and forest, and glade, the 
 meadows, the pasture, and the villages : there were 
 the lemon and orange trees, the vine and the pome- 
 granate, the river, and the ravine, the lava flood and 
 the cone of ashes. There was not a spot that was 
 not familiar to me. When I had reached the summit 
 of the mountain, the sun was just about to set. It was 
 a glorious spectacle. North, lay the sea, cold and 
 tranquil, spotted with its islands : while the southern 
 coast of Italy lay to the north-east. Then the sea 
 again, with its waves rippling along the coast of 
 Sicily — while to the west, the eye stretched over the 
 rich and undulating countr}- that lay at the foot of 
 o 2 
 
196 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 jMonte Gibello. And there, above all, was the moun- 
 tain itself, with the light vapoury clouds rising up 
 from within it. All again passed like the scenes of a 
 phantasmagoria before my spirit's sight, and I knew 
 not which scene was the more real, that of the Feast 
 of all Souls, or this of to-day. At night I rejoined 
 my friends, and the next morning I was forced to 
 leave them ; but I left them in the possession of as 
 much happiness as ordinarily falls to the lot of any 
 in this changeful and uncertain life. Ere a year 
 had passed over, I heard again from the Count. 
 
 From him I learned that the Marchese di N , 
 
 who had associated little with mankind since the 
 period when I was first introduced to him, had died 
 suddenly a short time since, leaving by his will his 
 estates, one-half to the Count del Castel Vecchio, 
 and the other half to be applied in masses for the 
 repose of the soul of his father. The latter injunction 
 was most religiously obeyed, and a solemn service 
 was thenceforth to be performed for the repose of 
 
 the soul of Giambattista, Marchese di N , at the 
 
 chapel of St. , in Naples, on every Feast of 
 
 All Souls." 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTE L VECCHIO. k^-j 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 When our companion had ended his story, no one 
 for a time seemed disposed to break the silence 
 that ensued. The lights burned dimly in the earthen 
 lamps, which stood on the table, and now sent up 
 a dr}-, thin, feeble flame, that showed the oil was 
 well-nigh exhausted. 
 
 The logs, too, in the large fire-place, smoulder- 
 ed in their white ashes, and the shadows in the re- 
 cesses of the large unfurnished room assumed strange 
 and fantastic shapes, that well accorded with the 
 impressions so wild a narrative were calculated to 
 leave on the imagination. The old gentleman was 
 the first to break the spell, which he did in a low 
 tone, half grumble, half soliloquy, in which the words, 
 " hallucination, fantasy, nightmare, casual coinci- 
 dence," were alone audible. His daughter seemed 
 more deeply affected, and, I could plainly see, she 
 was very nervously excited. 
 
 " Dear me," said the girl, her blue eyes glancing 
 furtively around, " what a wonderful adventure ! Had 
 I seen such things, I do not think I should have 
 ever enjoyed an easy hour afterwards." 
 
198 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 " Fudge !" said her father, almost angrily. 
 
 " What is your opinion, Mr. ?" addressing 
 
 himself to me. 
 
 " INIy opinion is," I replied, "that the gentleman 
 who has seen all these wonders which he has nar- 
 rated is entitled to enjoy his own experiences : I can- 
 not controvert them." 
 
 Pierre, as seemed to be his habit, said nothing, 
 but, emerging from his nook in the ample chimney, he 
 knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, coming over 
 to the table, raised the wick in one of the little 
 earthen lamps, and signing to his master, in a man- 
 ner at once respectful and peremptory, the latter 
 arose from his seat, and wishing us a courteous good- 
 night, followed his servant from the room. 
 
 By this time it was far advanced in the night. 
 The old gentleman and his daughter discussed the 
 comparative advantages of retiring to their bed-rooms, 
 or sitting out the remaining hours of darkness where 
 they were. The young lady's fears pleaded strongly 
 in favor of the latter, and it was so decided accord- 
 ingly. Thereupon, I rose up, poked out a few more 
 logs of firewood, which I threw on the fire, and 
 having assisted in disposing of some cloaks and 
 shawls, so as to make our fair companion as com- 
 fortable as circumstances would permit, I felt it my 
 duty to depart, and leave the two alone. I ascended 
 
THE COUNT OF CASTEL VECCHIO. 199 
 
 a few ricketty stairs to the garret assigned me. It 
 was a miserable and cheerless room, in which, from 
 numerous holes in the floor and skirting, the rats 
 were accustomed to revel undisturbed. A wretched 
 truckle bed lay in one corner, near to which stood 
 the only chair which the room contained, and at the 
 other end was a chest, on which were placed a basin 
 and water-ewer. 
 
 I closed the door, but found to my dissatisfaction 
 that there was no lock upon it. I took off my coat 
 and boots, and lay down in the rest of my clothes, 
 using the precaution of taking my pistols to bed 
 with me. Despite of the gambols of the rats, which 
 coursed about the room, I contrived to snatch a few 
 hours of sleep, and was again in the kitchen shortly 
 after daybreak. When I entered, the old gentleman 
 and his daughter were already astir, and the latter 
 was giving directions to the squalid and drowsy Hebe 
 to procure some coffee. Pierre now entered, and I 
 inquired for his master. 
 
 "He has had a restless night," said the man, "and 
 is not yet risen." 
 
 "A very strange personage is your master," said 
 the Englishman, rather bluntly. " Pray has he had 
 many such adventures as that which he related last 
 night ?' 
 
200 THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS. 
 
 ''Mafoi," said Pierre, "he may have had a thousand 
 of the same sort. Who knows ?" 
 
 "You are going to Rome," said I. "Whence do you 
 come ?" 
 
 " From Marseilles, Monsieur," replied the servant. 
 
 "And did your master really see all the awful things 
 that he told us of last night ?" 
 
 "Le Dieu le sail" said Pierre, vidth a shake of his 
 head. " My master is a great author, a yiotalilite. of 
 Paris ; and he has written so much, and dreamed so 
 much in his day that he does not quite know what 
 is reality and what is fiction," and Pierre touched 
 his forehead significantly. " He has been ill of late, 
 and his physicians have forbidden his writing for a 
 time, and ordered him to the South of Italy, and his 
 friends have begged of me to accompany him." 
 
 " Ah 1 what an interesting enthusiast," sighed the 
 young lady. 
 
 "As mad as a March hare, by Jupiter," said the 
 Englishman to me. 
 
 I bowed to each, but said nothing. Perhaps my 
 own notions were not very diff'erent from the opinion 
 of either. 
 
OTfiristmas "^bt. 
 
 A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OD help the houseless and the wanderer 
 this wild night !" said the parson. 
 
 "Amen, dear uncle!" answered Ruth. 
 There was nothing very striking either in the 
 prayer or the response. Each might have been 
 uttered by the lips of hundreds on that dark, dreary 
 Christmas Eve. The man of wealth in his luxurious 
 mansion, as he looked around his well-furnished 
 room where every appliance ministered to his com- 
 fort, where close-curtained windows excluded the 
 blast, and a blazing fire dispelled the bitter cold : he 
 might have said, "God help the houseless!" and, 
 having commended such to God's help, felt that he 
 
202 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 had done quite enough — what did they want more ? 
 "Depart in peace; be ye warmed and filled." And 
 some of this world's poor children, some lone widow 
 in her cheerless garret — a soul rich in grace, and 
 poor in everything else — might have breathed the 
 prayer with all the earnestness which her own sense 
 of misery hallowed and intensified. And the ejacu- 
 lation of the one would have fallen dead as it passed 
 the lips, for it came from a dead heart ; while the 
 prayer of the other would have gone right up to the 
 Father of the fatherless. 
 
 He who uttered the prayer belonged to neither 
 class ; but he uttered the words as one who felt all 
 their significance, and spread them out before God : 
 there was heartiness and devotion in his tone and 
 manner. 
 
 As you looked at the man, you would have felt 
 assured that he was one of those who, when he prays 
 God to help, knows that He helps through His ap- 
 pointed means, and would have girded himself to 
 the task of helping for God's sake — as God's fellow- 
 labourer. 
 
 'Twas a wild night, the parson had said, and said 
 truly. A hard frost had set in some days before, 
 with a strong north-east wind, but in the afternoon 
 the wind veered about a few points to the west ; the 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 203 
 
 heavens became filled with dull, leaden-hued clouds, 
 and then down came the snow, in thick, blinding 
 flakes, drifting with the gusts, and filling up dykes, 
 and lying deep against fences, and covering the sprays 
 and branches of the leafless trees with a strange un- 
 wonted foliage, that bowed them down as laden with 
 an ungenial burden. Over the wide, waste common, 
 upon the skirts of which stood the parsonage, a few 
 perches in advance of the village of Ashton-le-Moors, 
 was spread a white sheet of trackless snow, oblite- 
 rating the traces of the roadway that traversed it, 
 and leaving no landmark visible to guide the way- 
 farer. The pastor, indeed, had found it no easy task to 
 make battle against the wind and snow-fall, as he 
 pushed sturdily through the drift in the village street 
 to his own homestead. The man had been out all 
 day amongst his people, looking after their wants, 
 distributing to their necessities, cheering, comforting, 
 counselling ; for he was not one of your parsons who 
 preach and pray on Sundays, and leave the people 
 to take care of themselves the rest of the week. No ; 
 he was an active, earnest fellow, robust in mind and 
 body, who went to his Master's work with a will that 
 would have done your heart good to see — one that 
 everybody knew and loved, from the old crone in 
 the almshouse to the chubby urchin that sailed rush- 
 boats in the millpond. 
 
20+ CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " God help the houseless ! And now, dear Ruth, 
 I think we may leave the poor fellow awhile to 
 nature ; a few hours' rest and sleep will restore him. 
 See, he is quite calm, he slumbers as peacefully as 
 a child. Come, get me something to eat, fur I am 
 as hungry as a wolf. And here, Sybil, take my over- 
 coat, and shake the snow off it, and put it to dry." 
 
 Then he drew a chair to the fire, gave it a great, 
 hearty poke, that made the coal flare up in a blaze, 
 and crackle as if resenting the assault, and, stretch- 
 ing out his legs, fell into a reverie, till aroused by 
 the entrance of the meal, to which, after a hearty 
 thanksgiving to God, he addressed himself with the 
 vigour of one who had earned an appetite by hard 
 work. 
 
 While the parson is eating, and Ruth is smilingly 
 helping him to the choicest bits, I may as well ex- 
 plain the scene with which I have opened. The 
 short winter day had closed, and the darkness had 
 set in. Ruth was anxiously awaiting the arrival of 
 her uncle, when she heard a heavy step in the hall, 
 the door of the room was flung open, and the stal- 
 wart figure of the good man appeared, staggering 
 beneath a burden which he bore upon his back ; while 
 at his heels a huge Newfoundland dog toiled along, 
 carrying a large pack that hung from his neck and 
 swung beneath his fore-feet. 
 
A tali: of two TRA tellers. 205 
 
 The man laid down his load gently before the fire. 
 
 " Here, Ruth, is a poor fellow I found on the 
 common outside. But for Brave I should not have 
 discovered him. The good dog smelt him at a dis- 
 tance, and drew me to him. He must have lost the 
 road, and wandered aside till he fell into the snow- 
 drift in the dyke. He was insensible, and would 
 soon have perished had we not found him. So I 
 strapped his pack to Brave, and heaved him upon 
 my shoulders, and here we are. Now release Brave 
 from his load — noble old fellow !" and he patted the 
 dog on the head; "and get something to refresh us 
 and tell old Sybil to fetch a couple of thick blankets, 
 and we shall get the poor fellow about quickly." 
 
 And so they did — these three good, active. Chris- 
 tian people ; they poured a few teaspoonfuls of brandy 
 down his throat, and chafed his limbs at the fire, 
 add after a little he came to himself, with a long, 
 heavy sigh, and gazed wildly at the women. Then, 
 uttering a groan, he fell back shudderingly, muttering, 
 in a low, broken voice — 
 
 "Not yet! not yet! O merciful Lord! Surely I 
 have not yet passed beyond the grave !" 
 
 The parson took from a shelf a small phial, and 
 pouring a little of the narcotic from it into the man's 
 mouth, it soon produced the desired effect, and he 
 
2o6 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 sank into a tranquil sleep. Then they lifted him up, 
 laid him on the couch in the recess near the fireplace, 
 drew over a large screen to shelter him from the 
 draught and light, and, covering him up snugly, left 
 him to his repose. 
 
 Now all this happened, let me tell my readers, be- 
 fore I or any of them was born — the better part of 
 a century ago, in what they call the good old times. 
 Good times they were in a sense, but not as good 
 as times that followed, or as the times which will be, 
 I trust, before long again. America had achieved her 
 independence ; the war with the French and Spanish 
 was over, Rodney had swept them from the West Indian 
 waters ; and England was beginning to breathe again. 
 But the people had not yet learned to know their 
 rights or their power ; they had but scant education, 
 and no voice in the councils of the nation. The press 
 was feeble and fettered, and its publications rarely 
 made their way into the homes of the masses. The 
 steam-engine and the spinning-jenny were only in 
 their infancy ; the power-loom was not invented. The 
 mighty resources of commerce and manufactures were 
 yet but as the dreams of the enthusiast. Manches- 
 ter had just begun to export cotton fabrics, and all 
 England imported but twenty millions of pounds of 
 cotton in the year. Good times they were, in a sense. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 207 
 
 but thank God we have lived to see better, when Eng- 
 land has become the mart for the world ; her pros- 
 perity, material and moral, advanced ; her people more 
 civilised, more enlightened, more educated ; and the 
 streams of knowledge and of truth, flowing from a 
 thousand printing presses, percolating through every 
 vein and artery of her social system. 
 
 All this time the snow is falling, and the gusts of 
 wind are driving it now and again patteringly against 
 the window panes, where the parson is at his meal. 
 When he had finished, he and Ruth drew their 
 chairs pleasantly together, and he told her of his 
 day's labours amongst his flock, and what Christmas 
 cheer he had provided for the poor ; and Ruth asked 
 tenderly for the old man who had got the rheuma- 
 tism, and the bed-ridden woman in the almshouse ; 
 and so they chatted till the evening was waning into 
 night, and the parson said — 
 
 " Now, dear Ruth, leave me for an hour or two 
 to myself, to prepare for to-morrow ; but come back 
 and kiss me before you go to rest. I mean to sit 
 up to hear the merry bells chime in the Christmas 
 morning." 
 
 "And so, too, shall I, uncle," said the girl ; "and 
 now I'll go to help old Sybil to deck her kitchen 
 with hollv, and to light the Christmas candle." 
 
2o8 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When Ruth had left the room the parson took down 
 from a bookshelf a Bible — a thick quarto, covered 
 with green baize — and laying it on the table before 
 him, opened it for the purpose of his night's medita- 
 tion. As he turned over the leaves, his eye was 
 arrested by a page in which some verses were under- 
 scored with ink. He paused and read them. They 
 w'ere from that sublime psalm of thanksgiving in 
 which David recounts the mercies and providence of 
 God:— 
 
 "They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in 
 great waters ; 
 
 "These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the 
 deep." 
 
 And so he read on of the storm and wave that caused 
 men's hearts to melt with trouble, till he came to 
 the verse — 
 
 "Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth 
 til em unto their desired haven." 
 
 The man gazed long and lovingly upon these verses, 
 and closing the book with a sigh, he threw himself 
 
A tali: of two travellers. 209 
 
 back in his chair and closed his eyes. But the eyes 
 of his spirit were not closed. They saw long- past 
 scenes rise up, as in the dreams of a sick man, and 
 stand out in solemn and sad memories. There was 
 the old, familiar home of his mother; and there he 
 stood, a young, brave boy, beside her, full of hope 
 and spirit, and he remembered the blessing, as she 
 gave him a parting kiss, and put that old Bible into 
 his hands, and showed him the verses that she had 
 marked for him. And now where is that mother.? 
 And where are all the hopes of his youth } And 
 
 where is } The man sprang up, half fiercely, 
 
 as if indignant at the feeling that had over-mastered 
 him. Then he cried, " Father, not my will but thine 
 be done !" and he sank on his knees in prayer, to 
 rise up again, .in a brief space, calm, resigned, self- 
 collected — the same strong-minded, earnest man, to 
 bear and to work in this world of work and suffer- 
 ing. And so he again opened the old Bible, and 
 he read, and from time to time made notes for his 
 Christmas sermon for the simple folks of Ashton-le- 
 IMoors. And so he worked on, till a clanging of the 
 bell at the gate, and the barking of Brave, broke 
 upon his labour. Up he sprang, and hurried out. 
 At the gate stood a figure covered with snow, who 
 craved shelter from the storm. 
 
 p 
 
2 1 o CHRIST MA S E VE. 
 
 " I have lost my way," said he ; " and but that I 
 saw the light from your window, I suppose I should 
 have to put up with a bed in the snow to-night. 
 Will you let me in ?" 
 
 " Willingly, and glad you found your way here. 
 Come in. Down, Brave ! Down, I say, sir !" 
 
 And so they entered the house. 
 
 The parson assisted the stranger to divest himself 
 of a large coat, and he stood revealed a strong, 
 thick-set man in sailor's garb, with grizzled hair 
 and weather-beaten face, having a deep blue scar 
 across the brow over the right eye, like a sabre cut. 
 
 " A hard night, master," said he, as he held his 
 numbed hands over the fire. " I've been out many 
 a hard night on sea and land, but seldom a harder 
 than this." 
 
 "So it is, friend. But you are now safely housed 
 from the wind and snow without. Come, what say 
 you to a cut of this cold meat and a flagon of 
 ale .?" 
 
 " I shan't say anything against it. I've trudged 
 many a weary mile since I've tasted bit or sup ; and 
 a nor'-wester sharpens a man's appetite woundily." 
 
 The stranger fell upon the food ravenously, and 
 after a vigorous and lengthened attack upon platter 
 and cup, he pushed them aside at last with a sigh. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 211 
 
 as of one who had done his duty, and was thoroughly- 
 satisfied. 
 
 " Well, friend, might one ask where you come 
 from. You seem a stranger in these parts." 
 
 " You say true ; I was never in this country before. 
 I left Portsmouth yesterday, and have travelled, to 
 the best of my calculation, twenty miles to-day. I 
 was making for Ashton-le-Moors, which they told me 
 is on my road northward, when the snow-storm 
 came on, and I lost my way. Is it far from this ?" 
 
 " Not very. You have not gone much astray, 
 after all, and might have fallen upon worse quar- 
 ters." 
 
 " Ay, sir, truly ; I am grateful for your kindness. 
 A roof over one's head is more than many a one 
 merits, if he got his deserts ; to say nothing of a good 
 meal and a warm fireside. How far may it be to 
 Leighton-Super-Mare ?'' 
 
 "A good sixty miles, at the least — away on the 
 eastern coast." 
 
 " Sixty miles 1" repeated the man with a sigh ; " so 
 far } I thought to reach it to-morrow ; but that can't 
 be." 
 
 " Nay, good fellow ; to-morrow is no day for way- 
 faring. You shall rest here on our holy Christmas 
 p 2 
 
2 1 2 CHRISTMA S E VE. 
 
 Day ; you shall be one of my flock — a stray sheep 
 that has wandered into my fold." 
 
 "You are a clergyman, sir?" 
 
 "Ay, and in my Master's name I bid you wel- 
 come." 
 
 "I am not much used to such kindness, sir," said 
 the man, his voice betraying some emotion; "and 
 somehow it overcomes me. I have seen a good deal 
 of the rough of life, and but little of the smooth. 
 Ah, sir ! I have often longed to meet one to whom 
 I could speak out my mind. I think the load would 
 not be quite so heavy to bear if I could show it to 
 another." 
 
 " In the name of God, whose minister, I am," said 
 the pastor, solemnly, as he rose and laid his hand 
 on the shoulder of his guest, " speak your grief to 
 me, whatever it may be. With me it shall be a 
 sacred trust ; I may console, or, at all events, ad- 
 vise you. Out with it, man, in God's name, I say!" 
 
 "Listen, then," said the stranger; "it is neither 
 a long nor a very eventful story, though a sad one." 
 
 And so he beffan. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 213 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " I ASKED you, sir, just now, about Leighton-Super- 
 Mare ; belike you may have been there ?" 
 
 "I have," said the pastor. 
 
 "Ah, then you will know the harbour and the 
 quay, and the long street that runs straight up the 
 hill, and the little square, with the church and the 
 school-house and the parsonage. Ay, ay, I see them 
 all before me as if it were but yesterday. Don't 
 you remember them?" 
 
 The host v/aved his hand impatiently ; then he 
 placed his elbows on the table, and rested his fore- 
 head upon his palms, as one prepared to listen at- 
 tentively. 
 
 The stranger continued— "Well, in that long street 
 I was born, now well nigh forty years ago. Next 
 door to us lived a family who had come from some 
 distant part of England — I don't know where — a 
 widow, whose name was Godwin, with her son John, 
 and a little girl, an orphan (the child of a dead sister), 
 and her nurse, ^kly mother showed what kindness 
 she could to the widow, whose appearance was much 
 above her condition, for she seemed poor enough. 
 
2 1 4 CHRISTMA S E VE. 
 
 The young people of both families became intimate ; 
 John and I were sworn friends at school, and in our 
 play hours Grace Towers was ever with us in our 
 sports. A day scarcely ever passed that did not find 
 us together — rambling, when the weather was fine, 
 on the seashore, or along the downs ; or, when the 
 rain or the storm kept us within doors, telling 
 stories, or reading tales of travels and adventures, 
 in which John Godwin took great delight — little 
 Grace listening, in hushed attention, with her large, 
 serious black eyes gazing on the reader. Well, sir, 
 time ran on. One day was like another, and we grew 
 up to be more than boys and girl ; but still the same 
 in friendship, only that Grace somehow seemed to 
 be more shy and restrained than of old, and the 
 lads began to treat with more respect the child that 
 was now growing and ripening into a lovely young 
 woman — the loveliest in the town, or the country 
 far and wide. At last the time came when John and I 
 were done our schooling, and were to do something 
 for ourselves in the world. ]My lot was chosen for 
 me already; I was to help my father in his shop, 
 and succeed him when he grew old. John's course 
 was not so plain before him. His mother was grow- 
 ing feeble in her health, and her thin, pale face 
 showed the working of an anxious mind upon her. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 215 
 
 There were almost daily secret conferences between 
 the mother and son. But I never knew what was 
 the subject of them, for on this point only John 
 withheld his confidence from me, and would not 
 bear to be questioned ; 'twas plain they were not 
 always pleasant, for on one or two occasions, after 
 such meetings, his eyes were red, and his manner 
 sad and troubled. At last, out it all came one day. 
 John was going to America, where, as I gathered 
 from some expressions that fell from him", he had 
 relatives. The plan did not please his mother, w^ho 
 at last gave her consent, sorely against her wishes ; 
 but the young man, though loving and dutiful, had 
 a strong will, and a bold, hopeful heart, and was 
 a stout, manly fellow ; and he spoke of coming home 
 again after a few years, prosperous and happy. The 
 day before he was to leave home, John and I had 
 a long walk after dayfall along the cliffs, and he 
 opened his mind to me about his future plans, and 
 he asked me to be watchful of those he was leav- 
 ing behind him. And I promised that I would be 
 
 as a son to his mother, and — and " 
 
 The man stopped abruptly and passed his hand 
 over his forehead, as if agitated by the remembrance 
 of something painful. After a short time he recovered 
 his composure, and resumed — 
 
2 , 6 CHRIST MA S E VE. 
 
 "When John was gone I kept the promise I gave 
 him, to be as a son to his mother ; God knows how 
 truly. But somehow, she never was the same after 
 he left her. She grew feebler in health and more 
 depressed in spirits every day ; and I saw too plainly 
 that her life was not likely to be a long one. And 
 so, too, did poor Grace, as she watched over her 
 and cared for all her wants ; oh, how tenderly ! She, 
 too, seemed as if a change had come over her na- 
 ture. Light and gayhearted no longer, but calm, 
 and thoughtful, and uncomplaining, she looked as if 
 she had put )-ears upon her of a sudden, and become 
 a sober, saddened woman, going through every duty 
 without failing, but without hope. Well, well, let 
 me pass on 1 
 
 " A little way outside the town there was an old 
 manor house — a lonely place, with a large lawn all 
 around it, and a straight avenue of beech-trees lead- 
 ing up to it. A rich farmer, of the name of Austin, 
 lived in it, and rented the manor lands to which it 
 was attached. He was lately dead, and his son 
 Mark now occupied the place. We all knew him, 
 but were not intimate, for he was a shy, distant 
 young fellow, and we thought, proud of his wealth. 
 
 " Now and then he called in to see INIrs. Godwin, 
 and, by degrees, his visits became more frequent. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 217 
 
 and he would bring the sick ^'oman some little 
 delicacy from the farm or the dairy. Time passed 
 on. John Godwin was a year gone, and no letter 
 ever came from him ; but we heard that he had 
 joined the American insurgents, and fallen in the 
 first encounter with the British troops. After this 
 intelligence his mother never held up her head, and 
 sank fast. 
 
 "One day, when Grace had left the room where 
 we sat, ]\Irs. Godwin told me that ]\Iark Austin had 
 asked Grace in marriage some time since, and that the 
 girl had now consented to become his wife. The 
 news came upon me like a clap of thunder. I then, 
 for the first time, thoroughly understood the nature 
 of my own feelings towards her ; that I loved her 
 too dearly to- endure that she should ever be the 
 wife of another. I concealed my grief and con- 
 fusion as well as I could, and, at the earliest moment 
 left the room, to seek a confirmation of my fears 
 from Grace herself. I found her pale, calm • and 
 self-collected. To the question, which I could scarcely 
 ask, she answered that it was true ; she had ac- 
 cepted the proposal of Mark Austin. Then I lost 
 all power over myself, and, in a passion of grief 
 and despair, revealed to her all my love, and be- 
 sought her not to cast off" my long-tried afi"ection 
 
2 1 8 CHRISTMA S EVE. 
 
 for the love of one whom she could scarcely love in 
 return. The girl gazed at me with a look of sur- 
 prise and terror : then, bursting into tears, she said — 
 
 "'George, George! why do you tell me this, to 
 add to my wretchedness ? But I cannot retract ; 
 my hand is pledged, though I may have no heart 
 to give with it.' 
 
 "Then she left me, and I saw her no more that 
 day. I shall never forget the night that followed — 
 a cold, dark night, with a drizzling rain. My brain 
 was on fire ; I could not rest within doors, and so I 
 went out, down the dreary, plashy street, till I 
 reached the quay. It looked desolate and deserted ; 
 no one was abroad, and I paced up and down, and 
 thought over my new, great, terrible sorrow, till I 
 felt half mad and reckless. I was roused by a step 
 near me, and, looking up, I saw INIark Austin within 
 an arm's length of me. I have often since vainly 
 asked myself what brought him there that night. 
 Was it the devil or fate, or the will of an angry God 
 that sent him in my way to tempt me beyond what 
 I was able to resist } I seized him by the arm, and 
 poured out a torrent of wild remonstrances, and hate, 
 and imprecations. I demanded how he dared come be- 
 tween me and mv love. I accused him of stealing into 
 
A TALE OF nVO TRAVELLERS. 219 
 
 an unprotected household, to rob it of its treasure. I 
 told him he was a mean, unmanly fellow, to force a 
 girl to marr}- him when she did not love him. Ay, she 
 hated him, and loved another. And then, with an 
 oath, I swore that he should give her up at the peril 
 of his life or mine. My first words he bore with a 
 quiet, contemptuous silence that enraged me. As I 
 went on, his sluggish blood grew warmer ; and as I 
 finished, his passion seemed as high as my own. He 
 flung me off with a curse, and called me liar. In a 
 moment I sprang upon him, and we closed in a 
 deadly struggle. At last he thrust his hand within 
 my neckcloth, and twisted it tightly, till I gasped for 
 breath. I felt almost strangled, the blood gushed 
 up into my eyes, and in another moment I should 
 have been choked. I released my right hand, with 
 which I had clutched his hair, and drawing a clasp- 
 knife from my pocket, I drove the blade down the 
 left side of his neck. Instantly he loosed his hold, 
 and, with a groan, fell over the edge of the quay 
 down into the sea, which was then at low water. I 
 heard the plash, and then I strained over the spot 
 and tried to look into the darkness for the form 
 below. I could see nothing, but I heard one deep 
 groan, and no more — not a sound or a stir, though 
 I listened for many minutes. Then I knew that he 
 
2 20 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 was dead, and I rushed away from the spot up the 
 lonely street — a murderer, who could not even dare 
 to reap the fruits of his guilty deed, or seek the love 
 of her for whom I had incurred a murderer's doom. 
 Hurrying home, I let myself in unperceived, collected 
 what money I could lay hands on, tied up a few 
 articles of clothes in a bundle, and fled away in the 
 dark night from everything and everybody I cared 
 for in the world. As the morning broke, I found 
 myself entering the seaport town for which I was 
 making, and before night I was enrolled as a seaman 
 on board a ship of war, and was sailing away from 
 my native land. I need not tell you, sir, what scenes 
 I have passed through since that time ; how I served 
 in every part of the world ; what battles I have been 
 in, and how often I have periled my life as a thing 
 not worth caring for, and how Death passed me by 
 to strike down some one to whom life was sweet ; 
 how I fought under Sir Samuel Hood and the brave 
 Rodney off the West India Islands, and was in the 
 glorious fight off Martinique, when Rodney broke 
 through the lines of the French fleet — ay, ay! I re- 
 member that day well, sir," continued the man, almost 
 forgetting his sorrow for a moment, in the pride and 
 exultation of a British seaman. " I was in the 
 Canada — only a seventy-four — when we bore down 
 
A tali: of two travellers. Ill 
 
 gallantly upon the Ville de Paris — the flagship of the 
 French admiral, the Count de Grasse, the largest 
 man-of-war upon the seas ; and we poured a broad- 
 side into her, and then another, till we shattered her 
 to 'a wreck. But why should I talk of those things? 
 what share had I in the glory ? My hands were 
 stained with blood, but it w-as not the blood of a 
 foeman killed in lawful war, but the blood of a 
 countryman murdered — murdered ! And so, while 
 others were rejoicing, I stole away from them, for I 
 saw the face of the man I had killed ever before me 
 in the midst of the merriment, and heard his groan 
 when the cheering was the loudest. Since then I have 
 spent my life upon the seas till I was paid off, a few- 
 days ago, at Portsmouth. Then a longing that I 
 could not resist came upon me to see once more the 
 place of my birth, and learn if any of those whom I 
 loved are still living. And so, sir, I was making my 
 way to the old town when the snow-storm overtook 
 me. I know the risk I run, but something drives me 
 forward, it may be, to expiate my crime. And yet I 
 doubt if there is any one left who would recognise 
 this scarred and weather-beaten hull ; besides, there 
 was no one present on that terrible night, and the 
 dead cannot rise to testify against me." 
 
 "George Masters, / rise to testify against you — 
 
22 2 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 to demand vengeance for the blood that you have 
 shed." 
 
 The two men sprang to their feet, and turned to the 
 spot whence these appalling words proceeded ; and 
 there, beside the screen, in the dim obscurity of the 
 shaded light, stood the form of a man with pallid and 
 emaciated features, on which the flicker of the fire cast 
 a strange, spectral hue. The sailor stood rigid with 
 terror, gazing on the apparition in speechless fasci- 
 nation. At length he said, speaking slowly, and with 
 an effort — 
 
 " Has the grave given up its dead ? Mark Austin, 
 I adjure you, say, are you in the body or in the 
 spirit }" 
 
 " George Masters, I am a living man." 
 
 " O God, I thank thee !" cried Masters, heaving a 
 profound sigh, that seemed to dispel a weight from 
 his heart. 
 
 "Aye, thank God; but no thanks to you, murderer 
 in will, if not in work ; in the eyes of God, if not in 
 the eyes of man !" 
 
 " I sought to kill you in self-defence." 
 
 " Liar ! who sought the occasion ?" 
 
 " It is true ; it is true ! Forgive, as God has been 
 merciful to you." 
 
 "Listen, you that would have taken my life, and 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. ii-i, 
 
 you, worthy sir, that have saved it, listen to my story-, 
 as I have listened to that which has been told." 
 
 And the man sat down and began to clear up the 
 mystery. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 " George ^Masters, when you struck at the life of 
 the man that never knowingly wronged you, and I fell 
 into the water, I thought, as you did, that I had re- 
 ceived my death blow. The water was then low — as 
 low as five feet — enough to break my fall, but not to 
 drown me. I rose to the surface, and found I could 
 stand with my head out of water. The knife had 
 glanced aside,' and gave me but a long flesh wound. 
 After a little time, I groped my way along in the dark- 
 ness, feeling the wall as I went, till I came to the steps 
 leading up from the water. Then I hurried home as 
 well as my weakness would permit. I got into bed, 
 and sent for the surgeon, who dressed the wound, and 
 assured me it was not dangerous. To all inquiries as 
 to how I came by the hurt, I declined to give any 
 explanation. 
 
 " The next day, when the surgeon came to see me, 
 I was as calm as usual — for my nature was not very 
 
2 24 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 excitable — and as I had no fever, and the wound 
 was healing, he began to tell me the news of the 
 morning. How some fishermen, at break of day, 
 found a hat upon the quay, which was identified by 
 the name in it to belong to George Masters. It was 
 crushed in, and there were several clots of fresh blood 
 upon it. The wet ground, too, bore the marks of 
 feet, as if a violent struggle had taken place up to 
 the very edge of the quay wall ; and a short, loaded 
 stick, of a very remarkable appearance, was found 
 close to the scene of the struggle. 
 
 "But the strangest part of the story is," said the 
 doctor, looking significantly at me, " that IVIasters 
 cannot be found, and they say that the owner of the 
 bludgeon is well known." 
 
 "When the doctor was gone, I rose and went to 
 Grace Towers. I saw her alone, and told her all. 
 What more passed between us I need not relate, but 
 I left her with the determination never to disclose 
 the circumstances of that night, whatever might be 
 the consequences of my silence. On my way home 
 I was apprehended by a constable, on a warrant, and 
 brought before the justices who were then investigat- 
 ing the mysterious occurrence. It was proved that 
 Masters had been seen going down the street towards 
 the quay, and that I was afterwards observed going 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 225 
 
 in the same direction, with a short stick in my hand. 
 The hat was identified as Masters', and the stick as 
 mine. I was asked if I wished to give any explana- 
 tion, or to account for the facts which looked so 
 suspicious, coupled with the disappearance of ^Masters, 
 and my wound : but, cautioned of the consequences 
 of doing so, I declined to give any explanation. 
 
 "This course created, as I knew it would, a verv 
 unfavourable impression against me, and I was de- 
 tained in custody till I gave bail, to answer any 
 charge that might be brought against me. 
 
 "Well, Grace and I were married: her aunt died 
 a short time after, and we were left alone in our 
 home. Lonely enough it was, and cheerless soon it 
 became to me. From that fatal night a blight was 
 upon my life.. I, an innocent man, lay under the 
 suspicion of a crime which a word could have dis- 
 pelled. jNIy former acquaintances shunned me. I 
 was never of a temper to solicit friendships, and I 
 resented treatment that was, after all, but natural. 
 And so I became moody and sullen, all the more so 
 that I saw my wife become daily more dejected, till 
 I felt that an estrangement was growing between our 
 lives. In a year a little one was born to us ; but the 
 mother never rose from the bed of sickness, and in a 
 month I was left a solitar}- man. But solitude drove 
 Q 
 
226 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 me to despair. I neglected my farm ; I became reck- 
 less ; and I sought, in the excitement of the bottle 
 and the oblivion of drunkenness, a temporary relief 
 from my disgust of life. One night, after market, I 
 had been drinking to excess, at the * Sun,' with such 
 companions as my hospitality still procured me. One 
 of them helped me home, and, aiding me to open the 
 door with my latch-key, I staggered into the sitting- 
 room, where he left me. I have a confused recol- 
 lection of striking a light, which fell from my hand 
 as I endeavoured to light a candle, and then stumbling 
 up-stairs to bed, where I flung myself in my clothes, 
 and fell into a deep, stupid sleep. How long I con- 
 tinued in that state I don't know, but I was awakened 
 by a sense of suffocation. It was still dark, but the 
 room was filled with thick smoke. I got out of bed, 
 and, opening the door, found the place in flames all 
 around me. How I got out I can't tell, but I found 
 myself at last in the open air. ]\Iy first thought was 
 to rush to the town for assistance, for no farm servants 
 lived with me. I hurried away, and had gone some 
 distance, when I remembered that my child and her 
 nurse were in a room in the back of the house. I 
 returned, wild with terror, and had just entered the 
 avenue, and got sight of the blazing house, then a 
 sheet of flame. I heard the scream of a woman from 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. zz-j 
 
 the midst of the conflagration, and before I could 
 reach the spot, the whole house had fallen with a dull 
 crash — a shapeless mass of smoking and burning ruin. 
 For a moment my senses failed me ; then I came to 
 myself, and rushed round the pile : but though the 
 flames gave me light as of day, no human being was 
 to be seen. Child and nurse were buried in the 
 ruins 1" 
 
 Mark Austin paused, overcome with emotion, and 
 burying his head upon his arms on the table, sobbed 
 aloud. After a time he recovered his composure, and 
 resumed — 
 
 " Life was nothing now to me, and yet the in- 
 stinct of life made me shrink from death. But to 
 live any longer on the scene of all my miseries was 
 horrible to think of. I fled away, as one who flies 
 from the face of an enemy. For days and days I 
 wandered on, I cared not where, so as it led me far- 
 ther from the hated spot. The money that I chanced 
 to have about me that night was more than usual, 
 for I had sold some produce in the market. At 
 last I found myself some hundred miles away. 
 Then, with a portion of the money that remained, 
 I purchased some pedlar's wares to trade on ; and 
 so I have for many, many weary years travelled, 
 with a restless, Cain-like spirit, till I have wandered 
 Q 2 
 
2 2 8 CHRIST MA S E \ E. 
 
 over the length and breadth of the land, but never 
 coming near the one dreaded place, nor ever naming 
 it — wishing to banish the recollection of it for ever 
 from my mind. 
 
 " And now, George Masters, you that would 
 have murdered my body, that have well-nigh mur- 
 dered my soul, that made my wedded life wretched, 
 that sent my wife pining to the grave, and have the 
 death of my child on your head — you dare to ask 
 me to forgive ? Never! In the name of justice and 
 of truth, I swear " 
 
 " Sinner, madman, forbear !" cried the parson, as 
 he sprang forward and placed his hand on the mouth 
 of the speaker. " Vengeance belongs to God alone. 
 Forbear, I say ! John Godwin commands you !" 
 
 The two men gazed at their host with a mingled 
 expression of terror and incredulity. Then he con- 
 tinued — 
 
 " Mark Austin and George Masters, look well at 
 me. Time and sorrow may have changed me some- 
 what, but still you will not fail soon to recollect me. 
 Ay, I see it is so. Now, hearken to what I have 
 to tell, and when I have finished, then, Mark 
 Austin, proceed with your unholy oath, if you dare! 
 George Masters, you spoke the truth to-night, but 
 not the whole truth. You promised to be to my 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 229 
 
 mother as a son ; but you promised more — to be to 
 Grace as a brother, but only a brother, for you 
 knew how dearly I loved her; and you swore you 
 would guard her for me from all the world. Were 
 you a true man when you suffered your own heart 
 to love her ; when, on a vague rumour of my death, 
 in one short year you sought her love, instead of 
 keeping my memory fresh in her heart, and en- 
 couraging her to hope even against hope ? False 
 to your oath, false to your friend ! Have I not much 
 to forgive ? Mark Austin, you robbed me of her who 
 was, in the sight of God, my wife ; nay, more, you 
 made her life sad by your coldness ; and you re- 
 proached her for loving another, though you knew 
 not who that other was. But you knew she married 
 you to make comfortable the last days of a declining 
 woman who was more than a mother to her ; and you 
 had no right to expect from her more than the duty 
 she gave you. You brought her to her grave be- 
 fore her time, and you gave yourself up to intempe- 
 rance, that cast you at last a homeless and a childless 
 man upon the world. Now hear how mercifully 
 God has dealt with you, even as he dealt with you 
 in sparing your life. A long sickness fell upon me 
 after I got to America, and brought me nigh unto 
 death : then my letters were intercepted during the 
 
2 30 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 war. At length, after a prosperous venture, I re- 
 turned home to make Grace my wife. I reached 
 the town where I had left all that was dear to me 
 on earth, to learn that my mother was dead, and 
 that she I loved had become the wife of another, 
 and was dead too. I should have sunk beneath the 
 blow, but the hand of God upheld me. Then I de- 
 termined to quit the spot for ever. But a strange 
 desire impelled me, ere I went, to visit the grave 
 where my love lay sleeping. And so, at the dead 
 of night I went forth towards the churchyard be- 
 yond the town. As I passed the gate of the old 
 manor-house, I was attracted by a blaze of light 
 that suddenly shot up into the sky. I saw the house 
 was in flames : I hurried up to it in time to hear 
 the screams of a woman. Not a moment was to be 
 lost ; I burst open a window, rushed up a staircase, 
 and, half-suffocated with smoke, I met a woman 
 descending w-ith a child in her arms. As I hurried 
 them out by the way I had entered, the stairs sank 
 in with a crash behind us. We fled for shelter to 
 an outhouse at a little distance, and then a flood 
 of lurid flame burst up into the air, and the house fell 
 down in ruins. After a little time I brought my 
 charge to the inn where I had stopped, and learned 
 from the woman that I had saved the child of Grace. 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 231 
 
 All believed that the master of the house had perished 
 in the flames ; for his companion had told how he 
 had helped him home drunk. Then I felt the great 
 love and mercy of God in giving me the child of 
 her I loved, and I vowed to him to dedicate my life 
 to her happiness. I need not tell you how I de- 
 voted myself to the service of God, and entered into 
 the ministry; how I settled in this quiet, lonely 
 spot, with good old Sybil and Ruth, and seek my 
 own happiness in making others happy. And now, 
 Mark Austin, have I not much to forgive you too ? 
 Yes ; and from my heart I forgive you both. Mark 
 Austin, in the name of Him whose birth we 
 shall soon be called to celebrate — who forgave his 
 murderers, and with his dying lips prayed God to 
 forgive them — I call upon you to forgive." 
 
 " 'Tis hard, 'tis hard ; and all at once, John God- 
 win !" 
 
 "Ay, all at once, and heartily, too. ]\Iark Austin, 
 would you, too, be a murderer }" 
 
 "Never!" said Austin, with horror. "I will never 
 harm a hair of his head." 
 
 " Whosoever hateth his • brother is a murderer. 
 Sinner ! if you would be forgiven, forgive. As the 
 servant of Him who declared, ' if ye forgive not 
 
2 3 2 CHRISTMA S E VE. 
 
 men their tresspases, neither will your Father forgive 
 your trespasses,' I command you to forgive." 
 
 " I forgive." 
 
 " Heartily, honestly, unreservedly }" 
 
 "Ay, with my whole heart. George Masters, your 
 hand." 
 
 At this moment a sweet sound broke upon the 
 stillness of night. John Godwin opened the shut- 
 ters of the window, and threw up the sash, and 
 then the chiming music of the merry Christmas 
 bells came floating into the room, like the songs of 
 holy angels that came to hallow the scene of re- 
 conciliation with their presence. The storm without 
 had subsided, as it had in the hearts of those 
 within, and the moon shone serenely down from a 
 cloudless sky upon the pure white snow. Open 
 burst the door, and a girl sprang in with a merry 
 laugh — 
 
 " A happy Christmas to you, dear uncle ! Do you 
 hear the bells pealing the Christmas hymn .?" 
 
 The sight of the strangers arrested the voice of 
 the girl. 
 
 '"Tis Grace — 'tis herself!" exclaimed the men. 
 "Not Grace, but Ruth Austin. Child, behold 
 your long-lost father ! Mark Austin, receive your 
 child !" 
 
A TALE OF TWO TRAVELLERS. 233 
 
 INIark Austin sprang forward to clasp the child 
 that fell trembling into his arms. After a moment 
 John Godwin released her from his embrace, and 
 laid her gently on the couch. 
 
 " Down on your knees, forgiven sinners ! Down 
 in the dust before the God of mercy and of love, 
 this holy Christmas morning." 
 
 Then, raising his hands, he solemnly ejaculated — 
 
 " Gloty to God in the highest, 
 And on eartli peace, good- will towards men." 
 
Innocents Bap. 
 
 TURNED TO THE WALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SMITHY. 
 
 jlLING, clang ! cling, clang ! 'Tis a winter's 
 night, in the month of January, well-nigh 
 
 " half a century ago, in a central county of 
 merry England. Out upon the still, sharp, frosty air 
 rings the beat of the smith's hammer, chiming plea- 
 sant music that shapes itselt into song, as it did in 
 the days of our first George to the ear of Handel, 
 when he fixed the sounds into a melody and made 
 them immortal. Out, too, upon the blackness of 
 the dark, cold sky, flashes the ruddy glow of spark- 
 ling light through the open window of the smithy, 
 flooding into the night in a sharply-defined stream. 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 235 
 
 with its banks of gloom bounding it at either side — 
 one of those pictures which old masters loved to 
 paint for the contrasts of light and shade. How 
 gratefully comes the sense of warmth and comfort 
 from within to him who stands outside in the chilly 
 air 1 some belated villager making his way home- 
 wards ; some wanderer that knows not where to rest, 
 and hails the friendly blaze where he may find heat 
 and shelter. One such stands there now, and gazes 
 upon the bright interior. There is but one person 
 within— a tall, large-boned, athletic man: his coat 
 is off, and his shirt-sleeves, tucked up to the shoul- 
 ders, display the toil-developed muscles of his hairy 
 arms. The roar from the nozzle of his bellows has 
 just subsided, and the smith, hammer in one hand, 
 and tongs in. the other, plucks from the fire a bar 
 of red-hot iron, lays it on the anvil, and down 
 comes the heavy hammer, making the sparks fly all 
 around him. Cling, clang ! cling, clang ! and the 
 merry sounds ring out like a hymn of labour. And 
 a nobler subject for a hymn to God never warmed 
 an English heart 1 There are the two genii of the 
 lamp of England's glory — grim, and swart, and hard, 
 yet submissive and pliant to the hand of toil — Iron 
 and Coal. Men of England, let us bless God who 
 gave us— not the olive and the vine of Southern 
 
236 INNOCENTS DAK 
 
 Europe, nor the diamonds of Golconda, nor the pearls 
 of Arabia, nor the gold-fields of Australia; but the 
 ironstone and the coalfield — precious gifts, by which 
 the brain of Science and the hand of Art have wrought 
 out a nation's wealth and power. 
 
 The man paused at last, thrust the bar into the 
 trough, where it hissed and sent up a white steam, 
 and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. At 
 this moment the spectator outside opened the door 
 of the smithy. Before he could enter, the smith's 
 voice assailed him — " Hollo ! Dickon, where hast 
 been this hour back ? Plague on thee for an idle 
 varlet ; I'll be sworn thee'st been at every ale-house 
 between this and the market-cross. I'm half-minded 
 to give thee a taste of something stronger than -" 
 
 The smith stopped short in his threat as the light 
 fell on the face of the stranger. 
 
 " Faith, I thought you were my 'prentice, Dickon 
 Grimes. I sent the fellow, an hour since, for steel, 
 into the village hard by, and I suppose he's been 
 drinking. But you aint Dickon, I see." 
 
 "No, I'm not." 
 
 " So much the better for you. Who are you ? 
 What do you want ?" 
 
 " I want a guide to the village." 
 
 " Well, I can't leave my work just now ; but if 
 
TURNED TO THE JVALE. 237 
 
 you wait till I finish this job for the squire, I'll put 
 you on your road. I shouldn't be long if I had 
 any one to help me. Can you handle a sledge ?" 
 
 "I don't know— I'll try." 
 
 The stranger took off his coat, turned up his 
 shirt-sleeves, and prepared for work. He was a 
 young man in the early prime of life, well-built 
 and light ; but the white, though nervous, arm did 
 not tell of much hard labour. The smith blew up 
 the fire, and in a few moments another heated bar 
 was on the anvil : and so the two went heartily to 
 work. 
 
 *' You'll do well enough," said the smith, as they 
 stopped, flinging the bar into the trough. " Where 
 do you come from ?^' 
 
 " From a long way off." 
 
 " You'll be a Cornishman by your voice." 
 
 "No, I'm from the North-country." 
 
 "Yorkshire, belike.'" 
 
 " No, up near the borders." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 " To the village, if you'll show me the way." 
 
 The smith was no fool, but he saw he had met 
 his match. So he gave it up and replied — 
 
 " Well, when these two bars are put in the gate, 
 
238 INNOCENTS DAF. 
 
 my work will be done. Come, lend me a hand once 
 more, and then I'm at your service." 
 
 "Now, good fellow," said the smith, when they 
 had finished, " put on your coat, and come with me 
 into the house. The good wife will have something 
 comfortable, I'll warrant you." 
 
 " With all my heart !" was the ready response. 
 
 The smith led the way across a little plat of grass, 
 fenced in with paling, to the door of a snug cottage; 
 and they entered. A smart little matron stood by 
 the fire, cooking, and turned round to give her hus- 
 band a smiling welcome. 
 
 "Doll, my lass, here's a new 'prentice. Dickon 
 has turned gentleman, and gone off to get drunk. 
 Sit down, sit down, my lad !" 
 
 Little Dorothy Meadowes looked up at the new- 
 comer, and she saw with the tail of her eye that 
 he wasn't just the stuff that blacksmiths are made 
 of, and then she smiled and blushed like a little 
 coquette, as she was, and bid him welcome. 
 
 And so they sat down to supper. The smith fell 
 upon his trencher manfully — 'twas a labour of love. 
 The stranger ate more sparingly ; and when the host, 
 after a hearty pull at the tankard, pushed it to his 
 guest, the latter turned to his hostess and said, " Fair 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 239 
 
 Mistress Dorothy, I drink to your health and our 
 better acquaintance." Whereat Dorothy smiled and 
 blushed again, and John ]\Ieadowes broke out into 
 a roar, thinking, good soul, that he had hoaxed 
 his wife about the new 'prentice ; but ' he hadn't, 
 though. After a little the man grew thoughtful, 
 and, seeming to forget where he was, began to 
 hum slowly a sweet wild air. The woman looked 
 keenly at him, and then said to her husband, 
 " John, you were late at work to-night ; some- 
 thing more will do you no harm ; but you must 
 go and draw it for yourself, for you know I'm a 
 little weakly just now." 
 
 The big smith looked at his little wife tenderly, 
 and went out of the room. As he returned, he saw 
 Dorothy withdrawing her hand from the stranger's, 
 who was speaking to her in a low, earnest voice. 
 
 " Hollo ! — I say ! Hands off there, my fine fellow 
 —^that's work I want nobody to help me with. It 
 seems to come easier to you than sledging iron." 
 
 "Nay, nay, John!" said little Dorothy. "What! 
 jealous because a young man is civil to your wife !" 
 and she ran over and took the two dark, horny hands 
 of her husband in her own, and looked up with a 
 long, clear, innocent gaze into his eyes, till the gloom 
 fled out of them. 
 
2 40 INNO CENTS DA F. 
 
 " Well, well, get thee away, lass ! I suppose it's 
 only his North-country manners." 
 
 " And now, friend, I'm ready for the road." 
 
 "But mind you don't go into the 'Blue Boar,' 
 John. Promise me." 
 
 "Well, I promise thee, Doll — there's my pledge!" 
 and the smith kissed the red lips of his little wife. 
 
 The two men went out into the dark night, and 
 left little Dorothy Meadowes alone. When the door 
 was closed, she sat down, put her head between her 
 hands, and had a hearty fit of crying. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE " BLUE boar" OF BROKELEIGH. 
 
 If you were let down from a balloon upon the green 
 of Brokeleigh, you would know at a glance that you 
 were in an English village. W'arm brick houses, with 
 their red-tiled roofs and trim gardens in front, sur- 
 rounded three sides of the neat, grassy plot of some 
 two acres, enclosed with wooden palings painted 
 white. The fourth side was open to the river, near 
 the bank of which rose a long, high mass of stone 
 building perforated with innumerable windows. Un- 
 mistakably English was this busy hive of human 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 241 
 
 labour— a cotton mill. But if you could have any 
 doubt of your whereabouts, turn to your right, and 
 walk along the village street till you come to the 
 cross, and look about you. There is the market- 
 house, a heavy, unsightly, square building, of dark 
 stone. A colonnade of pillars support circular arches 
 all around, giving entrance to the ground floor, where 
 a market was held weekly, and sustaining the upper 
 storey, which discharged, in turn, the duties of a 
 town hall, a court of justice, and an assembly room. 
 A low, square tower rose from the centre of the roof, 
 surmounted by a vane in the similitude of a cock, of 
 so conservative and unbending a disposition, that he 
 scorned to be influenced by any atmospheric changes, 
 and didn't care a bean what way the wind blew — 
 the parish church, and the parish stocks, and the 
 thoroughly English inn completed the picture. 
 
 The morning sun was shining redly through the 
 frosty fog, as Dorothy Meadowes walked at the top 
 of her speed across the common. On she pressed to 
 the town, and up the High street, till she came to 
 the market-cross, and stood opposite the "Blue 
 Boar." From a pole that projected out of the 
 wooden balcony of that ancient fabric, swung a 
 square sign-board, whereon was depicted the animal 
 that gave its name to the principal inn of Broke- 
 
 R 
 
242 INNOCENTS DAV. 
 
 leigh. That rampant and grisly beast had been 
 standing — nobody knows for how many generations 
 — on his hind legs, defiant alike of the laws of gravity 
 and the endurance of muscle, with golden tusks, 
 bright cobalt body, and bristling mane ; and round 
 his neck a golden collar with a chain that trailed 
 away in all manner of impossible curves to the ground. 
 In passed little Dorothy, heedless of the grim old 
 porker over her head, stealthily, as if to avoid ob- 
 servation. This was not to be : a cheery voice from 
 the bar saluted her, 
 
 " Good morning, ]Mrs. INIeadowes ; you aint going 
 to pass an old friend without a word with him, sure ? 
 'Tis an age since I saw you, and you look as blooming 
 as ever." 
 
 Dorothy turned round to where burly Abel Dobbs 
 sat, framed and glazed, within the bar window. 
 
 " Ah, I\Ir. Dobbs, good morning. I didn't expect 
 to see you so early : and how is your missus }" 
 
 Abel made a wry face. " Oh, lively : scrubbing, 
 and washing, and turning the house inside out. 
 We shall have a plaguy stirring life of it, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Well, I'll just run in and see her." 
 
 "Aye, do, and be sure to tell John to look in to- 
 morrow. I want a word witTi him. We'll fight as 
 pretty a main of cocks as ever he saw in his life." 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 243 
 
 Dorothy tripped into the house, but she did not 
 go down the passage that led to the kitchen. No ; 
 she hurried up-stairs, ran along the corridor, and 
 knocked softly at the door of "the Angel." 'Twas 
 quickly opened by the occupant of the room, and 
 exposed to view the face of a man — the very man that 
 had taken her hand the night before. In glided 
 Dorothy, and the door was closed behind her. Ah, 
 little Dorothy, what a sad little lass for gossiping you 
 are ! May the good Angel have you in his keeping ! 
 
 Not many minutes after, the Angel began to pull 
 his bell violentl)-, and ]\Irs. Dobbs, who chanced to 
 be in the next room putting things in order, declared 
 afterwards, that she heard suppressed sobbing, as of 
 a woman, and that when she ran to the door she 
 found it bolted inside. The occupant of the room 
 came to the door and asked for a glass of brandy-and- 
 water, a hand was put out to receive it, and the door 
 was shut again. In about half-an-hour afterwards 
 Dorothy Meadowes slipt out quietly, and went down_ 
 stairs, and then she hurried past the bar and into 
 the street. It was fortunate for her that Abel Dobbs 
 had gone out to have a talk with a neighbour, else 
 he would surely have seen that little Dorothy's face 
 was flushed with agitation, and her eyes red with 
 weeping. Dorothy did not turn homewards, but she 
 R 2 
 
244 INNOCENTS DAY. 
 
 went through one of the arches of the market-house. 
 and under the conservative cock, and right through, 
 out at the other side, up the road that led to the 
 Vicarage, and slipt in through the back-door of the 
 house. What brought her to the Vicarage ? Was it 
 to gossip with old Mrs. White, the housekeeper ? 
 May be so : for Mrs. White was a great gossip, and 
 loved dearly a long talk about everybody's business. 
 If that was Dolly's occupation, they must have dis- 
 cussed the affairs of the whole country side ; for a 
 good hour had passed before she shook hands with 
 the old lady at the door, and at last turned her steps 
 homewards. Then Dolly slipt quietly into the pretty 
 cottage, where we found her at first, divested herself 
 of her cloak and bonnet, and was soon busily occu- 
 pied preparing the noon-day meal for her husband. 
 Ah ! true-hearted John Meadowes ! you and your 
 rakish 'prentice, Dickon Grimes, have been blowing 
 and sledging away since breakfast, not dreaming that 
 little Dolly has been all the morning gadding and 
 gossiping through the village, and been closeted with 
 — Heaven knows whom. 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 245 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 'Tis midday — the 28th of December, " The Innocents 
 Day" — clear, bright, and frosty — for the mist has 
 rolled away, and the sun is shining from a cloud- 
 less sky — as a man walks through the green of Broke- 
 leigh, and down to the river-side. He crosses the 
 steep old bridge : he does not take the highway to 
 the right or left, but goes straight forward to the 
 great antique entrance to Brokeleigh Hall. A heavy 
 iron gate stands between two massive square piers 
 of rusticated masonry, vermiculated and weather- 
 stained, each surmounted by a boar, the cognizance 
 of the De Brokeleighs. 
 
 A ring at the wicket summons the gate-keeper's 
 wife, who, with a curtsey, admits the visitor. A cheery 
 greeting, a kind word of inquiry for the good man 
 and the children, and he passes on up the broad, 
 straight avenue of noble chestnut-trees. A few words 
 will make you acquainted with the man, so that you 
 shall know the Vicar of Brokeleigh before he reaches 
 the Hall. 
 
 You see a tall, thin, sinewy man, under thirty years 
 of years age, with a face pale and emaciated, a fore- 
 head high and white — all the whiter for the masses 
 
246 INNOCENTS DAY. 
 
 of raven hair that fall on either side — and tbe black, 
 piercing eyes that glitter from beneath his bushy eye- 
 brows. His face, when in repose, has an air of stern- 
 ness, almost of asceticism ; but when he speaks, a rich 
 musical voice, and, at times, a smile of peculiar 
 sweetness playing about his lips, tell of a noble and 
 benevolent nature. Newton Herbert took a double 
 first at Oxford, and was a fellow of his college : the 
 family borough was at his command, and his friends 
 looked upon him as one who would yet take a promi- 
 nent place among the statesmen of his day. But he 
 suddenly changed his mind, took holy orders, and, 
 declining a metropolitan chaplaincy, accepted the offer 
 of his father's old friend, and buried himself amongst 
 the primitive folks of the remote parish of Brokeleigh. 
 Two years of earnest, manful labour had wrought 
 wonders in the parish. Vice and immorality he as- 
 sailed with unsparing vigour. In the pulpit he de- 
 nounced the sin with a power so pointed, that the 
 sinner, though unnamed, was conscious he was meant, 
 and trembled at the thought of the visit, which he 
 well knew the vicar would pay him next day, and the 
 reproof, sharp and severe, which he would administer. 
 With the penitent he was gentle and consoling, and 
 at the bedside of the reformed profligate he soothed 
 the departing soul, that he had at first awakened 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 24.7 
 
 to a sense of guilt by his stern denunciations, and 
 then softened by the offers of mercy and pardon. 
 And so Newton Herbert was feared, loved, and 
 honoured by all. 
 
 And now he has passed up the stone steps that 
 lead to the terrace, from which the old Hall rises 
 with arched doorway and mullioned window, and 
 turret and gable, and steep roof; and in another 
 moment he is seated in the librarj', awaiting the ap- 
 pearance of the master of the house. 
 
 A man of about fifty years of age enters. He is 
 above the middle height, strong built, and inclining 
 to stoutness, with a face somewhat florid, that tells 
 of exposure to wind and weather. His bearing is 
 frank and manly ; but you soon detect an air of some- 
 thing that looks like pride, and an expression of firm- 
 ness amounting almost to obstinacy, with now and 
 then a shade of sadness passing over his features. 
 This is Roger de Brokeleigh, of Brokeleigh Hall, 
 with Norman blood in his veins, whose fountain-head 
 is to be sought for in the fields of Crescy and Agin- 
 court — Brokeleigh of Brokeleigh, as he is called by 
 his acquaintances, and better known as "the squire" 
 in the neighbourhood for miles round. A fine speci- 
 men in his way of the old English country gentleman 
 (whose characteristic peculiarities were even then 
 
2+8 INNOCENTS CAV. 
 
 dying out before the equalising influence of increas- 
 ing knowledge) ; full of class prejudices, proud of his 
 lineage, and somewhat exacting of the respect due 
 to it ; standing stoutly by his order ; hospitable, 
 generous, loving, and kind to his tenantry, whose 
 rights he will suffer no one to invade ; but whose 
 votes at vestry or hustings he considers his own pro- 
 perty, resisting the progress of democratic power and 
 the innovations of popular institutions ; believing in 
 handlooms and spinning wheels, and hating mills and 
 machinery. 
 
 Herbert is gazing thoughtfully upon the fire in the 
 antique grate as the squire enters, and, coming up to 
 him, cordially extends his hand. 
 
 "Delighted to see you, my dear Herbert. Any- 
 thing new in these days of novelties } Have the 
 slaters repaired the roof of the Vicarage for you, as 
 I directed 7' 
 
 " Not yet, Sir. They are all employed at present 
 at Mr. Plant's new school-house. I can wait very 
 well, as long as this fine weather lasts." 
 
 "Wait ! Why should my work wait on ISh. Plant's? 
 Besides, I do not see what need there is for a new 
 school-house at Brokeleigh ? Is not mine well man- 
 aged ? I never heard of any complaint." 
 
 "Excellently managed: but the population has 
 lately increased a good deal." 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 249 
 
 " Ay, and whose fault is that ? Doesn't it all 
 come of that fellow, Plant, and his new-fangled mill, 
 bringing vagrants from the country round to work at 
 it ?" 
 
 " Not vagrants, Mr. De Brokeleigh, but hard-work- 
 ing men and women with their families. Mr. Plant is 
 an honest, intelligent, energetic man, that does much 
 good. He gives the people a great deal of employ- 
 ment, and fair wages." 
 
 " Ay, and works them from morning to night in 
 close, unwholesome rooms. Look at the little fac- 
 tory children's faces and hands, white and thin from 
 toil and confinement — poor things ! They ought to 
 be red and chubby at out-door work in the fields." 
 
 " I have spoken to Mr. Plant on these matters, 
 and suggested an improved mode of ventilating the 
 rooms, and asked him to shorten the time of the 
 children's labour, and I must say he readily and 
 cheerfully adopted my views. 'Twas his own pro- 
 posal to build the school-house. He said to me, 
 in his own blunt, business-like way, ' If I get so 
 much out of the little ones' bodies, it is only fair 
 that I should put something into their minds, and 
 so make the debit and credit sides of my books 
 balance.' 'Twas a sentiment worthy of an honest 
 English employer." 
 
2 s o INNO CENTS DA F. 
 
 "Well, well, we'll see. I suppose it is for the good 
 of the people's health he has built this big chimney 
 that is to fill the air with soot and smoke ?" 
 
 " 'Tis for his own good, Sir. The river, though 
 flooded in winter, is too low in summer to work his 
 new machinery." 
 
 " May be so, but I shall see whether his good or 
 the good of Brokeleigh is to be preferred. I shall 
 try and present it as a nuisance." 
 
 •''Take my advice. Sir, and do no such thing. De- 
 pend upon it, we cannot — and we ought not if we 
 could — resist the spirit of enterprise and improve- 
 ment that is making our people prosperous and 
 great." 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Herbert, I must decline to take 
 your advice in matters where my own rights are con- 
 cerned. I shall certainly try to resist this that you 
 are pleased to call an improvement. Why, Sir, I 
 shan't be safe from the annoyance, even up here. 
 Come into my room, and look at it, and judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 The squire opened a door at the far end of the 
 library, and crossing a retired corridor, led the vicar 
 into an apartment at the other side of the house. 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 251 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE squire's room. 
 
 The room into which the vicar and his host entered 
 was known from time immemorial as " The Squire's 
 Room." It was an apartment of moderate size, 
 panelled in oak to the ceiling, and decidedly what 
 may be called snug. In this the lords of the manor 
 of Brokeleigh had for generations ensconced them- 
 selves as their private sanctum. Except the servants 
 to arrange the room, and the steward occasionally to 
 settle his accounts, or receive his master's directions, 
 few persons had access into this apartment ; indeed, 
 Herbert now entered it for the first time. He and 
 the squire w^ent to the window, where they had a 
 full view of the obnoxious chimney, and discussed 
 its merits and demerits, both in a utilitarian and 
 sanitary point of view. Between men who, on many 
 questions of the day, entertained sentiments widely 
 differing, and each likely to take decided views, 
 it was not very probable that the discussion would 
 make a convert of either to the opinions of the 
 other. At length, Herbert turned away with a sigh, 
 and glanced at some of the pictures on the wall. 
 
2 5 2 INNOCENTS DA F. 
 
 A portrait of a young man in regimentals attracted 
 his attention, and he stepped over to examine it. 
 
 " Ah, you are looking at Reginald's picture," said 
 the squire. " I had a letter from him lately from 
 India ; he is daily in expectation of his majority." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it, Sir. The prosperity of a 
 child is always a happiness to a father's heart. Chil- 
 dren are a great blessing." 
 
 " No doubt, and sometimes a great care," replied 
 the squire, with a sigh. "There is Charley's por- 
 trait beyond. To-day, you know, he is of age, and 
 he is coming home to celebrate his birthday. I ex- 
 pect him in the afternoon ; we shall have a little fete 
 to greet him." 
 
 " So I understand. And what's this. Sir ?" 
 
 As he asked the question, Herbert stood opposite 
 a picture-frame that was placed between the two 
 others, but the face of the picture was turned to the 
 wall. 
 
 " Ha ! a woman !" he exclaimed, as he reversed the 
 frame : " and a lovely one too." 
 
 The squire sprang forward, and thrust Herbert 
 violently some paces back. 
 
 " Sir — Sir, this presumption is intolerable ! By 
 what right do you dare to interfere with the arrange- 
 ments of my house — to pry into my secrets ?' 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 253 
 
 Herbert drew himself up to his full height, his 
 pale face flushed for a nioment under the sense as 
 of an indignit}' ; but it was only for a moment, the 
 flush passed away, and left him pale and calm as 
 before. Then he gazed upon De Brokeleigh sadly, 
 almost sternly, as he replied, with quiet solemnity, 
 " By the right. Sir, which I derive from Him whose 
 commission I bear — of Him from whom no secrets 
 are hid. By that right do I seek to look into the 
 secret which like an ulcer is eating into your life, 
 that I may, with His blessing, cleanse and heal it." 
 And then the sweet smile played about his mouth as 
 he added, in the tenderest accents of gentleness and 
 aff"ectionate respect, " By the right, too, of one who 
 loves you as a son loves a father — who loves you 
 so faithfully that he braves your anger to do you 
 a service, as he would lay down his life to save 
 yours. Oldest and best friend of my dear father, 
 open your heart to me, as you would to him, I en- 
 treat you." 
 
 The squire sank down on a seat, and buried his 
 face in his hands. There was a silence of many 
 minutes. A conflict of passions was raging within 
 him more fierce than if it had exploded in audible 
 demonstrations. 'Tis over, and the better nature of 
 the man prevails. 
 
2 54 INNOCENTS DAV. 
 
 " Herbert, you have for two years past been a 
 loving son to me, while the sons that I love were 
 forced to be absent, and left me childless. Yes, I 
 will tell you the secret which I had meant to take 
 down with me to the trrave. Sit down and hear me." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE squire's tale. 
 
 " You say truly, Herbert ; she was a lovely woman — 
 lovelier than even she looks in that picture. When 
 my wife died, many years ago, she left me three chil- 
 dren, two sons, as you know, and a daughter — the 
 girl whose portrait you have just been looking at. 
 The love I bore my dear Alice would have gone down 
 into the grave with her, but that her little pet, Lucy, 
 was left — so like, and yet so unlike, her mother — to 
 sport about me, and keep the love of woman from 
 dying out altogether from my heart. To the love for 
 the pretty child was, as she grew up, added the pride 
 in the lovely woman. I indulged her every wish ; 
 I procured her every accomplishment ; I lavished on 
 her whatever wealth could procure. To tell you that 
 she was admired throughout the country, would be 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 255 
 
 needless. I knew well that, with the advantages of 
 birth and fortune which she possessed, I had but to 
 choose amongst the best blood of the land for her 
 husband. Well, from time to time she went up to 
 London to a relative, a widow lady, both to avail her- 
 self of the best masters, and to enjoy the society of 
 the metropolis. My tastes were all centred in the 
 country and in my own people, and so I seldom ac- 
 companied her. Upon her last return home — it is 
 now more than three years ago — I told her one even- 
 ing of an eligible suitor for her hand, and expressed 
 my desire that she should receive his addresses. 
 Judge of my astonishment, when she declared to me 
 it was impossible ! I asked, with some impatience, 
 how she could so speak. Had I not chosen a man in 
 every way worthy of her } She admitted he was un- 
 objectionable ; but — ' But what ?' I asked, with dis- 
 pleasure. Her only reply, for a time, was tears. I 
 grew angr)' ; I charged her with disobedience ; I 
 reminded her of her duty to her parent ; that I expect- 
 ed implicit obedience ; and that I should be obeyed. 
 Then the girl dashed away her tears, and, drawing 
 herself up proudly — it was the first time I had ever seen 
 her show an unruly spirit — answered ; ' I will obey 
 you in all things in which you have a right to require 
 obedience ; but in this, I am not bound to obey. I 
 
256 INNOCENTS DAK 
 
 cannot obey : I love another !' Indignation and 
 amazement kept me, for a moment, tongue-tied. 
 * Love another !' I exclaimed. ' Child, you dare not ; 
 and without my knowledge !' ' Alas !' said she, ' almost 
 without my own.' Then I learned the humiliating 
 story : — A young man — a painter, from whom she took 
 lessons — some penniless fellow, who, for aught I knew, 
 or cared to know, had not a drop of good blood in his 
 veins, dared to win her affections, and disclosed 
 his love at their last interview, and — and — I blush to 
 own it — received the assurance of her's in return." 
 
 De Brokeleigh hung down his head, and was 
 silent : the avowal of the indignity oppressed him 
 with shame. Herbert turned away his face ; he would 
 not witness the proud man's emotion ; but he dared 
 not express a sympathy with a feeling of which he 
 disapproved ; and so did not speak. 
 
 " Why should I dwell upon the painful scepe that 
 passed. To my commands, my anger, my threats, she 
 opposed a strong and obstinate resistance ; till at 
 last I vowed, in my displeasure, that I would force 
 obedience by my authority, as I had failed to win it 
 by my love ; and so we parted for the night. Next 
 day Lucy did not make her appearance. Her maid, 
 who was her foster-sister, brought a message from 
 her mistress, begging to be excused from coming 
 
TURNED TO THE JVALL. 257 
 
 down on the plea of indisposition. And so I was left 
 to myself to meditate alone ; for my sons were both 
 away at the time, Reginald with his regiment, and 
 Charles in College. A sleepless night did not serve 
 to calm my irritation. I felt that my best feelings had 
 been outraged ; that my love had met with ingratitude ; 
 that my parental authority had been set at nought : 
 and so the more I thought over the scene of the 
 evening before, the more indignant I felt, and the 
 more determined to carry my point. The day passed 
 over without our meeting ; but late in the evening 
 Lucy entered the room where I was sitting, looking 
 pale and wretched ; and flinging herself at my feet, 
 besought me to hear her. My heart yearned to take 
 her to it— for 'tis a hard thing, Herbert, to drive the 
 love for a child out of a father's heart — but I crushed 
 down my emotion as a guilty w^eakness, and an- 
 swered _coldly, I would hear nothing but her sub- 
 mission. Then she rose slowly, and said : 
 " ' Father, I cannot : anything but this.' 
 " ' This,' I replied, * or nothing. In three days 
 my friend comes here as 3'our suitor. When you are 
 prepared to obey me, I shall see you again ; till then 
 we part ;' and, waving her from me, I rose and left 
 the room. Two days after this, and still Lucy gave 
 no sign of submitting to my will. I learned from her 
 
 s 
 
258 IXXOCEXTS DAK 
 
 maid that she was feverish, and had spent so restless 
 a night, that the girl had called in the family doctor 
 to see her. The day wore on as the rest ; and I 
 occupied myself a good deal out of doors. I sat up 
 imusually late that night, looking over some family 
 papers, and had just risen to retire, when I was 
 startled by the report of fire-arms at the far side of the 
 house. I threw up one of the windows in the room, 
 stepped out on the terrace, and hurried round to the 
 place from which the sound came. There I saw a 
 dark object lying on the ground, and a man, at a 
 little distance, with a gun in his hand, standing over it. 
 I called out to him, and he answered, and then I re- 
 cognised one of my game-keepers; the dark object was 
 a man, weltering in his blood ! We raised him ; he 
 was quite dead. I saw how it was at once. The keeper 
 had, as I directed him, been on the watch for some 
 time past, to catch the poachers that were destroying 
 my preser\-es. Passing near the house, as he told me, 
 he saw a figure moving stealthily along ; he challenged 
 him, when the man began to run away. The keeper 
 called upon him to stop and surrender, but in vain : 
 and he then ran forward, and overtook him : a struggle 
 ensued, and the keeper fired. By this time some of 
 the servants, who had also heard the shot, joined us, 
 and I had the corpse brought into an out-house, which 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 259 
 
 I locked, till the morning, ^vhen an inquest was holden. 
 The gamekeeper deposed to the facts I have men- 
 tioned, and the jury found that the keeper had acted 
 in the discharge of his duty, and in self-defence. No 
 one identified the body, and I gave orders for its inter- 
 ment. As I sat down to breakfast, Lucy's maid rushed 
 wildly in, crying. As soon as she was able to speak, 
 she told me that when she went to Lucy's room, a few 
 minutes since, she found the bed had not been occu- 
 pied, and her mistress nowhere to be found. I 
 desired the girl to be silent, and then repaired to 
 the room. As I drew back the curtain of the bed, a 
 sealed note upon the pillow caught my eye ; I thrust it 
 into my pocket, went to my bedchamber, and, tearing 
 it open, the mystery was disclosed. The wretched 
 girl had fled with her lover ; and that lover — the 
 horrible conviction flashed in a moment across my 
 mind — was the corpse that lay outside. I sank down 
 upon a chair as if stricken by a thunderbolt, and it 
 was many minutes before I could recover myself so as 
 to think calmly on what was to be done. The first 
 thing was to make search for my child. I hurried 
 out to give orders for that purpose, when one of the 
 farm-labourers met me with a shawl in his hand. It 
 was dripping wet ; and he stated he had drawn it out 
 of the river, about a mile below the bridge, where he 
 s 2 
 
2 6o IXXOCENTS DAF. 
 
 saw it floating. I recognised it instantly as Lucy's ; 
 and, though ready to sink, I mastered myself, by a 
 strong effort, that I might not betray my emotion 
 before the man. Herbert, Herbert, I cannot proceed 
 with the details! All search was fruitless: and I felt 
 that the girl, who, no doubt, had left the house with her 
 lover, had fled away when he was shot, and had either 
 thrown herself in despair or fallen accidentally into 
 the river, then swollen with the winter's flood, and 
 was swept away to the sea. The story that went 
 abroad, to which the account of the doctor and the 
 maid gave some plausibility, was, that Miss De Broke- 
 leigh had been in fever, and, in a moment of delirium 
 had escaped from her room, and wandered to the 
 river, where she was drowned. From that day her 
 name has not passed my lips till now, and no one ven- 
 tures to speak it in my presence. On that day I turned 
 her portrait to the wall, to shut her out from my sight 
 if I may not from my thoughts." 
 
 It was a long time before the silence that followed 
 this sad revelation was broken. At length Herbert rose, 
 and approaching his host, took his hand respectfully, 
 and said : 
 
 "Sir, I feel for you profoundly. If you have erred, 
 God has heavily punished that error. Even from this 
 take comfort. May I speak freely, both as God's 
 minister and as your true friend }'" 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 261 
 
 The squire drew his hand away quickly, as if pained 
 by Herbert's words. Then, recovering his composure, 
 he said, with something of his wonted spirit, 
 
 " Speak, Mr. Herbert. I am sure that in neither cha- 
 racter will you forget what is due to yourself or to me." 
 
 " When I said, Sir, that you erred, I felt how sorely 
 you were tried. God, who has punished your sin, will 
 doubtless remember how much you loved. The past 
 is irrevocable : we look to it but to warn us for the 
 future ; and so I bid you to take comfort. When you 
 and the daughter you loved and lost shall meet here- 
 after — as in the greatness of God's mercy I confidently 
 believe you shall — she will know and confess that she 
 was not blameless, while you will admit that you 
 taxed her obedience beyond a father's right." 
 
 "It may be that I did. But did she not destroy all 
 my cherished hopes ? Did she not count my love as 
 nothing, compared with a light fancy of an hour .?" 
 
 " Yes ; and deeply she has suffered for it ! But 
 remember that the same divine teaching that says, 
 ' Children, obey your parents in all things,' adds, 
 * Fathers, provoke not your children, lest they be 
 discouraged.' " 
 
 There was a long pause. " Dear and honoured 
 friend," resumed the vicar, " I know you feel the 
 truth of what I have said in the discharge of my duty. 
 Let me solemnly put this test to your heart and con- 
 
262 INNOCENTS DAF. 
 
 science. If it were possible that the grave could yield 
 up that lost child, and give her to you now, would you 
 not take her to your arms as lovingly as ever ?" 
 
 " I would ! I would !" sobbed the man, in a burst of 
 unwonted feeling, " all forgiven, all forgotten — all !" 
 
 " My father ! my father !" and one rushed forward, 
 and flung herself on his bosom, sobbing and wailing ; 
 and then she slid down to the ground on her knees, 
 and clasped his limbs in her arms, and wept exceeding 
 bitterly. 
 
 Herbert turned away, and left them. Let us do so 
 likewise. The joy and the sorrow of that meeting 
 are too sacred for other eyes than their own. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Wk are again in the library. The father knows not, 
 and cares not yet to ask, how all this has come to pass. 
 He only knows and feels that his daughter lives, and 
 sits beside him. After a time, Herbert entered, and 
 he says to Lucy, 
 
 " It is time you should go." 
 
 "Go.?" asked the father, in amazement, "Why, 
 where ? Is she not at home once more } Who shall 
 take her from me again .?" 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 263 
 
 " Father," said Lucy, rising, "■ my home is with my 
 husband ; for him alone would I leave you." 
 
 " Husband ! husband ! Who is he ? Where is he?" 
 
 "He is here," said Herbert, as he opened the door. 
 A young man, in the prime of life, walked forward, and 
 stood beside Lucy, who put her hand in his. The 
 squire drew himself up haughtily. 
 
 " Sir, may I ask by what right you enter my 
 house, or approach my daughter } Who are you. 
 Sir ?' 
 
 " Mr. De Brokeleigh, I am that daughter s husband ; 
 by that right I take her hand. I confess I have no 
 right to enter your house." 
 
 " May I request, then, Sir, that you will leave it." 
 
 The young man looked with tender sadness at Lucy, 
 and then replied, respectfully, 
 
 "Sir, you shall be obeyed. I ask your pardon for 
 my intrusion. Come, Lucy." De Brokeleigh moved 
 forward to separate them. 
 
 " Nay," said Herbert ; " this may not be. Sir. Whom 
 God has joined together, let no man put asunder. 
 In God's name, I require you to learn what the hus- 
 band of your daughter has to say." 
 
 " Father, in the name of my dead mother — the wife 
 whom you loved — hear my husband, for his wife's 
 sake I" 
 
2 64 INNOCENTS DAV. 
 
 " Proceed, Sir," said the squire, as he motioned the 
 young man to a chair, and sat down himself; "I am 
 ready to hear you." 
 
 " Mr. De Brokeleigh, you will ask how a poor 
 painter dared to love your daughter ? I dared to do 
 so, in obedience to the instinct that God implanted in 
 my nature, when he taught my eye and my heart to 
 delight in all that was lovely and good in His creation. 
 How I dared to tell that love, I scarcely know. I had 
 determined to keep the secret within my heart forever; 
 but when she gave me her hand, at what I believed 
 was to be our last meeting on earth, love and despair 
 overmastered me, and I spoke, in the deepest respect 
 and humility, that love which, after all, could never 
 dishonour her. The avowal that she returned my love 
 filled me with joy, and I resolved that, if circumstances 
 ever permitted, as I hoped they would, I would seek 
 her at your hands. That resolution you forced me to 
 abandon, when Lucy informed me that you not only 
 forbade your daughter to marr}' a man she loved, but 
 commanded her to receive the addresses of another. 
 I lost not an hour in coming hither with a faithful 
 servant. I contrived to see Lucy for a few moments, 
 and arranged her flight with me in the night. We suc- 
 ceeded ; but the poor fellow who remained behind to 
 watch, lest the alarm might be given, and to mislead 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 265 
 
 you should you seek to follow us, was shot by your 
 gamekeeper. This very soon led, as also the finding 
 of Lucy's shawl, which fell as she crossed the bridge, 
 to the report of her death. Pardon me. Sir, for saying 
 we had reason to think that, for a time at least, it 
 would be better not to undeceive you. Within a few 
 hours, I placed your daughter in the care of an aged 
 female relative, where she remained till I made her my 
 wife. Then we went to Germany, where I contrived to 
 earn a livelihood, partly as an artist, and partly as a 
 teacher of English : with no sorrow to come between 
 our love, no cloud to dim its sunshine but the one 
 unceasing yearning of my wife for her father's love, 
 the one craving desire for his forgiveness. At last, 
 circumstances lately occurred which enabled us to 
 return to England, and we determined, at all risks, to 
 seek pardon and reconciliation. Last evening we 
 reached the village, and learning that Lucy's foster- 
 sister was married to your smith, I contrived, by a 
 stratagem, to get into her house, and make myself 
 known to her. To-day, by her advice, we had a 
 conference with ]\Ir. Herbert, and told him all. With 
 the assistance of Dorothy Meadowes, we gained an 
 entrance into your house. Oh ! Sir, it is for you to 
 say are we to leave it for ever ? The husband of the 
 child you have received again from the dead entreats 
 that you will pardon him too !" 
 
2 66 INNOCENTS DAF. 
 
 "An unknown man, without birth, or means, or 
 position," muttered the squire, as if reasoning with 
 himself, " to receive hi?n as the husband of a De 
 Brokeleigh ! 'tis too hard. I cannot ! I cannot !" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, you can — hard as it is, you can — as a 
 man of sense, you can : as a Christian, you must ! 
 If this young man springs from the people, he has 
 their virtues — manliness, energy, self-reliance. He 
 has won your child, and supported her by his indus- 
 try : he has genius and education and honour and 
 truth. Look back, Sir, a few generations, and you 
 will find that half our peers were made of such stuff. 
 If he wants wealth, you can supply it. This man. Sir, 
 is worthy to be your daughter's husband, and to be 
 your son." 
 
 Roger De Brokeleigh threw himself back in his 
 chair, and covered his face with his hands. A terrible 
 conflict was being waged in the head and heart of the 
 man. Pride, obstinacy, prejudice, anger, shame, occu- 
 pied every stronghold. Truth, reason, justice, mercy, 
 and love — all-potent, thrice-blessed love! — assailed 
 them. And angels — and greater than angels, it may 
 be — looked down upon that spiritual battle-field. The 
 fight is long and wavering ; but at last the light has 
 conquered the darkness, and the man rises to his feet, 
 liberated from the thraldom of his baser nature. 
 
 " Sir," said he, extending his hand, " let the past be 
 
TURNED TO THE WALL. 267 
 
 forgotten. My daughter's husband is welcome to my 
 house." 
 
 The young man took the squire's hand, and raised it 
 respectfully to his lips. 
 
 Then said Herbert, solemnly, repeating a portion of 
 the lesson for that morning's Service, " ' And there is 
 hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children 
 shall come again to their own border.' Sir Walter 
 jMarley, I give you joy !" 
 
 "Marley! Marley!" exclaimed the squire, in aston- 
 ishment. "What, are you son of Sir Jasper Marley, 
 of the North } I knew him when a boy." 
 
 " No, Sir ; he was my uncle. His younger brother, 
 my father, displeased him by marrying a penniless 
 woman, who had no recommendations but beauty 
 and worth. They never met afterwards, and, when I 
 was left an orphan, at eighteen years of age, I scorned 
 to seek his aid. Not many months since, his only 
 son was killed by a fall from his horse, and a few posts 
 afterwards brought me the intelligence of my uncle's 
 death, by which I became entitled to the estates and 
 baronetcy. I hastened from Germany. INIy rights were 
 at once recognised, and I was no sooner put in pos- 
 session of my property than we hastened hither. As 
 your daughter loved me for myself, so I determined 
 to owe nothing to my position in seeking your favour." 
 
2 68 INNOCENTS DAY. 
 
 A sound of wheels crunching the gravel, and the loud 
 cheers of many voices, interrupted the discourse, and 
 the next moment a young man was in the arms of his 
 father. I don't mean to tell all that followed — why 
 should I ? — the joyful surprise at finding a dead sister 
 restored; the frank embrace of the new brothers ; nor 
 how Dorothy Meadowes slipt into the room, her eyes 
 laughing with pleasure, and her husband, too, whom 
 she beckoned from outside ; how Sir Walter kissed 
 her before John's face, and shook John stoutly by the 
 hand, and asked when he should have another job for 
 him. There were great doings that night in Broke- 
 leigh : tar-barrels, bonfires, dancing, and what-not. 
 Abel Dobbs' ale barrels flowed away till there was not 
 a drop left in them, dancing on the green, and j.un- 
 ketting in the great servants' hall. And Reuben 
 Plant — like a fine, honest fellow, who bore no grudge, 
 and honoured a true Englishman, whether he was peer 
 or peasant — lit up his mill in a blaze of light with a 
 huge lantern on the top of the obnoxious chimney. 
 And the portrait of Lucy was never again turned 
 
 TO THE WALL ! 
 
Kch] Year's Izbt. 
 
 SNOWED UP 
 
 F all the changes that seasons and elements 
 work on the fair face of nature, I know 
 none so complete and so sudden, as that 
 wrought by a snow-fall at night. The last glimpse 
 which we caught yesterday evening of the world with- 
 out us, as the grey-headed butler closed the shutters 
 and drew the curtains, exhibited to us the lawn of 
 Castle Slingsby, still dressed in the robes of nature, 
 worn-out and faded as they were. The long, coarse 
 grass, rotted by the rains, and blanched by the wind, 
 waved in the whistling blast of the evening, while, in 
 another place, a rich sheltered nook continued still 
 to make a very respectable show of green, struggling 
 on through the assaults of winter, that it might be 
 able to meet the next spring with an appearance of 
 
270 K£JV FEARS EVE. 
 
 healthfulness and verdure — ^just as we see some old 
 beaux about town, making themselves up, and taking 
 all manner of care of themselves, that they may 
 come out strong for the next campaign. IMore distant 
 still, we caught a peep of the rich, brown mould of 
 the ploughed field, through which the blade of the 
 young corn had not yet come up, and beyond the 
 next hedge lay the yet unbroken ridges, yellow since 
 the preceding autumn ; and, at the other side, were 
 the sheep-pastures, with the grass cropt down short 
 and bare, with here and there a spot round which the 
 sheep were gathered, covered with the green food 
 which the providence of the farmer had treasured up 
 for the time when " the earth giveth not her increase." 
 The dreariness of winter, too, was chequered by the 
 unfading green of the various tribes of the fir-trees 
 that still kept up a look of cheeriness and comfort — 
 I\Iark Tapleys in their own way, coming out jolly 
 under their trials. How warm and lusty they looked 
 amid the sapless poles and bare branches of ash, and 
 elm, and beech-tree. The holly, and the myrtles, too, 
 how snug they looked in their lowly estate, never 
 envying their lordly neighbours, when the blast went 
 by and shook their proud heads, and stripped them 
 of their glory. A leaf or two still lingered in seared 
 brightness upon the oak and copper-beech ; shrivelled 
 
SXOUTD UP. 271 
 
 and red, it twisted upon its stem, and with the next 
 blast fell twirling to the ground amongst its dead 
 companions. Beyond all, and closing in the land- 
 scape, as we took our last look at it, stood the far-away 
 blue hills, standing out sharply against the frosty sky. 
 But when the shutters were closed, and the curtains 
 drawn, and we sat in the early night round the blazing 
 hearth, we took little note of what the north-west 
 wind and the dull, cloudy heavens, were working 
 for us without. When we looked out the next morn- 
 ing, through the same windows, how changed was 
 the scene of the day before ! The dimmed sun strug- 
 gled vainly to pierce the heavy clouds from which the 
 thick snow fell like a white mist, contracting the view 
 on every side. The varied hues of earth, the change- 
 ful face of nature, light and shadow, cloud and 
 sunshine, all were hidden from the eye. It would 
 seem as though during the night Nature had died, 
 and morning's light beheld her arrayed, by unseen 
 spirit, in her pallid death-shroud. Trackless snows 
 lay on all around, concealing pasture, and fallow, and 
 tillage, covering alike with its white mantle green 
 shrubs and bare brances, as the undiscriminating 
 graves does alike the aged dead and him who falls in 
 the vigour of his manhood. 
 
 "Snowed up, by Jupiter!" cried old Jonathan Freke. 
 
272 NEW FEARS EVE. 
 
 " There'll be nothing for it I guess, to-day, but che- 
 roots and one's feet on the hobs. Saul, do you know 
 how to make gin-sling or cocktail ? — capital things in 
 cold weather." 
 
 " No," said Saul ; " but ]\Irs. Sampson is famous 
 for cherry-bounce. Well, Abigail, there's an end to 
 your projected pilgrimage to the fairy-well." 
 
 " And for my walk to Carrigbawn," said I. 
 
 " Just the day for the newspapers, or a page of 
 Horace," said Professor Chubble, who, of course, 
 affected classicality. " Vides, ut alta stet nive candi- 
 dum." 
 
 " Or for a story," said I, remembering the Pro- 
 fessor's talent that way. 
 
 " Yes, provided j'ou tell it," retorted he, somewhat 
 maliciously. 
 
 " A challenge, a challenge !" said Uncle Saul : 
 " the Professor is entitled to call upon you." 
 
 "Well," said I, "I accept the challenge. Give me 
 till noon." 
 
 "Agreed." 
 
 When noon came, the wind had shifted to the east, 
 the sun broke through the sky, and scattering the 
 humid clouds, shone down brightly on the world's 
 vast and dreary expanse, all white, yet sublime and 
 solemn in its monotony with the hills, standing close 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 273 
 
 around, like white-robed giants. So we all went out 
 for a walk, and, by common consent, I obtained a 
 respite till evening. When the candles were lighted, 
 and we drew round the fire, I told them this story. 
 
 BALANCING THE BOOKS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ERROR IN THE TOT. 
 
 " There's something in those figures that I can't 
 make out at all," said Goggles, giving his wig a poke 
 that set it all awry. 
 
 " The devil's in them," said Kennedy, impatiently. 
 
 " I don't know as to that, Sir," replied the clerk, 
 who never admitted anything in an account that was 
 not capable of arithmetical demonstration, and not 
 knowing the precise numerical value of Satan, on the 
 debit side of a merchant's books (I don't think he 
 even knew " the number of the beast"), he contented 
 himself with saying, " I don't know that. Sir; but what- 
 ever it be, I'll find it out, with the blessing of God, 
 before I go to bed to-night." 
 
 And so he drew down his spectacles once more upon 
 his nose, and fell to work at the rebellious figures, 
 muttering indistinctly to himself in the process of 
 
 T 
 
274 ^'EW YEARS EVE. 
 
 " totting ;" while Kennedy, tilting backwards the 
 high stool upon which he sat, till his shoulders rested 
 against the wall behind him, began swinging his 
 pendant legs to and fro. At first the movement was 
 rapid and impatient, but by degrees it became slow 
 and regular. One would say it had a tranquillising 
 effect upon the man ; for after a little he laid his right 
 hand upon his chin, supporting the elbow with his left 
 palm, and turning his eyes towards the ceiling, with 
 a sigh, he gave himself up to some reverie or another. 
 
 While the merchant is musing, and the clerk is at 
 his " tot," let us look at the picture before us. We 
 shall have time enough to take in all the principal 
 objects, and mark the lights and shades, before 
 Goggles is half way down that long page of three 
 columns— pounds, shillings, and pence. 
 
 You see a square room, not over lofty, and rather 
 dingy. There is a bluish-grey paper, veined and 
 marked into squares in^the pattern, to imitate marble; 
 its continuity is sadly marred by the insertion of a 
 large iron safe in the wall, shelves, filled with account- 
 books, a sheet almanack, and several filasscs suspended 
 from nails, upon which are invoices, bills of lading, 
 and such other papers as form the decoration of a 
 merchant's office. Against the wall, opposite the fire- 
 place, stands an antique bureau, with drawers beneath 
 
BALAXCIXG THE BOOKS. 275 
 
 and a slanting top, while an old-fashioned leather- 
 bottomed chair flanks it at either side. There is a 
 large, high, double-desk, one end of which is set 
 close to the window ; upon the top of it are two heavy 
 brass candlesticks, the lights from which (for it is 
 night) throw a partial illumination over the apartment, 
 and bring out the two men, who are sitting one at 
 each side of the desk, in strong relief. The face of the 
 merchant is upturned, and so it catches all the light. 
 We can read that face as we would read a book. The 
 forehead is broad, and goes sheer up like a wall, till it 
 meets the black hair, now somewhat grizzled ; dark 
 hazel eyes, full of restless light, that bespeak a quick, 
 irascible temper ; the crow's-feet are gathering around 
 the outward angles of the eye-lids, and the sallow jaws 
 show a wrinkle or two ; but the man has a good 
 full chest and muscular limbs. You may affirm that 
 the world has not gone altogether wrong with him, 
 though, perhaps, he has had his cares, too, that 
 have scattered the white in his hair, and traced the 
 wrinkle on his face, ere he had passed his fortieth 
 year. And this is Laurence Kennedy, a thriving 
 export merchant in this our good city of Dublin, 
 such as export merchants were sixty years ago. And 
 now look at his vis-a-vis. What a mannikin it is ! 
 The little fellow, as he sits perched on that high 
 T 2 
 
2-6 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 office-stool, in his suit of rusty black, looks more 
 like a jackdaw than a reasonable specimen of the 
 genus " homor His face is bent down over his book, 
 but you can see enough of it to perceive that it 
 bears a strong affinity in colour to the tallow candle 
 just near it. There, however, the resemblance ceases 5 
 the face has none of the smoothness of the candle, 
 for it is diced all over with deep pits, which the 
 smallpox had distributed with a lavish and impar- 
 tial hand upon every feature. His weak, grey, fringe- 
 less eyes are protected with a pair of horn-framed 
 green spectacles, the bow of which is cushioned with 
 I wrapping of green worsted; and as he was never 
 seen without these (it was even said that they 
 mounted guard upon his nose while he slept), 
 Robert Goggin had acquired the sohriquet of "Bob 
 Goggles," with his equals, shortened into " Goggles," 
 by his intimate friends and superiors. But who 
 could take upon himself to pronounce upon the age 
 of Goggles ? In good faith, you could not venture 
 within^ score years of it. He might be under 
 thirty-he might be over sixty. The lean body, 
 and 'wiry, thin limbs gave you no clue; they would 
 suit equally a hobbledehoy, whose carcase was not yet 
 filled up, or an old man, who was in process of 
 shrivelling. Then you looked in vain to the face. 
 
BALAXChXG THE BOOKS. 277 
 
 That cuticle of dead parchment showed no flush of 
 young healthy blood, reddening beneath its sur- 
 face, no wrinkle or seam of years, where, in a few- 
 weeks. Disease had done the work of Time, in the 
 wav of ruggedness. There were no whiskers : it might 
 be that they had not come yet ; it might be that they 
 had passed away, uprooted by the blight of the variola. 
 Then, as a forlorn hope, you looked at his head : 
 there you were as much at fault as ever, the skull 
 was covered with a bay wig. No doubt, if you 
 chucked off the wig you would find a bald head 
 underneath : but what of that ? — the hair of the head 
 might have shared the fate of the whiskers, and so 
 you may as well give the matter up, or rather come to 
 the conclusion that Bob Goggles is, like all unmarried 
 ladies, just of no age in particular. Nevertheless, Bob 
 Goggles has a certain definite age, capableof being ex- 
 pressed by figures, as he would himself demonstrate, 
 and was born upon a particular day and year, more than 
 sixty years before the night upon which we are now 
 looking at him ; and for over thirty of those sixty years 
 has he sat upon that self-same stool, in that self- 
 same counting-house ; first as clerk to old William 
 Kennedy, and latterly as clerk to Laurence, his son, 
 all that time looking neither younger nor older 
 than he does at this present moment. And there 
 
278 NE W YEA R S EVE. 
 
 is nobody now who can tell whether he ever looked 
 younger, and nobody can yet divine whether he will 
 ever look older ; for they who tended him in infancy, 
 and sported with him in childhood, are all passed 
 away ; and they who shall stretch out his little limbs 
 when they are stiffening in death, and gather round 
 him upon the wake-night — God knoAvs who they are — 
 at all events they are not here to answer the question. 
 
 And so Kennedy went on thinking, and Goggles 
 went on totting; and all was silent around them, 
 save the ticking of the clock in the hall outside, or 
 the bubbling sound of the bright gas-jet, which 
 now and then streamed out from the seacoal fire, 
 for 'twas a cold, iiard wintry night, and the snow 
 had been falling all the day. At length the tones 
 of the neighbouring clock-bell of St. Nicholas's 
 Church rang out ten peals. The sounds seemed to 
 break the thread of the merchant's thoughts ; he 
 hitched himself from the Avail, brought the stool 
 again upon its four legs, and, reaching down a folio 
 from the shelf near him, he opened it at a parti- 
 cular page, upon the top of which was written, 
 " Laurence Kennedy in account with M L ." 
 
 " Goggles, how do you make out my account 
 with ]M L ? Look at the entry, will you ?" 
 
 Goggles made a deprecating movement with his 
 
BALAXCIXG THE BOOKS. 279 
 
 hand, while he continued his tot. When he had 
 got safe through the column of figures, he paused, 
 and, turning back a few pages, found the required 
 entry. 
 
 " Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the Four per 
 cents., and five hundred in Grand Canals." 
 
 " All right," said the merchant. " Did you bring 
 out the interest ?" 
 
 "Yes; on the stock to this, 31st of December. 
 The Canals will give no dividend." 
 
 "We'll sell them out, Goggles, and debit myself 
 with the loss. I shouldn't have laid out trust moneys 
 in such security." 
 
 "It's no great matter," said the clerk, "I fear 
 you'll never be called to give any account of principal 
 or interest." 
 
 "God knows. Goggles: God knows. Ten years — 
 ten long years last midsummer since I placed that 
 money to that account, and all that time I have 
 turned it to the best advantage ; and there it is now, 
 nearly doubled, and no one to claim it. Oh, how 
 heavily that sum weighs down upon my heart, like 
 lead. Oh, that I had never retained it ! Oh, how 
 gladly would I render it back this night, and so 
 balance this black account, and wipe it from my 
 
28o NFW FEAR'S EVE. 
 
 books and from my conscience ; but it may not be — 
 I fear it may not be." 
 
 Goggles laid down his pen gently, and elevated 
 the spectacles from his nose till they rested on his 
 forehead, as a knight of old would throw up the visor 
 of his helmet : 'twas a trick he had, when he was 
 about saying or doing anything emphatic ; a sym- 
 bolical intimation that he was going to use some 
 other organ than his eyes. 
 
 " You must not take it so much to heart, Sir ; 
 indeed you must not. You have done all that man 
 could do to set things right. Have you not ad- 
 vertised everywhere } — have you not had half the 
 world searched.^ 'Tis the will of God, Sir; there's 
 no use struggling against the will of God." 
 
 " The will of God !" repeated Kennedy, bitterly. 
 " No ; not the will of God, but the will of my own 
 hasty, ungovernable temper, that resisted the will 
 of God ; that sent her forth a beggar, and defrauded 
 her of her right ; when the will of God, had I done 
 it, would have made me just, at all events, ■a.y, 
 and merciful and tender-hearted. Ay, I thrust her 
 out, and she went forth an exile, with my curse 
 upon her; a curse that has returned upon myself 
 tenfold into my bosom. That curse has blighted my 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 281 
 
 hearth, and swept away all my little ones — all but 
 that one poor fragile child ; so like ha; too, that 
 God leaves her to upbraid me with her gentle, un- 
 complaining face. That curse withers my heart 
 through life, and will weigh upon my soul in the 
 hour of death — weighing it down with the curse of 
 Cain ; the curse of that blood that crieth to God 
 out of the ground !'' 
 
 The merchant buried his face in his hands, and 
 groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. After a mo- 
 ment's silence Goggles gently ventured a word or 
 two of consolation. 
 
 " You judge yourself too severely, dear Sir ; 
 God knows you do. If you withheld the money, 
 you withheld only what no law could compel you to 
 give. Hasty you were, no doubt, and harsh if you 
 will, but no murderer, neither in thought nor in 
 deed ; neither in the sight of God nor man." 
 
 Kennedy raised his head, and looked fixedly and 
 sadly upon the face of the little man. 
 
 " When I refused her the pittance that should have 
 been her's : when I swore that I would never see or 
 speak to him again, she took from her pocket her 
 Bible ; her Protestant Bible — and, sobbing and weep- 
 ing, she read these words to me : — 
 
 " * Whoso hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye 
 
2 8 2 NE W VEA RS E VE. 
 
 knotv that no miu-derer hath eternal life abiding in him ;' 
 and then she laid her hand upon me with such solemn 
 and earnest deprecation, that I shuddered though I 
 did not yield, and she read again : — 
 
 "'But zvhoso hath this world's goods and sceth his 
 brother have need, and shuttcth up his bowels of com- 
 passion from him, how dwcUeth the love of God in 
 himr 
 
 " I remember every word, for they burnt into my 
 brain ; but I grew obdurate and incensed, and again 
 I swore that he or his should never dwell beneath 
 the same roof with me." 
 
 " It was wrong of you, indeed, Sir, and not what 
 you would have done if you gave your passion time 
 to cool down : but you have repented long and sin- 
 cerely ; you are no murderer. Sir. There will be no 
 such debit against you when the -books are made up 
 at the great account." 
 
 The merchant shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " Tell me, when the Santiago sailed on that luck- 
 less voyage from St. Domingo, did she not go down 
 at sea three days after she left the harbour ?" 
 
 Goggles bowed his head in assent, but was silent. 
 Kennedy continued — 
 
 " Did not the ship's register, that was picked up 
 afterwards, tell that amongst the passengers were a 
 
BALAXCIXG THE BOOKS. 283 
 
 poor woman and her child, huddled away some- 
 where in the fore-cabin, bound for her native land ? 
 Was it not her name that I read, till I thought 
 my eyes would burst from their sockets, as I looked 
 at the characters ? She and her babe perished ! 
 went down, down into that wild desolate ocean — 
 no hand to succour her ; no voice to comfort her ; 
 with the thought of me and my heartlessness com- 
 ing, it may be, between her and her prayers to God, 
 and troubling her last moments. Tell me, I say, 
 would she have been in that ship but for me ? 
 Would she have found that dreadful grave but for 
 me ? No, no ; she would not. I am her murderer, 
 indeed !" 
 
 Little Goggles' philosophy was neither very deep 
 nor ver}^ extensive ; he scarce knew what to say in 
 answer to this unwonted burst of passionate re- 
 morse. He mounted up into his brain, and searched 
 for some fine casuistical reasoning that might stand 
 to him in the emergency, but in vain ; there was 
 nothing of the sort there. Then he dived down into 
 the bottom of his heart, and found something there, 
 which the instinct of love told him was true, though 
 his reason did not come to test it ; and so he brought 
 it up and laid it before Kennedy, in his own simple 
 manner. 
 
284 ^'^W FEAR'S EVE. 
 
 " I'm not scholar enough, Sir, to contradict your 
 arguments ; but I know in my heart you are no 
 murderer. The great and merciful God that brought 
 all these things to pass without your knowledge or 
 design, will not hold you accountable either for the 
 leak in the ship, or the storm on the sea. He will 
 judge you by the intentions of your heart, which are 
 within your own control, and not by the events that 
 are in His own hands to shape. Do you think, Sir, 
 that the priest or the Levite would have been guilty 
 of the death of the poor traveller, if he had perished 
 of his wounds before the good Samaritan came up 
 to relieve him ?" 
 
 The words of the clerk were words of comfort to 
 his master. They put the matter to him in a light 
 that he was not in the habit of viewing it in. A 
 quick and excitable temperament acting upon a 
 morbid conscience had induced him, as he brooded 
 from day to day, and from year to year, over this 
 most hasty and intemperate act of his life, to deepen 
 its hue to his own mind, till at length, when tidings 
 of the loss of the Santiago reached him some years 
 previously, the shock was so great that his judgment, 
 on this point, became quite warped ; and the convic- 
 tion that he was the murderer of one whom he had, 
 indeed, treated harshly, settled down into the con- 
 
BALAXCIXG THE BOOKS. 285 
 
 firmed monomania of his life. Still, this ray of com- 
 fort shone in upon him, and calmed him for a 
 moment. A gust of wind was then heard without, 
 and the muffled sound of the heavy snow-shower, 
 falling upon the windows, diverted the thoughts of 
 the two men from the subject which had absorbed 
 them. 
 
 " What a wild night it is to close the year with," 
 said Kennedy. 
 
 " God help the houseless and the homeless in such a 
 night !" said Goggles. 
 
 " Amen, Goggles. And now, I'll leave you for a 
 while, and go up-stairs : 'twill do me good. Mean- 
 time, go over to the fire, old fellow, and make yourself 
 comfortable. I'll send you down something warm to 
 help you to find out that error in the tot ; and when 
 you have found it let me know, and then we'll balance 
 our books for the old year." 
 
 So saying, the merchant rose from his seat and 
 passed from the apartment. Goggles listened to each 
 heavy tread of his master, as he ascended the stair- 
 case ; then he heard him closing the door of the room 
 overhead, and stepping across the floor, that sounded 
 hollowly beneath his feet. When all was still, the 
 little fellow hopped off his stool, and going over to 
 the fireplace, he gave the coals a modest, timid poke. 
 
286 NEW FEARS EVE. 
 
 as though he were taking an unwonted liberty with 
 them : they were of a hot and hasty nature, like their 
 master (and were nothing the worse of that, let me 
 tell you, being coals and not Christians), and so they 
 resisted the assault, gentle as it was, and forthwith 
 broke out into a blaze, and flung their heat at the 
 assailant. Goggles took this retaliation with great 
 complacency, and spread out his cold fingers to 
 receive the first advances : then he rubbed his hands 
 together, and after a little he drew one of the old- 
 fashioned chairs to the fireplace, and taking the ac- 
 count-book from the desk, he sat down cosily before 
 the grate, and with his little feet on the fender, and 
 the folio on his knees, fell once more to work to 
 find out the error in the tot. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MISSING FIGURE. 
 
 A "WILD and dreary night was that 31st of December, 
 179 — . It seemed as if the dying year struggled 
 hard for life to the last. All day long, like poor old 
 Lear, it blustered and raged over its lost empire. 
 All day long, a strong nor'west wind blew keen and 
 bitingly, and the leaden snow-clouds rose thick from 
 
BA L A XCIXG THE B OKS. 2 8 7 
 
 the horizon, till they overspread the whole face of 
 heaven, and dimmed the light of the sun that had 
 risen, red and dull, upon the frosty morning. And 
 then, ere noon, the thick, large snow-flakes came 
 down, drifting, with the wind, blindly into the faces 
 of those who traversed the streets, and lying upon 
 window-panes till they well-nigh shut out the dimmed 
 light of day from those within. All day long the snow 
 fell and drifted till, towards night-fall, the streets 
 were covered with a deep, white carpet, over which, 
 now and then, a carriage rolled, with a dull, muffled 
 sound ; and on the leeward footways the snow lay 
 piled so deeply that they who passed along were 
 forced to wade half knee-deep through the mass. 
 But when the night fell, the poor old year had well- 
 nigh worn out all his strength ; the wind blew but 
 in fitful gusts ; the snow-showers were intermittent ; 
 the clouds broke up, and through them, as they 
 scudded over the face of heaven, beamed, with her 
 face of placid, heavenly beauty, the moon nearly at 
 her full. Down she looked, sweetly and soothingly, 
 upon that outstretched dying old year, even as sweet 
 Cordelia looked upon the poor old king, " when the 
 great rage was cured in him." And now it is night, 
 wild and drearj', in this our city of Dublin. 
 
 There is no more striking picture of desolation than 
 
288 ^'^W FEARS EVE. 
 
 a city at night, after a heavy fall of snow. No stir, no 
 sound, no life within her. She lies, like a fair, wan 
 corpse in her shroud of snow ; her only death-watchers, 
 the silent heavens— her only wake-lights, the moon or 
 stars. r^Iarts, where the din and bustle of commerce 
 resounded through the day : homesteads that rang 
 with a thousand sweet, domestic sounds ; doors that 
 poured out their living inmates upon the haunts of life ; 
 ^vindows that gleamed with light, as the living eye 
 with " speculation"— all now closed, silent, dark, and 
 dead— so that one looks upwards for relief to heaven 
 from this oppressive sense of death. Oh ! glorious 
 and wonderful works of God ! Oh 1 " beauty and 
 mystery" of stars ! Ye never sleep or slumber ; ever 
 wakeful, like the eye of God ; ever, like Him, present, 
 though unseen; like Him, near us, indeed, though 
 hidden in the daytime of brightness and prosperity, 
 but revealing yourselves to light and cheer us in the 
 
 hour of darkness and trial. 
 
 '< Bedad, Tim Regan, ^tis the bitterest night that 
 
 ever I seen, God bless it. I'm as cowld as a frog 
 
 in a spring-well." 
 
 -You may say that, Casey," said Regan, poking 
 
 his head out of his box, as a badger might out of a 
 
 hole, and then drawing it back again. " I never 
 
 got such a starving in my born days." 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 289 
 
 The interlocutors stood at the corner of Trinity- 
 street and College-green. He who first spoke was 
 wrapped up in an ample coat of grey frieze ; round his 
 neck was a red worsted comforter which covered his 
 chin and mouth, while his head was comfortably en- 
 veloped in a white cotton nightcap surmounted by 
 a round hat, the former drawn down in front, almost 
 to his eyes, and leaving only these organs and a red 
 nose exposed to the weather. The cufts of his coat 
 were brought together, so as to protect, as with a muff, 
 his hands from the cold; his right arm clasped close 
 to his breast a long pole, with a pike and a hook at 
 the end of it, contrived as well to arrest those who 
 fled from the nocturnal authority, as to assail those 
 who resisted it, and a rattle was stuck in the belt 
 that surrounded his waist. Close to where he stood 
 was a box, or, as it was familiarly termed in the 
 slang of the day, a " bulk," secured against the wall 
 of the house, and so formed, that the sides and roof, 
 which closed by day, opened out and afforded a shelter 
 from the weather by night. Within this the other 
 speaker was ensconced, in a similar attire to his com- 
 panion, while his pike lay against the side of the 
 watch-box. These two worthies constituted part of 
 the civic guard of Dublin, to whom the fortunes 
 of the town were nightly committed. They were, 
 
 u 
 
290 NEW YEA RS E] E. 
 
 for the most part, superannuated servants or followers 
 of the Lords INIayor, and other great functionaries 
 of Dublin, who thus provided for them at the public 
 expense ; and as they were able to do little, they did it 
 accordingly with all their hearts. As peaceful men, 
 they felt it their duty to set a good example to their 
 fellow-citizens ; and, therefore, made it a point to 
 sleep through the night, the only interruption to 
 which excellent practice arose from the necessity, 
 somewhat unreasonably imposed upon them, of cry- 
 ing the hours. This annoyance was, however, greatly 
 diminished by an arrangement amongst themselves, 
 whereby one of their number kept the watch each 
 hour, while the rest betook themselves to repose 
 with such earnestness, that to "sleep as sound as a 
 watchman" became a proverb to express a state of 
 the most profound somnolency. It was now Casey's 
 hour of watching ; and as his period of vigil was 
 nearly ended, he had waked up the sleepy Regan a 
 short time before the moment when we first made 
 their acquaintance. In a moment Regan turned out 
 of his den, and the two old men, with slow and 
 drowsy step, proceeded on their beat towards the 
 College, chatting as they went along. If a Pythago- 
 rean had just then seen them, in their grey attire 
 and white polls, as they gossipped with one another, 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 291 
 
 he might have fancied that the souls of the geese that 
 saved the Capitol had migrated into the bodies of 
 these old fellows ; and that, true to the instinct of 
 their nature, they still cackled and waddled over 
 the sleeping city. And now upon the car of night 
 the clock of the old Post Office pealed forth the hour 
 of eleven. IMore distinctly, and in deeper tones, the 
 record of Time's flight was taken up by the bells of 
 Christ Church ; then the neighbouring Church of 
 St. Nicholas Within-the-Walls gave its notes of warn- 
 ing ; next the chiming tongues of St. Patrick's bells 
 spoke the message ; and, ere these had ceased, the 
 far-away voice of the bell-clock of Madame Stevens' 
 Hospital took up the challenge ; and so from one 
 to the other these chroniclers of old Time passed the 
 fleeting hour upon his way, till they had fairly sent 
 him out of the city, through the silent parks, and 
 along the sweet valley of the Liff'ey. And onward, 
 onward went that flying hour, staying but a moment 
 with each, on his westward journey, ever irrevocable 
 to those he had passed. 
 
 Meantime, the city watchmen were not idle. Though 
 all other thieves might steal without challenge or 
 interruption during the hours of night, they took 
 good care that the great thief. Time, should not filch 
 even one hour from the world without an outcry, 
 u 2 
 
292 A'FW FEARS EVE. 
 
 " Pa-a-st e-le-vcn !" sung out Casey, with all the 
 power of his lungs. " Pa-a-st e-le-ven !" repeated 
 Regan, taking for a moment the short pipe from his 
 mouth, with whose fumes he was comforting himself. 
 " Pa-a-st e-le-ven !" was echoed along the snowy 
 streets, throughout the city, from bulk to bulk, as 
 nightcapped heads were thrust out. Many a lightly- 
 sleeping maiden was waked from her pleasant dream. 
 Many a sleepless sick man, tossing on his bed of 
 fever, heard that vociferation, and gave his maledic- 
 tion to the senseless noise that came so suddenly 
 upon him, making his heart beat and his brow throb 
 with pain. Many a housebreaker and night-prowler 
 laughed as he heard the clamour, for he knew that 
 in five minutes more most of those conservators of 
 the city would be snoring in their boxes, and that 
 the few who were on their beats would be as un- 
 conscious as somnambulists. 
 
 Just then the voices of some drunken revellers, 
 trolling a snatch of a drinking-song, broke upon the 
 repose into which the city was again settling down 
 after the clamorous interruption of the watchmen. 
 The sounds came from near the northern wing of the 
 College : then some words of parley and altercation, 
 mixed with laughter, followed, and the next moment 
 the shrill cry of a woman's voice pierced the air, 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 293 
 
 The cry was that of one seemingly in distress ; and 
 so piteous and appealing was its tone, that the two 
 watchmen ran forward to the spot with the best speed 
 they could command. 
 
 " Them's the College-boys at their divilmint, I'll 
 be bound," said Regan, dashing the red tobacco 
 from his pipe, and grasping his pike valiantly. 
 
 " Like enough," responded Casey ; " there's neither 
 peace nor quiet night or day through the means of 
 'em. One would think they might be tired for once, 
 after the pelting of snowballs they gave the Ormond 
 boys this evening. Lord save us ! do you hear that 
 again?" as another shriek smote on the air: "hurry, 
 man, or there'll be murder.'' 
 
 In another moment they were at the place whence 
 the sounds proceeded. Close to the railings of the 
 College were three young men dressed in the ex- 
 treme fashion of the day, with hair in exquisite 
 buckle and profusely powdered. They were evidently 
 gentlemen, with which character it was not then 
 deemed inconsistent to be in the state of most un- 
 equivocal drunkenness in which these youths were. 
 Two of them were linked together, with their backs 
 to the railings, laughing heartily at the third, who, 
 with his arms round the waist of a woman, was 
 addressing her with an air of maudlin gallantrv, and 
 
2 9+ NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 vith as much gravity as his drunkenness enabled him 
 to command. He had just concluded some speech, 
 in which the words "Incomparable paragon of loveli- 
 ness — beautiful Venus — divinely frigid Diana," and a 
 profession of eternal devotion, were alone intelligible. 
 The woman struggled hard for freedom, 
 
 "Oh, Sir, if you be a gentleman, as you look to 
 be, for the love of God suffer me to pass. You 
 would not surely molest an unprotected woman ?" 
 
 "Molest! INIadam, upon my honour, and 'fore 
 Gad, you may depend on me. I only want to pro- 
 tect you from these wild young fellows. This, you 
 see, madam, is Buck O'Reilly, and this is Fagan, one 
 of ' the INIohawks ;' " and with his disengaged hand 
 he essayed an introduction of his two compotators. 
 " Fagan, my dear madam, is one of the most despe- 
 rate IMohawks in existence," he continued in a con- 
 fidential whisper. 
 
 The two others broke out into an uproarious fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Bravo, Lucas ! Go it, my Cherokee ! Pray don't 
 mind usl We're in no hurry, you know, quite at your 
 service." 
 
 " Hands off, hands off, Sir !" said Regan, pushing 
 in between the men. " Let go the woman ; don't 
 you see she has no mind for your civilities }" 
 
BALAXCIXG THE BOOKS. 295 
 
 "Down with the Charlie; pink the cursed old 
 bulkey," cried the Buck and the Mohawk, endeavour- 
 ing to disengage their swords from the scabbards. 
 
 " Be quiet, be quiet, gentlemen," said Casey, who 
 saw that he had to deal with men too drunk to make 
 any effective resistance, " unless you want to spend 
 the night in the watchhouse." 
 
 The two men rushed furiously at Casey. The 
 Buck came to the ground before he reached his 
 opponent, while the IMohawk pitched heavily, like 
 a log, into the old watchman, well-nigh bearing him 
 down by his drunken weight. INIeantime, Lucas, 
 releasing the woman, attacked Regan, who, valiantly 
 springing his rattle, received the enemy with his 
 pike-handle grasped in both his hands. From all 
 quarters watchmen came hobbling up, springing their 
 rattles till the air was filled with the discordant creak- 
 ing. The three gentlemen were speedily reduced, 
 and surrounded by twice as many watchmen. 
 
 " I say, Charlie, my old fellow," said Lucas, who 
 seemed to be less game than his companions, " 'twas 
 all a mistake, you see. I thought the lady was a 
 particular friend of mine, and I was only going to 
 take care of her home ; so here's something for your 
 trouble ;" and he slipped a crown into Regan's 
 ready hand. 
 
296 NEW FEARS EVE. 
 
 "That's just what I was thinking, your honour, 
 when I made bould to set you right. A real gentle- 
 man is always ready to listen to reason ;" and he gave 
 a significant look to his fellows, intimating that mat- 
 ters were adjusted in the w'ay in which watchmen 
 always found it their account to settle them with all 
 but poor rogues who had no money in their pockets. 
 
 "And a real gentleman is always ready to make 
 up to a poor fellow for breaking his ribs," said 
 Casey, groaning with the affectation of internal suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 This appeal was responded to by the Mohawk, who, 
 considering it complimentary to his personal prowess 
 to have smashed the Charlie, Avas disposed to be gene- 
 rous. And so the three gentleme^i staggered onwards, 
 heaven knows whither ; and the watchmen went off, 
 no doubt to drink ; and the half-dozen homeless, 
 miserable wretches who, on that bleak winter's night, 
 were the spectators of the scene, wandered away ; 
 but the woman, where was she } No one looked for 
 her — no one thought of her — no one had seen her 
 since she was freed from the arm of the drunken 
 " Cherokee." 
 
 The moon broke out from the ragged clouds that 
 scudded across her orb, and shone with full splendour 
 upon the outspread city that lay beneath her. There 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 297 
 
 in that area, wherein were congregated all the memo- 
 rials of the genius, the eloquence, the patriotism, the 
 learning of Ireland, the beams of the full moon shone 
 down in her cold glory. Shining far away in the 
 eastern heavens, she left the facade of Trinity Col- 
 lege in deep shadow — a shadow that projected far 
 into " the Green " the outlines of the central pile and 
 pavilions of the University. But the light struck 
 clear and strong upon the beautiful mass of build- 
 ings that formed the northern side of College-green. 
 One by one, the graceful shafts of those Ionic pillars 
 of pure white marble rose from their bases, casting 
 their shadows into the circular colonnade that ran 
 round the eastern side of the mass. To the south, 
 a deep recess formed a court-yard, along three sides 
 of which the ■ colonnade was continued. A portion 
 of this was left in darkness, but the moonbeams 
 flooded over the roof, and fell upon the facade that 
 fronted the east, and lit it up in a grand and solemn 
 lustre, while the partial rays glinted upon the south- 
 ern front, and brought out, between the shadows of 
 the columns, the principal entrance to the building. 
 And the whole pile rose upon the sight, massive, 
 colossal, vast and symmetrical — a building, whose 
 exterior may challenge competition with the finest 
 structures of Greece and Italy — within whose walls 
 
298 NEW FEARS EVE. 
 
 were heard the voices of the most eloquent men of 
 their age — Grattan and Flood, Plunket and Bushe — 
 men who have made for Irish oratory and Irish 
 genius a name throughout the world. Such was the 
 Irish House of Parliament at the close of the last 
 century ! The genius loci has long since fled from the 
 spot, and the spirit of commerce has fixed her em- 
 pire in those halls which once resounded with the 
 eloquence of the senator, and echoed the wit and 
 brilliant sallies of the orator. A mighty change, in- 
 deed : but let him who mourns over the altered 
 destinies of our land remember that Ireland's strength 
 lies in a thorough and hearty union with her elder 
 sister, in a participation of all her greatness, and a 
 generous and earnest emulation of her in all the arts 
 that elevate a nation, and raise a people in the esti- 
 mation of mankind. 
 
 Upon the steps of the western colonnade of the 
 Parliament House sat one in whose heart rose no 
 thoughts of the beauty and the glory around her. Full 
 of sorrow, indeed, were the meditations of her mind ; 
 home memories, before which an angry spirit stood, 
 forbidding her heart's access, even as the cherubim 
 stood with flaming sword between Paradise and our 
 first parents ; thoughts of those beloved in childhood, 
 cherished in youth, estranged ere that youth had 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 299 
 
 well-nigh passed. Where were they now ? Would 
 they receive her ? — would they love her as in the 
 days of old ? As she pondered over these things, the 
 woman groaned in her anguish, and cried aloud — 
 
 " Be thou not far from me, O Lord, my strength, 
 haste Thee to help me." 
 
 With the prayer on her lips, she raised her eyes to 
 heaven. 
 
 " INIistress, you're a stranger in Dublin, I'm thinking. 
 If I can be of any assistance to you, you're heartily 
 welcome to my services." 
 
 He who addressed her was the watchman that 
 rescued her from the drunken " Cherokee." 
 
 " I am, indeed, a stranger," said the woman, "and 
 would gladly accept your kindness. W^ill you give me 
 your protection to Nicholas-street 7'' 
 
 " 'Tis beyond my beat a long way," said Regan, 
 " howsomever, I'll not leave you to walk the streets 
 alone so far this hour of night. So come along, in 
 the name of God." 
 
 The woman arose and moved forward. The watch- 
 man walked by her side respectfully. There was that 
 about her that showed him she was one who, poor 
 though she seemed, knew no degradation beyond that 
 of poverty. And so they passed along the silent and 
 snow-covered footway, down through Dame-street, 
 
300 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 and up Cork-hill, by the Gate of the Castle, and along the 
 Castle-street, passing by the Rose Tavern, still a thriving 
 establishment, and, not many years previously, the resort 
 of many of the distinguished social and political clubs 
 of the city. Then they entered the Skinners-row, a nar- 
 row street which has since been made wide and spacious, 
 under the name of Christchurch-place. At that time 
 it was not much over seventeen feet in breadth ; but, 
 though mean in appearance, it was the residence of 
 many of the wealthiest jewellers and goldsmiths of the 
 city. At its south-western extremity stood a massive 
 building of hewn stone, two stories high. The moon's 
 light shone slantingly upon its front, and displayed 
 two antique figures in robes and periwigs : this was 
 the Tholsel, round which they turned into Nicholas- 
 street, lying in the shadow of the night, for the moon- 
 beams shining from the east could not find their way 
 into it, and the dim and flickering oil-lamp shed but a 
 faint and partial light around. 
 
 "Now, mistress," said Regan, " )'Ou're in Nicholas- 
 street. There's the church, and farther on is Kennedy- 
 court. What house are you seeking ?" 
 
 The woman hesitated for a moment. She seemed 
 to be struggling with some feelings that ultimately got 
 the better of her. At length she said, with some 
 embarrassment — 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 301 
 
 " I ^vill not trespass on you any farther. I can now 
 find the house I want. I am very thankful for your 
 kindness. I wish I could show my gratitude as fully 
 as I feel it." 
 
 She held forth in her hand a silver coin. The old 
 watchman shook his head, and said — 
 
 " No, no, mistress. I can afford to do a good turn 
 for nothing ; besides, that drunken young scapegrace 
 paid me well enough already on your account. I 
 have a wife myself, and daughters too, for that matter : 
 and for their sakes I can help a friendless woman, 
 and so good-night, and God protect you. I must 
 hurry back to be on my beat to sing out ' all's well' 
 when the inspector goes his rounds." 
 
 Then the watchman retraced his steps, and was 
 soon out of sight round the corner of the Tholsel. 
 The woman passed on rapidly a few paces, then she 
 stopped at a doorway on the left side of the street. 
 A projecting oil-lamp burned muddily over the heavy 
 stone pediment, and gave her light enough to see 
 a massive brass knocker. She lifted it hurriedly and 
 knocked with a trembling hand. The sound rever- 
 berated through the still air and smote upon her 
 heart with a sudden shock. A thousand memories 
 were evoked by that sound. Hopes, fears, doubts, 
 agonies crowded upon her : they were too much for 
 
302 NFW FEARS EVE. 
 
 a frame weakened by illness, and nerves shaken by 
 the events of the evening; and, ere her summons 
 was answered, she sank down unconscious in the 
 
 snow that lay upon the steps. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TOT SET RIGHT. 
 
 When she who had wandered through the midnight 
 snows and sunk on the cold door-steps opened her 
 eyes, and became once again conscious, she was as 
 one waking from a long dream. Years, occupied 
 by that dream, vanished, and she gazed around on 
 familiar objects. The room and its quaint orderly 
 furniture were those of her childhood. There was 
 the curtained window at which she had stood by 
 day, the bright cheery hearth at which she had sat 
 by night. The chimney-glass in its antique frame, 
 with the peacock's feathers at each side. The old 
 clock ticked upon the mantelpiece. The green parrot 
 swung upon his hoop in the gilded cage. And 
 kneeling beside her, one chafed her temples, and 
 kissed her cold hands, with all the gentle kindness 
 which it is the blessed gift of woman alone to 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 303 
 
 minister. And there, too, bent over her, one whose 
 eyes were full of awe and wonder, of unutterable 
 love and tenderness, of joy and sorrow, hope and 
 doubt, strangely blended. 
 
 "Are you my own dear Mary, alive and in the 
 flesh ? or are you her blessed spirit come to summon 
 me to my last dread account } Speak, in the name 
 of God's own mother, I adjure you." 
 
 " Laurence, dear Laurence, I am your own sister 
 Mary. God has spared me life to come back and 
 throw myself upon your love.'' 
 
 The man smote his breast with his open palms, 
 and heaved a mighty sigh : 'twas the heaving of a 
 heart that cast off for ever a load that was dragging 
 it down to the grave. 
 
 " Then I am no murderer ! O Lord, I thank 
 thee ;" and flinging himself down on his knees be- 
 side the couch, he kissed her poor, pale forehead 
 and her cold lips again and again, and wept and 
 laughed by turns, while that gentle sister clasped 
 his head in her wasted hands, and soothed him, and 
 blest him, and wept with him ; till at last the other 
 woman, fearing that the excitement would injure 
 both, rose up, and with quiet, yet firm restraint, drew 
 the man away. 
 
 " Dear husband, you must compose yourself, for 
 
304 N^W FEARS UVE. 
 
 her sake as well as for your own. See how weak and 
 faint she is, you will surely injure her. Come," and 
 she led him to a chair apart, and then returned 
 as quietly as before to the suffering one, and busied 
 herself again in tending her, saying little, but doing 
 all things needful. And the man looked on the 
 while, wonderingly and musingly, yet not daring to 
 speak, keeping closed the flood-gates of his feelings 
 lest they should break out again, and overwhelm 
 him. And, after a little time, they were all more 
 composed and tranquil, and Mary spoke for a time 
 in a low voice with Mrs. Kennedy, and then she 
 arose and tasted, in thankfulness, of the food that 
 was set before her, and drank of the old Spanish 
 wine, which her father had loved, and would give 
 to her, as a child, on festive occasions. And then 
 they sat by the fireside, that long-severed, long- 
 estranged brother and sister, her hand in his hand, 
 her head upon his breast. And the quiet, gentle 
 wife, she had stolen noiselessly away out of the 
 room, leaving the two together, while they poured 
 out their hearts in mutual explanations. 
 
 " Yes ; dear Mary, from the hour when I snatched 
 my hand from you, as you supplicated me upon 
 your knees, and I passed out through that door, 
 with reproaches on my lips and bitterness in my 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 305 
 
 heart, I have known no peace. Ere one week had 
 passed, I sought for you at his lodgings, everywhere, 
 but you were not to be found ; you were both gone, 
 nobody knew whither." 
 
 "We left the country the day after that bitter 
 parting. Why should we stay where we were out- 
 casts and beggars .^" 
 
 " I sought for you everywhere ; I advertised in 
 the papers here and in England. I made inquiries 
 through my correspondents abroad, but in vain ; no 
 answer, no clue, and yet you must have seen them, 
 Mary. Was this well done, sister ? You were not 
 used to have an unrelenting spirit." 
 
 " Yes ; I did see what you put in the papers copied 
 into a foreign journal ; and oh ! dear Laurence, God 
 knows how my heart yearned tOM-ards you ; but he 
 would not suffer me to reply. The wounds you had 
 inflicted on his pride and honour were still rankling. 
 You had called him, he told me, a beggar and an 
 adventurer. You accused him of abusing your con- 
 fidence and hospitality ; of clandestinely seducing 
 your sister's affections ; of making a base and ungrate- 
 ful return for your bounty. What bounty, save the 
 money that he earned by his own honest toil .'' 
 Oh ! brother, brother ! you know not the man you so 
 accused." 
 
 X 
 
3o6 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 The woman raised her head from where it had 
 been resting, and a flush spread over her pallid face. 
 It might have been anger, it might have been but 
 pride ; whatever was its cause, it soon passed away. 
 That meek soul had been too severely schooled by 
 the world's trials, too deeply taught by God's chas- 
 tisements, to cherish the one or the other emotion : 
 and so she laid her head once again lovingly upon 
 her brother's breast. 
 
 " I did all that you say, Mary, nor do I now seek 
 to justify it altogether : but when you judge my con- 
 duct, do not forget how sorely I was tried — tried in 
 all that was dearest to my heart, my affections, my 
 religion, my pride, my name." 
 
 The woman shook her head mournfully, but made 
 no reply. It might be that she knew how her bro- 
 ther had felt all these things, though she could not 
 admit that they should have tried him so severely. 
 
 "Bear with me for a little while, dear sister," he 
 continued, " while for once I lay bare before you my 
 my heart and my motives. Even should it pain you, 
 still you will not deny me the opportunity of plead- 
 ing my own cause. When I shall have done this, 
 my lips shall be closed on the subject for ever. 
 Condemn me then as you will. God knows you 
 cannot condemn me as much as my own conscience 
 does. 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 307 
 
 " Of all his children, you and I alone were left to 
 our dear father. How he loved you, you know 
 well : but he loved you not more dearly than I did, 
 when on his death-bed he commended you to my 
 care. I watched over you, Mary, more as a father 
 would do than a brother. You were the light of my 
 home, and the pride of my heart, and I sought for 
 no other companion while I had you, no other mis- 
 tress for my house. And so passed on many a happy 
 year till you were a full-grown woman ; and then 
 came the shadow over our bright life." 
 
 The merchant paused, as if half afraid to proceed. 
 At length he took courage and resumed. 
 
 " One morning I received from a Bourdeaux corre- 
 spondent a letter requesting my good offices in favour 
 of a French Protestant who had been forced to leave 
 his native land. I remember, as if it were but yes- 
 terday, the bearer of that letter. 'Twas Joseph Le 
 Maistre. I pitied him ; for I hated in my heart all 
 persecution for conscience sake. My house was 
 opened to him; I procured him tuitions as a teacher 
 of languages, and I suffered him to make you perfect 
 in the knowledge of his native tongue. Oh ! IMary, 
 my own sister ! was it honourable, was it generous, 
 that he should creep in between our hearts; that he 
 should rob me of your love ; that he should estrange 
 X 2 
 
3o8 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 your heart from its duty, and your soul from the 
 religion of your 'fathers ? And yet all this he did, 
 Mary; and I suspected nothing of it, till one and 
 the same day I learned that you were a Protestant, 
 and the wife of Le Maistre." 
 
 "All this my husband did, Laurence; yet was he 
 neither ungenerous nor dishonourable. If there be 
 cause for blame, and I do not deny it, let that blame 
 rest where it should, upon me. My love for my 
 dear husband I have never for a moment repented of; 
 in my changed faith, I humbly rejoice. I do not, 
 and I never did, justify my marriage without your 
 knowledge ; he would have had it otherwise, but I 
 overruled him ; for I knew your quick temper and 
 your strong attachment to your faith, and I feared 
 that you would prevent our union. Dearly have 
 we paid the penalty, when you sent me forth for- 
 tuneless upon the world ; I know you had the right 
 legally to do so, for my portion was made subject 
 to my marrying with your consent." 
 
 "And every farthing of that portion I placed to 
 your credit, and will account to you honestly for it 
 and all its fruits." 
 
 " Oh 1 brother, this is indeed being more than 
 just, it is generous ; generous and good as my own 
 dear brother was wont to be in our young days. 
 
BALANCIXG THE BOOKS. 309 
 
 This will enable us all to be independent, will save 
 us from the sharp pang and degradation of poverty — 
 him and my child." 
 
 Kennedy started involuntarily. Up to this mo- 
 ment he had not thought of the existence of Joseph 
 Le Maistre ; somehow he had concluded that he 
 was dead. 
 
 " He, your husband ! Did he not die before you 
 left St. Domingo ? His name was not amongst those 
 in the registr}- of the Santiago." 
 
 " He was not in the Santiago. He had sailed a 
 week before in a vessel bound for Barbadoes, where 
 he had friends on whose aid he relied. There we 
 were to meet him when the Santiago should touch 
 on her voyage to Europe. I will not relate to you the 
 terrors of that' dreadful night, when our ship went 
 down so suddenly that the sleepers were awakened 
 to rush on deck and find their graves in the sea ; 
 nor how, as I sank with the vessel in the seething 
 waters that sucked us downwards, with my arms 
 round my child, I thought of 30U, brother, and 
 prayed God to forgive us both." 
 
 The merchant groaned. He called to mind the 
 picture that his distempered fancy drew of that aw- 
 ful scene, and how different it was from the reality. 
 The woman continued : 
 
310 NE W YEARS EVE. 
 
 •' Some friendly hand threw me a rope. I seized 
 it, and was drawn, with my child, into a small 
 boat. There were but two men in it. All that 
 dreadful night we drifted about ; and when the 
 light of the morning broke, they discovered a ship 
 not a mile distant. One of the men took my shawl, 
 and raising it up on an oar, signalled the vessel. 
 After some time she perceived us, and in half-an- 
 hour more we were on board, and in safety. We 
 were landed at St. Lucia, and I contrived from that 
 to make my way to Barbadoes, and found my hus- 
 band. There we remained many years, and at last 
 we have sought my native city ; for I had a strong 
 belief that God would not will that we should be 
 thus estranged for ever. And I said I would seek you 
 once again, and humble myself before you, my own 
 dear brother." 
 
 " Nay, dear sister, not so ; you shall not humble 
 yourself to me, for I, too, have erred ; but you shall 
 lie in my heart as closely as you did before. When 
 you left me, I\Iary, my house was lonely, and I 
 sought one to solace me in my sorrow, and such a 
 one I found in my dear wife, your old playmate 
 Hester. She will be to you as a sister, and you 
 shall share our home — you and your little one." 
 
 "Laurence, there is one whom you do not name. 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 311 
 
 I share no home and no heart in which he also is 
 not a sharer. Whither he goes, I go. His people 
 shall be my people, as his God is my God." 
 
 The woman paused, and looked anxiously at her 
 brother for a reply ; but no reply came. His brow 
 grew dark. The evil spirit was upon him — that spirit 
 of anger against the husband of his sister, which 
 years of suffering had not subdued. He rose hastily 
 from his seat, and paced the room with rapid steps. 
 Oh ! poor, frail, human nature — the slave of sin and 
 passion 1 With all the light that shines upon you from 
 above, still loving the darkness ; with the voice of God 
 speaking to you everywhere and in everything, still 
 closing your ear as the deaf adder; with countless 
 unseen pitying angels around you, ever striving to 
 bear you in their hands, and raise you heavenward, 
 still grovelling in the dust. There, in that man's 
 heart, was then going on one of those mysterious 
 spiritual battles which, from the first hour of the first 
 man's fall till the last hour of the last man's life, have 
 been, and shall be, waged ; the good and the evil 
 striving for the mastery, as Michael and the Devil 
 contended for the body of Moses. And the battle is 
 fierce, and the fortune of the fight shifts and wavers ; 
 but at last 'tis over, and the evil angels are masters of 
 
312 NE W YEA RS E\ X 
 
 the human battle-field for a season, and enter in, and 
 possess it. 
 
 Kennedy stopped short before her. 
 
 " I wronged you, and I am ready to make all re- 
 paration, sister, in my power to you. Him I never 
 wronged, but he has sorely wronged me. Let us be 
 as we are, strangers for ever. I swore that it should 
 be so. Shall I break my solemn oath .^" 
 
 INIary Le INIaistre rose from her seat, pale as death, 
 yet composed as one who had taken a fixed resolve. 
 
 " Laurence Kennedy, for the last time, farewell ! 
 Your hasty and violent temper I knew well, and I 
 did not cease to love you, even v,hen that temper 
 wrought me sorrow and suflering ; but I did not 
 know till now that you had so unforgiving a spirit. 
 To-night I left my husband without his knowledge, 
 while he slept after a heavy day of toil, and alone, in 
 this cold winter's night, I sought your house — with 
 what hopes it is idle now to say. Well, well, these 
 hopes have failed me. I will return to my husband, 
 and we will pray that you may never plead in vain for 
 that forgiveness which you refused to another." 
 
 She moved towards the door, but Kennedy stepped 
 between it and her. 
 
 " Mary, INIary, for the love of God do not leave 
 me 1" 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 313 
 
 " The love of God ! What do you know of the 
 love of God, or how do you dare to appeal to it ? 
 God loves the vilest soul that sins against him, and 
 pardons him. That love is not in you, Laurence 
 Kennedy. ' If a man say I love God, and hateth his 
 brother, he is a liar.' " 
 
 The words fell upon the ear of Kennedy with a 
 terrible and solemn force, and pierced his heart as it 
 were with a sword. The memory of that scene years 
 ago, when last they stood together in that very room, 
 even as they did now, face to face, came vividly 
 before him ; and the words which she had then spoken 
 sounded again as distinctly in his ears as they did that 
 day — an awful denunciation and appeal to God 
 against him. Once more the life-battle is renewed in 
 his soul, and the Word of God, quick and sharp as a 
 two-edged sword, drives back the evil angels till they 
 have but one stronghold left. 
 
 " ]\Iy oath — my solemn oath !" cried the man, per- 
 plexed and in agony. " If I had not taken that 
 oath " 
 
 "Think you, Laurence Kennedy, that you can plead 
 that oath against Christ's command to love your bro- 
 ther, when you and that brother shall stand, at the 
 last day, before His judgment- seat .^ Look round and 
 answer me that question." 
 
314 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 ]Mechanically he turned his head in the direction to 
 ■which she pointed. There stood the man of whom 
 they spoke, as if summoned by some mysterious power 
 to confront him now in the presence of an unseen 
 God, as he should yet do before his visible Judge. 
 A slight, small man, on whose delicate face the lines 
 of sorrow were prematurely traced, with a dull, languid 
 eye, from which all the playful light of bygone days 
 had vanished. There was no pride now in that form, 
 somewhat bent with a habitual stoop ; and as Kennedy 
 looked at him, he could have fancied that half-a- 
 century had passed over that man since last they 
 met. He stood meekly, yet with a manly and com- 
 posed dignity, just within the doorway, awaiting the 
 advance of his wife's brother. Kennedy stood irre- 
 solute and motionless — the battle rages within him — 
 the stronghold of pride and long-cherished anger 
 is sore assailed, but is not yet taken. 
 
 " Dear husband," said his wife, in her quiet yet 
 constraining accents, " IMr. Le Maistre has come with 
 me from his lodging this wild winter night to see 
 you. Will you not receive and welcome him — Mary's 
 husband, Laurence .^" 
 
 The little girl, who had accompanied her father 
 when she heard the name, stepped softly up and 
 looked into her uncle's face, with a sweet smile and 
 
BALANCING THE BOOKS. 315 
 
 a look of childish wonder, and touching his hand, 
 said — 
 
 " Are you my Uncle Laurence, that papa taught 
 me to name in my prayers night and morning ?" 
 
 The battle is won, the stronghold is carried, and 
 the evil ones are driven from it for ever. Out of the 
 mouth of the babe has God ordained the strength 
 that gave the victory. Kennedy raised the little one 
 in his arms and kissed her, and then setting her 
 gently down, held out his hand to Le Maistre — 
 
 " Come in, brother Le Maistre ; come in and sit 
 down with us. With my whole heart I make you 
 welcome." 
 
 The women wept silently, but the child shouted 
 gleefully and clapped her hands. She was fresher 
 from heaven than they, and her spiritual sensations 
 were yet akin to those of the angels ; like them, she 
 rejoiced over the sinner that had repented. 
 
 After a little time, the door was opened, and a head 
 thrust hesitatingly into the room. 
 
 " What the devil is wrong now ?" asked Kennedy 
 impatiently. 
 
 He felt half-ashamed that any one except those 
 around him should witness his emotion. 
 
 " There's nothing wrong now, Sir, but all's right ; 
 and it was not the devil at all, but a figure that was 
 
3 1 6 A'EW FEA RS E VE. 
 
 left out in the last entry in your own private account, 
 and so I put it down to your credit ; and all's right 
 now, and the books balance to a farthing." 
 
 "Come in, Goggles— come in, old fellow; all is 
 right, thank God, in my accounts with the whole 
 world. See, here are old friends ; won't you wish 
 them a happy new year .?" 
 
 Goggles obeyed the summons, and walked up to the 
 fireplace, where they were all sitting. 
 
 " Lord save us ! who's this at all 7 Blessed Virgin ! 
 it cannot be ! Yes, but it is. Ah, dear ]\Iiss Mary — 
 I beg your pardon, IMistress Le Maistre. Is it pos- 
 sible } — alive, alive as sure as two and two's four. 
 ]\Ir. Le Maistre, I'm proud to see you once again. Ah, 
 Sir, you've been at the vinltiplication table, I see, since 
 you left us ;" and the old man gave a low chuckle as 
 he looked at the child. 
 
 Goggles was a wag in a small Avay, but his jeux 
 (Tesprit and figures were always arithmetical. 
 
 " Ay, and a great addition to their happiness. 
 Goggles," said his master, humouring the old man's 
 foible. 
 
 "He ! he ! he ! Very true, Sir. Thank God, 
 there's an end to the Jong division, at all events." 
 
 " Sit down, old friend, you shall share in my joy as 
 you have known my sorrow. Come, drink the health 
 
BALANCIXG THE BOOKS. 317 
 
 of our friends here in a glass of \vine, and wish them 
 a happy new year." 
 
 As he spoke, the bells of St. Patrick's Church rang 
 out a jocund peal upon the night. The old year had 
 passed away — passed with all its sins and its sorrows, 
 all its good and its evil — passed away from Time 
 into Eternity — gone to be written up in God's register, 
 against the last day of accounting, when Time itself 
 shall be no more. And one bright entry will appear 
 under the head of that old year of 179 — , the record 
 of pride subdued, of anger overcome by love, of 
 estranged hearts united ; and whatever sins were re- 
 gistered in the page of that year against any of those 
 who then sat lovingly together at its close, I well 
 believe that the earnest repentance of that last half- 
 hour will be availing with a merciful Judge, and that 
 the finger of God's love will set that repentance and 
 sorrow and suffering against the pride and enmity and 
 anger, and so balance that account at the great day 
 of reckoning. 
 
 "That's all true," ]Mr. Slingsby, I make no doubt," 
 said the Professor, in his own dry way. 
 
 " As true, I\Ir. Chubble," I replied, " as the tale 
 you once told us of your friend Dick Woodenspoon 
 and his marriage." 
 
3 1 8 NE W FEAR S EVE. 
 
 " Hem ! I thought as much." 
 
 •' I don't care a pipe-stopper," said old Freke, 
 " whether it be true or not. It has put us over an 
 hour pleasantly enough." 
 
 " A ver}' good criticism," said Uncle Saul. 
 
 " And one/' I added, " whose spirit I recommend 
 to all critics, from those of the quarterly reviews to 
 the half-penny newspapers." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY