^M
 
 UCSB- LIBRARY 

 
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 rOiMPKlSING SELrXTIONS FROM THE WORKS Ol 
 THE MOST CELEBRATED 
 
 #emiiile W^iU^^. 
 
 Second Ser tc» . 

 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, 
 
 By B. Cra.vston & Co. 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District of Rhode-Island.
 
 ^^mwiM:Rwmmii^/2^i}:^i^n 
 
 The rapid sale of the first volume of the You.ng 
 Lady's Gift, has induced the publishers to pre- 
 pare the second, in a more beautiful style. The 
 selections have been made entirely from the 
 most popular female authors, so that it combines 
 as much talent, with but little of the expense of 
 the Enn;lish Annuals.
 
 ^©M^MMWc 
 
 Charlotte de Montmorenci, , 
 
 Agnes SlricUand, 
 
 9 
 
 The American Indians, 
 
 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 
 
 27 
 
 The Mothers Sacrifice, 
 
 
 4.0 
 
 'ihe Ruler's Faith, 
 
 a u u 
 
 C5 
 
 The Contrast, 
 
 
 2GG 
 
 The Death of Ivlusic, 
 
 . iWiss H. F. Gould, 
 
 28 
 
 Blowing Bubbles, 
 
 '■ '•• •■•- 
 
 45 
 
 The Motherless, 
 
 Sarah Slickney, 
 
 29 
 
 The Forsaken Friend, 
 
 . 
 
 4^j 
 
 The iEolian Harp, . 
 
 .Mrs. Abdy, 
 
 31 
 
 The Enclosed Common, 
 
 a ii 
 
 154 
 
 Match-Breaking, 
 
 " " 
 
 161 
 
 The Young Poet, . 
 
 . '■ 
 
 277 
 
 Isoline de Valmont, . 
 
 Mrs. Walker, 
 
 32 
 
 The Funeral of the Forsaken, 
 
 . '' 
 
 42 
 
 Our Rector, 
 
 Miss Mitford, 
 
 48 
 
 Mademoiselle Therese, 
 
 u c: 
 
 114 
 
 Country Lodgings, 
 
 . " " 
 
 280 
 
 The Song of Dreams, 
 
 . BIrs. M. A. BroiL-ne, 
 
 59 
 
 The Departed, . 
 
 ••• -' " 
 
 113 
 
 The Voice of Home, 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, 
 
 CI 
 
 Madeline, .... 
 
 . ••' 
 
 105 
 
 The Meeting of the Brothers, 
 
 cc ei 
 
 209 
 
 Translation from Metastasio, 
 
 tt i: 
 
 211 
 
 Stanzas, .... 
 
 Mrs. Crawford, 
 
 157 
 
 Tasso's Prison Song, 
 
 •' " 
 
 235 
 
 Fair Annie Macleod, 
 
 . 
 
 269 
 
 The March of tlie Ancient Bri 
 
 tons. " " 
 
 21)7
 
 via COXTEXTS. 
 
 
 The Lost Star. . . . Ml^a; L. E. London 
 
 63 
 
 Juliet, nfter the Masquerade. . •' " ■' " 
 
 108 
 
 Disenchantment. ... '•' " " " 
 
 152 
 
 The Ionian Captive, . . " " " " 
 
 156 
 
 Can You Forget Me ? . . " " " 
 
 159 
 
 The Prophetess, ... u 'c u u 
 
 203 
 
 Gibraltar, from the Sea, . . " " " " 
 
 205 
 
 Song, Mrs. Charles Gore 
 
 64 
 
 Nature and Art, . . . " '•' *' 
 
 119 
 
 Song, a u <. 
 
 158 
 
 The Monk's Farewell to his Orange Tre3, " " 
 
 295 
 
 Earl Warwick's Seal Ring, . . Miss Lawrence, 
 
 67 
 
 The Dream of Feticius, . . . Mary Howitt, 
 
 110 
 
 A Legend of MacAlister More, 
 
 212 
 
 The Wreatlis, Eliza Cook, 
 
 207 
 
 The World, ..- ^ ' 
 
 233 
 
 A Sailor's Mid-Watch Reflections, Mrs. Wilson, 
 
 231 
 
 Love and Hope, .... Mrs. Turnhvll, 
 
 232 
 
 Annie Leslie, .... Mrs. S. C. Hall, 
 
 236 
 
 Love and Vanity, . 
 The Court at Tunbridge, 
 
 Hon. Augusta Norton, 298 
 n 1664. 314
 
 THE 
 
 ottitg M^H'i Stft. 
 
 A TALE OF THR FRENCH CHROXICLES. 
 
 BY AG^'ES STRICKLAND. 
 
 It was the second morning after Charlotte de Mont- 
 morenci's first ball ; but the enchantments with which 
 that memorable evenmg had been franght still floated 
 before her youthful fancy. She had thought of nothing 
 but the Louvre and its glittering pagean''ry all day ; 
 and her pillow had been haunted with dreams of Henri 
 Quartre, and the gay and gallant nobles of his court 
 who had vied with each other in offering the most in. 
 tosicating homage to her charms. Charlotte de INIont- 
 morenci was the most beautiful girl in France, and 
 the sensation produced by her first appearance at court, 
 was enough to dazzle the mind of a damsel only just 
 emancipated from the sober restraints of a conventual 
 education. She had danced the pavon* with Henri 
 
 " Or peacock dance, an ancient minuet. 
 1
 
 10 CHARLOTTE DE M0NT3I0RENCI. 
 
 himself, who had been lavish, on that occasion, of the 
 seductive flattery which he v/a.s so well skilled to v/his- 
 per in a lady's ear. Charlotte had found this incense 
 only too agreeable ; but the pleasure with which she 
 was disposed to listen to the compliments of royalty, 
 received something very like a check from the imper- 
 tinent espionage of a pair of penetrating dark eyes, 
 which, whenever she raised her own, she encountered, 
 fixed upon her with looks expressive rather of reproof 
 than admhation. 
 
 PIov.'^ dared any eyes address lancruage so displeasing 
 to the reigning beauty of the evening, especially when 
 her affianced lover, tlie sprightly heir of Bassompierre, 
 appeared higlily gratified with the brilliant success 
 that had attended her presentation at court ? Bassom. 
 pierre was the handsomest and most admired of all the 
 peers of France. He stood very high in the favor of 
 his sovereign ; and so generally irresistible was he 
 considered by the ladies, that his choice of Mademoi- 
 selle de Montinorcnci had entitled her to the liiwy of 
 half the females of the court, who had vainly endeav- 
 ored to fix his roving heart. 
 
 Charlotte, in accepting him, had driven a hundred 
 lovers to despair ; for the beautiful and wealthy daugh- 
 ter of the most illustrious peer of France, from the 
 moment she quilted lier convent, had been surrounded 
 by suitors. The provoking dark eyes, whose imperti- 
 nent observations had annoyed and offended her in 
 the royal salon de danse, did not belong to any of 
 these luckless gallants. It would have been difficult, 
 perhaps, for any lady, however fair, to reject the ad- 
 dresses of a man wii.h such a pair of eyes, if their 
 owner liad rendered them as eloquent in impassioned 
 ]deading as they v/ere in reproof. These unauthor- 
 ised monitors, too, pertained not to the grave and 
 state! V Sully, or any of the elder worthies of the 
 court, whom wisdom, virtue, and mature years, might
 
 CHARLOTTE DE HONTMOKENCI. 11 
 
 entitle to play the moralist, but to a pale, melancholy 
 Btripling, who engaged the attention of no one in the 
 glittering circle bat the neglected qucc]i. With her 
 he appeared to be on terms of affectionate confidence ; 
 and it was from Ixshind her chair that he directed 
 those glances which excited the surprise and displeas- 
 ure of the fair IMontmorenci. 
 
 The expression of those eyes, to say nothing of their 
 singular beauty, haunted Charlotte after her return 
 to the hotel de Montmorenci ; and she regretted that 
 she had not asked Bassompierre who the person was 
 that had conducted himself in so extraordinary a man- 
 ner. She had thought of propounding the inquiry 
 more than once during the evening, but was unwilling 
 to call her lover's attention to a circumstance that was 
 mortifying to her self-love. She fell asleep v.-ith the 
 determination of amusing Bassompierre, when he called 
 to pay his devoir to her the next morning, with a 
 whimsical description of the pale dark-eyed boy ; trust- 
 ing that her powers of mimicry would elicit from he^- 
 sprightly lover the name of the person she sketched, 
 without betraying her curiosity. 
 
 The follov.-ing day, at as early an hour as courtly 
 etiquette permitted, the salons of the Duchess de Mont- 
 morenci were crowded with visiters of the highest 
 rank, all eager to offer their compliments to her beau- 
 tiful daughter. He of the mysterious dark eyes, and 
 Frangois Bassompierre, were, however, not among the 
 visiters. Charlotte was surprised and piqued at this 
 neglect on the part of her lover, and resolved to pun- 
 ish him by a very haughty reception the next time he 
 entered her presence ; but he neither came nor sent to 
 inquire after her health that day. 
 
 The next morning the Duke de Montm.orcnci, after 
 his return from the king's levee, said to his daugh- 
 ter :— 
 
 " Charlotte, the king has forbidden your marriage 
 with young Bassompierre."
 
 12 CHAKLOTTK DE X0.M:>I0KE.\-CI. 
 
 " Very impertinent of the kijig, I think 1 What 
 reason does he give for this unprecedented act of 
 tyranny ?" 
 
 " That you are worthy of a more illustrious alli- 
 ance." 
 
 " I wish King Henri would mind his own business, 
 instead of interfering in mine," said Charlotte, an- 
 grily. 
 
 " My dear child, you are ungrateful to our gracious 
 sovereign, who has expressed his intention of marry, 
 ing you to his own kinsman, the first prince of the 
 blood." 
 
 " And who may he be V 
 
 " The young Prince de Conde, the illustrious de- 
 scendant of a line of heroes, and, after Henri's infant 
 sons, the heir-presumptive to the throne of France. 
 Think of that, my daughter I" 
 
 »• I will not think of any thing but Bassompierre," 
 replied Charlotte, resolutely. " It is very barbarous 
 of the king to endeavor to separate those whom love 
 has united." 
 
 " Love !" repeated the duke. " Bah ! you cannot 
 say that you seriously love young Bassompierre." 
 
 " i think him very handsome and agreeable, at any 
 rate ; and I am determined to marry him, and no one 
 else. Ah I I comprehend the reason of his absence 
 now. He has been forbidden to see me by that cruel 
 Henri." 
 
 " You arc right, Charlotte ; it is in obedience to 
 the injunctions of the sovereign, that Bassompierre 
 has discontinued his visits to you. You will see him 
 no more." 
 
 " Have I not said that I will not resign him ?" 
 
 " Yes, my child, but he has resigned you." 
 
 " Resigned me I" exclaimed Charlotte, starting from 
 her chair with a burst of indignant surprise ; " Nay, 
 that is impossible ; unless, indeed, you have told him
 
 CHARLOTTE DE MU.NTMORENCI. 13 
 
 that 1 am faithless, or that I wish him to sacrifice his 
 happiness in order to contract a nobler alliance." 
 
 •' On the word of a Montmorcnci, he has been told 
 nothing, except that it was the king's pleasure that he 
 should relinquish his engagement with you, and marry 
 the heiress of the Duke d'Aumale." 
 
 " How, marry another ? But I know Bassompierrc 
 too well to believe he will act so basely." 
 
 " My poor Charlotte, you are little acquainted with 
 the disposition of men of the world and courtiers, or 
 you would not imagine the possibility of your hand 
 being placed in competition with the loss of the royal 
 favor. Bassompierrc, instead of acting like a roman- 
 tic boy, and forfeiting the king's regard for the sake 
 of a pretty girl, who cares not a whit more for him 
 than he does for her, has cancelled his contract with 
 Charlotte ^Marguerite de Montmorcnci, and affianced 
 himself to Mademoiselle d'Aumale." 
 
 •• The heartless minion 1" cried Charlotte, with 
 flashing eyes; "would that I had some means of 
 evincing my scorn and contempt for hio baseness I" 
 
 " The surest way of doing that, my child, will be 
 to accept the illustrious consort whom the king has 
 been graciously pleased to provide for 3'ou." 
 
 " I think so too," replied Charlotte, after a pause , 
 " but what sort of a man is the Prince de Conde ?" 
 
 " He is said to possess great and noble qualities,'" 
 said the duke ; " but he is at present only in his mi. 
 nority, and is withal of a reserved disposition. There 
 is, however, no doubt but the companionship of a wife 
 of your brilliant v»it and accomplishments will draw 
 out the fijie talents with which this amiable prince it 
 endowed, and render him worthy of his distinguishec 
 ancestry." 
 
 " I confess," observed Charlotte, " that I shouk 
 prefer a man whose claims to my respect were of j 
 less adventitious character. I should like to be th. 
 wife of a hero." 
 1*
 
 14 CHAilLOTTE DE JlOiNTMUKENCi. 
 
 «' So you v.'lll, ill all probability, if you marry Henri 
 de Conde. He is the last representative of a line 
 whose heritage is glory, and of whose alliance even a 
 Montniorenci might be proud ;" returned the father. 
 
 He then hastened to communicate to the king the 
 agreeable intelligence that his daughter had offered no 
 objections to a marriage with his youthful w^ard and 
 kinsman, the Prince de Conde. 
 
 "It is well," replied the monarch; "I will myself 
 present the Prince de Conde to his fair bride, and the 
 contract shall be signed in my presence this eve- 
 ning." 
 
 The Duke and Duchess dc Montniorenci were 
 charmed at the idea of an alliance that offered to 
 their only daughter no very rem.ote prospect of shar- 
 ing the throne of France. As for the fair Charlotte, 
 her pride alone having been wounded by the desertion 
 of Bassompierre, she took the readiest way of dissi- 
 pating any chagrin his defection had caused, by mak- 
 ing une grande toilette for the reception of the new 
 candidate for her hand. So long was she engaged in 
 this interesting occupation, that a pompous and con- 
 tinuous flourish of trumpets announced the arrival of 
 the royal cortege at the hotel de Montmorenci, before 
 she had concluded the arrangement of ruff and fardin- 
 gale to her own satisfaction. 
 
 Her entrance was greeted with a suppressed mur- 
 mur of admiration, and the graceful manner with 
 which she advanced to offer her homage to her sove- 
 reign, excited fresh applause. 
 
 " Ah, my cousin," cried the enamored monarch, 
 turning to the Prince de Conde, " what an enviable 
 man am I not about to render j'ou, in uniting you to 
 so charming a bride I By the mass, if I were a bache- 
 lor, I must have kept iier for myself, and laid my 
 crown at her feet ; and, even as it is, I feel more pain 
 than I am \villing to confess in bestowing her upon 
 another."
 
 CHARLOTTE DE MOJNTMOUKNCI. 15 
 
 Henri Quarlrc felt the hand of the youthful beauty, 
 which ho had retained in his own, while addrcssinjr 
 this high-llown compliment to her future husband, 
 tremble in his grasp. Charlotte was conscious that 
 her sovereign Avas availing himself of his opportunity 
 of pressing her fairy fingers, with more ardor than 
 became the paternal character he had assumed. A 
 deep blush overspread her countenance as the question 
 suggested itself to her mind, " Wherefore has ho ta- 
 ken so much pains to separate me from Franfjois Bas- 
 sompierrc ?" and, at the same moment, she stole a fur. 
 tive glance at him, whose dcsliny was, from that hour, 
 to be so closely connected with her ovw'n, and encoun- 
 tered the dark penetrating eyes, whose scrutiny had so 
 much disturbed her at the Louvre. They were still 
 bent on her face v.'illi the same grave, mournful ex- 
 pression, as if intended to pierce into her very soul. 
 Those beautiful and searching eyes belonged to Henri 
 de Condc. .Scarcely had she made this startling dis- 
 covery, when the king, assuming the imposing charac- 
 teristics of majesty, which so much better becam.e his 
 mature age than the light and reckless tone of gal- 
 lantry in wliich he had before indulged, presented the 
 Prince de Conde to her in due form. Then, putthig 
 h.cr hand into that of his pale, thoughtful kinsman, he 
 pronounced the patriarchal hlcsslug of the suzerain on 
 tlicir approaching union. 
 
 Cliarioltc .starlcd, and impulsively drcv/ back from 
 tlie icy touch of the cold hand that then faintly closed 
 on hers. There v/as nothing of tenderness, or encour- 
 agement, in the sternly composed features of C'onde ; 
 no trait of that silently expressive homage, which is 
 no dear to the heart of woman ; nothing, in fact, to 
 compensate for' the absence of manly beauty and courtly 
 grace in a very young man. Though the habits of 
 politeness and self-control, v/hich arc su early ini- 
 preseed upon the daughters of the great, prevented the
 
 16 ClIAllLOTTE L>E MOrwTMORE.XCI. 
 
 i'aii' 3Ioutmorcnci from betraying her secret dissatisfac- 
 tion, she ventured to direct an appealing look to hei 
 parents, as if to implore their interference ; but hei 
 mother turned away, and her father gave her a glance 
 which intimated that it was too late to recede. 
 
 The marriage contract was read, and subscribed by 
 the king in his three-fold capacity of suzerain, or pa- 
 ramount liege-lord of the contracting parties ; and also 
 as the next of kin and guardian of the illustrious bride- 
 groom, who was an orphan and a minor. It was next 
 u4tnesscd by the parents of the bride. The pen was 
 next presented to the Prince dc Conde. He paused, 
 and appeared irresolute ; darted a glance of suspicion: 
 inquiry at tlie king, and bent one of his searchinj' 
 looks on the face of her to whom he was required t' 
 plight himself. Pvlademoiselle de Montmorenci wa 
 uuconcious of his scrutiny. Overpowered by th; 
 strangeness and agitating nature of the scene, sh- 
 stood, V\-ilh downcast eyes and a varying color, lean 
 ing her clasped hands for support oji the shoulder o' 
 her only brother, afterwards so celebrated in the anual. 
 of France, as the illustrious and unfortunate Henri dc 
 Montmorenci. Never had she appeared so charming 
 as at that moment, vv'licn the feminine emotions of feai 
 and shame had lent their softening shade to beauty, 
 which was, perhaps, too dazzli-ig in its faultless per- 
 fection, and calculated rather to excite wonder and 
 admiration, than to inspire tenderness. The stern ex- 
 pression of Conde's features relaxed as he gazed upo: 
 her, and observed the virgin hues of " celestial ros; 
 red," and " angel whiteness," that came and went i. 
 her fair cheek. His countenance brightened, he tool 
 the pen with sudden animation, and, v^'ith a farmhand 
 and in bold free characters, subscribed his name to tL 
 contract. 
 
 " Charlotte Marguerite de Montmorenci, your sig 
 nature is required," said the duke her father to tU 
 evidently reluctant damsel.
 
 CHAHLOTXE UK iMOxNT.'lOKE.XCI. 17 
 
 " 1 have a great mind not to sign," said she, in a 
 confidential tone aside to her brother, who was two 
 years younger than herself. 
 
 " Are you minded to offer an unprovoked affront to 
 an honorable gentleman, and to afford a triumph to a 
 recreant lover ?" was the whispered respons„ of the 
 youthful heir of Montmorcnci. 
 
 Charlotte advanced to the table, and signed the in- 
 f^trument. She received somewhat coolly the congrat- 
 ulations v.ith which her friends and relations over- 
 whehned her ; and when the folding doors of the saloon 
 were thrown open, and the king gave his hand to the 
 Duchess de Montmorcnci to lead her into the banquet, 
 ing-room, where a sumptuous entertainment had been 
 laid out in honor of the occasion, she took the offered 
 arm of the man to whom she had just affianced herself, 
 with an averted head, and a sigh escaped her. 
 
 " I fear," said he, in a lov7 voice, " that you have 
 been compelled to do violence to your feelings in sign- 
 ing that contract." 
 
 These were the first words that Conde had ever ad- 
 dressed to his beautiful fiancee, and there was a deep 
 and tender melody in the rich but melancholy tones of 
 his voice, that thrilled to her heart not less strangely 
 than the penetrating glances of his fine dark eyes had 
 previously done. 
 
 " I shall not hate him quite so much as I thought I 
 should," was her mental response to this considerate 
 question ; but instead of answering the prince with 
 reciprocal frankness, she replied with some hauteur — 
 
 " I am not accustomed to do any thing on compul- 
 sion, Monsieur," 
 
 It was now Conde's turn to sigh — he did so froni 
 the bottom of his heart ; and Charlotte felt angry with 
 herself for the perverseness v»-liich had prompted her to 
 repel his first advance towards a confidential under- 
 Ktanding.
 
 18 CHARLOTTE DE MONTrvIORENCI. 
 
 A ball succeeded tlie banquet. The Prince de Condc 
 did not dance, though reminded that courtly etiquette 
 required that he should at least tread one measure 
 with his bride elect ; and Charlotte found a more gal- 
 lant, if not a more suitable partner, in her admiring 
 sovereign, with whom she once more danced the grace- 
 ful pcftsn, and bounded, with fijing feet, through the 
 light courant, heedless of the grave looks of disappro- 
 I)ation with which her vivacious enjoyment of her 
 favorite amusement v>-as regarded by him to Avhom her 
 hand was now plighted. 
 
 An early day had been fixed by the king for the 
 nuptials of Bassompierrc and Mademoiselle D'Aunalc. 
 Charlotte expressed a wish that her marriage should 
 precede theirs, and, in the meantime, the Prince de 
 Conde availed himself of the privilege of a betrothed 
 lover, in passing much of his time at the hotel de Mont- 
 inorenci ; but when there, his attention appeared more 
 engrossed by the parents and the youthful brother of 
 his fiancee, than by herself. In conversation with them, 
 the "shy reserved boy of Conde," as Henri Quartre 
 was accustomed to call his studious cousin, could he 
 eloquent, graceful, and even witty. He possessed 
 talents of the finest order ; his mind had been highly 
 cultivated, and there was sound sense, and beautiful 
 morality in every thing he said. Charlotte, seated at 
 her tapestry frame, beside her mother, could not help 
 listening, at first with girlish curiosity, but, by de- 
 grees, with profound attention, to the observations 
 which he addressed to her brother on the course of 
 history he was reading ; and when she saw his pale 
 cheek kindling with the glow of virtuous and heroic 
 feeling, and his dark penetrating eyes beaming with 
 intellectual brightness, she blushed at the thought that 
 those eyes should have witnessed so much vanity and 
 frivolity in herself. 
 
 Sometimes she felt mortified that he addressed so
 
 CHARLOTTE DE 3I0XTM0PvEXCI. 19 
 
 little of his conversation to her; and then, without 
 reflecting that she had chilled and repelled him in the 
 first instance, she was piqued into a haug-hty imitation 
 of his reserve, when alone wilh him; and when sur- 
 rounded by the gay crowd of her courtly admirers, 
 she endeavored, by the exercise of coquetry, to shake 
 his equanimity, and provoke him either into a quarrel, 
 or an acknov/ledgment of love. 
 
 She was convinced that he had ceased to regard her 
 with indifference ; for she had more than once de- 
 tected his lustrous dark eyes fixed upon her v/ith that 
 intense expression of passionate feeling, which can 
 never be mistaken by its object ; yet he had resolutely 
 refrained from giving to that feeling words ; and it 
 seemed hard to the most beautiful girl in France, that 
 she should be wedded, unwooed, by him of all others, 
 from whom she most desired to hear the language of 
 love. 
 
 " If I could but once see this youthful stoic at my 
 feet, I should feel prouder of that triumph than of all 
 the homage v/hich has been offered to me this night 
 by ' him of the white plume,' and his gallant peers," 
 sighed Charlotte to herself, as she v/as returning from 
 the last ball at the Louvre at which she was to appear 
 as I\Iademoisel!e de Montmorenci. 
 
 It was the most brilliant she had ever attended; and 
 though on the eve of her bridal, Charlotte ventured on 
 the hazardous experiment of exciting the jealousy of 
 her betrothed. She succeeded only too well, and 
 Conde, unable to conceal his emotion, quitted the royal 
 Balon at an early hour. All the interest that the beau- 
 tiful and admired ?.Iademoiselle de Montmorenci had 
 taken ia the gay scene, departed with the pale agitated 
 stripling, wdiorn every one present suspected of being 
 the object of her aversion ; and pleading a headache 
 to excuse her from fulfilling her engagement of danc- 
 ing a second time v/ith the king, pIic retired almost 
 innnediately aftcrv.'ards.
 
 «. . U M^ tk f— . '* c-^Ki*« 
 
 20 CHAHLOTTE DT: MONTMORENCI. 
 
 On entering her own apartment her attendant pre- 
 sented her with a billet. It was from the Prince de 
 Conde — the first he had ever addressed to her. 
 
 To every woman of scnsibilit}' it is delightful to see 
 her name traced, for the first time, by the hand of the 
 object of her secret regard. Who can describe the 
 sweet suspense of that agitating moment which must 
 intervene ere the seal can be broken, and the thrilling 
 mystery unfolded ? Alas, for Charlotte de Montmo- 
 renei ! Her recent conduct rendered her feelings on 
 this occasion the very reverse of those blissful emo- 
 tions. Her color faded, her knees shook, and it was 
 with difficulty that her agitated hand could open the 
 letter. It contained only these words : — = 
 
 "Charlotte de Montmorexci, 
 
 " Late as it may be when you receive this, I must 
 see you before 3'ou retire to rest. You will find me in 
 the east saloon. 
 
 " Henrf de Conde." 
 
 " Not even the common forms, unmeaning though 
 they be, which courtesy requires, observed in this his 
 first, his ouly communication to me !" thought Made- 
 moiselle de Montmorenci as she crushed the paper to- 
 gether in her hand. She turned her eyes upoji the 
 dial that surmounted her tall dressing glass, — it still 
 wanted five minutes to midnight. Those five minutes 
 decided her destiny. She took the silver lamp from 
 the toilet, and dismissing her damsel, repaired to the 
 appointed trysting place ; then, unclosing the door 
 with a tremulous hand, she stood before Conde with a 
 cheek so pale, that when he caught the first glimpse 
 of her dimly shadovved reflection in the cold glassy 
 surface of the mirrored panel, opposite to which he was 
 standing, he absolutely started ; so different did she 
 look from the sparkling, animated beaut)', whom he had
 
 CHARLOTTE DE MOXTMORENCI. 21 
 
 left, scarcely an hour ago, leading off the dance witli 
 royalty in the glittering salons of the Louvre. Conde 
 had, in fact, neither anticipated her early return home, 
 nor the prompt attention she had paid to his some- 
 what uncourlcous summons ; far less was he prepared 
 for indications of softness and sensibility, jvherehehad 
 expected to encounter only coldness and pride. He 
 advanced a step — one step only — to meet her ; then 
 paused, and silently awaited her approach. The glance 
 which Charlotte ventured to steal as she placed her 
 lamp on the marble table at which he stood, revealed 
 to her the air of stern resolve with which his lofty 
 brow Vv"as compressed ; the only trace of the passion- 
 ate emotion that had so recently shaken his firm spirit, 
 was a slight redness about his eyes. 
 
 " Charlotte dc Montniorcnci," said he, addressing 
 her in a low deep voice, " I hold in m.y hand the con- 
 tract of our betrothment. Tiiat contract was signed 
 by you with evident reluctance, and it will cost you no 
 pain to cancel it." He paused, and fixed his dark 
 penetrating eyes on her face as if to demand an an- 
 swer. 
 
 Charlotte tried to speak, but there was a convulsive 
 rising in her throat that prevented articulation. The 
 glittering carcanet that encircled her fair neck ap- 
 peared, at that moment, to oppress her with an insuf. 
 ferable weight, and to have suddenly tightened almost 
 to suffocation. She drev.' a deep respiration, and rais. 
 ing her trembling hands, essayed to unloose the clasp, 
 but in vain. It seemed to her that the hysterical emo, 
 tion that oppressed her v/as occasioned by the weight 
 of this costly ornament and its rich appendages, and 
 that her life depended on her instant i-elease from their 
 pressure ; and after a second iueifectual attempt to 
 unclasp the jeweller circlet, she actually turned an 
 imploring glance for help upon the real cause of her 
 distress, her offended lover. Co.ide's assistance v.-as 
 o
 
 22 CHARLOTTE DE MONTMOREXCI. 
 
 promptly accorded ; but, either through the mtricacj' 
 of the spring, or his inexperience in all matters relat. 
 ing to female decorations, or, it might be, that he was 
 at that moment not less agitated than his pale and 
 trembling fiancee, his attempts to unclasp the carca- 
 net were as unsuccessful as her own. While thus 
 employed, her silken ringlets were mingled with his 
 dark locks, and more than once his bro v.- came in con- 
 tact with her polished cheek ; and when, at last, by an 
 effort of main strength, he succeeded in bursting the 
 fastening of the jewelled collar, she sunk with a con- 
 vulsive sob into the arms that were involuntarily ex- 
 tended to receive her. For the first time, Conde held 
 the forraof perfect loveliness to his bosom, and forget- 
 ful of all the stern resolves that had, for the last few 
 hours, determined him to part with her for ever, — for. 
 getfal of pride, anger, jealousy, and reason itself, he 
 covered her cold forehead with passionate kisses, and 
 implored her, by every title of fond endearment, to re- 
 vive. Tliose soothing words, those tender caresses, 
 recalled her to a sweet but agitating consciousness ; 
 and when she perceived on whose breast she was sup- 
 ported, a burst of tears relieved her full heart, and she 
 sobbed with the vehemence of a child that cannot cease 
 to weep even when the cause of its distress has been 
 removed. 
 
 " Speak but one word," cried Conde. " Have I oc 
 oasioned this emotion — these tears'?" 
 
 Charlotte could not speak, but her silence was elo- 
 quent. 
 
 '• Nay, but I must be told, in explicit terms, that 
 you love me," cried Conde ; " it is a point on which I 
 dare not suffer myself to be deceived." 
 
 " Mighty fine !" said the fair Montmorenci, suddenly 
 recovering her vivacity and smiling through her tears; 
 " and so you have the vanity to expect that 1 am to 
 reverse the order of things, and play the wooer to you, 
 for your more ncrfect sati<;fa."tion. after yon have in-
 
 CHARLOTTE DE 3I0NT.M0RENCI. 23 
 
 formed me of your obliging intention of cancelling our 
 contract of betrothment." 
 
 "Ah, Charlotte I if you did but know how nmch I 
 have suffered before I could resolve to resign the hap- 
 piness of calling you mine I" 
 
 "Well, if you are resolved, I have no more to say,'* 
 rejoined Charlotte, proudly extricating herself from his 
 arms. 
 
 " But I have," said Conde, taking her by both her 
 hands, which he retained in spite of one or two per- 
 verse attempts to withdraw them. " Fie, this is child- 
 ish petulence !" cried he, pressing them to his lips ; 
 " but, my sweet Charlotte, the moment is past for 
 trifling on either side. These coquetries might have 
 cost us both only too dear." His lip quivered with 
 strong emotion, as he spoke, and the large tears stole 
 from under tlie downcast lashes of Mademoiselle de 
 Montmorcnci. " We have caused each other much 
 pain for want of a little candor," pursued he. 
 
 "Why, then, did you not tell me that you loved 
 me ?" whispered Charlotte. 
 
 " Because I dared not resign my heart into your 
 keeping before I was assured that I might trust you 
 with my honor." 
 
 ♦' Oh, heavens 1" exclaimed Charlotte, becoming very 
 pale ; " and is it possible that you could doubt ?" 
 
 " Charlotte, I was too well acquainted with the 
 king's character to behold the undisguised manifesta- 
 tions of his passion for my affianced bride with indif. 
 ference. The attentions of a royal lover were flatter- 
 ing, I perceived, to the vanity of a young and beauti- 
 ful woman. The complacency with v.hich they were, 
 at times, received, and my knowledge of the motives 
 which induced the king to break your first engage- 
 ment with Bassompierre, were sufficient to alarm a 
 man of honor," said Conde witli a darkening brow. 
 
 " y^u are talking in enigmas, Henri dc Conde," re- 
 joined Mademoiselle de Montmorenci.
 
 24 CHjVRLOTTE de .montxorenci. 
 
 " If you are ignorant of the fact, that Henri of 
 France separated you from his handsome favorite, be- 
 cause he feared tliat such a husband would be a for. 
 midable rival to himself, no one else is ; for Bassom- 
 pierre has made the particulars of his sovereign's con- 
 versation with him on that subject too public for it to 
 remain a matter of doubt. You look incredulous, 
 Charlotte, but you shall hear the very words in which 
 the king made this audacious declaration — ' I am, my- 
 self,' said he to Bassompierre, ' madly in love with your 
 beautiful Montmorenci.' " 
 
 " Ha ! did he, a married man, dare to make such an 
 acknowledgment." 
 
 " Yes, Charlotte ; and, moreover, impudently added, 
 « If she loves you, I shall detest you. You must give 
 up cither her or me. You will not of course risk the 
 loss of my favor. I shall marry her to my cousui 
 Conde.' Yes, Charlotte, the plain ' shy boy of Condc,' 
 as he generally styles me, was designed for the honor 
 of being this husband of convenience ; but had I known 
 his guileful project at the time when he required mc 
 lo sign the contract, net all the powers of France, nor 
 even the influence of your charms, should have bribed 
 me to subscribe tliat paper." 
 
 " It is not now irrevocable," said Charlotte, proudly. 
 
 *' It is if you are willing to accede to the conditions 
 on which I am ready to join in its fulfilment." 
 
 " Name them." 
 
 "You must see the king no more after our mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " That will be no sacrifice ; and, after your com- 
 munication, I could not look upon him without indig. 
 nation. How little did I imagine that such baseness 
 could sully the glory of him of whom fame has spoken 
 such bright things !" 
 
 *' Charlotte, it is his prevailing foible. The sin that 
 was unchecked in youth, gained strength in middle 
 age, and now amounts lo madness. There will be no
 
 CHARLOTTE Dil IvIO^TMOKIi>iCJ. 2o 
 
 security for our vredded happiness if we rcuiaiu in his 
 dorninioiis ; but can I ask you to forsake friends and 
 country for mc ?" said Conde. 
 
 " Shall I not find all these things, and more also, in 
 the husband of my heart?" returned Charlotte, ten- 
 derly. 
 
 •'Ah, CiiarloUc, can you fjrgivc my ungentle 
 doubts ?" said Conde, throwing liinisclf at her feet. 
 
 " Yes, for they are proofs of the sincerity of your 
 affcetion ; and hr^d you been less jealous of jrsy honor, 
 I should not have loved you so well," said she. 
 " From thirf hour we are as one : and it will be the 
 happiness of n»y life to resign ir<yself to your guid- 
 anee." 
 
 "Then, ray sweet Chariot' e, I must, for the sake of 
 the fading roses on these fair checks, dismiss you to 
 your pillow, without farther parlance," returned Conde. 
 They exchanged a mute caress, and parted. 
 
 The marriage was celebrated wilh royal pomp on 
 the following day, at high noou, in the church of Notre 
 Dame. Conde received his lovely bride from the hand 
 of his roval rival ; but t!ie king's: e.xuliation in the sue 
 cess of {he deep laid sclicnie, by which he had sepa- 
 rated the object of his lawless pas.siou from her first 
 lover, to unite her with one from whom he vainly im- 
 agined he should have little to fear, was of brief dura- 
 tion. The nuptial festivities received a sudden inter, 
 niption on the following raornirtg, in consequence of 
 the disappearance of both brido and bridegroom ; and 
 what was stranger still, it was soon discovered that 
 thej^ had eloped together. The good people of Paris 
 were thrown into the most viv^acious amazement at an 
 event so entirefy without parallel, either iu history, 
 poetry, or romance, as the first prince of the blood 
 running away with his ov.n v.-ife ; and their astonish- 
 ment increased, when the circiunstances of this lav.'- 
 fil f-bduction transpired, by v.-hich it appeared that 
 the Prince de Coiule, accompanied by his illustrious
 
 26 CHARLOTTE DK r.lONTMUREIS'Cl. 
 
 bride, quitted their chamber aa hour before dawn, and 
 that he had actually carried her off, riding behind hiiu 
 on a pillion, disguised in the grey frieze cloak and 
 hood of a farmer's wife. 
 
 The enamored king, transported with rage at hav- 
 ing been thus outwitted by the boy -bridegroom, gave 
 orders for an immediate pursuit. The wedded lovers 
 vrcrc, however, beyond his reach. They had crossed 
 the Spanitl; frontier before their route was traced, and 
 Philip the Third afforded them a refuge in his domin- 
 ions. ♦ 
 
 The refusal of that monarch to give up these illus- 
 trious fugitives, produced a declaration of war from 
 Henri. He was, in fact, so pertinacious in his at- 
 tempts to obtain possession of the object of his lavrlcss 
 passion, that it was not till after his death that Conde 
 ventured to return, with his lovely wife, from the vol- 
 untary exile to which they had devoted themselves as 
 a refuge from dishonor. The splendid talents and no- 
 ble qualities of Henri dc Conde have obtained for him 
 so distinguished a place in tlie annals of his country, 
 that the title of the " Great Conde" would undoubt- 
 cdly have pertained to him, if the renown of his illus. 
 trious son, by Charlotte dc ]Montmorcnci, had not, in 
 affer years, transcended his own. 
 
 History has, with her usual partiality, passed lighth' 
 over this dark spot in the character of the gay, the 
 gallant, the chivalric Henri Qaartre, without bcstovv'- 
 iiig a single comment on the lofty spirit of honorable 
 independence that characterized the conduct of iiis 
 youthful kinsman on this trying occasion ; and has lefL 
 Vv-holly unnoticed the virtue and conjugal heroism of 
 the high-born beauty, who nobly preferred sharing the 
 poverty and exile of her husband, to all the pomp and 
 distinctiojis that Vverc in the gift of a royal lover.
 
 27 
 
 BY XKS. L. n. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 1 HEARD tlic forests as Ihej cried 
 
 Unto the valleys green, 
 '' Where is that red-browed hunter race 
 
 Who loved our leafy screen ? 
 They humblcxi 'mid these dewy glades 
 
 The red-deer's autlered crown, 
 Or, soaring at his highest noon, 
 
 Struck the strong eagle dc.vn." 
 
 Then in the zephyr's voice replied 
 
 Those vales so meekly blest : 
 " Tliey reared their dwellings on our side, 
 
 Their corn upon our breast; 
 A blight came down, a blast s?;cpt by, 
 
 The corn-roofed cabins fell, 
 And where that exiled people fled 
 
 It is not our's to tell." 
 
 Niagara, of the niouutaintj grey, 
 
 Demanded from his throne, 
 And old Ontario's billowy lake 
 
 Prolonged the thunder-tone, — 
 '• Tiiosc chieftains at our side who stood 
 
 Upon our christening day, 
 Who' gave the glorious names vre hear, 
 
 Our spon^jors — where are they ?" 
 
 And then the fair Ohio charged 
 
 Her many sisters dear, 
 '• Show me, once moi'c, those stately fjrnii 
 
 Within my mirror clear."
 
 28 THE DKEAM OF MCSiC. 
 
 But they replied, "Tall barks of pride 
 
 Do cleave our waters blue, 
 And strange keels ride our father's tide, 
 
 But where 's their light canoe ?" 
 
 The farmer drove hi? ploughshare deep — 
 
 '• Whose bones arc thes^e ?" said he ; 
 " I liad them where my browsing sheep' 
 
 Roaia o'er the upland lea :" 
 But s;-arting sudden to his path 
 
 A phantom seemed lo glide, 
 A plume of feathers on his head, 
 
 A quiver at liis side. 
 
 He pointed lo the rifled grave, 
 
 Then raised his hands on high, 
 And with a hollow groan invoked 
 
 The vengeance of the sky ; 
 O'er the broad realm, so long his own, 
 
 Gazed with dcspairi))g ray, 
 Then on the mist that slov.'ly curled 
 
 Fled mournfuliv awav. 
 
 LY MISS II. r. GOULD. 
 
 I dreamed a bright angel bO near me was singing. 
 
 My spirit seemed resting at last at tiie goal ; 
 The deep-going strains through my bosom were 
 
 bringing 
 The pure oil of joy to pour over my soul. 
 
 So sweet, so entrancing, llic spell that had bound mc, 
 The rudeness of earth melted off by its power; 
 
 The air of an Eden scenjed wafting around me 
 The tccnt oflJie fr;:it r-nd t}:e spice of the flower.
 
 THE riOTHEELESS. 29 
 
 The voice, to my breast new emotions revealing, 
 Had lulled every dissonant heart-string to peace ; 
 
 Its wounds were all touched with the unction of 
 healing, 
 And darkness was fading, in glory to cease. 
 
 So holy the rapture, so blissful the dreaming, 
 I felt that mine eye never after could weep I 
 
 Yet fain had I wept, when the morn with her beaming 
 Too soon romid my pillow had broken my sleep. 
 
 My angel departed ; with slumber in flying 
 
 The music was lost, and will bless me no more I 
 
 For earth seemed defied by the last note in dying, 
 To breath it again, or its charms to restore. 
 
 My spirit must listen and sigh for it ever, 
 
 While through life's dark desert a pilgrim I roam ; 
 
 But once heard below to invite me, it never 
 
 Repeats the sweet call — 't was a song of my home- 
 
 BY SARAH STICKNEY. 
 
 Why do I love the motherless ? 
 
 Oh I canst thou ask of me, 
 "Who never knew the joys that bless 
 
 A cherished infancy ; 
 Who only felt the dreary void, 
 
 The sadness of my lot. 
 The bitterness of hopes destroyed 
 
 By those who knew them not ?
 
 30 THE MOTHERLESS. 
 
 I was a dark and moody child, 
 
 They thought my feelings cold ; 
 But had a mother fondly smiled, 
 
 The truth had all been told ; 
 The truth that closed my aching eyes 
 
 On many a burning tear ; 
 That in my bosom checked the sighs, 
 
 And sealed my lips with fear. 
 
 I might have been all tenderness, 
 
 Had such to me been shown ; 
 And less neglected, sorrowing less, 
 
 A sweeter child had grown ; 
 But when I would have thrown my arms 
 
 Around some gentle neck, 
 Then cold, cold words, and wild alarms, 
 
 My fervent soul would check. 
 
 I was not lovely, light, nor gay, 
 
 Nor formed to be beloved ; 
 And thus they chid me at my play, 
 
 My childish sports reproved : 
 They made me what I ne'er had been 
 
 But for their stern control ; 
 1 thought, sometimes, they might have seen 
 
 The anguish of my soul. # 
 
 I was not lovely, and I knew 
 
 My step was void of grace ; 
 The youthful beauty never threw 
 
 Its magic o'er my face ; 
 All this too truly could I prove 
 
 By many a slighted kiss. 
 But oh ! I thought a mother's love 
 
 Would have forgiven me this.
 
 THE .T-OLIAX HARP. 31 
 
 And tlien I pored on senseless things^ 
 
 That could not lauorh to scorn, 
 All, all the fond imaginings, 
 
 Of young Affection born ; 
 I loved the trees, the summer flowers. 
 
 The wild bird's evening lay, 
 Tlie lonely dell, the silent hours, 
 
 That glide in dreams away. 
 
 The Iamb deserted by the herd 
 
 Companion found in me ; 
 I cherished many a wounded bird. 
 
 And oft I wept to see 
 The drooping wing, the pilfered nest, • 
 
 Hope's sunny schemes o'erlhrown, 
 The pining of the lonely breast, 
 
 That was too like my own. 
 
 'T is thus I love the motherless, 
 
 Their sorrows seek to share, 
 Their lone uncherished lot to bless, 
 
 Even with a sister's care ; 
 With that fond )'^earning of the heart. 
 
 None ever felt for me, 
 To dry the tear, and soothe the smart 
 
 Of joyless infanc}". 
 
 BY r.IRS. AEDV. 
 
 Haup of soft melotly, when silent sitting, 
 
 T strive to lift my thoughts from worldly thinj 
 
 1 love to hear the gales of evening flitting 
 In low awakening mm-raurs o'er thy strings.
 
 32 ISOLINE DE VALMONT. 
 
 No haunt is nigli — again the breezes tremble, 
 Imparting to thy heavenly music birth ; 
 
 Would that my feeble heart could thee resemble, 
 Yielding no answer to the spells of earth I 
 
 Would that, by human lures and hearts unshaken, 
 My spirit thus from thraldom could arise ; 
 
 Resist the power of man its depths to waken, 
 And only give its breathmgs to the skies. 
 
 A SCENE IN THE PARIS REVOLUTION OF 1830. 
 
 BY MRS. WALKER. 
 
 I ^VAs resident in Paris during the three days' Hevo- 
 lution of July, 1839. When the com't and its conse- 
 quences had been discussed in every bearing ; when 
 the shout of triumph, the song of victory, and the w^ail 
 of bereavement, were hushing into silence ; the tale 
 and the anecdote of those who had striven and suffered 
 succeeded to more exciting and absorbing topics. — 
 The journals teemed Vv'ith historieties, and every soiree 
 had its raconteur, who appealed to our sympathies, 
 and " beguiled us of our tears" with some new and 
 touching narrative. Among those which my memory 
 chronicled, the following arrested my attention forci- 
 bly, inasmuch as I had frequently met the daughter of 
 de Valmont in society ; and possibly it may not be 
 found altogether devoid of interest to others. 
 
 In the gay salons of Paris, in the season of 1830, 
 there were few demoiselles, who attracted greater no, 
 tice than Isoline do Valmont. It is a frequent remark
 
 isoLiNE DE va:.mont. 33 
 
 that, though beauty is more generally distributed 
 among the women of England than those of France, 
 yet, when possessed by the latter, it is of a higher and 
 more unquestionable character ; as if Nature reserved 
 all her gifts for her few and special favorites, and 
 lavished her bounty upon them in prodigal profusion. 
 
 And certainly Isolinc was one of these. The large 
 dark blue eye, with its long silken fringe ; the fair 
 round cheek, to which emotion only lent a crimson 
 glow ; the waves of blackest shining hair ; w^ere com- 
 bined with a form, taller and more exuberant than her 
 countrywomen can usually boast, and features whose 
 expression blended the innocence of infancy with that 
 pure spiritualized loveliness, which expresses the depth 
 and earnestness of the mind within. The admiration 
 v/hich her beauty challenged, her manners confirmed. 
 .Soft, tender, caressing, she gathered around her the 
 sympathies of all classes, from her own community of 
 feeling with their joys and sorrows. The circumstances 
 of her birth and present position did not tend to lessen 
 the interest which her appearance excited. Her moth- 
 er — Ijefore marriage Mademoiselle dc Montmorency — 
 died in the same hour which gave her infant birth. 
 The daughter of one of the proudest and noblest of the 
 French aristocracy, she had left the convent Vv'here she 
 had been educated but a few months, when, at the 
 chateau of a maternal aunt, in Burgundy, where a large 
 party vv-ere assembled to enjoy the vintage, she mot 
 with Monsieur de Valmont. Undistinguished by birth, 
 unendowed with fortune, he yet possessed v/hat to wo- 
 manly calculation is of far greater worth — a noble 
 person, and gentlemanly bearing. His admiration of 
 Mademoiselle dc Montmorency was ardent and undis- 
 guised. She listened to its expression until the feel- 
 ing became reciprocal. A fev.- weeks passed under the 
 same roof consolidated the attachment ; and a few 
 months subsequently they were privately married. 
 For a while the secret obtained not circulatioii. But 
 3
 
 34 ISOLINE DE VALMONT. 
 
 the hour of discovery came at last, and brought with 
 it misery and wo. 
 
 The obscurity of de Vahnont had of itself presented 
 a sufficient barrier to forgiveness, but a yet more alien- 
 ating and exasperatmg cause existed in the fact that 
 he was avovredly of the wildest republican principles, 
 the descendant of a regicide ! Without a franc for a 
 marriage dowry, with only the bitter and awful portion 
 of a father's curse, his bride was cast forth from her 
 proud ancestral halls, to privation and poverty. But 
 the discipline of adversity ill accorded with the gentle 
 nature of Madame de Valraont. She lived but to bring 
 her child into a bleak and pitiless world, and the first 
 anniversary of the day which had witnessed her ill- 
 fated, unsanctioned nuptials, beheld her laid in the 
 quiet grave. 
 
 Then was it that the natural disposition of de Val- 
 mont fully developed itself. Fierce, morose, vindic- 
 tive, he had been coerced, if I may so express myself, 
 from his original nature, into comparative mildness, by 
 the presence of his meek, devoted w^ife. This link to 
 goodness and principle wrenched asunder, he stood 
 forth at war vrith himself, his species, and his destin}'. 
 Idle by temperament, vain, and selfish, he flattered 
 himself that in an alliance with the house of Montmo- 
 rency he should find at once affluence and aggrandize- 
 ment. Though thwarted in his expectations at the 
 onset, by the declared hostility of his wife's parents, 
 he yet trusted that time would mitigate resentment, 
 and no distant hour see her reinstated in the affection 
 and dignities which she had once enjoyed. This hope 
 was for ever blasted ; even the infant she had left they 
 refused to see ; and they rejected with haughty scorn 
 every eff'ort he made towards reconciliation and par- 
 don. 
 
 De Vahnont had loved his wife passionately and 
 profoundly. His grief at her death was vehement and 
 sincere ; "but it Vv'as transient. With a desperation
 
 JSOLl.NE DE VAL.MOrs'T. 85 
 
 characteristic of his disposition and circumstances, he 
 rushed from the house of mourning into riot and rev- 
 elry, and sought, by plunging into every dissipation 
 that offered, oblivion for his sorrows. 
 
 Having from early youth been addicted to gambling, 
 he now adopted it as a profession. The excitement 
 suited him not less than the possibility of unlabored 
 competence which it suggested. He became a system- 
 atic gamester, the most unvarying attendant at Fras. 
 cati's, as well as habitually the most successful. How 
 did it revolt the pure nature of Isoline, when years 
 brought capacity to comprehend the degradation, that 
 her father drew subsistence for himself and her from 
 the plunder of the unwary, the ruin of the thoughtlessi 
 During the period of her education, the fact had not 
 reached her ; but, when called on to preside over his 
 hearth and home, it was too soon revealed. She be- 
 sought him earnestly, passionately, to abandon the 
 path which he had chosen. But he heard her with a 
 sigh, advanced the fixedness of long habit and his own 
 inability now to acquire any profesf^ion, as palliatives 
 in her eyes, and left her to follow again his disgrace- 
 ful career. 
 
 Isoline wept silently and bitterly ; she loved her fa- 
 ther with passionate fondness, and his love for her was 
 akin to worship. She resolved to qualify herself for 
 the support of them both, by the exercise of her musi- 
 cal talents, which were of first rate power. Her voice, 
 too, was one of remarkable beauty and compass. It 
 was her uitention, when duly prepared, to assist at 
 private and public concerts, and seek, by industry and 
 perseverance, to obtain a reputable, probably ample, 
 livelihood for herself and her father. Wherever her 
 purpose was confided, it met vv ith ready and eager pat- 
 ronage and encouragement. The commiseration which 
 the reckless character of her father, contrasted with 
 her own unvarying rectitude, excited ; her singul.-.r 
 loveliness, and the continued estrangement and hcs-
 
 36 ISOLINE DE VALMONT. 
 
 tility of her mother's family ; all contributed to invest 
 her with an extraordinary interest. With truth might 
 it be said that she was the admiration of every circle— 
 the idol of her own. 
 
 It was early in the morning of the ever-memorable 
 29th of July, "the closing day of the Paris Revolution. 
 One broad blaze of sunlight flooded the heavens and 
 illumined the earth. It shone in on many a chamber 
 of agony and suffering ; and in every countenance 
 that its beams irradiated were stamped in legible cha- 
 racters traces of anxiety and care. Few had retired 
 to rest the two preceding nights ; for who could sleep 
 while the dreary monotonous tocsin affrighted the ear 
 with its mournful echoes, and the sharp shrill sound of 
 musketry — for in many cases night did not avail to 
 separate the combatants — came booming through the 
 air ? The dead on both sides lay yet unburied, and 
 the issue of the warfare had not arrived to determine 
 under what denomination the originators and abetters 
 of the conflict should be classed — whether mourned as 
 martyrs to liberty, v\-ith a nation's tears shed over their 
 graves ; or stigmatized as rebels to their king and 
 comitry, and consigned to the dust, unlamented, im- 
 honored, and unsung. 
 
 The drapeau hlanc still waved over the turrets of 
 the Tuillerics, for Charles X. still sat on a throne which, 
 however, was now momently sinking from under him. 
 The streets, broken up into barricades — alas ! how 
 many streaming with blood I — were, even at this early 
 hour, filled with eager groups, balancing the amount of 
 yesterday's strife, or speculating on the events of the 
 coming day. Excitement was at its height ; and to 
 those within, every moment brought some report of 
 victory or defeat, often framed less in accordance with 
 truth than the political bias of the party who uttered 
 it. But it soon became evident that the time was fast 
 approaching when the force adverse to the existing 
 monarchy would triumph. It was a day of intense
 
 ISOLIiNE DE VALiMOrvT. 37 
 
 .';ad 't)rcathless anxiety to all, to none more ihan to 
 Isoline. With tJic ardent vivacity of her countrywo- 
 men, her every energy was enlisted in the cause of lib- 
 erty. Restrained by her sex from participating in the 
 contest, she chared with the Sisters of Charity the 
 task of administering to tJie necessities of the wounded 
 and dying at the Hotel-Dici;. And no voice was sweet- 
 er in cheering tlic sulTerer, no hand tenderer in present- 
 ing the xncdicinc-cup, or applying the bandage. She 
 had obeyed the summons of humanity, when the artil- 
 lery was roaring through the streets, and the path from 
 her iiome to the hospital v.'a.s beset with danger. 
 
 The evening of the 29th had arrived. Exhausted 
 hy the fatigue of the day, Eickencd v.ith the sights of 
 honor whic'i crcry where met her view, Isoline felt 
 overpowered acd faint. Her pale cheek and tottering 
 frame attracting the notice of one of the ph^^sicians in 
 attendance at the hospital, who vras a personal friend, 
 he warmly urged her to leave a scene where Death's 
 darkening shadows, gatherhig over hundreds of vic- 
 tims, flung a gloom over the spirits of all, and to re- 
 inrn to her home. 
 
 Yielding to his entreaties, she left the IIotel-Dieu. 
 By taking an obscure and circuitous route, she had 
 reached in safely the Rue St. iionorc. It was blociced 
 up by the contending parties. To escape the bails 
 vvhizzing around her, slic turned into a retired street. 
 Even thither did the assailants come. The air Avas 
 rent v.'ith shouts of defiance, and thickened with the 
 smoke of discharged musketry. Tliough thus prevent- 
 ed by the shades of evening and cloud 5 of vapor from 
 diEcerniiig objects very distinctly, .she yet observed 
 two comba- ants, who fouglit with a savage desperation, 
 which told indeed- that *' true foes once met part but 
 in death." She crept under a wall, and Vtatched the 
 contest v;ith a sort of fascinated earnestness. By a 
 sudden moven:eat she obtained a nearer view of their 
 fates. She looked again with a raze v.-bich fcsmcd to 
 3'
 
 38 ISOLINE DE VAL3I0^'T. 
 
 stretch her eje-balls to bursting, and recognised in one 
 of the combatants — her father ! opposed to, as she 
 fatally fancied, a young officer in the garde du corps 
 to whom she was secretly betrothed. 
 
 Without waiting to ascertain if her fears were cor- 
 rect, she rushed forward with fi-antic eagerness. At 
 that moment her father's pistol was levelled at the 
 heart of his adversary. She strove to wrest the weap- 
 on from his grasp. He turned sharply round ; the 
 pistol, by the suddenness of the movement, swerved 
 from its aim, and exploded. Its contents lodged in the 
 heart of Isoline I One deep groan, one low gasping 
 sob, and, with the life-blood welling from her innocent 
 breast, she reeled towards her father, and fell dead at 
 his fet 1 1 
 
 Those who were near declare that the shriek v.-as 
 scarcely human, which rent the air when the wretched 
 parent discovered that she, whose Avarm blood crim- 
 soned his garments, whom he had been accessory in 
 forcing from time into eternity, was his adored and 
 gentle child. He refused at first to believe in her iden- 
 tity — then denied assent to the fact of her death. Push- 
 ing aside the clustering ringlets from her face — lovely 
 even in the ashy aspect of death — he knelt by her side, 
 kissed her vehemently, calling on her to conjc back to 
 his arms and love. But, when silence was the only 
 ansu-er to his passionate intreatics — when compelled 
 to believe that she v.- as dead indeed — with a shrill. 
 ])icrcing cry, which seemed to condense the essence of 
 all human agony, he fell on her body in merciful un- 
 consciousness I 
 
 'The. beautiful cemetry of Pcre la Chaise seldom fails 
 to obtain from strangers who sojourn In the French 
 capital early inspection and unqualified admiration. 
 The serious and the contemplative visit it, and find in 
 the unbroken stillness of its verdant paths, in the moul- 
 dering decay of its consecrated sepulchres, food for 
 solemn and holy meditation. The young and the sen-
 
 ISOLLNE DE VALMO.NT. 2\) 
 
 sitive visit it. They fi-om whose lips burst the loudest 
 laugh of joyousness, yet who weep the readiest and th.e 
 bitterest tears — ihcy go thither to commune with the 
 spirits of the gifted and lovely, who lie crumbling at 
 their feet. Even the gay, the thoughtless, and the 
 happy, on whom the touch of sadness never yet hath 
 fallen : — even they, the affluent in bliss — visit it to ad- 
 mire the tastefulness of its design, the splendor of its 
 mausoleums, and to peruse its tender and affecting 
 epitaphs, the offerings of lavish love to the cold dust, 
 now deaf alike to the ban of censure and to the voice 
 of praise. AVliy is it that persons differing in age, sex, 
 and temperament, yet so generall}' unite in deriving a 
 mysterious pleasure from a ramble in a churchyard ? 
 Is it that they hope to dive into the secrets of another 
 world, by hovering over the last resting-places of per^ 
 ished humanity ? Whatever the motive that leads us 
 thither, the churchyard is usually the first object of a 
 traveller's visit, the one in vrhich he lingers longest. 
 
 The Sunday succeeding the termination of the Rev- 
 olution v.-as appointed for the obsequies of many of its 
 victims. The inhabitants of Paris, obeying their na^ 
 tional impulse, v,hich has so justly won for them the 
 s.!>pclIation of a sight-seeking population, thronged the 
 Boulevards, through which the cavalcade was to pass, 
 in countless masses. And it would not have been very 
 cas^y for a stranger at first sight to decide whether an 
 occasion of joy or sorrow had congregated them to- 
 gether. So alien arc any fixed habits of melancholy 
 from the character of the French, that their grief, 
 extravagant in its first outbreak over the death-bed of 
 their kindred, frequently has expended itself and set- 
 tled down into comparative inditferenee before the 
 grave has closed over a parent or a child. I may be 
 pardoned for saying this, from witnessing the demean- 
 or of those who followed the mournful procession to 
 the place of its destination, the cemetery of Pere la 
 Chaise, and 'rrouncd themselves around the graves of
 
 40 ISOLLNE DE VAL3I0.NT. 
 
 those interred. True, there was much gesticulation ; 
 and there were some stormy ebulitions of sorrow 
 among the few. But there was none of that expres- 
 sion of overwhelming grief, "which lies too deep for 
 tears ;" none of that profound, earnest, settled anguish, 
 either discernible in the mourners, or diffused among 
 the multitude, which I am convinced a similar occa. 
 sion would have called fo)-th in England. 
 
 The ceremony was concluded, the crowd dispersed, 
 and only a few straggler?, like myself, left of the hun- 
 dreds, who, a brief time before, lined the avenues of 
 Pere la Chaise. 
 
 I strolled towards the chapel, which, erected at the 
 highest point of the cemetery, commands so magnifi- 
 cent a view of the neighbouring city, with all its crime 
 and sorrow, luxury and destitution. The service for 
 the dead was performing u-ithin the sacred edifice- 
 My attention was iastantl}' riveted by a man v/ho evi- 
 dently filled the character of chief mourner. I have 
 visited many receptacles of human suffering, and seen 
 the desolation of the heart reflected in the countenance, 
 in, as 1 fancied, the strongest possible aspect. But 
 never did I see misery — hopeless, helpless, irremedia- 
 ble misery — so appallingly developed, as in the face of 
 that man. He seemed to have reached the utmost 
 limit of human agony, to which the smallest added 
 pang must bring death or insanity. 
 
 He was evidently not more than forty-five years of 
 age ; yet his head drooped upon hii^; breast ; his form 
 was bent to decrepitude ; and his hair Avas utterly 
 white. I looked on the features and outline of robust 
 maturity, blended Vvuth the ravages of extreme old age. 
 What a fearful anomaly is this to gaze at ! And how 
 does one shudder to think of the mental rack v.hicli 
 must have stretched every fibre of the soul, ere afflic- 
 tion could so have anticipated the work of years ! His 
 eye had a vacant apathy, and only gleamed with a ray 
 of intelligence whp,n glancing towards the bi-^v of the
 
 ISOLINE DE VALMONT. 41 
 
 dead. Then a look of acute, of intensest conscious, 
 ncss, lit it up. 
 
 Two young men supported him, or he would have 
 fallen. When the period arrived for depositing the 
 body in the earth, he seemed suddenly to recover from 
 his trance of grief. He looked wildly around ; his 
 body, before so bent, was drawn instantly up to its nat- 
 urally towering height ; and, when the earth rattled 
 over the lowered coffin, he sprang a few paces forward, 
 and, with a yell of such wild despair as will ring in 
 my ears to my dying day, fell on the ground ! They 
 raised him — but he was dead I 
 
 At a soiree, a few evenings afterwards, I learned 
 that it was the unfortunate de Valmont whose death 
 I had witnessed. From the hour of his daughter's 
 dissolution, he had "mourned as one who would not 
 be comforted." Belonging to that fatal school which 
 rejects the healing balm offered by Christianity to the 
 wounded spirit, and which depends on philosophy for 
 support in the hour of need, he found, when support 
 was requisite, nothing but the cold barren maxims of 
 fortitude to lean upon. They were insufficient. Re- 
 fusing food or rest, his body and mind sank together. 
 At his imperative desire, he was lifted from a sick bed 
 to attend the funeral — but, the " silver cord," too tight- 
 ly drawn, snapped asunder at his daughter's grave I 
 
 It appeared that he had been one of the most active 
 in projecting and organizing the revolt against Charles 
 X., and had made himself conspicuous among the he- 
 roes of the " three days." But, knowing the appre- 
 hensive love of Isoline, he had concealed his participa- 
 tion from her knowledge. The darling scheme of his 
 heart was achieved. The king was driven from his 
 throne, the people triumphant. But — alas ! for the 
 vanity of human desires and designs I — by association 
 with these events, he became the murderer of his be- 
 loved child, and his own life was the expiatory sacrifice.
 
 42 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A FRENCH ENGRAVING. 
 
 BY MRS. WALKER. 
 
 The gorgeous sun is fading fast, 
 
 The languid flowers are clos'd in sleep, 
 
 For all another day hath past, 
 
 Smile they or weep. 
 
 Blent with the murmurs of the gale 
 Come notes the silence to dispel, 
 Sounds, sad as human sorrow's wail. 
 
 The fimeral bell. 
 
 The church is gained, the grave appears. 
 The unconscious dead, his trials o'er, 
 Hath reach'd that home, where grief and tears 
 Touch him no more. 
 
 The priest comes forth — looks round — for where 
 Are they who sorrow o'er the bier ? 
 No choking sob of wild despair 
 
 Falls on the ear. . 
 
 Where is the fond and changeless friend — 
 The tender parent — loving wife ? 
 Ties which to death such anguish lend. 
 
 Such charm to life ? 
 
 What, none to weep thee — none to sigh, 
 To breathe a prayer, record thy doom. 
 Forsaken thus — 'twas time to die — 
 
 Close up the tomb ?
 
 BLOWING BURBLES, 43 
 
 TheTrites are paid ; but near the spot 
 An humble watcher yet we view, 
 One who, when all forsook, forgot, 
 
 To him was true. 
 
 His faithful dog, through want and care, 
 Ne'er left his side when others fled, 
 And now lies down, and fain would share 
 His master's bed, 
 
 Poor brute 1 let none thy love deride. 
 
 Nor scoff at thy fidelity ; 
 
 For man, with ajl bis boastful pride, 
 
 Might learn from thee/" 
 
 BY MISS H. F. Gi)ULD. 
 
 Half our sorrows, half our troubles, 
 Making head and heart to ache, 
 
 Are the fruit of blowing bubbles, 
 Bright to view, but quick to break. 
 
 All have played the child imbeoile, 
 Breathing hard to swell the sides 
 
 Of a shining fluid vessel, 
 Frailer than the air it rides. 
 
 From the infant's cradle rising, 
 All the bubble mania show. 
 
 Oft our richest wealth comprising 
 In the bubbles that we blow.
 
 44 BLOWING BUBBLES. 
 
 Brilliant, buoyant, upward going, 
 
 Pleased we mark them in their flight, 
 
 Every hue of Iris showing, 
 
 As they glance along the light. 
 
 Little castles high and airy, 
 
 With their crystial walls so thin, 
 
 Each presents the wicked fair}', 
 Vanity, enthroned within ! 
 
 But, when two have struck togcUier, 
 What of either do vjc fimd ? 
 
 Not so much as one gay feather 
 Flying Hope has left behing! 
 
 Still, the Vv'orld are busy blowing 
 Every one some empty ball ; 
 
 So the seed of mischief sowing 
 Where to burst the bubbles fall. 
 
 Nor for self alone to gather. 
 
 Is our evil harvest found ; 
 Oft with pipe and cup wc rather 
 
 Step upon our neighbor's ground. 
 
 Thus, amusing one anotlier. 
 
 While the glistening plaj^things rise, 
 We may doom a friend or brother 
 
 To a life of care and sighs. 
 
 Do you doubt my simple story ? 
 
 I can point a thousand ways. 
 Where this bubble-making glory 
 
 Has its darkness bid in ravs I
 
 THE mother's sacrifice. 45 
 
 Yet, we'll epare a slight confusion 
 Caused the world by giving names, 
 
 Since a right to some delusion 
 Every one from Nature claims ! 
 
 7M2 [isa©'irKi[i:33© sa©:k]?o©2. 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOUENEY. 
 " God loveth a cheerful giver." 
 
 ""What shall I render Thee, I'ather Supreme, 
 For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all ? " 
 Said the young mother, as she fondly watched 
 Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice, 
 That night, in dreams : — 
 
 " Thou hast a tender flower 
 Upon thy breast — fed with the dews of love : 
 Lend me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven " 
 But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep, 
 Breathless and terror-stricken, that the lip 
 Blanched in its trance. 
 
 " Thou hast a little harp, 
 How sweetly would it swell the angels' Jiymn : 
 Yield me that harp." 
 
 There rose a shuddering sob, 
 As if the bosom by some hidden sword 
 Was cleft in twain. 
 
 Morn came — a blight had found 
 The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud, 
 The harp-strings rang a thrilling stram, and broke — 
 And that young mother lay upon the earth, 
 In childless agonv. 
 4
 
 46 THE FORSAKEN FRIEND, 
 
 Again, the Voice 
 That stirred her vision — 
 
 "He wiio asked of thee 
 Loveth a cheerful giver." So she raised 
 Her gushing eyes, and, ere the teardrop dried 
 Upon its fringes, smiled — and that meek smile. 
 Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness 
 
 BY SARAH STICKNEY. 
 
 At early morn these fragile flowers were blowing, 
 
 All sweet and fair ; 
 On the wild breeze their odorous burden throwing, 
 
 Scenting the air. 
 
 At early morn with buoyant step I sought thee, 
 
 Friend of my youth ! 
 A blooming garland from the fields I brought thee, 
 
 With my soul's truth. 
 
 I knew not then thy fickle heart was altered, 
 
 Nor read thine eye ; 
 I thought the welcome of thy sweet voice faltered^ 
 
 But asked not why. 
 
 And now I keep these fair but slighted flowers, 
 
 Unfaded yet ; 
 Have they not taught me, in a few short hours, 
 
 How to forget ? 
 
 There wanted but one fatal word to sever 
 
 Our hearts in twain ; 
 That word thy lips have spoken, and we never 
 
 Can trust again.
 
 THE FORSAKEN FRIE.ND. 47 
 
 Thou wilt go forth on summer's fragrant morning, 
 
 Once more to see 
 Her radiant smile the purple hills adorning, 
 
 But not with me. 
 
 I shall be where no household memories waken 
 
 Thoughts of the past ; 
 I shall forget. The lonely and forsaken 
 
 Forget at last. 
 
 I shall forget thee ; many a deeper sorrow 
 
 Has been forgotten : 
 But yet I dare not look into the morrow 
 
 Where thou art not. 
 
 I dare not think how oft my fond heart's yearnmg 
 
 Will wake again ; 
 How I shall watch to see thy smile returning. 
 
 And watch in vain : 
 
 For thou couidst teach what nothing else had taught me 
 
 From early youth ; 
 Not all the wisdom of the world had brought me 
 
 So deep a truth ; — 
 
 That human lovj, however pure its fountain, 
 
 May waste away, 
 Like the fresh dew upon the verdant mountain, 
 
 At dawn of day ; — 
 
 That this fair earth, with all its gorgeous beauty, 
 
 Its fruits and flowers, 
 Forms not the scope of human love or duty, 
 
 Though once of ours.
 
 48 
 
 BY MISS MITFORD. 
 
 I AM no politician, no reasoner upon church and 
 state, the evil or the good of their connexion ; a con= 
 nexion pretty ancient, as far as words go, and tolera- 
 bly convenient, at times, to both parties, in spite of the 
 jangling which may have occasionally occurred in this 
 as in other unions. 
 
 Of late years, however, there has been a prodigious 
 change in the body clerical. The activity of the dis- 
 senters, the spread of education, and the immense in- 
 crease of population, to say nothing of that " word of 
 power," Reform, have combined to produce a stirring 
 spirit of emulation amongst the younger clergy, which 
 has quite changed the aspect of the profession. Here- 
 tofore, the " church militant" was the quietest and 
 easiest of all vocations ; and the most slender and lady, 
 like young gentleman, the " mamma's darling" of a 
 great family, whose lungs were too tender for the bar, 
 and whose frame was too delicate for the army, might 
 be sent Avith perfect comfort to the snug curacy of a 
 neighboring parish, to read Horace, cultivate auricu. 
 lars, christen, marry, and bury, about twice a quarter, 
 and do duty once every Sunday. Now times are al- 
 tered ; prayers must be read and sermons preached 
 twice a day at least, not forgetting lectures in Lent, 
 and homilies at tide times ; workhouses are to be vis- 
 ited ; school attended ; boys and girls taught in the 
 morning, and grown up bumpkins in the evening ; 
 children are to be catechised ; masters and mistresses 
 looked after ; hymn-books distributed ; bibles given 
 away ; tract societies fostered amongst the zealous, 
 and psalmody cultivated amongst the musical. In 
 ghort, a curate, now-a-days, even a country curate.
 
 OUR RECTOR. id 
 
 much more if his parish lie in a great town, has need 
 of the lungs of a barrister in good practice, and the 
 strength and activity of an officer of dragoons. 
 
 Now this is just as it ought to be. Nevertheless, I 
 cannot help entertaining certain relenting in favor of 
 the well-endowed churchman of the old school, round, 
 indolent, and unbiassed, at peace with himself and 
 with all around him, who lives in quiet and plenty in 
 his ample parsonage house, dispensing with a liberal 
 hand the superfluities of his hospitable table, regu- 
 lar and exact in his conduct, but not so precise as to 
 refuse a Saturdaj"^ night's rubber in his own person, or 
 to condemn his parishioners for their game of cricket 
 on Sunday afternoons ; charitable in word and deed, 
 tolerant, indulgent, kind, to the widest extent of that 
 widest word ; but, except in such wisdom (and it is of 
 the best), no wiser than that eminent member of the 
 church. Parson Adams. In a word, exactly such a 
 man as my good old friend the rector of Hadley, who 
 has just passed the window in that venerable relique 
 of antiquit}^ his one-horse chaise. Ah, we may see 
 him still, through the budding leaves of the clustering 
 China rose, as he is stopping to give a penny to poor 
 lame Dinah Moore, stopping and stooping his short 
 round person with no small eifort, that he may put it 
 into her little hand, because the child would have some 
 difficulty in picking it up, on account of her crutches. 
 Yes, there he goes, rotund and rosy, " a tun of man," 
 filling three parts of his roomy equipage ; the shovel- 
 hat with a rose in it, the very model of orthodoxy, 
 overshadowing his white hairs and placid countenance ; 
 his little stunted post-boy in a purple livery, driving 
 an old coach-horse as fat as his master, whilst the old 
 white terrier, fatter still, his pet terrier Viper, waddles 
 after the chaise (of which the head is let down, in 
 honor, I presume, of this bright April morning) much 
 resembling in gait and aspect, that other white wad- 
 4*
 
 50 OVK RECTOR. 
 
 dling thing, a goose, if a goose were gifted with four 
 legs. 
 
 There he goes, my venerable friend the Reverend 
 Josiah Singleton, rector of Hadley-cum.Doveton, in 
 the county of Southampton, and vicar of Delworth, in 
 the county of Surrey. There he goes, in whose youth 
 tract societies and adult schools were not, but who yet 
 has done as much good and as little harm in his gen- 
 eration, has formed as just and as useful a link be- 
 tween the rich and the poor, the landlord and the peas- 
 ant, as ever did honor to religion and to human na- 
 ture. Perhaps this is only saying, in other words, 
 that, under any system, benevolence and single-mind- 
 edncss will produce their proper effects. I am not, 
 however, going to preach a sermon over my worthy 
 friend — long may it be before his funeral sermon is 
 preached ! or even to write his eloge, for elogcs are 
 dull things ; and to sit down with the intention of be- 
 ing dull, — to set about the matter with malice pre= 
 pense (howbeit the calamity may sometimes happen 
 accidentally). I hold to be an unnecessary imperti- 
 nence. I am only to give a slight sketch, a sort of 
 bird's eye view of my reverend friend's life, which, by 
 the way, has been, except in one single particular, so 
 barren of incidents, that it might almost pass for one 
 of those proverbially uneventful narratives, The Lives 
 of the Poets. 
 
 Fifty-six years ago, our portly rector, then, it may 
 be presumed, a sleek and comely bachelor, left college, 
 where he had passed through his examinations and 
 taken his degrees, with respectable mediocrity, and 
 was ordained to the curacy of St. Thomas's parish, in 
 
 our neighboring town of C ; and where, by the 
 
 recommendation of his vicar, t)r. Grampound, he fixed 
 himself in the small, but neat first floor of a reduced 
 widow gentlev.-omau, M'ho endeavored to eke out a 
 small annuity, by letting lodgings at five shillings a 
 week, linen, china, plate, glass-, and waiting included.
 
 OUR RECTOK. 51 
 
 and by keeping a toy-shop, of which tlie whole .stock, 
 fiddles, drums, balls, dolls, and shuttlecocks, might be 
 safely appraised at under five pounds, including a 
 stately rocking-horse, the poor v/jdow's cheval-de-ba- 
 taille. which had occupied one side of Mrs. Martin's 
 shop from the time of her setting up in business, and 
 still continued to keep his station uncheapcned by her 
 tiu-ifty customers. 
 
 Tliere, by the advice of Dr. Grampound, did he 
 
 place himself on his arrival at C ; and there he 
 
 conlinucd for full thirty years, occupying the same 
 first floor, the sitting room, a pleasant apartment, \vitli 
 one window (for the little toy-shop was a corner 
 Jiouse) abutting on the high bridge, and the other on 
 the market place, still, as at first, furnished with a 
 Scotch carpet, cane chairs, a Pembroke table, and two 
 hanguig shelves, which seemed placed there less for 
 their ostensible destination of holding books, sermons, 
 and newspapers, than for the purpose of bobbing 
 against the head of every unwary person who might 
 happen to sit down near the v/all ; and the small cham- 
 ber behind, with its tent bed and dimity furniture, its 
 mahogany chest of drawers, one chair and no table ; 
 with the self-same spare, quiet, decent landlady, in 
 her faded but well-preserved morning gov.'n, and the 
 identical serving maiden, Patty, a demure, civil, mod- 
 est damsel, du^arfed, as it should seem, by constant 
 courtseying, since from twelve years upwards she had 
 not grown an inch. Except the clock of time, which, 
 however imperceptibly, does still keep m.ovmg, every 
 thing about the little toy-shop in the market place at 
 
 C , was at a stand still. The very tabby cat which 
 
 lay basking on the hearth, might have passed for his 
 progenitor of happy memory, who took his .station 
 there the night -of Mr. Singleton's arrival ; and the 
 self-same hobby-iiorse still stood rockhig opposite the 
 counter, the admiration of every urchin who passed 
 the door, and so completely the piide of the mistress
 
 52 OUR RECTOK. 
 
 of the domicile, that it is to be questioned — convenient 
 as thirty shillings, lawful money of Great Britain, 
 might sometimes have proved to Mrs. Martin — wheth- 
 er she would not have felt more reluctance than pleas- 
 ure in parting with this, the prime ornament of her 
 stock. 
 
 There, however, the rocking-horse remained ; and 
 there remained Mr, Singleton, gradually advancing 
 from a personable youth to a portly middle-aged man ; 
 and obscure and untempting as the station of a curate 
 in a country town may appear, it is doubtful whether 
 those thirty years of comparative poverty, were not 
 amongst the happiest of his easy and tranquil life. 
 
 Very happy they undoubtedly were. To say nothing 
 of the comforts provided for him by his assiduous land, 
 lady, and her civil domestics, both of whom felt all the 
 value of their kind, orderly, and considerate inmate ; 
 especially as compared with the racketty recruiting 
 officers and troublesome single gentlewomen who had 
 generally occupied the first floor. Our curate was in 
 prime favor vvith his vicar. Dr. Grampound, a stately 
 pillar of divinity, rigidly orthodox in all matters of 
 church and state, who, having a stall in a distant ca- 
 thedral, and another living by the sea-side, spent but" 
 
 little of his time at C , and had been so tormented 
 
 by his three last curates — the first of whom was avow, 
 edly of whig politics, and more than suspected of hold^ 
 ing Calvinistic doctrines in religion ; the second a fox 
 hunter, and the third a poet — that he was delighted to 
 intrust his flock to a staid, sober youth, of high church 
 and tory principles, who never mounted a horse in his 
 life, and would hardly have trusted himself on Mrs. 
 Martin's steed of wood ; and whose genius, so far from 
 carrying him into any flights of poesy, never went be- 
 yond that weekly process of sermon-making which, as 
 the doctor observed, was all that a sound divine need 
 know of authorship, y---
 
 OUR RECTOR. 5S5c 
 
 vunte willi his principal. He has even been heard to 
 propliesy tliat the young man would be a bishop. 
 
 Amongst the parishioners, high and low, Josiah was 
 no less a favorite. The poor felt his benevolence, his 
 integrity, his piety, and his steady kindness ; whilst 
 
 the richer classes (for in the good town of C , few 
 
 were absolutely rich) were won b}' his unaffected good 
 nature, the most popular of all qualities. There was 
 nothing shining about the man, no danger of his set- 
 ting the Thames on fire, and the gentlemen liked him 
 none the worse for that; but his chief friends and al- 
 lies were the ladies— -not the young ladies, by whom, 
 to say the truth, he was not so much coveted, and 
 whom, in return, he did not trouble himself to covet, 
 but the discreet mammas and grandmammas, and 
 maiden gentlewomen of a certain age, amongst whom 
 he found himself considerably more valued and infinite, 
 ly more at home. 
 
 Sooth to say, our staid, worthy, prudent, sober young 
 man, had at no time of his life been endowed with the 
 buoyant and mercurial spirit peculiar to youth. There 
 was in him a considerable analogy between the mind 
 and the body. Both were heavy, sluggish, and slow. 
 He Avas no strait-laced person either ; he liked a joke 
 in his own quiet way well enough, but as to encoun- 
 tering the quips, and cranks, and quiddities, of a set of 
 giddy girls, he could as soon have danced a cotillion. 
 The gift was not in him. So with a wise instinct he 
 stuck to their elders ; called on them in the morning ; 
 drank tea with them at night ; played whist, quadrille, 
 cassino, backgammon, commerce, or lottery tickets, 
 as the party might require ; told news and talked scan- 
 dal as well as any woman of them all ; accommodated 
 a difference of four years standing between the wife of 
 the chief attorney and the sister of the principal phy- 
 sician ; and was appealed to as absolute referee in a 
 question of precedence between the widow of a post- 
 captain and the lady of a colonel of volunteers, which
 
 54 OUR RECTOK. 
 
 had divided the whole gentility of the town into par- 
 ties. In short, he was such a favorite in the female 
 
 world, that vrhen the ladies of C (on their hus. 
 
 bands setting up a weekly card club at the Crown) re. 
 solved to meet on the same night at each other's 
 houses, Mr. Singleton was, by unanimous consent, the 
 only gentleman admitted to the female coterie. 
 
 Happier man could hardly be, than the worthy Jo- 
 siah in this fair compan}^ At first, indeed, some slight 
 interruptions to his comfort had offered themselves, in 
 the shape of overtures matrimonial, from three mam- 
 mas, tv.'o papas, one uncle, a'.id (I grieve to say) one 
 lady, an elderly young lady, a sort of dowager spinster 
 in her own proper person, who, smitten with Mr. Sin- 
 gleton's excellent character, a small independence, be- 
 sides his curacy in possession, and a trifling estate 
 (much exaggerated by the gossip Fame) m expectan- 
 cy, and perhaps somewhat swayed by Dr. Grampound's 
 magnificent prophecy, had at the commencement of 
 his career, respectively given him to understand, that 
 he might, if he chose, become more nearly related to 
 them. This is a sort of dilemma which a well-bred 
 man, and a man of humanity (and our curate was 
 both) usually feels to be tolerably embarrassing. Josi- 
 ah, however, extricated himself with his usual straight- 
 forward simplicity. He said, and said truly, "that 
 he considered matrimony a great comfort, that he had 
 a respect for the state, and no disinclination to any of 
 the ladies, but that he was a poor man, and could not 
 afi'ord so expensive a living." And, with the exception 
 of one mamma, who had nine unmarried daughters, 
 and proposed waiting for a living, and the old young 
 lady who had offered herself, and who kept her bed 
 and threatened to die on his refusal, thus giving him 
 the fright of having to bury his inamorata, and being 
 haunted by her ghost — with these slight exceptions, 
 every body took his answer in good part.
 
 OUR RECTOR. 5i 
 
 As he advanced in life, these sort of annoyances 
 ceased, his staid sober deportment, ruddy countenance, 
 and portly person giving hini an air of being even older 
 than he really was ; so that he came to be considered 
 as that privileged person, a confirmed old bachelor, 
 the general beau of the female coterie, and the favorite 
 rnarryer and christener of the town and neighborhood. 
 Xay, as years wo/e away, and he began to marry some 
 whom he had christened, and bury many whom he had 
 married, even Dr. Grampound's prophecy ceased to be 
 remembered, and he appeared to be as firmly rooted in 
 
 C , as St. Thomas's Church, and as completely 
 
 fixed in the toy-shop as the rocking-horse. 
 
 Destiny, however, had other things in store for hun. 
 
 The good town of C was, to its own misfortune, a 
 
 poor place, an independent borough, and subject, ac- 
 cordingly, to the infliction (privilege, I believe, the vo- 
 lers arc pleased to call it) of an election. For thirty 
 years — during which period there had been seven or 
 eight of these visitations — the calamity had passed over 
 so mildly that, except three or four days of intolerable 
 drunkenness, accompanied, of course, by a sufficient 
 number of broken heads, no other mischief had oc- 
 curred ; the two great families, Whig and Tory, who 
 might be said to divide the town, having entered, by 
 agreement, into a compromise to return one member 
 each ; a compact which might have held good to this 
 time, had not some slackness of attention on the part 
 of the Whigs (the Blues, as they were called in elec- 
 tion jargon; provoked the Yellow or Tor}' part of the 
 corporation, to sign a requi?ition to the Hon. Mr. Del- 
 worth, to stand as tlieir second candidate, and procured 
 the novelty of a sharp contest in their hitherto peace- 
 ful borough. When it came, it came with a vengeance. 
 It lasted eight days, as long as it could last. The 
 dregs of that cup of evil were drained to the very bot- 
 tom. Words are faint to describe the tumult, the 
 turmoil, the blustoring, the brawling, the abuse, the
 
 56 
 
 OUR RECTOR. 
 
 ill-will, the battles by tongue and fist of that disastrous 
 time. At last the Yellows carried it by six ; and on a 
 petition and scrutiny in the House of Commons, by 
 one single vote ; and as Mr. Singleton had been en- 
 gaged on the side of the winning party, not merely by 
 his own political opinions, and those of his ancient vi- 
 car, Dr. Grampound, but also by the predilections of 
 his female allies, w^io were Yellows to a man, those 
 who understood the ordinary course of such matters 
 were not greatly astonished, in the course of the ensu- 
 ing three years, to find our good curate rector of Had- 
 ley, vicar of Delworth, and chaplain to the new mem- 
 ber's father. One thing, however, was remarkable, 
 that, amidst all the scurrility and ill blood of an elec- 
 tion contest, and in spite of the envy which is pretty 
 sure to follow a sudden change of fortune, Mr. Single. 
 ton neither made an enemy nor lost a friend. His 
 peaceful unoffending character disarmed offence. He 
 had been unexpectedly useful too to the winning party, 
 not merely by knowing and having served many of the 
 poorer voters, but by possessing one eminent qualifica- 
 tion not sufficiently valued or demanded in a canvasser. 
 
 He was the best listener of the party*; and is said 
 to have gained the half-dozen votes which decided the 
 election, by the mere process of letting the people talk. 
 
 This talent, which it is to be presumed he acquired 
 in the ladies' club at C, and which probably contributed 
 to his popularity in that society, stood him in great 
 stead in the aristocratic circle of Delworth Castle. 
 The whole family was equally delighted and amused 
 by his bonhommie and simplicity ; and he, in return, 
 captivated by their kindness, as well as grateful for their 
 
 •*A friend of mine, the wife of a country member, wlio 
 was very active in canvassing for her husband, once said 
 to me, on my complimenting her on the number of votes 
 she had obtained, " It was aM done by listening. Our good 
 frienda the voters like to hear themselves talk.''
 
 OUR KECTOE. 57 
 
 benefits, paid them a eincero and uufeigncd homage, 
 Avhich trebled their good-^vill. Never was so honest 
 and artless a courtier. There was something at once 
 diverting and amiable in the ascendency v.'hich every 
 thing connected witli its patron held over Mr. Single- 
 ton's imagination. Loyal subject as he unquestionably 
 was, the king, queen, and royal family would have 
 been as nothing in his eyes compared witli Lord and 
 Lady Delworth and their illustrious offspring. He 
 purchased a new Peerage, which in the course of a 
 few days opened involuntarily on the honored page 
 which contained an account of their genealogy. Hia 
 walls were hung vrith ground plans of Hadley House, 
 elevations of Delworth Castle, maps of the estate, 
 prints of the late and present lords, and of a judge of 
 Queen Anne's reign, and of a bishop of George the 
 Second's, worthies of the family. He had on his di- 
 ning-room mantel-piece, models of two wings, once 
 projected for Hadley, but which had never been built, 
 and is said to have once bought an old head of the 
 Duk-e of Marlborough, which a cunning auctioneer 
 had f )bbed off upon him, by pretending that the great 
 captain was a progenitor of his noble patron. 
 
 Besides this predominant taste, he soon began to in- 
 dulge other inclinations at the rectory, which savored 
 a little of his old baclielor habits. He became a col- 
 lector of shells and china, and a fancier of tulips ; and 
 
 when he invited the coterie of C ladies to partake 
 
 of a syllabub, astonished and delighted them by the 
 performance of a piping bullfinch of his own teaching, 
 who executed the Blue Bells of Scotland, in a manner 
 not to be surpassed by the barrel organ, by means of 
 which this accomplished bird had been instructed. He 
 engaged Mrs. Martin as his housekeeper, and Patty as 
 his housemaid, set up the identical one-horse chaiic 
 in which he was riding to-day, became a member of 
 the clerical dinner club, took in the St. James's Chroni- 
 5
 
 58 OUR RECTOE. 
 
 cle and the Gcntleuian's Magazine, and was set down 
 by every body as a confirmed old bachelor. 
 
 All these indications notwithstanding-, nothing was 
 less in his contemplation than to remain in that forlorn 
 condition. Marriage after all was his predominant 
 taste ; his real fancy was for the ladies. He was fifty- 
 seven or thereabouts, when he began to make love, but 
 he has amply made up for his loss of time, by marry- 
 ing no less than four wives since that period. Call him 
 Mr, Singleton, indeed I why, his proper name would 
 be Doubleton. Four wives has he had, and of all vari- 
 eties. His first was a pretty, rosy, smiling lass, just 
 come from school, who had known him all her life, and 
 seemed to look upon him as a school- girl does upon an 
 indulgent grandpapa, who comes to fetch her home for 
 the holidays. She was as happy as a bird, poor thing, 
 during the three months she lived with him — but there 
 came a violent fever and carried her off. 
 
 His next wife was a pale, sickly, consumptive lady, 
 not over young, for whose convenience he set up a car- 
 riage, and for whose health he travelled to Lisbon, and 
 Madeira, and Nice, and Florence, and Hastings, and 
 Clifton, and all the places by sea and land, abroad and 
 at home, where sick people go to get well. At one of 
 which she, poor lady, died. 
 
 Then he espoused a buxom, jolly, merry widow, who 
 had herself had two husbands, and who seemed likely 
 to see him out ; but the small pox came in her way, 
 and she died also. 
 
 Then he married his present lady, a charming wo- 
 man, neither fat nor thin, nor young nor old, not very 
 healthy nor particularly sickly, who makes him very 
 happy, and seems to find her own happiness in mak- 
 ing him so. 
 
 He has no children by any of his wives ; but has 
 abundance of adherents in parlor and hall. Half the 
 poor of the parish are occasionally to be found in his 
 kitchen, and his dining room is the seat of hospitality,
 
 THE SONG OF DREAMS. 59 
 
 not only to his old friends of the town and his new 
 friends of the country, but to all the families of all his 
 wives. He talks of them (for he talks more now than 
 he did at the C. election, having fallen into the gos. 
 sipping habit of " narrative old age") in. the quietest 
 manner possible, mixing, in a manner the most divert- 
 ing and the most miconscious, stories of his first wife 
 and his second, of his present and his last. He seems 
 to have been perfectly happy with all of them, espe- 
 cially with this. But if lie should have the misfortvine 
 to lose this delightful person, he would certainly con- 
 sole himself and prove his respect for the state, by 
 marrying again ; and such is his reputation as a sober, 
 excellent husband, especially in the main article of 
 giving his wives their own way, that, in spite of his 
 being even now an octogenarian, I have no doubt there 
 would be abundance of fair candidates for the heart and 
 hand of our Rector. 
 
 BY MRS. M. A. BROWNE. 
 
 In the rosy glow of the evening cloud, 
 
 In the twilight's gloom, 
 In the sultry noon, when the flov/ers are bowed. 
 
 And the streams are dumb, 
 In the morning's beam, when the faint stars die 
 On the brightening flood of the azure sky, 
 
 We come ! 
 Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears, 
 Darkeners of smiles, brighteners of tears, 
 We come 1
 
 60 THE SONG OF DREAMS. 
 
 We come where the babe on its mother's breast 
 
 Lies in slumber deep ; 
 We flit by the maiden's couch of rest, 
 
 And o'er her sleep 
 We float, like the honey-laden bees, 
 On the soft warm breath of the languid breeze, 
 
 And sweep 
 Hues more beautiful than we bring 
 From her lip and her cheek, for each wandering wing 
 To keep. 
 
 We linger about the lover's bower, 
 
 Hovering mute, 
 When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, 
 
 And lists for the 5int 
 That falls so lig-Jtly on the grass, 
 We scarcely hear its echo pass ; 
 
 And we put 
 In his heart all hopes, t'.ie radiant-crowned, 
 And hang sweet tones and voices round 
 His lute. 
 
 We sit by the miser's treasure chest. 
 
 And near his bed, 
 Aiid we watch his anxious heart's unrest ; 
 
 And in mockery tread 
 With a seeming heavy step about ; 
 And lauffh when we hear his frightened shout 
 
 Of dread, 
 Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold did reign, 
 To his hoards to claim it back again 
 Have sped. 
 
 But a sunnier scene and a brighter sky 
 
 To-day are our's ; 
 We have seen a youthful poet lie 
 
 Bv a fountain's showers,
 
 THE VQICE OF HOME. 61 
 
 With his upturned eyes, and his dreamy look, 
 Reading the April sky's sweet book 
 
 Write by the hours ; 
 Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow 
 Untutored up in life's fresh glow. 
 
 Like flowers. 
 
 We will eatch the richest, brightest hue 
 
 Of the rainbow's rim, 
 The purest cloud that 'midst the blue 
 
 Of heaven doth swim ; 
 The clearest star-beam that shall be 
 In a dew-drop shrined when the twilight sea 
 
 Grows dim ; 
 And a spirit of love about them breathe. 
 And twine them all in a magic wreath 
 For him ! 
 
 TO THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Oh ! when wilt thou return 
 
 To thy spirit's early love ? 
 To the freshness of the morn, 
 
 To the stillness of the groves ? 
 
 The summer-birds are calling, 
 Thy household porch around, 
 
 And the merry waters falling. 
 
 With sweet laughter in their sound. 
 
 And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 
 'Midst the banks of moss and fern. 
 
 Breathe of the sunny hours — 
 But when v/ilt thou return ? 
 5*
 
 62 THE VOICE OF HOME. 
 
 Oh ! thou hast wandered long 
 From my home without a guide, 
 
 And thy native woodland song 
 In thine altered heart hath died. 
 
 Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
 And the glory of thy spring ; 
 
 And to thee the leaves' light play 
 Is a long-forgotten thing. 
 
 But when wilt thou return ? 
 
 Sweet dews may freshen soon 
 The flower within whose urn 
 
 Too fiercely gazed the noon. 
 
 O'er the image of the sky 
 
 Which the lake's clear bosom wore. 
 Darkly may shadows lie — 
 
 But not for evermore. 
 
 Give back thy heart again 
 To the gladness of the woods, 
 
 To the bird's triumphant strain, 
 To the mountain-solitudes I 
 
 But when wilt thou return ? 
 
 Along thine own free air, 
 There are young sweet voices borne- 
 
 Oh ! should not thine be there ? 
 
 Still at thy father's board 
 
 There is kept a place for thee. 
 
 And by thy smile restored, 
 Jov round the hearth shall be.
 
 THE LOST STAR. 63 
 
 Still hath thy mother's eye, 
 Thy coming step to greet, 
 
 A look of days gone hy, 
 Tender, and gravely sweet. 
 
 Still, when the prayer is said, 
 For thee kind bosoms yearn, 
 
 For thee fond tears are shed — 
 Oh I when wilt thou return ? 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON. 
 
 A LI9HT is gone from yonder sky, 
 A star has left its sphere ; 
 The beautiful — and so they die 
 In yon bright world as here ? 
 Will that star leave a lonely place. 
 A darkness on the night ? 
 No ; few will miss its lovely face, 
 And none think heaven less bright. 
 
 What wert thou star of — vanished one ? 
 
 What mystery was thine ? 
 
 Thy beauty from the east is gone ; 
 
 What was thy sway and sign ? 
 
 Wert thou the star of opening youth ? 
 
 And is it then for thee. 
 
 Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth. 
 
 So early cease to be ? 
 
 Of Hope ?— and was it to express 
 How soon hope sinks in shade ; 
 Or el=e of human loveliness. 
 In sign how it will fade ?
 
 64 so:^G. 
 
 How was thy dying like the song, 
 In music to the last, 
 An echo flung the winds among, 
 And then for ever past ? 
 
 Or didst thou sink as stars whose light 
 
 The fair moon renders vain ? — 
 
 The rest shine forth the next dark night, 
 
 Thou didst not shine again. 
 
 Didst thou fade gradual from the time 
 
 The first great curse was hurled. 
 
 Till lost in sorrovv^ and in crime, 
 
 Star of our early world ? 
 
 Forgotten and departed star I 
 
 A thousand glories shine 
 
 Round the blue midnight's regal car. 
 
 Who then remembers thine ? 
 
 Save when some mournful bard like me 
 
 Dreams over beauty gone, 
 
 And in the fate that waited thee, 
 
 Reads what will be his own. 
 
 BY MRS. CHARLES GORE. 
 
 He said my brov/ was fair, 't is true ; 
 He said mine eye had stol'n its blue 
 From yon ethereal vault above ! 
 Yet still — he never spake of love. 
 
 He said my step was light, I own ; 
 He said my voice had won its tone 
 From some wild linnet of the grove I 
 Yet still — he never spake of love.
 
 THE KULEK S FAITH. 65 
 
 He said my cheek looked pale with thought ; 
 He said my gentle looks had caught 
 Their modest softuess from the dove ! 
 Yet still — he never spake of love. 
 
 He said that bright with hopes divine 
 The heart should be to blend with mine ; 
 Fixed where no stormy passions move I 
 Yet still — he never spake of love. 
 
 He said — but wherefore should I tell 
 Those whispered words 1 loved so well ? 
 Could I reject — could I reprove — 
 While still he never snake of love? 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 " Come, lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live." 
 
 Matthew, 9 : 18. 
 Death cometh to the chamber of the sick. 
 The ruler's daughter, lilie the peasant's child, 
 Turns pale as marble. Hark ! that hollow moan, 
 Which none may soothe, and then the last faint breath 
 Subsiding, v.ith a shudder. 
 
 Deep the wail 
 That speaks an idol fallen from the shrine 
 Of a fond parent's heart. A v^^ithcred flower 
 Is there, oh mother, where thy proudest hope 
 Solaced itself with garlands, and beheld 
 New buddings every morn. 
 
 Father, 't is o'er .' 
 That voice is silent Vvhich had been thy harp, 
 Quickening thy footsteps nightly toward thy home, 
 Mingling, perchance, an echo all too deep
 
 66 THE ruler's faith. 
 
 Even with thy temple -.vorship, when the soul 
 Should deal with God alone. 
 
 What sLianger-step 
 Breaketh the trance of grief? Whose radiant brow 
 In meekness and in majesty doth bend 
 Beside the bed of death ? 
 
 " She doth but sleep, 
 The damsel is not dead." 
 
 A smothered hiss 
 Contemptuous, rises from that wondering band, 
 Who beat the breast, and raise the licensed wail 
 Of Judah's mourning. 
 
 Look upon the dead ! 
 Heaves not the winding-sheet ? Those trembling lids, 
 What peers between their fringes, like the tint 
 Of dewy violet ? The blanched lips depart, 
 And what a quiv^ering long-drawn sigh restores 
 Their rose-leaf beauty. Lo, that claj^-cold hand 
 Doth clasp the Master's, and with sudden spring 
 That shrouded sleeper, like a timid fawn, 
 Hides in her mother's bosom. Faith's strong root 
 Was in the parent's spirit, and its fruit 
 How beautiful I 
 
 O mother I who dost gaze 
 Upon thy daughter, in that deeper sleep 
 Which threats the soul's salvation, breathe her name 
 To thy Redeemer's ear, both when she smiles 
 In all her glowing beauty on the morn. 
 Or when at night her clustering tresses sweep 
 Her downy pillow, in the trance of dreams. 
 Or when at pleasure's beckoning she goes froth, 
 Or to the meshes of an earthly love 
 Yields her young heart, be eloquent for her, 
 Take no denial, till the gracious hand 
 Which raised the ruler's dead, give life to her, 
 That better life, whose power surmounts the tomb.
 
 67 
 
 BY MISS LAWRANCE. 
 
 " Tf there be one that can foretell 
 The fixt decrees of fate, he, too, should know 
 What is within the everlasting book 
 Of destiny decreed cannot by wit 
 Or man's invention be dissolved or shunned." 
 
 LoDovic Barry. 
 
 The period distinguished by the wars of the Roses, 
 although characterized perhaps beyond any other by 
 the unprincipled strife of ambitious nobles, and by 
 those restless and capricious changes of popular feeling 
 which always indicate a transition state of society, 
 although exhibiting few instances of pure and lofty 
 patriotism, or generous self-devotion, is yet intensely 
 interesting, from the solemn moral lesson which each 
 page presents. From the murder of the Duke of 
 Gloster to the death of Richard at Bosworth, all along 
 the track of those disastrous forty years, vengeance, 
 slow but unerring, is seen, like the fabled Nemesis, 
 following, with stealthy footsep, each short-lived claim- 
 ant of power, and meting out his just doom. Each 
 and all are involved in the web of inextricable fate ; 
 the deceiver is deceived, the betrayer is betrayed, the 
 murderer falls beneath the axe or dagger, while omen, 
 prophecy, dream, prognostic, each mysterious shadow- 
 ing forth of the unknown future, sheds a poetical char- 
 acter over each scene. And, arising partly from the 
 unsettled, though advancing, stale of knowledge, but 
 more from the changeful aspect of public affairs, scarce- 
 ly can any period be found in our history, vvhen an in- 
 sight into futurity was more earnestly desired, or 
 when those delusive fancies which gave not only to the 
 star, but to the plant, the ge:n, and the flower, tl
 
 68 EAUL Vv- AKVviCK S SEAL RING. 
 
 facility of revealing it, were more eagerly believed and 
 pursued. Startled and amazed at the unlooked-for 
 events which each day brought to pass around them, 
 men turned from a changcfal world to question the 
 steadfast stars,, and, anxious, restless, and distrustful 
 of their fcllow-inen, they sought by charm and spell to 
 wrest from the lofty intelligences of the spheres that 
 unerring knowledge, that potent aid, Vvhich from the 
 inhabitants of the earth they might ask in vain. And 
 thus the knowledge tliat taught the attainment of an 
 insight into futurity was the knowledge sought for be- 
 vond all other ; and thus was it that, at a period when 
 ''old things were passing away," and men stood, though 
 they knew- it not, upon the brink of a new ocean that 
 was soon to swallow up the institutions, religious and 
 political, of mediaeval Europe, each wild dream, and 
 each lofty theory, which sought to link the fleeting 
 destinies of man with an unseen world, was eagerly 
 cherished by the ardent student ; and astrology took 
 up her unrebuked abode in college halls, and in con- 
 vent cells, and many an ecclesiastic, too willingly for- 
 getful that all searches into the future is sm, laid aside 
 the ponderous tomes of Peter Lombard and St. Thom- 
 as Aquinas to gazo on the bright face of heaven, and 
 exchanged for the astrolabe and horoscope his accus. 
 tomed crucifix and breviary. 
 
 And a frequent theme of boastful gratulation among 
 the canoes of the richly endowed priory of St. Martin 
 le Grand was it, that one of the most learned of astro- 
 logers dwelt among them ; and often, while the humble 
 citizen, half ashamed, half afraid, knocked at the iron- 
 barred door of the sanctuary of St. Martin, to seek, 
 silver groat in hand, a revelation of the future from 
 some "figure-caster" or diviner, vvhom fear of the gal- 
 lows-tree had sent thither for refuge ; even the first 
 nobles of the land, leaving their richly-trapped palfreys 
 before the great gate, proceeded, not to the church to 
 ask counsel of Heaven, but to the study of Dr. Rey.
 
 EARL WARWICK'S KEAL Rl^G. 69 
 
 nold Bourchier, prepared to "raise up strife and de- 
 bates," or to sit quietly at home — to maintain the cause 
 of the White Rose, or to fling out the banner of the 
 Red — even as the stars, through the obscure and often 
 unintelligible reply of their hierophant, should deter- 
 mine. 
 
 A right learned man, truly, was Dr. Reynold Bour- 
 chier, although neither j'outh nor even middle age had 
 been passed in the cloister. The younger branch of 
 the ancient family of the Bourchiers, Lords Berners, 
 the father of a promising family, and engaged in courts 
 and camps, little did he once think that a cloister would 
 be his retreat in age, and the book of the stars his sol- 
 ace : better for him had it not been. But in the earli- 
 er contests of the Roses he had suffered loss ; in one 
 of those wide-spreading epidemics which were always 
 termed the plague, all his family, save one, had been 
 cut off, and Reynold Bourchier quitted England, to 
 forget, in other lands, his sorrows and his losses. At 
 length, after many years' absence, he returned, and 
 through the favor of that noble who, even then, swayed 
 the destinies of the house of York — Warwick — a por- 
 tion of his lands, Lancastraiu though he still avowed 
 himself, was restored to him, and he took up his abode, 
 and eventually the habit, by persuasion of his distant 
 relative. Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Cantebu- 
 ry, in the priory of St. Martin's le Grand. And there, 
 engaged in the delusive study of astrology, and sincere- 
 ly believing its truth, the learned canon of St. iVIar- 
 tin's passed his days, devoting all his energies to the 
 search into futurity, and to wild and vain conjectures 
 what might be the lot of that young boy, his only grand- 
 son, who, the son of an attainted Lancastrian, and born 
 amid poverty and ruin, had yet been pointed out by a 
 right learned astrologer as he in whose hands " the 
 fate of England's crown should be." 
 
 It was in the evening of the 14th of April, 1461, 
 ♦ hat Dr. Reynold Bourchier was seated a* his desk in 
 6
 
 70 EARL Wi 
 
 his study, while, occupying the high-backed oak arm- 
 chair, with eyes intently and inquiringly fixed on him, 
 sate a middle-aged, dark-haired, slern-featured, man, 
 whose loose cloak almost concealed from view the 
 gold-broidered vest, sure proof, in that age of sumptu- 
 ary laws, that the wearer bore the rank of an Earl. 
 But no ordinary nobleman was he who sat v*-atching 
 earnestly, as the scholar the lips of his teacher, the 
 solemn brow of the astrologer, but Richard Neville, 
 Earl of Salisbury and Warwick, Lord High Chamber- 
 lain of England, Lieutenant of Ireland, aad Captain 
 of Calais, that most fortunate of nobles, that most in- 
 domitable of warriors, that first of Edward's subjects, 
 if subject he might be called. At length Dr. Bour- 
 chier spoke. " There is jeopardy, and much that time 
 alone may discover ; still the stars point out a yet lof- 
 tier destiny, -and seem to say ' all things are possible 
 to Warwick.' " 
 
 " But this secret mission to bring home a bride for 
 Edward? Said ye not that he v.'ould wed at home? 
 and said ye not my daughter Anne should be queen ?" 
 
 " So saith her horoscope ; but there are other kings 
 besides Edu'avd," replied the astrologer. 
 
 Warwick looked angrily at the speaker. " What ! 
 is the Red Rose to lift her head again ?" 
 
 "What will be, will be," was the solemn reply; 
 '• for the present, the star of York is in the ascendant." 
 
 " Aiid shall be, while Warwick hath voice to com- 
 mand, Qi- hand to fight ; no, the swan may take wing, 
 and the antelope flee, but the white bear will ever be 
 steadfast to the white falcon of York." 
 
 " Be calm. Lord Warwick," said Dr. Bourchier. 
 
 "Ye are a Lancastrian," returned Warwick impet- 
 uously^f and therefore ye see omens of ill to York." 
 
 " I sec none to York, but soothly I see vchat I would 
 not in this mission ; when set you out ?" 
 
 " As'speedily as a fortunate dav may be found." 
 
 •That will be long."
 
 EAEL WARWICK S SEAL RING. 71 
 
 " Perchance, after all, my mission may not succeed, 
 for it is no wish of Edward's, and I may see my first 
 wish fulfilled, mj grandchildren heirs to tBe crown of 
 Plantagenct." 
 
 The astrologer drew a huge book to him, and slowly 
 turned over the leaves ; he paused, as though engaged 
 in anxious thought, and at length said, " Lord War- 
 wick, wouldst thou learn thy future destiny, watch 
 when the Complin bell strikes, and thou shalt know." 
 
 " Whatever be that destiny, I shall ever adhere to 
 York," said Warv/ick, sternly. 
 
 " Say nought, Lord Warwick — watch and see." 
 
 " St. George ! thou bitter Lancastrian, shall I, who 
 have sworn eternal hate to Margaret — I, who with 
 my own hands led King Henry to the Tovrer — I, who 
 swore through life and death never to desert the cause 
 of York, when we exchanged our rings before the high 
 altar at Canterbury — I, who placed with my own 
 hands the crown on young Edward's head ! — nay, said 
 ye not yourself that our destinies are linked together 
 for weal and for wo ?" 
 
 " For weal or for wo, Lord Warv\-ick — and destinies 
 may be linked in hate as in love." 
 
 " They are linked in love, old man," cried Warwick 
 fiercely. " Seek not to cozen vie with lying prophe- 
 cies ; let the Red Rose, an she dare, lift her head 
 again ; still shall she find me ready to throw down the 
 gage, and bid my deadliest enemy take it up ;" and, 
 almost unconsciously, he started up, drew off his broi- 
 dered glove, and flung it on the ground. 
 
 " Touch it not, Lord Warwick," said the astrologer, 
 solemnly ; " the hour is come, and the man, for your 
 deadliest enemy is at hand." 
 
 The deep-toned bell of St. Martin's tolled loud and 
 clear, and Warvv'ick, awe-struck, stood gazing at the 
 closed door. 
 
 " Away, Lord Warwick! there are footsteps on the 
 stairs ; hide behind the traverse," said the astrologer.
 
 7'3 SABL Warwick's seal bing. 
 
 as, wiLh an interest that was even painful, he watched 
 the opening door and him who now entered, and en- 
 tered laughingly. 
 
 He was of tall and singularly graceful figure ; of his 
 features, which were shrouded, and evidently inten- 
 tionally, in the large mantle, but little could be seen, 
 save a bright, merry, blue eye ; but that eye was suf- 
 ficient to reveal to Warwick that no deadly enemy, no 
 fierce Lancastrian, stood before him, but he to whom 
 just before he had pledged his faith, he, on whose head 
 he had placed the crown — Edward, the King ! 
 
 "Ha! what omen is this ?" cried he, bounding reck- 
 lessly forward, and snatching up the glove ; " would 
 it had been a fair lady's I" 
 
 A second person, shorter, and equally shrouded from 
 view, who had followed him in, drew him aside and 
 whispered eanestly to him. He drew back, and the 
 other came forward. " We arc sons of a country 
 knight," said he : " my brother is about to marry one 
 of two fair damsels, but the one is English, the other 
 French ; nov/ which shall he take ?" and he laid a 
 small piece of parchment, which contained a horoscope, 
 before the astrologer, who, casting an earnest glance 
 toward the disguised monarch, unfolded it. Long and 
 anxiously did he pore over it, regardless of the impa- 
 tience manifested by his visitants. " He will take the 
 English woman," said he, at length. 
 
 Edward laughed loudly. " Many thanks, Sir Astro- 
 loger, for your pleasant prediction," said he, carelessly 
 tossing a purse of rose-nobles on the desk. " Ay, 
 Richard, your falcon is mine, fairly won by St. Mary." 
 His companion earnestly pressed his arm, and spoke 
 some words in too low a tone to be heard, and they 
 hastily quitted the room. 
 
 " And this is my deadliest enemy !" cried Warwick, 
 rushing from behind the traverse, almost ere the door 
 had closed. " Old man, what mean you ?" and the
 
 EARL WARWICK'S SEAL RING. 73 
 
 quivering lip and the deadly paleness of his brow told 
 how struck he had been with the omen. 
 
 "He is," said Dr. Bourchier, solemnly ; " know ye 
 him?" 
 
 " Know him ? Holy saints ! who knows not Ed- 
 ward ?" 
 
 " The horoscope I well knew to be his, and I ear. 
 nestly endeavored to see v.-ho had brought it ; but 
 surely never would the king himself be the bearer. 
 St. Mary ! Edward of York in my cell." 
 
 " He was, and his brother Richard. Ye know him 
 not as I do ; what is there foolish or reckless that Ed- 
 ward of York would not go after most willingly ? Ye 
 see the match with the lady Bona liketh not him, and, 
 half in sport, half in earnest, he hath wagered with his 
 brother to come hither and ask your counsel." 
 
 " The holy saints have you ever in their steadfast 
 keeping, Lord Warwick I" said Dr. Bourchier, earn- 
 estly gazing upon the awe-stricken countenance of that 
 bold warrior, who, on the battle-field, had never known 
 fear. " Little as yourself could I ever believe that 
 King Edward v.'ould seek my counsel. But it hath 
 been so ; he hath taken up your gage, and you must 
 abide his challenge." 
 
 Warv/ick sate long in moody silence ; he well knew 
 that in this case there could have been no collusion, 
 and he shuddered at the awful omen ; still he could 
 not bring his mind to believe that Edward, who, way- 
 ward and reckless as he was, had ever regarded him as 
 a father, should turn against him, nor that he, the prop 
 and the stay of the house of York, should lift his hand 
 against that edifice which he. beyond every other, had 
 labored to uphold, and in whose stability, he, too, be 
 yond all others was so deeply interested. At length 
 he spoke. "Give me counsel, good Dr. Bourchier ; 
 for myself I know not what to do." 
 
 " liight willingly v/ould I, Lord Warwick ; but here 
 is a cloud which I cannot prnptrate. and future events 
 6*
 
 74 EARL WARWICK^S SEAL RING. 
 
 alone can throw light upon the omen of this evening* 
 Do this — set out on your mission as speedily as you 
 can, for the results of that will show what your after- 
 course must be." The astrologer paused, for again 
 footsteps were heard on the stair : the door opened, and 
 a beautiful boy, about sixteen years of age, bounded in. 
 " My young Amias, wherefore art ihou here ?" said 
 he, gazing at him with much fondness. 
 
 The boy laughed. " Master Philip Malpas sent me 
 hither," said he ; " good grandfather, are ye not glad 
 to see me ?" He paused and drew back, for he per- 
 ceived that he was in the presence of a stranger, whose 
 eyes were intently fixed upon him. 
 
 " Come hither, young boy," said Warwick; "what 
 hold you in your hand ?" 
 
 The boy "^advanced timidly. " A fan-, broidered 
 glove, v/hich a young man flung towards me, just as I 
 entered the great gate," said he, holding it out to War- 
 wick, who eagerly snatched it. 
 
 •' St. Mary! my own glove !" said he. 
 
 The astrologer looked at the earl, and then at his 
 grandson, with a troubled countenance, while War- 
 wick rose to depart. " Methinks this omen after all 
 is not so gloomy," said he ; " my gage hath been re- 
 turned, not exchanged, and by a fair young messen- 
 ger," and he stroked the fair boy on the head. " Fare- 
 well, Dr. Bourchier," continued he, " I will set out to- 
 morrow, and the holy saints clear up this strange mys- 
 tery." 
 
 " Heaven grant it. Lord Warwick !" said the as- 
 trologer earnestly, as ho departed. " St. Mary is my 
 witness, how little I ever dreamt such an omen would 
 come to pass." 
 
 " Is that Lord Warwick, the King-maker ?" said the 
 boy, turning to his grandfather, " methought I saw 
 him last night." 
 
 " Where ?"
 
 EARL WARWICK S SEAL RING. iO 
 
 " Oh, only that I dreamt of him, and methought I 
 had his white bear and ragged staff worked on my 
 breast. I little thought I should see him to-day." 
 
 " And wherefore was it that ye came hither ?" 
 
 " Old master Philip INIalpas, the goldsmith, bade 
 me come, for he said he sought an hour's talk with 
 you, and would pray you send w^ord when he should 
 come." 
 
 " It is well," said the astrologer ; " I should like an 
 hour's converse with him, for he is a learned man"— 
 and again he turned to his desk and pored over his 
 great book, as though unconscious that the only tie 
 which bound him to the world, his young grandson, 
 stood before him. 
 
 Long after the curfew bell had rung out, and the 
 convent had retired to rest, was the lamp still burning 
 in Dr. Bourchier's study, while he, employed in medi- 
 tating on the unlooked-for events of the evening, and 
 comparing the horoscopes of the three who had taken 
 part in them, was earnestly attempting to wrest from 
 their mysterious symbols that knowledge which Hea- 
 ven has forbidden to man. " It must be so," said he, 
 as he closed his huge book, and looked out from the 
 open casement at the clear stars that sparkled above 
 him, while the distant notes of the organ, and choral 
 chant, told that his brethren, aroused from their first 
 sleep, were joining in the midnight " Lauds" — " yes, it 
 must be," said he ; " the fates of Edward, Warwick, 
 and my young grandson, are linked in strange con- 
 junction together. Surely it vras no vain prophecy 
 that Baptista Santa Croce pronounced, when he said, 
 " The fate of England's crown shall be in that child's 
 hands." 
 
 Time swiftly passed, and Warwick returned from 
 his mission, and, in state inferior to royalty alone, pro- 
 cee^ded in his barge to Westminster. But here was no 
 sovereign anxiously awaiting his arrival, and he was 
 told that Edward had set out that verv morning hunt.
 
 76 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 ing, and had left a careless message that he had gone 
 toward St. Albans, 
 
 " And to St. Albans will I go," said Warwick, 
 sternly, turning to his retainers, " Saddle me my 
 iron-grey steed, and meet me at the Aldersgate," 
 
 One short hour saw him on his road, and onward 
 he and his company journeyed in moody silence, until 
 they reached the neighborhood of Barnet, when they 
 were roused by the merry notes of a bugle, and at the 
 same moment a gallantly.arrayed hunter, mounted on 
 a milk-white palfrey, and followed by six horsemen, 
 passed toward a narrow lane a short distance before 
 them. 
 
 " Saints," cried Warwick, turning to his nearest at- 
 tendant, " yonder 's Lady Blanche — and by my hali- 
 dome. King Edward I" 
 
 The attendant looked earnestly. " It is the King's 
 grace, methinks," said he. 
 
 "It is, assuredly," cried Warwick, spurring onward, 
 and soon he approached near enough to recognise in 
 the tightly-fitted vest of green saye, the jewelled col- 
 lar, the broidered scarf, and the flat crimson cap, 
 whose rich heron plume contrasted so well with the 
 profusion of rich golden hair, the vain and graceful 
 Edward Piantagenet, who stopped, turned gaily round, 
 and his bright laughing eyes met the stern glance of 
 Warwick. 
 
 The color mounted to his brow, as he drew back en- 
 deavoring to conceal his vexation. " My lord of War- 
 wick rides fast this morning," said he. 
 
 " The messenger needs, when he for whom the mes- 
 sage is intended doth so," was the reply. "Methought 
 we should have met in London." 
 
 " We awaited your coming until yesternight, and 
 then we set forth to disport ourselves this sweet spring- 
 tide weather," said Edward, carelessly; "but how 
 have ye sped ?"
 
 KARL WARWICK S SEAL RING. 77 
 
 '•Well, my liege; — should ye choose to marry the 
 I^ady Bona, all is ready." 
 
 "And what if I should not ?" 
 
 " Wherefore thought ye not of this before ?" 
 
 " Soothly I did — but the council would give their 
 judgment that Edward should wed none but a damsel 
 o^roijal birth. St. -Mary I they will be mistaken." 
 
 Warwick looked earnestly at the speaker. " What 
 mean you^ King Edward ? Wherefore, then, was I 
 sent on this embassy ?" 
 
 " Nay, question me not, good Warwick, for I have 
 far to ride ere evening, and my lady-love awaiteth my 
 coming." 
 
 The bridle-rein dropped from Warwick's hand, and 
 he fixed his keen eye on the king. " Your lady-love !" 
 
 " Ay, my lady-love, whom I am now about to see," 
 said Edward impatiently. 
 
 " King Edward, what mean you ?" 
 
 " That I shall follow my own pastime, and act as 
 best pleaseth me," replied Edward, petulantly ; and, 
 turning Lady Blanche toward the narrow lane, he gal- 
 lopped swiftly away. 
 
 One moment Warwick sate motionless, and who can 
 tell the bitterness of the thoughts that crowded in that 
 one short moment on his mind ! " I will learn all," 
 said he. " Oh, surely that omen spake truly.'" He 
 set spurs to his iron-grey steed, and, soon passing the 
 astonished attendants, came up with the monarch, 
 whose light-hearted laugh echoed long. *' King Ed- 
 ward," said he, " one word, and one only — do you wed 
 the Lady Bona ?" 
 
 Edward turned angrily round. " We are too old to 
 be questioned," said he, " and methinks Lord Warwick 
 shows scant cour.tesy in thus followmg us when we 
 wish to ride onward." 
 
 " I hav^e little wish to follow," said Warwick, bit- 
 terly ; "but I demand an answer to my question — do 
 vou wed the Ladv Bona ?"
 
 78 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 ''^Demand an answer!" Soothly, Lord Warwick, is 
 Lady Courtesy's adopted son, to speak thus to his liege 
 lord !" 
 
 " Who made thee so, proud and scornful monarch ? 
 Who lifted thy banner from the dust, when thy father's 
 head blackened above York Gate ? Who raised up the 
 White Rose, and trampled down the Red ?" 
 
 " Mine own good sw^ord, and mine own good cause." 
 
 " Thine own good sword — what were it to War- 
 wick's ? and thine own good cause — St. Mary ! it had 
 fared ill, but for the swords of my followers." 
 
 " My Lord of Warwick and Salisbury bears himself 
 right proudly this morning," said Edward, and a smile, 
 almost of scorn, curled his beautiful lip. " Perchance 
 he may think to transfer his aid to the weaker cause ; 
 and soothly pious Henry needeth fierce speakers and 
 fierce fighters, seeing he can do nought of himself, far 
 more than he who hath seized his crown and can de- 
 fend it." 
 
 " Edward ! do you trifle with mine allegiance ?" 
 cried Warwick, sternly. " Take heed — the bear may 
 be baited mitil he turn and rend his foeman.'' 
 
 " The bear will always be foremost," said Edward, 
 bitterly ; and therefore, what wonder if he should, af- 
 ter all, side with the timid antelope of Lancaster, when 
 the white falcon of York breaks the creance by which 
 he hath too long been held. Well, be it so," continued 
 he, his reckless impetuosity of temper surmounting 
 every better feeling; " Edward can crush the Red 
 Rose, should it lift its head again, as easily as scatter 
 these flowers with his riding wand." 
 
 He struck, as he spoke, a beautiful bough of open- 
 ing wild roses, which hung halfway across the narrow 
 road ; but not one leaf fell, and they bounded up again, 
 and waved their blushing blossoms in defiance. War- 
 wick fixed his eyes eagerly, as Edward again angrily 
 struck at the bough — again it bent, again not a leaf
 
 EARL WARWICK'iS SEAL RING. 79 
 
 fell, bat in llie rebound it struck the white palfrey on 
 the face, who reared and plunged violently. 
 
 " What say ye to the Red Rose, now ?" cried War- 
 wick. " Oh I there is truth in omens of Ul!" and his 
 thoughts turned to that evening when Edward had so 
 unconsciously taken up the glove. 
 
 Edward turned coolly round, and marked with an- 
 ger the blank and horror-struck looks of his attend- 
 ants. '« It is your presence, my lord, that brings evil 
 omens," said he, " and therefore your question I will 
 answer, because it will relieve us from your unwished, 
 for company. Marry the lady Bona / will not ; and 
 ask ye the reason, / am iced." 
 
 " To whom ? Edward of York — v/ed ! to whom ?" 
 
 "It is truly fitting that the King of England should 
 reply to all that Lord Warwick asks," said Edward, 
 keeping down his anger to add bitterness to his sarcasm, 
 " and truly fitting, too, that Lord Warwick should 
 know my lady-love's name, that, as Lord High Cham- 
 berlain at her coronation, he may be ready to do her 
 his accustomed suit and service. The Lady Elizabeth 
 Wydville is my bride, who, albeit the widow of one 
 who was only a Lancastrian knight, is yet daughter 
 to an earl, though he beareth not the quarterings of 
 the Beauchamps and the Nevilles." Edward lifted his 
 cap, with a mock expression of humility, and bowed 
 with a smile of scorn, " And now, hath my Lord of 
 Warwick any more to ask ?" 
 
 Warwick turned a gloomy look on him, and with vi- 
 olent effort replied, "Thou hast baited the bear — 
 'ware his vengeance." 
 
 Edward again bowed with mock humility, and, set- 
 ting spurs to Lady Blanche, swiftly rode on. The 
 trample of the horses aroused Warwick from his bitter 
 dream. " Edward," cried he, "stay ! wherefore should 
 I keep thy father's ring, when the son thus scorns my 
 friendship ? Take it, and my defiance I" He snatched 
 a ring from his forefinger, and flung it far on the roa'^ •
 
 80 EARL Warwick's seal RI^'G. 
 
 then setting spurs to his iron-grey, he swiftly rejoined 
 his wandering company. 
 
 Meanwhile Edward rode on in angry silence. He 
 felt that he was already about to reap the fruit of his 
 ill-advised marriage, in the hostility, perhaps the defec- 
 tion, of the most powerful and most attached of all his 
 nobles, and it was with no lover-like haste that he pur- 
 .sued his journey, until the towers of Grafton rose be- 
 fore him. There, even when the politic Duchess Ja- 
 queline came forward with flask of wine a,nd spice- 
 plate, and the fair Elizabeth herself bounded lightly to 
 meet him, a cloud overspread his brow. He set down 
 the cup of untasted wine ; he gazed coldly on the deli- 
 cate features of his three weeks' bride, and too well 
 did her subtle mother perceive, though as yet she knew 
 not the cause, that no chain, however fine, could long 
 bind captive the white falcon of York. 
 
 " Our Lady sain ye, Lord Warwick," cried Dr. 
 Bourchier, as, pale and agitated, he entered the study ; 
 "what hath come to pass? I sent a message to War- 
 wick House, praying ye not to see the King to-day, but 
 'twas said ye had not returned." 
 
 " And wherefore not ?" 
 
 " Because there is jeopardy — danger of loss of favor, 
 danger even to your house." 
 
 "Danger of loss of favor have I already incurred — 
 ves, Edward and I have met, and parted /oeme/i .'" 
 
 "St. Mary!" 
 
 " Aye. and he is wed, wed to the upstart River's 
 daughter ^ and he taunted me with my noble ancestry, 
 with the bearings of the Beauchamps and the Nevilles — 
 the bear hath been shrewdly baited, but the time will 
 come — will it not ? — when he shall be avenged." 
 
 The astrologer gazed on Warwick in silence, struck 
 dumb with astonishment at the accurate fulfilment of 
 his own predictions ; at length he found words. " And 
 what eaid ye to him ?"
 
 EAEL WARWICK S SEAL RING. 81 
 
 " Defied him, and flung back the ring that his fa- 
 ther exchanged with me." 
 
 " The saints forefend ! and yet surely that very ring 
 is on your finger." 
 
 Warwick looked hurriedly on the ring which re- 
 mained on his right hand. " It is," said he. " St. 
 George and St. Michael ! 't is mine own seal ring that 
 I have cast away." 
 
 "Heed it not, Lord Warwick ; Philip Malpas will 
 soon make ye a better." 
 
 " He will not, he cannot ; wo worth the day ! would 
 it had been this ring I" 
 
 " Say not so ; on that ring depends much, much 
 that time alone will show." 
 
 " But on the other depends more ; it was made by 
 a learned man who will never make another, finished 
 at a fortunate point of time, endowed with great and 
 wondrous virtues. St. Mary ! five hundred marks 
 would I willingly give to him who could restore it." 
 
 " Perchance it may be found." 
 
 " No, no, my evil destiny prevails ; but truly who- 
 ever brought me that ring might gain even whatever 
 he asked for." 
 
 Both sat in silence — Warwick absorbed in unavail- 
 ing grief for the loss of his so highly prized seal ring, 
 and Dr. Bourchier in anxious conjectures as to what 
 the peculiar virtues of that cherished ring could be, 
 for Warwick had never before even spoke of it. At 
 length Warwick rose. " Dr. Bourchier, I thank you 
 for your skill," said he ; "ye have foretold most truly 
 things which I little deemed would come to pass — 
 show me how I may avert their evil consequences. 
 Be a friend to me, as I have ever shown myself to you, 
 and ask what guerdon ye please." 
 
 " For myself I have nought to ask ; but, Lord War- 
 wick, my young grandson would I commend to your 
 care," said the well pleased astrologer, 
 7
 
 82 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 " I will lake charge of him — bid him be with me to- 
 morrow, for I shall set forth for Middleham Castle; 
 farewell." 
 
 " The blessed saints be praised !" ejaculated the ca- 
 non of St. Martin's, as the proud Earl of Warwick de- 
 parted: '• the first step for my young Amias is gained 
 — once under the protection of the white bear, little 
 need I fear for him, and who may tell what his after- 
 course may be 1 O, sweet St. Mary, grant him but to 
 uplift the Red Rose banner, and my last wish will be 
 fulfilled!" 
 
 Warwick departed to Middleham Castle ; but, ere 
 long, message after message was sent by the now re- 
 pentant Edward, suing for reconciliation, wuth offers 
 of manors and wardships, and of dignities to be be- 
 stowed upon his relatives (for on Warwick scarcely 
 could another high office be heaped), until, at length, 
 urged by his brothers and softened by so many conces- 
 sions., he acceded to the hollow peace. Lands and 
 honors were lavished on his brother, Lord Montague ; 
 the mitre of York itself was placed on the youthful 
 brow of his youngest brother, George Neville, the 
 chancellor — and, in bitter payment for all this, at the 
 feast of Michaelmas, at the abby of Reading, Warwick 
 himself led in the luckless Elizabeth W^ydville, to re- 
 ceive the homage of the nobles. " Wait, and be wary, 
 Warwick," said the canon of St. Martin's; " the time 
 will come at length, but till then must the bear be 
 chained." 
 
 Six anxious, feverish, unsettled years passed away, 
 and often was the hollow peace between Edward and 
 Warwick broken, and as often most unexpectedly 
 made up. Hopes of the re-blossoming of the Red Rose 
 had almost fleeted from the minds of even the warmest 
 Lancastrians, while the Yorkists, irritated at the pro-
 
 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 83 
 
 fligacy and tyranny of their once popular monarch, 
 began to murmur bitterly, if not loudly, and to accuse 
 that reckless system of favoritism which had raised 
 even the most distant relatives of Elizabeth to an 
 equality with the ancient nobility of the land. Still 
 little would the spectator, as he gazed at the merry 
 faces of the holyday clad citizens who crowded the 
 then wide churchyard of St. Paul's and Ludgate, be- 
 lieve that aught of discontent could find place among 
 them ; but the day v\-as bright and summer-like, and a 
 splendid procession, bound to their own catl^edral, and 
 to do honor to their own tutelar saint, was about to 
 pass by, for it was the feast of St. Edward the Con- 
 fessor ; and King Edward and his attendant nobles 
 were to offer a new- cloth of gold pall at the shrine of 
 the canonized Erkenwald, 
 
 " Stand up here, good Margery," said an old woman 
 to her companion, who, equally old, and leaning on a 
 cross-handled stick, made her way with difficulty 
 through the crowd — " stand up just here ; good Mas. 
 ter Malpas is not a churl, to drive away an old woman 
 from his door ; and here we can see all down Ludgate, 
 and right to the great door of St. Paul's." 
 
 " Ay, so we can," replied the other, "but, yet, me- 
 thinks, we have seen better sights years agone ; mind 
 ye not, in fifiy-eight, when good King Henry, and 
 York, and all the lords, went to make up their peace?" 
 
 "Right well, but saints, here are so many quarrels 
 and reconcilements, one can scantly remember them 
 all." 
 
 " And there will be more, with our rightful king 
 kept in prison, and his son flying none knoweth 
 where." 
 
 " Peace, good Margery, such things may not be 
 said ; only yesternight Ralph Aston, for telling some 
 of his neighbors that things would never go well till 
 my Lord Warwick was foremost, was sent for by the 
 aldermen "
 
 84 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 " And truly, methinks, vrc all may say so," said a 
 bold looking man, who stood beside, in a leather doub. 
 let and flat worsted cap, the common dress of the art- 
 izans. "Who keepeth better house than Lord War- 
 wick ? six fat oxen cooked every morning for break- 
 fast. I promise ye I had ofttimes last winter lacked a 
 breakfast, but for the buttery-hatch at Warwick 
 Hou=e." 
 
 " And so had I," interposed another, whose thread, 
 bare jerkin, stained with rust, and hose half murray 
 and half blue, the livery colors of York, showed him 
 to be a disbanded man-at-arms. "Ay, I was sent 
 home from Calais half dead last year, and might have 
 died for all the lord of Calais would care, but, thanks 
 to the sanctuary of St. Martin, where I found a home, 
 (though 't was among beggarly company), and my 
 noble Lord Warwick's beef and mutton, I am e'en 
 ready to fight again, though it needs not to say for 
 whom." 
 
 A significant glance was exchanged between the 
 four, and Margery in a lower tone said, " And what 
 did they say at Calais about that noble earl and the 
 French king ?" 
 
 " Say, good wife ? that my Lord Warwick might 
 even have his will of him. Now that king is old, and 
 wise, and learned in the stars, right different I '11 war- 
 rant ye to him yonder, and he hath a grizzled beard, 
 and weareth a doublet not worth a groat, but, he 's 
 very wise, and, 't is thought by many that, as he read- 
 eth the stars, he can see somewhat that w« cannot, 
 but, that will be." 
 
 " Saints grant it ! Ay, methought I would come 
 out once again," said Margery, " to see my Lord War- 
 v.uck, and perchance I m.ight see my own dear foster- 
 child, too." 
 
 " I doubt an ye will see Lord Warwick to-day," 
 said the man-at-arms, " for he was not at Warwick 
 House this morning."
 
 EARL Warwick's seal rlng. 85 
 
 "St. Mary I is there a new quarrel?" ejaculated 
 the three. 
 
 " Have ye not heard," said a man who had just come 
 up, " that the king hath had nev.'s that my lord of 
 Warwick and his son-in-law Clarence have been levy- 
 ing men in their own name in Lincolnshire, instead of 
 fighting the rebels ?" 
 
 " Rebels ! marry, so say all your great ones when 
 poor souls half starving take the law into their own 
 hands," cried the man in the leathern doublet. 
 
 " Ye say true, good master," replied the man-at. 
 arms. " What was Robin of Redesdale's rising, and 
 this of the Lincolnshire men, but because they lacked 
 bread ? — here's nought of White Rose or Red in this 
 matter," 
 
 " But, there may be somewhat of the white bear in 
 the matter," replied the last comer, with a significant 
 nod. 
 
 " Ay, then vv^ill my dreaiii be made out," said Mar = 
 gery, shaking her head. 
 
 "What dream was it, good mistress ?" cried each 
 and all eagerly. 
 
 " Why, St. Mary be gracious to us I but I saw my 
 Lord of Warwick, and he had his long furred mantle» 
 all glittering vvith his gold-cross crosslets, and me- 
 thought he started up, and my sweet foster-child came 
 to him with a Red Rose in his hand." 
 
 " Ay, and he took it, I '11 warrant," cried the man- 
 at.arms. 
 
 " Yes, and he threw off his mantle, when, behold 
 you, enamelled just on the breast-plate of his tilting 
 suit of brass inland armor was another Red Rose, and 
 then was there shouting and noise of great guns — so 
 I awoke." 
 
 " What say ye to this omen ?" whispered an eccle- 
 siastic, who in company with a richly-dreesed citizen 
 had drawn near. 
 7*
 
 86 EARL WARWICK S SEAL RING. 
 
 ♦■ 1 heed not such," Y>-as the reply. " King Aloazo 
 decrrieth nought of them, as ye may see in his book, 
 neither doth Raymond Lully." 
 
 *« I do, for I have often found them true." 
 
 " Alas 1 Dr. Bourchier, your mind is set upon the 
 Red Rose, and so each thing that makes for your 
 cause is a certain omen. O sweet St. Mary, would 
 that wars m.ight cease 1" 
 
 Master Philip Malpas, for it was he, now knocked 
 at his door, and, in the kindly spirit of the ancient 
 citizen, bidding the groupe keep their places, and send- 
 ing out a tankard of ale, followed his guest up stairs 
 to the best room, which from its two bay-windows dis. 
 played two marvellously rich " counterpoints" of blue 
 and murray satin, worked with huge knots of flowers, 
 and fastened to the window-sills by stout pins, bear- 
 ing, in default of the natural rose, goodly rosettes of 
 white satin. 
 
 And now onward came the long procession, canons, 
 prebendaries, sub-dean, and dean of St. Paul's, all in 
 snowy vestments and rich copes, chanting the psalms 
 of the day ; then the city dignitaries — aldermen, whose 
 long scarlet robes half enveloped their richly- trapped 
 palfreys, the castellan of the city in knightly armor, 
 bearing the gules banner of its guardian, St. Paul, and 
 Sir Richard Lee, the Lord Mayor, Vvith collar of S S., 
 and sable-lined robe of crimson velvet, followed by 
 m.en-at-arms, the red cross of London worked on their 
 shoulder, and surmounted by the "White Rose en so. 
 liel.^^ Then, amid flourislies of trumpets and the deaf, 
 ening thunder of kettle-drums, advanced the officers 
 of state, their respective arms embroidered on the side 
 sleeves of their rich satin or velvet mantles ; and, con- 
 spicuous am.ong them all, the silver maces of his civil 
 office, and the silver crosses of his archbishopric, borne 
 reverently before hun by the younger sons of the first 
 families in the land, clad in purple, and with blazing 
 mitre on his milk-white mule, came George Neville,
 
 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 87 
 
 Chancellor of England, primate of York, youngest 
 brother of Warwick, whose dark fierce eye, as it 
 glanced a look of contempt at the crowd on either side 
 that waited for his benediction, seemed to tell, in lan- 
 guage far more forcible than words, how he cursed the 
 selfish policy of his father and brother, which had 
 doomed him when a fiery youth of nineteen to the 
 cloister, and compelled him to relinquish lance and 
 war-steed for the breviary and mule of the churchman. 
 
 And now came Edward, his tight vest of white 
 cloth of gold clasped by diamond rosettes, and his long 
 royal mantle of crimson velvet lined with blue de- 
 scending almost below the deep bases of his white paL 
 frey, and bearing on either side the royal arms worked 
 in stiff but rich broidery. On one side rode the Mar. 
 quis of Dorset, Lord Rivers, his brotlier-in-law, and 
 on the right his brother Richard of York, gorgeously 
 arrayed in cloth of gold and purple, with pale and thin 
 features, but keen and searching eye, and figure, 
 whose slight deformity was scarcely perceptible (Tudor 
 policy not havmg as yet affixed an apocryphal hurnp 
 to his shoulders) ; and when, animated by the gay 
 scene, Edward looked up to the open casements, and 
 saw the dames and damsels of his " good city" gazing 
 with unrepressed admiration at the monarch, Avhose 
 singular personal beauty excited the wondering notice 
 of Philip de Commines, he gracefully lifted his cap, 
 and bent almost to the saddle-bow, while shouts of 
 " A York ! a York !" rent the air. 
 
 " Ay, he 's well fitted to ride in state," said the 
 man-at-arms, " better at a feast than at a fray ; but, 
 for a knight on his war-steed — and soothly, v^'hat 
 can be a fairer sight ? — commend mc to Lord AN'ar- 
 wick." 
 
 The notice of the spectators was now directed to a 
 slight confusion, occasioned by a young man, who had 
 just ridden out of Ave Mary Lane, attempting to make 
 his way toward the cathedral, and who had been rude-
 
 88 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 \y repulsed by the men-at-arms, who formed a liiie 
 across the way. He seemed to have come from a dis. 
 tance, as he was wrapped in a travelling cloak, and 
 he was followed by four horsemen, whose cognisance 
 could scarcely be seen ; still the trappings of his steed, 
 and the graceful though almost haughty bearing of 
 the rider, proved that he belonged to the household of 
 some noble family. " Make way, good folk, make 
 way," said he, "or I must e'en stay here, forsooth, 
 till the procession comes back." 
 
 " Somewhat new for a follower of Lord Warwick's 
 to wait," said a young man in a splendid mantle, with 
 the arms of the Rivers family worked on the side 
 sleeve. 
 
 " Not so new, Sir malapart," replied the stranger, 
 fiercely, " as for your master to ride with kings." 
 
 " St. George !" cried the man-at-arms, bounding 
 forward ; " my gallant leader. Sir Amias Bourchier I 
 A Warwick ! a Warwick ! toss up your caps, my 
 masters — ay, the white bear will soon put the blue 
 lion to flight, and a score besides, I trow." 
 
 The young kniglit turned laughingly round. " What, 
 Jenkin, art there ?" He then caught the eye of old 
 Margery, which was earnestly fixed upon him, and he 
 immediately turned toward her. "What, Margery, 
 my good nurse, art thou here, too ?" 
 
 " Ay, said I not that thou wouldst be a great man ?" 
 cried she. " Heaven prosper thee, and the Red Rose, 
 too I Ah I my dream will come true." 
 
 " I would counsel ye, fair sir, to ride onward," said 
 one of the officers of the city watch ; " these borel men 
 may make debate, and our city may perchance suffer 
 harm." 
 
 " There will be scant danger of that," said the 
 young knight proudly, " if the upstart nobles teach 
 but their servants courtesy." 
 
 "When the Nevilles cease to teach rebellion, then
 
 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 89 
 
 will be time for courtesy," said the young man v.itli 
 the Rivers' cognisance. 
 
 '• Repeat those words at your peril 1" cried the 
 young knight, throwing off his cloak, and half un- 
 sheathing his sword. 
 
 " When the Nevilles cease to teach and to practise 
 rebellion," said the other, putting himself in posture 
 of defence. 
 
 " A foul slander, which I fling back in thy teeth," 
 cried the young knight. " Make way, good people, 
 and let me prove to the popinjay what it is to arouse 
 the b.ar." 
 
 The populace, with shouts of " A Warwick ! a War- 
 wick!" made room for the combatants. "Sweet St. 
 Mary !" cried Master Philip Malpas, "here's strife in 
 the very streets with Lord Rivers' and Lord War- 
 wick's followers ; what may it portend ?" 
 
 The canon of St. Martin's eagerly advanced to the 
 window, unconscious who stood below. " Warwick 
 prevails^" cried he, " and see, the young knight aims 
 a blow at his foeman's cap ; the White Rose hath 
 fallen, and is even now trampled beneath his horse's 
 feet. Heaven fulfil the omen !" 
 
 The arrival of a party of the king's men-at-arms 
 put an end to the contest. " The white bear hath 
 chased away the blue lion," cried the bystanders. 
 
 "And hath struck down the White Rose of York," 
 said Jenkin, pointing to the trampled rosette ; " what 
 say ye to that, my masters ?" Many a significant look 
 was exchanged, and many an ejaculation uttered, for 
 an omen like that was believed by most to shadow 
 forth a change of dynasty. 
 
 Meanwhile, the young knight, sending his horse and 
 his attendants back to Warwick House, entered ihat 
 of Master Philip Malpas, right glad to withdraw from 
 notice, and half fearing the result of the omen of the 
 White Rose. 
 
 " Ay, all will come to pass in Heaven's good time,"
 
 90 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 cried Dr. Bourchier, overjoyed that liis darling grand- 
 son should have been victor ; '• and wherefore came 
 ye up ?" 
 
 " With a letter to the Arclibishop of York, which 
 I was to deliver into his hands only," said Amias. 
 " St. George, I promised to deliver it before high mass, 
 and had done so, but for this debate and strife." 
 
 "And there will be yet more debate and strife, until 
 the Red Rose be lifted up," said Dr. Bouchier. 
 
 " 'T is passing strange," said Master Philip Malpas, 
 musingly, " that, from that very time my lord of War. 
 wick cast away his seal-ring, he hath never prospered 
 as heretofore ; methinks it must have been a talisman 
 of hidden virtues, and I the more believe so, seeing 
 that he never spoke of it. even to you, until it was 
 lost ; for secrcsy preserveth the charm." 
 
 *' St. Mary, grant that Uiis ring may be a talisman 
 of mighty power I" said the young knight, holding out 
 a ring, laughingly, " for then I would give it to my 
 lady-love." 
 
 Master Philip Malpas took the ring ; it was dim, 
 and seemed covered with clay. " Where found ye it ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " Oh, just behind Barnet, this morning, in a half dry 
 ditch; but it glittered, and methought I would pick it 
 up." 
 
 " 'Tis of goodly workmanship," said the goldsmith, 
 carefully wiping it, and examining it wnth well-prac- 
 tised eye; "but, holy St. Dunstan I it may well be 
 goodly workmanship, for here is Baptista Santa Croce's 
 own mark upon it." 
 
 "Let me see it," cried Dr. Bourchier, earnestly; 
 *' 't is a seal-ring, an agate seal ring : good Master 
 Malpas — what is the graving ? — it must be ! and yet, 
 holy saints I can it be ?" 
 
 " Be calm, Dr. Bourchier, it may be as you think, 
 for here is the bear and ragged staff, and the bear is 
 unchained, and there is a star above, and a sun below."
 
 EARL WARWICK S SEAL Rl.NG. 91 
 
 " St. Mary 1 St. Mary ! then it is so, and Lord War. 
 wick's own seal-ring is returned to him after six years I 
 I myself will take it to Lord Warwick, for the time is 
 come, even as was shown when yonder White Rose 
 lay trampled under yon palfrey's feet." 
 
 " The bear unchained, and the sun below," said 
 Master Philip iMalpas; "truly that foreshoweth the 
 'ascendency of W^arwick over York ; and it must be so, 
 for, never did Baptista Santa Croce form a talisman, 
 but it was of certain power, or give a sign, but it was 
 sure to come to pass." 
 
 " And all his sayings will come to pass," cried the 
 enthusiastic Lancastrian, gazing earnestly on his 
 grandson ; " ay, Amias, the Red Rose will, indeed, lift 
 her head again, and it is for you and Lord Warwick 
 to unfurl her banner." 
 
 A gay and a spirit-stirring scene did the inner court- 
 j'ard of Warwick Castle present, on the morrow of St. 
 Alphege, for Lord Warwick was about to set forth to 
 join his son-in-law Clarence with his own retainers ; 
 and, although the rustic crowd that had pressed in to 
 gaze upon the right royal state of the great earl were 
 uncertain whether the well armed company were about 
 to fight against the peasantry who were now in arms 
 under the guidance of Sir Robert Welles and Sir 
 Charles Delalaunde, or were intended to support them, 
 still, when they watched the retainers in their bright 
 scarlet coats, v/ilh the proud badge, the white ragged 
 staff worked on the breast and shoulder, and the men- 
 at-arms in glittering plate-armor, and morions that 
 threw back the sunbeams like a polished mirror, and 
 the pages and esquires, in broidered surcoats, and 
 knights in inlaid suits of armor, and plumed helmets, 
 mounted on their richly caparisoned war-steeds, and 
 Warwick himself conspicuous, with nodding white
 
 92 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 plume and blazoned mantle, their shouts rent the air, 
 and there was neither lip nor heart that echoed not 
 *' Success to Warwick!" But, unmoved by the, glad 
 shouts, and, hastily withdrawing his hand from the 
 clasp of his daughter, the Lady Anne, Warwick turned 
 hastily away, and was about descending the steps, 
 when his eye rested upon an old man in the garb of an 
 ecclesiastic. "Dr. Bourchier, wherefore art tkou here?" 
 said he. 
 
 " To bid you be up and doing, for the time is now 
 come." 
 
 " Noiv come," cried Warwick, bitterly, " when Ed- 
 ward seeketh but new occasion of strife ? when, with- 
 out cause, he hath charged me with treason ; hath 
 come down to Erpinghara, and given battle to those he 
 is pleased to call rebels, as though / were unworthy 
 to lift his banner ?" 
 
 " Yes ; now is the time." 
 
 •« And for what ?" 
 
 "Cast av.-ay the White Rose, and uplift the Red." 
 
 The reply was given in no under-tone, and the old 
 man looked proudly around, as though he brought in- 
 deed a message from Heaven ; and the retainers of the 
 earl gazed with awe-stricken wonder upon him. 
 
 " Uplift the Red Rose ?" said Warwick ; " how can 
 I, pledged as I am to the White. Often have I and 
 Edward striven together, but never did I forfeit faith 
 to the Whiie Rose." 
 
 " But, if Edward has forfeited faith with you — if the 
 solemn pledge given by him to the father of Sir Robert 
 Welles halh been broken, and Sir Charles Delalaunde 
 and Sir Robert Welles both lie headless ?" 
 
 " St. George 1 it cannot be." 
 
 " Ask yonder messengers, who have ridden fast and 
 far, what tidings they bring." 
 
 The weary messengers who had just arrived ad- 
 vanced, and told how the two leaders of the misguided 
 peasantry had, in contempt of the king's solemn pro-
 
 EARL WARWICK'S SEAL RING. 93 
 
 rnif?e, been beheaded as traitors, and liow that Edward 
 ]iad even now despatched Garter Kinnr at Arms to 
 "Warwick, to summon him to return to his allegiance. 
 
 " The time is come," cried Warwick, fiercely tear- 
 ing the White Rose from his helm, and dashing it on 
 the ground : "summon 7ne, Edward, as thou listest, 
 but, the hand that placed the crown on thy brow shall 
 again uncrown thee." 
 
 " Take thy ring. Lord Warv.'ick," said the astrolo- 
 ger, j)lacing on his finger the long-lost seal ring ; " six 
 years hath it been trampled in the dust, even like the 
 fortunes of Lancaster ; now is it recovered, and now 
 is the time to unfurl that banner ; for never, so say the 
 steadfast stars, shall victory desert his standard who 
 wearcth this ring." 
 
 " For the Red Rose aiiJ Lancaster !" cried War- 
 wick, spell-bound by the words and by the gift of that 
 aged enthusiast, and the glad cry was caught up by 
 ail around. It echoed through the streets of War- 
 wick, it resounded to the ancient city of Coventry, and 
 town after town, and city after city, heard the strange 
 tidings that Earl Warvv'ick had advanced the banner 
 of Lancaster : — that day the Red Rose revived again. 
 
 Summer came, and had well nigh passed away, ere 
 the Red Rose in London lifted her head above her 
 snowy rival. In the northern and western parts of 
 the kingdom, the cause of Lancaster was triumphant; 
 and, roused at length to a sense of his danger, Edward 
 set out for York, to give battle to his enemies, ere 
 that Warwick, in company with young Prince Edvv-ard, 
 aided by the power' of the French king, should return 
 to England, and raise Henry from his prison in the 
 Tower to the throne of his forefathers. 
 
 And, sternly musing on the swifily-passing events 
 of this changeful time, in his splendid chamber in 
 8
 
 94 EAKL WARWICK :i iJEAL Ki:<G. 
 
 York House sate George Neville ; his foot, ia iiis cross- 
 embroidered slipper, resting on a gorgeous foot-stool, 
 his head leaning against the richly carved back of his 
 gilded chair, Avhile, on the table beside him, inlaid so 
 beautifally with ivory and gems, stood neither brevi- 
 ary nor crucifix, but a gold standing cup, a dish of the 
 same rich material with the choicest fruit, the velvet 
 bag which contained the great seal, and, laid open at 
 a splendid illumination of knights at a tournament, a 
 copy of Froissart of dazzling and resplendent beauty. 
 One attendant only waited in his private apartment, 
 his favorite chaplain, who at respectful distance stood 
 with bent head and arms folded on his breast. 
 
 "By St. Peter, our especial patron," said the arch- 
 bishop, " our brother of Vrarv/ick writes in right king- 
 ly style." " And ye shall cause proclamation to be 
 made, asserting King Henry's right, and ye shall re- 
 pair to the Tower and bring him forth" — St. Mary ! 
 and all saints, a mere crowned image I — bring him 
 forth I ' unto his place at Westminster, there to await 
 our coming : and so our Lord ever have ye in his holy 
 keeping.' " 
 
 " And Sathanas ever have yon in his 1" muttered 
 he, throwing the letter on the floor. " Accursed fate I 
 that gave unlo thee the heirship and the earldom, and 
 the sword of the knight, and crushed my budding 
 hopes in the cloister." He stopped suddenly, aware 
 that in the fierce outburst of exacerbated feelings he 
 had said too much, and, turning to his cliaplaiu, bade 
 him inquire if Dr. Bourchier had arrived. 
 
 The chaplain quickly returned, leading in the canon 
 of St. Martin's, who bent the knee at the footstool of 
 his spiritual superior, and reverently kissed the jew- 
 elled hand. 
 
 '• I have sent for ye, Br. Bourchier," said the arch, 
 bishop, motioning to his chaplain to quit the room, 
 " for converse on weighty matters. There hath been 
 talk of a seal-ring belonging to my brother Warwick,
 
 EAKL Warwick's seal ring. 95 
 
 which, it is said, possesseth great and marvellous pro- 
 perties." 
 
 " It doth," was the eager reply. 
 
 '• Now, from whence ariseth this ? hath it a piece 
 of the true cross ? or, as hath been told me, hath it 
 been made of the verv gold which was foimd in the 
 tomb of St. Edmund the King?" 
 
 " No ; it is a pure and faultless agate, graven with 
 signs of mighly power, and doubtless constructed when 
 Lord Warwick's star was in the ascendant, and fin- 
 ished at the fortunate point of time." 
 
 " But this ring was strangely lost, 't is said, for six 
 years, and yet, did not my brother during that time 
 marry his daughter Isabel to the king's own brother ? 
 Surely this was high fortune." 
 
 " Alas I so it may not prove ; even now is Clarence 
 offended at his reconcilement with Margaret, and, if 
 he should, as 't is said, marry the Lady Anne to Prince 
 Edward, woful feud may arise between them." 
 
 " The Lady Anne is not in France ; she is at Bark- 
 ing Abbey, with her aunt." 
 
 " Still, her horoscope declares that sho will be 
 queen " 
 
 " And can you put faith in such things ?" 
 
 " Assuredly, reverend father, hath not each event 
 of my lord of Warwick's life been foreshown by his 
 horoscope ?" 
 
 " Then what saith it of his end ?" and a bitter smile 
 passed over George Neville's stern features. 
 
 " That is wrapped in darkness — darkness that time 
 alone may remove." 
 
 " But his star, say you, is in the ascendant now ; 
 how long may that be ?" said tiie archbishop, fixing a 
 searching look on the astrologer, who drew back. 
 " Nay, Dr. Bourchier, fear not to answer," continued 
 he, in a milder tone : " that there is some truth in 
 these prognostics I willingly believe ; and it is because 
 I fear danger to mv too sanjruine brother that I have
 
 96 EARL Warwick's seal king. 
 
 sent. to you, that ye may counsel and warn him; for 
 much sorrow have I had about that ring." 
 
 The guileless astrologer, who had read the book of 
 heaven, but neglected the more important study of the 
 human heart, deceived by the appearance of interest 
 evinced by the wily George Neville in the fate of his 
 hated brother, detailed every particular of the myste- 
 rious loss and recovery of the ring, and reiterated his 
 belief that on its possession ths good fortune of War- 
 v.'ick depended. 
 
 " We thank you right heartily, good doctor," said 
 he, v^'hen at length the astrologer kissed his hand as 
 about to vrithuraw. " Alas ! our valiant brother is 
 surrounded with danger ; do your best to aid him, and 
 thus shall ye ever secure the favor of the primate of 
 York." 
 
 " He will do well and prosper," cried the joyful Lan- 
 castrian ; "he hath uplifted the Red Rose, and in its 
 prosperity will he share." 
 
 "And thus, in every step of our career, art thou 
 doomed to outstrip me !" said George Neville, bitterly. 
 " Would that I were a layman, and I would meet thee 
 on the field ; would that tfiis hand" — and he glanced 
 a look of contempt on the fine lace that half enveloped 
 the hand more fitted so grasp the lance than to lift the 
 censer — " would that this hand were uplifted against 
 thee in battle-field ; and then should we try, even un- 
 til one fell, which should possess the wide lands of the 
 Nevilles I Thou hast doomed me to the cloister ; be- 
 ware thy doom — I may never possess thy lands, but 
 one possession I will wrest from thee — that potent 
 ring." 
 
 Absorbed in joyful anticipations. Dr. Bourchier re- 
 turned homeward, nor, until he felt the eager grasp of 
 his hand, was he conscious that his darling grandson 
 stood before him, 
 
 " Whence come you ?" said he. 
 
 " From Barking Abbev."
 
 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 97 
 
 " Wherefore went you thither ?" 
 
 "To see my lady;" and the young knight looked 
 down, half confused, half laughingly. 
 
 " And ye carried away this as your guerdon," said 
 the grandfather smilingly, and drawing from the young 
 kniiiht's half open vest a beautiful tress of amber hair. 
 " What is her name ?" 
 
 " Anne." 
 
 " Saints !" ejaculated the overjoyed grandfather, as 
 the young knight departed, " the Lady Anne, she who 
 shall one da}'- wear a crown, is my grandson's own 
 lady-love I" 
 
 Swiftly and joyfully did the succeeding months pass 
 on. The Red Rose throughout the land was triumph- 
 ant ; Warwick had been appointed protector of the 
 kingdom ; Edward of York was an exile, and, honored 
 and flattered both by the earl and his brother, his 
 grandson rising each day in favor, the canon of St. 
 Martin's thought not of evil to come, or, even if he did, 
 deemed himself able, through his knovv ledge of the fu- 
 ture to avert it. And thus when, at the beginning of 
 Lent, news arrived of the landing of Edward in York- 
 shire, he almost welcomed the mtelligence, for it seemed 
 to show that the crisis foretold by the stars was at 
 hand, which should link the fates of Warwick and his 
 grandson inseparably together. 
 
 And, earnestly poring over the horoscope of Edward, 
 Dr. Bourchier sat in his study, on the evening that 
 brought the news of his rapid advance toward Coven- 
 try, when Warwick, pale and agitated, stood before him. 
 
 " My long tried adviser," said he, " I am ill at ease, 
 sick in body, but more sick at heart ; and, worn and 
 wearied with doubts of success and fears of treachery, 
 I turn from the counsel of men to ask counsel of the 
 changeless stars."
 
 93 EARL Warwick's seal ring. 
 
 " Ye do well, Lord Warwick : but wherefore this 
 anxiety ?" 
 
 " Is there not cause ? Edward at the head of twenty 
 thousand men ; Clarence, my perjured son-in-law, 
 casting off the Red Rose, and joining him ; and others, 
 holy saints, of my own blood, who, for what I know, 
 may be in league with mine enemies I while, to arouse 
 my worst fears, look at this." He carefully took from 
 his parse the seal-ring, and laid it before the astrologer. 
 
 " The agate is loose, and hath been broken right 
 across," said Dr. Bourchier, carefully examining it. 
 " St. Mary ! how came it ?" 
 
 " Heaven only knows — but, surely from thence came 
 this omen." 
 
 " Not so — this agate hath doubtless been broken by 
 design : — some one, an enemy in your own household, 
 in league with York, hath sought to remove the stone, 
 and broken it." 
 
 " St. Mary I it could have been none but ^e," gasped 
 Warwick. 
 
 " Now, be not cast down. Lord Warwick," contin- 
 ued the astrologer. ".Philip Malpas v/ill repair this 
 ring, ere ye can say three Paternosters, and ere matins 
 to-morrow will I bring it." 
 
 " I must away to-night. Oxford hath gone for- 
 v%'ard, and I follow." 
 
 " Then I will send it af Ler ye right swiftly." 
 
 " Ay, but take heed that it be by a trusty messen- 
 ger — above all, beware lest it fall into my brother 
 George Neville's hands." 
 
 Dr. Bourchier looked up with amazement. " I have 
 reasons for my warning, ask me not for them," con- 
 tinued Warwick hastily. " I will send Amias himself 
 for the ring, and take heed that ye give it to no other. 
 But, now, what shall be done ? When shall I give 
 battle ?" 
 
 " Edv/ard's star is again in the ascendant ; give not 
 battle vet."
 
 99 
 
 " Saints ! and he is approaching London, and there- 
 fore hath Lord Oxford set forth." 
 
 •' Heed it not ; the bear must not arouse himself un- 
 til after this conjunction of the planets be past." 
 
 " When will that be ?" 
 
 "After the llth of April, that very day seven years, 
 when Edward in this room took np your pledge." 
 
 " I mind it well ; St. Mary ! would that that day 
 were past, for I have sad forebodings I" 
 
 " Chase them away, for on that day shall it be seen 
 whether the v.-hite bear will not for aye strike down 
 the while falcon of York." 
 
 " Or, be stricken down himself 1" 
 
 " Nay, Lord Warwick, give not way to such 
 thoughts ; all will be well, and with that ring again 
 on your finger, and tried swords and firm hearts around 
 you, ye shall strike down the pride and the power of 
 York for aye. What bearing hath Lord Oxford ? is it 
 not a star with rays ?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " Then do battle under his cognisance, and the 
 sun of Edward shall set before the star of thine as. 
 cendant." 
 
 " 1 will, I will, for I dreamt even thrice, that in bat- 
 tle the bear was stricken down — farewell, good friend." 
 Warwick v.'armly wrung the hand of the canon of St. 
 Martin's, and cast an eager glance upon the ring. — 
 " Would that it v/ere once again on my finger." 
 
 " It will be, and to none but Amias will I give it : 
 farewell, brave earl." "With a feeling he could not 
 account for. Dr. Bourchier watched the retreating 
 footsteps of the gallant noble, as slowly he crossed the 
 inner court of St. Martin's, even until he disappeared 
 beneath the lofty gateway. " Heaven speed thee, 
 and thy cause !" At that moment loud and clear the 
 death-bell tolled out. " Blessed saints ! blessed saints I" 
 said he, '* hnvr? I looked my last upon Warv^-ick ''''
 
 100 EARL WARWICK S SEAL RING. 
 
 That night the gallant AV^arwick and his followers 
 quitted London for ever, and Edward, unopposed, ad- 
 vanced southward. Still the Red Rose held her sta- 
 tion, and George Neville, to whose custody the feeble 
 king and the impregnable Tower had been alike com- 
 mitted, apparently alarmed at the near approach of 
 Edward, paraded Henry through Westcheap, bidding 
 all good citizens to stand firm in their allegiance to 
 the house of Lancaster. Such was the work on the 
 morning of Maundy Thursday ; the afternoon saw 
 Edward and a chosen company enter through the 
 postern gate beside Moorfields, and George Neville, 
 leading forward the feeble king, place him and the 
 keys of the Tower in the hands of his brother's sworn 
 enemy. " We thank you, my lord of York," said Ed- 
 ward, with a significant smile, "and be well assured 
 that, when our victory is complete, George Neville 
 shall obtain his guerdon." 
 
 Astounded and almost heart-broken at this un- 
 looked-for treachery, the canon of St. Martin's turned 
 over the leaves of his cherished volume, and looked up 
 to the bright and beautiful orbs that sparkled so se- 
 renely on the cares and turmoils of earth, but sought 
 in vain for aught to soothe or to direct him. And ru- 
 mor told how that 'Warvrick had arrived even at Bar- 
 net, and Edward v.'ith a well appointed company had 
 quitted London, and still the potent seal-ring, re- 
 stored to its former beauty, lay unclaimed on his desk. 
 " To-morrow must the battle be fought," cried he, 
 " and this is certain — Warwick must wear that ring, 
 or be lost." 
 
 At length, and it was late in the evening, Amias 
 entered his study. " Be quick, grandfather," said he, 
 " give me the ring." 
 
 " St. George and St. Michael speed ye !" cried the 
 joyful astrologer, giving the precious talisman into his 
 o-randson's hand, " and bear this messacre to War-
 
 EARL ■WAFiWICK's SEAL RING. 101 
 
 wick ; take heed that ye approach not the spot where 
 that ring was thrown away." 
 
 " I will, good grandfather, farewell." 
 
 Young Amias wrapped his cloak, which bore the 
 cognisance of York, closely round hiui, and, secure in 
 that disguise, mounted his trusty steed and rode on- 
 ward. Ere long, he was aware of following footsteps ; 
 and, before he had reached the brow of Highgate Hill, 
 he could perceive three horsemen in fierce pursuit. 
 Surely he must have been watched, and the parting 
 words of his grandfather overheard ;'and, eager to se- 
 cure that talisman which he valued far more than life, 
 he pushed forward with desperate haste. But his pur- 
 suers were well mounted as he, and ere long they 
 gained upon him. He was now within a mile of Bar- 
 net, and with indescribable joy he beheld at a short 
 distance a well armed company, with banner which 
 seemed to show in the clear moonlight " a star with 
 rays." He shouted aloud, and the company made 
 toward him ; but ere they could draw nigh he was 
 seized by his pursuers. " Thy master shall never 
 possess this," cried he, as he marked upon the arm of 
 the foremost the badge of the treacherous George 
 Neville, and, snatching the box which contained the 
 precious seal-ring from his neck, he flung it to the 
 leader of the company, who had just advanced within 
 bowshot. " Stay not to rescue me ; bear it instantly 
 to Lord Warwick, for on it will his fate depend." He 
 turned away, and then, calmly yielding to his hard 
 fate, returned a captive to London. 
 
 Drearily broke the dawn of the eventful 14th of 
 April, drearily as beseemed the day, and the deed ; for 
 it was Easter Sunday that saw Christian men mar- 
 shalled in battle-array, that day when, in each flower- 
 decked church, '■'■ HcKC dies quam fecit Dominus ; ex- 
 ultemus ct l&temur in ea," was sung, was the day on 
 v/hich brother was to meet brother, and father meet 
 son, in fierce and deadly conflict. And eagerly did
 
 102 
 
 Dr. Bourchier look out from the Aldersgate, to inquire 
 news of the fight, and question with breathless anxiety- 
 each one that came in. Too soon did the fatal news 
 arrive that the Red Rose had been struck down, that 
 Lord Oxford had fled, and that Warwick and his bro- 
 ther, Lord Montague, were both slain. 
 
 " Accursed be the astrologer that gave Lord War- 
 wick counsel !" said an aged priest ; " his followers 
 mistook Lord Oxford's badge, the star, for King Ed- 
 ward's sun, and fought against each other I" 
 
 It was so ; and then first did the bitter pang of re- 
 morse that ever he had followed those forbidden studies 
 pierce Reynold Bourchier's heart. There needed but 
 one more drop of bitterness to be added to his cup of 
 sorrow ; and, when he learned that his grandson was 
 in custody of the chancellor, on charge of compassing, 
 by charms and spells, the death of the King, he hailed 
 the messengers sent to convey himself also to prison, 
 for in death seemed his only prospect of rest. 
 
 " What have you to say ?" asked the chancellor, as, 
 unmoved by the death of his two brothers but the day 
 before, he occupied his place on the morrow at the 
 council-table, eyeing sternly the younger prisoner. 
 
 Sir AiTiias Bourchier eyed the speaker with as stern 
 a look. " I cast away the ring lest you should possess 
 it. St. Mary ! methought 't was Lord Oxford's own 
 esquire to whom 1 gave it ; but, alas ! that fatal star 
 deceived me, as it deceived us all." 
 
 " Unhappy old man," said a mild-looking ecclesi- 
 astic, whose scarlet robe showed him to be Cardinal 
 Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, turning to the 
 other prisoner, " how often liave I warned you against 
 such studies, and shown the exceeding sinfulness of 
 attempting to wrest from Heaven a knowledge of 
 things to come I O ! what hath astrology done for 
 thee ? — ^brought ruin on thy cherished ca«se, death to 
 him who too firmly believed thee, and the fate of a 
 traitor to thine onlv grandson I"
 
 EAKL VVARWICK'ti SEAL KLNG. 10^ 
 
 The old man groaned willi agony. " Let me suf- 
 fer," cried he, " for I am guilty' ; but my grandson hath 
 done nought, save in being bearer of that wondrous 
 seal ring." 
 
 " And in seeking to marry my brother's daughter," 
 fiercely interposed the chancellor, " because, forsooth, 
 't was said that in his hands the fate of England's 
 crown should be." 
 
 " / marry the Lady Anne 1" cried Sir Amias ; " it 
 is to Anne Cresacre that I aui lietrothed ; and as to a 
 sillv pro:jhccy like that, St. iMary I if I ever regarded 
 it.""' 
 
 *« 'T was no silly prophecy if, as ye say, that seal- 
 ring of my Lord Warwick's possessed such wondrous 
 powers," said a young man, who, without removing 
 his velvet bonnet, now seated himself at the Jiead of 
 the table : " and so, young Lancastrian, ye threw it 
 away rather than it should fall into the hands of a 
 Yorkist ? Dost know to v,-hon-i ye threw it ?" 
 
 " Alas ! to Walter Fitzhugh, Lord Oxford's esquire, 
 raethought. ' 
 
 " Ay, ye did as your leader, mistook the sun for the 
 star, and gave it to me — to King Edicard .'" and the 
 exulting monarch laid the ring on the table. 
 
 "See again the awful vanity of these studies," said 
 Cardinal Bonrchier ; " the While Rose was to gain the 
 victory, and therefore each deeply-laid plan to prevent 
 it actually served to aid its accomplishment.'' 
 
 Dr. Bourchier clasped his hands in despair. " The 
 fate of England's crovrn was indeed in his hands," 
 said he ; " but / counselled tiie wearing of that badge, 
 / chose the day of battle, and the ruin of the Red Rose 
 rests upon 7ne .'" 
 
 • " Weil, my trusty chancellor," cried Edward, turning 
 to George Neville, " what shall v.'e do vrith these two?" 
 
 " Order them for instant execution, my liege," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " Grammcrcv, that would be an ill recompense for
 
 104 EAKL Warwick's sj^al ring. 
 
 this gift," said Edward, laughing. " No, no, methinks 
 I owe this young man some better return, since the 
 fate of England's crown was in his hands, and he gave 
 it to mc. Yon are free, Sir Amias Bourchier, and in 
 possession of j^our lands, to which we will add two of 
 my Lord Warwick's manors, and if ye will come to 
 court, we will do you all honor, for the saints alone 
 know whether, among all my followers, I could find 
 one as faithful to me as ye have been to your master." 
 
 " Doth King Edward misdoubt his servants' fidel- 
 ity ?" said the chancellor. 
 
 " I shall never again mistrust yours, my lord," re- 
 turned Edward, smiling bitterly, " for I shall never 
 again have occasion." 
 
 " Surely ye will not," said the astonished chancellor, 
 " for my faith hath indeed been tried." 
 
 "It hath, my lord, and been found Vt'anting : — on 
 which side would George Neville have ranked himself 
 if I had not gained the victory ?" and Edward, who, 
 while he " loved the treason, hated the traitor," laid 
 some papers before him. " We will dispense with your 
 services, ray good lord," continued Edvrard, "and that 
 ye may have more time to devote to spiritual matters, 
 we will give ye safe lodging at the castle of Hammes." 
 To this stern fortress George Neville u^as soon con- 
 veyed, where, after a captivity of four years, broken, 
 hearted, and we hope repentant, he died. 
 
 Dr. Bourcliicr sadly returned to his cell at St. Mar- 
 tin's le Grand, but never again to consult the stars : 
 he burnt his huge volume, he broke his astrolabe, and 
 in prayer and penitence passed the short remnant of 
 his days. Sir Amias Bourchier lived long and happily ; 
 he fought under the banner of Richmond at Bosworth 
 field, and rose high in favor with the victorious men. 
 arch ; but he soon retired from court, to employ his 
 old age in instructing liis numerous grandchildren ; 
 and often did he relate to them, in solemn warning, 
 the story of Earl Warwick's Seal Rixg.
 
 105 
 
 BY BIRS. HEMANS. 
 
 «' My cliild, my child, thou Icav'st me! — 1 shall hear 
 
 The gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear 
 
 With its first utterance : — I shall miss the sound 
 
 Of thy light footstep, midst the flowers around, 
 
 iVnd thy soft-breathing hymn at evening's close, 
 
 And thy ' Good-night,' at parting for repose. 
 
 Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 
 
 And the low breeze v,'ill liave a mournful tone 
 
 Among their tendrils, while I think of thee. 
 
 My child ! — and thou, along the moonlight sea. 
 
 With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
 
 Shalt v.atch thine own, thy pleasant land of France 
 
 Fading to air ! Yet blessings with thee go — 
 
 Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's wo 
 
 From thy young heart be far I — And sorrow not 
 
 For me, sweet daughter, in my lonely lot 
 
 God will be with me ! Now farewell, farewell, 
 
 Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
 
 Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
 
 When thou wert pillowed there ; and wont to raise 
 
 In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye, 
 
 That still sought mine. Those moments are gone by — 
 
 Thou too nmst go, my flower ! yet round thee dwell 
 
 The peace of God ! One, one more gaze — farewell I" 
 
 This was a mother's parting Viuth her child — 
 A young, meek bride, on whom fair Fortune smiled. 
 And wooed her, with a voice of Love, away 
 From childhood's home. Yet there, with fond del^Ly. 
 She lingered on the threshold : heard the note 
 Of her caged bird through trellised rose-trees float ; 
 And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 
 9
 
 106 MADELINE. 
 
 Whilst old reiueinberance, that long had slept, 
 Streamed o'er her soul ; and many a vanished day, 
 As in one picture traced, before her lay. 
 
 But the farewell was said; and on the deep, 
 When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
 With a stilled heart, young Madeline, ere long, 
 Poured forth her own low solemn vesper-song 
 To chiming waves. Through stillness hear afar, 
 And duly rising with the first pale star, 
 That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
 The sounding ocean-solitudes were passed, 
 And the bright land was reached ; the youthful world 
 That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
 In its clear sunshine ; and the gentle bride 
 Looked on the home, which promised hearts untried 
 A bower of bliss to be. Alas ! we trace 
 The map of our own paths ; and long ere years 
 With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface. 
 Comes the swift storm, and blots them out in tears. 
 That home was darkened soon : the summer's breeze 
 Welcomed with death the wanderers of the seas ! 
 Death unto one ! and anguish, how forlorn 
 To her that, widowed in her marriage-morn, 
 Sat in the lonely du^elling, vvhence with him, 
 Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
 Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 
 As from the sun shut out on every side. 
 By the close veil of misery. Oh I but ill. 
 When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart 
 Bears its first blow ! It knows not yet the part 
 Which life will teach — to suffer and be still I 
 And with submissive love, to count the flowers 
 Which yet are spared ; and through the future hours- 
 To send no busy dream ! She had not learned 
 Of sorrow till that blight, and therefore turned 
 In weariness from life. Then came the unrest,
 
 MADELINE. 107 
 
 The vajue sad yearnings of the exile's breast ; 
 The liaunting sounds of voices far awa}', 
 And household steps ; until at last she lay 
 On her lone couch of sickness — lost in dreams 
 Of the gay vineyards and blue glancing streams, 
 Of her own sunny land — and murmuring oft 
 Familiar names in accents wild, yet soft, 
 To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
 Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. 
 To stangcrs I — oh ! could strangers raise the head. 
 Gently as her's was raised ? — did strangers shed 
 The kindly tears which bathed that pale young brow, 
 And feverish check, with half unconscious flow ? — 
 Something was there, that through the heavy night 
 Outwatches patiently the taper's light ; 
 Something that bows not to the day's distress. 
 That knows not change, that fears not weariness ; 
 Love, true and perfect lovel — Whence came that pow'r, 
 UpbeariuGT through the storm the fragile flower? 
 Whence ? — who can ask ? — the long delirium passed, 
 And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
 Into her mother's face I — and, weakening knew 
 The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue — 
 
 The kind, sweet smile of old I And had she come. 
 
 Thus ill life's evening from her distant home, 
 To save her child ? Even so. Nor yet in vain — 
 In that young heart a light sprung up again 1 
 And lovely still, with so much love to give. 
 Seemed this fair Avorld, though faded ; still to live 
 Was not to pine forsaken I On the breast 
 That rocked her childhood, falling in soft rest — 
 " Sweet mother ! gentlest mother I — can it be ?" 
 The lorn one cried — "And do I gaze on thee ? 
 Take home thy wanderer from this fatal shore — 
 Peace shall be our's, amidst our vines once more !"
 
 108 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON. 
 
 Those fond, vague dreams, that make love's happiness: 
 Its first — and oh, its last ! 
 
 She has left the lighted hall, 
 
 She has flung down cap and plume, 
 
 Her eye wears softer light. 
 
 And her cheek a tenderer bloom : 
 
 And her hair in sunny shovrers 
 Falls o'er her marble brow. 
 From its midnight bonds of pearl, 
 Free as her thoughts are now. — 
 
 She has left the yet glad dance, 
 O'er those gentle thoughts to brood, 
 That haunt a girl's first hour 
 Of love-touched solitude. 
 
 Music's sweet and distant sound * 
 Comes floating on the air. 
 From the banquet-room it tells 
 The dancers still are there : 
 
 But she, their loveliest one, 
 Has left the festal scene. 
 To dream on what may be, 
 To muse o'er ^vhat has been ; 
 
 To think on low, soft words, 
 Her ear had drunk that night. 
 While her heart beat echo-like, 
 And her cheek burnt ruby bright.
 
 JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE. 109 
 
 How beautiful she looks 
 Beneath that moonlit sky, 
 With her lip of living rose, 
 Her blue and drooping eye ! 
 
 Spell-like, the festal scene 
 Rises on heart and brain ; 
 Not a word and not a look, 
 But she lives them o'er again. 
 
 Well, dream thy dream, fair girl ! 
 Tho' ne'er did morning close, 
 With its cold and waking light, 
 Dreams fair and false as those : 
 
 They are like the mists that rise 
 At day-break to the sky. 
 There, touched by all bright hues, 
 On its breast awhile they lie ; 
 
 But the darker hour draws on, 
 The rose-tint disappears, 
 And the falling cloud returns 
 To its native earth in tears. — 
 
 Yet dream thy dream, fair girl I 
 Though away it will be driven, 
 'T is something to have past 
 A single hour in heaven. 
 
 Though thine eye has April light. 
 Though thy cheek has April bloom, 
 There is that upon them both 
 Which marks an early tomb. 
 
 So young, so fair, to die — 
 And can those words be true ? 
 Ah I better far ' to die,' 
 Than live as some must do ; 
 9'
 
 110 THE DREAM OF PETICIUS. 
 
 With a heart that will not break, 
 Though every nerve be strained, 
 Whether won to be betrayed, 
 Or discovered and disdained ; — 
 
 For Love to watch Hope's grave, 
 And yet itself breathe on, 
 Like the blighted flower which lives, 
 Though scent and bloom be gone. 
 
 But this watching each last leaf, 
 Green on the fading tree, 
 The while we see it wither, 
 Is maiden not for thee. 
 
 One hour of passionate joy. 
 And one of passionate grief — 
 A morning and a midnight — 
 Fill up thy life's short leaf I 
 
 Short, sad, but still how much 
 
 Of death's bitterness is past. 
 
 Thy last sigh breathed upon the heart, 
 
 Beatinff thine unto the last ! 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 Still lay the vessel like a sleeping thing ; 
 
 The calm waves Vv'ith a quiet ripple died ; 
 The lazy breeze seemed all to bring 
 
 The cry of sea-birds dipping in the tide ; 
 The flagging streamer droopingly did cling 
 
 Unto the mast. The unruffled ocean wide
 
 THE DREAM OF PETICIUS. Ill 
 
 Lay like a mirror, in whose depth were seen 
 Each sunlit peak, and woody headland green. 
 
 More than a league they had not sailed that day ; 
 
 Yet on the coast was seen each sleeping hill ; 
 And island, that at noon before them lay, 
 
 In the calm evening lay before them still. 
 The wearied seamen sped the time away 
 
 With snatches of blithe song or whistle shrill ; 
 And in a group apart, the people told 
 Wild tales, and dreams, and dark traditions old. 
 
 The captain was a thoughtful man, whose prime 
 Had been in foreign lands and voyages spent ; 
 
 Who brought back marvellous history from each clime. 
 And found adventure wheresoe'er he went. 
 
 And, as such men are wont in idle time. 
 He from his life drew pleasant incident ; 
 
 Then, as if woke to thought, began to say 
 
 What a strange dream he had ere break of day. 
 
 "'Twas while cur vessel scudding to the breeze. 
 Fled, like a strong bird, from yon pleasant shore, 
 
 My dream was of these bright and stirless seas. 
 The flagging canvass, and the useless oar ; 
 
 I saw, as now I see, in slumbrous ease 
 
 Green Pelion's head, and those dim mountains hoar 
 
 Resting afar ; I saw yon glancing bird ; 
 
 And the low rippling of these waves I heard. 
 
 " While then I stood, as even now I stand, 
 
 My eye upon the stilly ocean bent, 
 I saw a boat push quickly from the land. 
 
 And eager rowers with a firm intent 
 Make towards the ship. Within, a little band 
 
 Sate in mute sadness, as by travel spent ; 
 And 'mid them one superior to the rest. 
 Pale, as his soul by heavier thought was prest.
 
 112 THE DREAM OF PETICIUS. 
 
 •' They neared — and marvelling- yet more and more, 
 I saw 't was Pompey ; not as I beheld 
 
 Him in the senate, when he stood before 
 
 Fierce Sylla, and with taunts his wrath repelled, 
 
 Till the Dictator quaked ; or when he bore 
 In triumph trophies from ten nations quelled, 
 
 Ardent and bold, whom myriads as he went, 
 
 Hailed as immortal and magnificent ! 
 
 " Not now as then — pale, thoughtful, ill at rest, 
 His fate seemed warring with his mighty will ; 
 
 His hand on his contracted brow was prest, 
 As it the force of throbbing thought could still 
 
 Anon he wrapped his mantle o'er his breast 
 With a calm hand, as nerved for coming ill. 
 
 Then with a calm, majestic air arose. 
 
 And claimed protection from his following foes." 
 
 Even when some pondering sate with thoughtful air, 
 And some made merry with so strange a tale, 
 
 All eyes were turned in sudden wonder where 
 White o'er the waters gleamed a little sail ; — 
 
 On through the calm the striving pinnace bare ; — 
 Then sorrow woke, and firmest brows grew pale, 
 
 For worn and wearied, Pompey they behold, 
 
 Even as that prophetic dream foretold. 
 
 From the disastrous field of Pharsaly 
 
 He fled — his star of fate was in the wane ; 
 
 He had lived a life of victory to see 
 
 In one brief hour his veteran legions slain ; — ■■ 
 
 But yesterday — the world's proud lord was he. 
 To-day — a fugitive upon the main ; — 
 
 Like a fair tree by sudden blight defaced, 
 
 Blasted and withering in the desert waste.
 
 THE DEPARTED. 113 
 
 The sea for hmi by that dead cahn was bound, 
 For no'.v a strong wind filled the swelling sail, 
 
 And shook the cordage with a rattling sound ; 
 Forward the pennon floated on the gale, 
 
 And the dark living waters heaved around ; 
 No more the islands to the right they hail, 
 
 Green Pelion's woody crown no more was seen ; 
 
 But the ship voyaged free to Mitylene. 
 
 BY MRS. M. A. BROWNE. 
 
 A FADED flower, a bud of beauty blasted ; 
 
 A broken lute, a precious diamond shattered : 
 A stream of purest water early wasted ; 
 
 A priceless essence on the desert scattered ; 
 Like these thou hast perished in thy beauty mild 
 To which shall we compare thee, gentle child ? 
 
 If to the faded flower, we know its fruit 
 
 Is garnered up amidst Heaven's holy treasures 
 
 If to the lovely-tuned and broken lute, 
 Its echo mingleth in celestial measures ; 
 
 The diamond is not lost ; its fragments gather 
 
 Into a star before the Eternal Father. 
 
 The stream beside the streams of life is flowing, 
 And ever fed from their immortal springs ; 
 
 The essence round the Throne Eternal going, 
 Embodied on a seraph's radiant wings. 
 
 Oh, lost one 1 let us call thee what we will. 
 
 The very name hath consolation still.
 
 114 MADEMOISELLE THERESE. 
 
 But we will liken thee to some clear lamp, 
 
 Whose brightness with the light within it blended, 
 
 And through the cold world's gathering mist and damp, 
 Thy soul was as the flame that upward tended ; 
 
 The lamp is broken, and the miprisoned fire 
 
 Doth to the region of its birth aspire. 
 
 QSa/a©^[i!ia@i]©[I[L[L[l 'u'KIEBlI©!:. 
 BY MISS MITFORD. 
 
 OxE of the prettiest dwellings in our neighborhood, 
 is the Lime Cottage at Burley-Hatch. It consists of a 
 small low-browed habitation, so entirely covered with 
 jessamine, honeysuckle, passion-flowers, and China 
 roses, as to resemble a bower, and is placed in the cen- 
 ter of a large garden, — turf and flowers before, veget- 
 ables and fruit behind, backed by a superb orchard, 
 and surrounded by quickset hedge, so thick and close, 
 and regular, as to form an mipregnable defence to the 
 territory which it encloses — a thorny rampart, a living 
 and growing cheavaux-de-frise. On either side of the 
 neat gravel walk, which leads from the outer gate to 
 the door of the cottage, stand the large and beautiful 
 trees to which it owes its name ; spreading their strong, 
 broad shadow over the turf beneath, and sending, on a 
 summer afternoon, their rich, spicy fragrance half 
 across the village green, dappled with wood and water,, 
 and gay v/ith sheep, cattle, and children, which divides 
 them at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the 
 little hamlet of Burley, its venerable church and hand- 
 some rectory, and its short straggling streets of cot- 
 tages, and cottage-like houses. 
 
 Such is the habitation of Theresede G., an emigree 
 of distinction, whose aunt having married an English
 
 MAJJEMOISLLLK THERE.^E. 115 
 
 officer, was luckily able to afFord her i-xeice an a:;yluni 
 during the horrors of the Revolution, and to secure to 
 her a small annuity, and the Lime Cottage after her 
 death. There she has lived for these five-and-thirty 
 years, gradually losing sight of her few and distant 
 foreign connexions, and finding all her happiness in her 
 pleasant home and her kind neighbors — a standing les- 
 son of cheerfulness and contentment. 
 
 A very popular person is Mademoiselle Therese — 
 popular both with high and low ; for the prejudice 
 which the country people almost universally entertain 
 against foreigners, vanished directly before the charm 
 of her manners, the gaity of her heart, and the sun- 
 shine of a temper that never knows a cloud. She is so 
 kind to them too, so liberal of the produce of her or- 
 chard and garden, so full of resource in their difficul- 
 ties, and so sure to afFord sympathy if she have nothing 
 else to give, that the poor all idolize Mademoiselle. 
 Among the rich she is equally beloved. No party is 
 complete without the pleasant French woman, whose 
 amenity and cheerfulness, her perfect, general polite- 
 ness, her attention to the old, the poor, the stupid, and 
 the neglected, are felt to be invaluable in society. Her 
 conversation is not very pov.-erful either, nor very bril- 
 liant ; she never says any thing remarkable — but then 
 it is so good-natured, so genuine, so unpretending, so 
 constantly up and alive, that one would feel its absence 
 far more than that of a more showy and ambitious 
 talker ; to say nothing of the charm which it derives 
 from her language, which is alternately the most grace- 
 ful, and purest French, and the most diverting and ab- 
 surd broken English ; a dialect in which, whilst con- 
 triving to make herself perfectly understood both by 
 gentle and simple, she does also contrive in the course 
 of an hour, to commit more blunders, than all the 
 other foreigners in England make in a month. 
 
 Her appearance betrays her country almost as much 
 as her speech. She is a French looking little person-
 
 116 MADEMOISELLE THERESE. 
 
 age, with a slight, active figure, exceedingly nimble 
 and alert in every moveir^cnt ; a round and darkly- 
 complexioned face, somewhat faded and passes, but 
 still striking from the laughing eyes, the bland and 
 brilliant smile, and the great mobility of expression. 
 Her features, pretty as they are, want the repose of an 
 English countenance ; and her air gesture, and dress, 
 are decidedly foreign, all alike deficient in the English 
 charm of quietness. 
 
 Nevertheless, in her youth, she must have been pretty; 
 so pretty that some of our young ladies, scandalized at 
 finding their favorite an old maid, have invented sun- 
 dry legends to excuse the solecism, and talk of duels 
 fought pour Vamour des beaux yeux, and of a be- 
 trothed lover guillotined in the Revolution. And the 
 thing may have been so ; although one meets every 
 where with old maids w^ho have been pretty, and whose 
 lovers have been guillotined ; and although Mademoi- 
 selle Therese has not, to do her justice, the least in the 
 world the air of a heroine crossed in love. The thing 
 may be so ; but I doubt it much. I rather suspect our 
 fair Demoiselle of having been in her youth a little, a 
 very little, the least in the world of a flirt. Even dur- 
 ing her residence at Burley-Hatch, hath she not in- 
 dulged in divers very distant, very discreet, very de- 
 corous, but still very evident flirtations ? Did not Dr. 
 Abdy, the portly, ruddy schoolmaster of B., dangle af- 
 ter her for three mortal years, holidays excepted ? — 
 And did not she refuse him at last ? And Mr. Fore- 
 close, the thin, withered, wrinkled city solicitor, a 
 man, so to say, smoke-dried, who comes down every 
 year to Burley for the air, did not he do suit and ser- 
 vice to her during four long vacations, with the same 
 ill success ? Was not Sir Thomas himself a little smit- 
 ten ? Nay, even now, does not the good Major, a halt- 
 ing veteran of seventy — but really it is too bad to tell 
 tales out of the parish — ail that is certain is, that Ma- 
 demoiselle Therese might have changed her name,
 
 MADEMOISELLE THERESE. 117 
 
 long before now, had she so chcsen ; and that it is 
 most probable that she will never change it at all. 
 
 Her household consists of her little maid Betsy, a 
 cherry-cheeked, bluc-eycd country lass, brought up by 
 herself, who, with a clumsy figure, and a fair, inno- 
 cent, unmeaning countenance, eopicsas closely as these 
 obstacles will permit, the looks' and gesture of her alert 
 and vivacious mistress, and has even caught her brok- 
 en English ; — of a fat lap-dog called Fido, silky, sleepy 
 and sedate ; — and of a beautiful white Spanish ass, 
 called Donnabella, an animal docile and spirited, far be- 
 yond the generality of that despised race, who draws her 
 little donkey-chaise half the country over, runs to her 
 the moment she sees her, and eats roses, bread and ap. 
 pies from her hand ; but who, accustomed to be fed 
 and groomed, harnessed and driven only by females, re- 
 sists and rebels the moment she is approached by the 
 rougher sex ; has overturned more boys, and kicked 
 more men, than any donkey in the kingdom ; a^id has 
 acquired such a character for re tive less amo;igst the 
 grooms in the neighborhood, ;hat when Mademoiselle 
 Therose goes out to dinner, Betsy is in fain to go with 
 her to drive Donnabella home again, and to re-urn to 
 fetch her mistress in the evening. 
 
 If every body is delighted to receive this most wel- 
 come visiter, so is every body delighted to ac?ep' her 
 graceful invitations, and meet to eat strawberries at 
 Burley-Hatch. Oh, how pleasant are those summer 
 afternoons, sitting under the blossomed limes, with 
 the sun shedding a golden light through the broad 
 branches, the bee? murmuring over head, roses and 
 lilies all about us, and the choicest fruit served up in 
 wicker baskets of her own making — itself a picture ! 
 the guests looking so pleased and happy, and the kind 
 hostess the gayest and happiest of all. These are 
 pleasant meetings ; nor are her little winter parties 
 less agreeable, when to two or three female friends as- 
 scmbled round their coffee, she will tell thrilling auec- 
 10
 
 118 MADEMOISELLE THERESE. 
 
 dotes of that terrible Revolution, so fertile in great 
 crimes and great virtues; or gayer stories of the 
 brilliant days preceding that convulsion, the days 
 which Madame de Genlis has described so well, when 
 Paris was the capital of pleasure, and amusement the 
 business of life ; illustrating her descriptions by a se- 
 ries of spirited drawings of costumes and characters 
 done by herself, and always finishing by producing a 
 group of Louis Seize, Marie Antoinette, the Dauphin, 
 and Madame Elizabeth, as she had last seen them at 
 Versailles — the only recollection that ever brings tears 
 into her smiling eyes. 
 
 Mademoiselle Therese's loyalty to the Bourbons, is 
 in truth a very real feeling. Her family had been about 
 the court, and she had imbibed an enthusiasm for the 
 royal sufferers, natural to a young and a warm heart — 
 she loved the Bourbons, and hated Napoleon with the 
 like ardor. All her other French feelings had for some 
 time been a little modified. She was not quite so sure 
 as she had been, that France was the only country, 
 and Paris the only city of the world ; that Shakspeare 
 was a barbarian, and Milton no poet ; that the per- 
 fume of English limes, was nothing compared to French 
 orange trees; that the sun never shone in England ; 
 and that sea-coal fires were bad things. She still, in- 
 deed, would occasionally make these assertions, espec 
 ially if dared to make them — but her faith in them was 
 shaken. Her loyalty to her legitimate king, was, how. 
 ever, as strong as ever, and that loyalty had nearly 
 cost us our dear Mademoiselle. After the Restoration, 
 she hastened as fast as steamboat and diligence could 
 carry her, to enjoy the delight of seeing once more the 
 Bourbons at the Thuilleries ; took leave, between smiles 
 and tears, of her friends, and of Barley-Hatch, carry- 
 ing with her a branch of the lime tree, then in blos- 
 som, and commissioning her old lover, Mr. Foreclose, 
 to dispose of the cottage ; but in less than three months, 
 luckily before Mr. Foreclose had found a purchaser,
 
 NATURE AND ART. 119 
 
 Mademoiselle Thercse came home again. She com- 
 plained of nobody ; but times were altered. The house 
 in which she was born was pulled down ; her friends 
 were scattered, her kindred dead ; Madame did not 
 remember her (she had probably never heard of her 
 in her life); the king did not know her again (poor man! 
 he had not seen her for these thirty years); Paris was 
 a new city ; the French were a new people ; she missed 
 the sea-coal fire ; and for the stunted orange trees at 
 the Thuilleries, what were they compared with the 
 blossomed limes of Burlcy-Hatch ! 
 
 BY MRS. C. GORE. 
 
 On the coast of Lancashire, within distant view of 
 the ruins of Furness Abbey, lies a small territory, an 
 island or peninsula, according to the ebb or flow of the 
 tides that lave its flat and unfruitful shores. At noon, 
 perhaps, the traveller beholds it an islet, moored, as it 
 were, under the protection of the main land; isolated 
 and cheerless, containing — in the midst of the forty 
 acres of arid land which centuries of cultivation have 
 barely redeemed from barrenness— 'a single dwelling ; 
 a small farm, the rosemary bushes of whose garden- 
 enclosures form the nearest approach to a tree dis- 
 cernible in the place. But a few hours later the dreari. 
 ness of Haiiisle, (or Helisle, as it is pronounced by the 
 fishermen of the coast,) is in some degree relieved by 
 the reappearance of the hard smooth sands, a quarter 
 of a mile in extent, connecting it with the Lancashire 
 coast. It now assumes the aspect of a rude nook of 
 earth, ribbed from the neighboring farms by the firm
 
 V20 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 compact terrace, which affords a delightful and exhila. 
 rating walk to the inmates of that solitary abode. 
 
 Viewed from the house, however, the scene assumed 
 a totally different appearance. Persons accustomed 
 to the rich garniture of inland landscape, with its con- 
 trasling features of hill, dale, or mountain — river, lake, 
 or torrent — verdant pasture or golden plain — are apt 
 to tax a marine prospect with monotony. But ask the 
 abiders by the great deep whether they ever experience 
 the sense of satiety arising from sameness of object ? 
 It is not alone the vast transition from the smooth 
 surface of the summer sea to the boiling, seething fury 
 of the migh y ocean laboring with the terrors of the 
 storm, which vary their unspeakable extent of pros- 
 pect. A thou.'-and intermediary changes are hourly, 
 momeniarily, perceptible. Not a cloud sailing across 
 the sunnv sky, — and ocean skies teem with those hu- 
 mid exhalations, — but casts a correspondent shadow 
 on the surface of the waters, darkening their blue to 
 purple, or changing their glossy green to the tinges of 
 the dying dolphin. The " sea-changes" of a marine 
 view are in fact so infinitely multiplied by the effects 
 of v.'ind and weather, tide and time, that from the first 
 gleam of morning to the last of evening twilight, too 
 v/onderful a succession of beauties presents itself to 
 the observant eye, for the commemoration of pen or 
 pencil. 
 
 But independently of its fine prospects of the open 
 sea, the farm of Helisle commanded a coast-view of 
 unusual interest. Though immediately adjoining the 
 spot the shore presented only a gravelly bank, yet at 
 the distance of half a mile along its windings, com- 
 mences the beautiful mountainous ridge, shelving to 
 the sands of Furness from the lofty heights diversify- 
 ing the district of the Lakes. From these, with their 
 changeful mists or clear prominence against the .sky, 
 Helisle borrows another source of endless variety ; and 
 while the dainty tourist might pronounce this region
 
 iNATUKE AND ART. 121 
 
 • t'guils ami curlews, remote from cliy, town, or even 
 village, the most desolate fragment of a sufficiently 
 tiesoiate country, the dwellers on the spot found in its 
 exciting breezes and varying tides as attractive a play 
 of features as ever brightened the serene countenance 
 of solitude. 
 
 Yet the inmates of the secluded house \vere people 
 vi-ho had scon the stir and tumult of the world ; had 
 sat and even presided at good men's feasts ; having 
 retired to the precarious shelter of that comfortless 
 abode neither from disgust at the giddiness of the 
 crowd, nor a milder frame of self-denying philosophy. 
 They came there all but pennyless ; — they still abided 
 there, miserably poor, Bat though Master Warn- 
 ford's wife v/as sainted by her humble neighbors of the 
 coast as " Mistress" or " Daine," she had claim to the 
 right honorable title of " the Lady Anne," being 
 daughter to the Earl of Lovell, one of the proudest 
 peers of England ; by whom, on her rash marriage at 
 sixteen with the younger son of one of Cromwell's up- 
 start general?, she had been cast off and renounced 
 for evermore. The earl, by whose undue domestic 
 severity the ear of his daughter was first inclined tow- 
 ards the first lovesuit tendered to her charms, resented 
 with harshnc.-s the rash step his harshness had brought 
 about ; and though, for* five years after their marriage, 
 the Warnfords entertained no doubt of his eventual 
 pardon, they were at length forced reluctantly to ad- 
 mit that all liDDC was lost of Lord Loveli's secession 
 from his oath to behold his daughter's face no more. 
 They now felt that they should have dealt more spar- 
 ingly with the small patrimony derived by Warnford 
 from his deceased parents, which was all but dissi- 
 pated in the belief that, afrcr a certain period of es- 
 trangemenl, the earl would recall his daughter to his 
 favor, and restore her to her rights upon his inherit- 
 ance. 
 
 10*
 
 122 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 But this expectation was extinguished. A staunch 
 adlierent of the House of Stuart, to whose haughty 
 and obdurate despotism the frailties of his own nature 
 bore considerable afHnity, the Earl of Loveli had in 
 his time been exposed to ijisult and injury at the hands 
 of the Roundheads ; and his narrow- spirit took delight 
 in revenging on the son and grandchildren of General 
 Warnford the long-smarting wounds of his self-love ; 
 regardless that in the veins of the latter was flow^mg 
 the blood of progenitors whom he w^orshipped with all 
 the paltry adulation of family pride. Rejecting every 
 overture of reconciliation from his daughter, he left 
 her letters of entreaty mianswered, and at length re- 
 turned them unopened ; till Warnford, w^ho, at thirty 
 years of age, had progressed from the romantic youth 
 into a disappointed, gloomy, helpless man, insisted that 
 she should humiliate herself and him no more by the 
 renewal of these unavailing solicitations. 
 
 From the period of their imprudent marriage, the 
 young people had inhabited a small house in the little 
 capital of the county-palatinate, of which Warnford's 
 mother was a native ; and there, in attempting to se- 
 cure to the lovely Lady Aime, whom he had allured, 
 while a student of Oxford, from her father's stately 
 mansion in the neighborhood of the university, some 
 portion of the comforts of her luxurious home, his sub- 
 stance had dw^indled away. At tlikty he was the 
 father of two children, a girl and boy, with barely the 
 means of maintenance for his single self. 
 
 " We shall starve — we and these helpless ones must 
 starve !" was Warnford's desponding ejaculation, on 
 the night when Lord Lovell's silent rejection of his 
 daughter's last petition satisfied them that all expec- 
 tation of succor from his mercy was at an end. " Our 
 debts in this place nearly equal the small remnant of 
 my means. I have no friends, no kinsmen, no interest 
 to push me forward in the vrorld. Though the slight- 
 est word from Lord Lovell's lips would, without di-
 
 IVATLKK A>iU AKT. 123 
 
 iiiiiiishiiig by a doit the property he prizes so dearly, 
 secure nic from the king's government the occasion to 
 work out my indepcndeiice and bestow an education 
 on our children, we must sink still lower in the scale 
 of misery — must work — must want — and perhaps work 
 and want in vain. Perhaps, with our best efforts, 
 these babes may sink under their privations ; and you, 
 my patient, suffering wife, prove unable to, confront 
 the hardships we have no longer hope to overcome. 
 Would — would that I had died, ere I persuaded you to 
 desert your prosperous and bright career, for the 
 cheerless home of an obscure and poverty-stricken 
 man !" 
 
 " Have you courage to say this ?" faltered his wife, 
 who sat rocking with one foot the cradle of their elder 
 child, and holding in her arms the noble infant she 
 had just hushed off to sleep upon her bosom, "when 
 you know that my sole solace in my troubles is the 
 belief that life would have been worthless in your eyes 
 unshared by the v.ife and children who are v/eighing 
 you down to ^joverty !" 
 
 " And so it would !*' cried Warnford, with rapid ut- 
 terance. " You have been, you ere, you ever will be 
 — the crown and glory of my days. The sight of these 
 children and their tender caresses would be as a fore- 
 taste of heaven, but for thp anxieties for their future 
 welfare darkening my soul. But to know that, griev- 
 ous as are the straits to which my rashness has re- 
 duced you, they must become a thousand-fold more 
 cruel, distracts my very reason. You, so tenderly 
 reared — so cared for, that your foot fell upon velvet, 
 and not a breath v/as suffered to blov/ on your fragile 
 youth — 1J0U to labor — you to need the common neces- 
 saries of life I — O why was I tempted to do this thing, 
 and how shall I abide the sight of your wretched- 
 ness ?" 
 
 " Cheer up, Warnford I" cried the kiad-heartcd be- 
 ing, v.hose nature v.-as a nature of love, sparing one
 
 12 i KATUKE AND ART. . 
 
 hand fr&:n her ii:tle charge to extend it to the ready 
 caress of her husband. " If Uiis be all, cheer up I — 
 You know me only as the thriftless, giddy girl — the 
 dai:ity, tender v.-oman — henceforward you shall see 
 me the stirring matron — the careful housewife. Love 
 would be a pitiful thing did it suggest no higher proof 
 of its strength than honeyed words and idle fondling, 
 suoh as I have, perhaps, wearied you withal. But it 
 has a power and a courage of its own ! Trust me, it 
 has a power and courage of its own I — a power to act, 
 a courage to bear, which constitute a yet more inti- 
 mate portion of its happiness. Had v.'e been prosper- 
 ous — world-seekors, pleasure-hunters, wasters of the 
 gawds and luxuries of life — sweet protestations and 
 tender embraces had been the utmost proof in my 
 power that never have I repented the act suggested 
 by the wantonness of girlish preference. My reason 
 nov/ confirms my choice. The blessing of God de- 
 crees that the vows so lightsomcly svrorn can nov.' be 
 renevi?ed with all the solemnity of womanly truth ; 
 and to that first sweet promise to love and honor, in 
 sickness and in health, to take for richer, for poorer, 
 for batter, f jr worse, — I superadd a pledge that, know, 
 ing the poorer, and having experience of the worse, I 
 would still bear alh and -r.c-re also, for your sake." 
 
 Warnford made no reply. He was laboring, v.ith a 
 strong man's effort, to restrain the tears that would 
 have fain burst from the inmost recesses of his heart. 
 He v.-as too proud to weep in her presence — too ago- 
 nized to speak. 
 
 " You think, perhaps," added Lr^dy Anne, ixi a low- 
 er voice, "that this fortitude will not abide; that 
 poverty is a. gnawing thing which devours the strong- 
 est courage. Try me ! 1 have the consciousness of 
 a stronger mind — a yet more enduring patience. I 
 defy the cares or wants of life to do more than bow 
 down ray body to death ; — they pliall neither tire my
 
 NATURE AND ART. 125 
 
 submission nor exhaust my tenderness for you and 
 those whom you have given me !" 
 
 He was about to answer, w^hen pressing- his hand 
 fervently with the soft slender fingers in which it was 
 still enveloped, she added, " One word more ! — I have 
 a condition to affix to my devotedness. — I must have 
 you cheer your spirits for my sake — I must have you 
 up and bestir yourself — I must have you persevere to 
 a good end I I will labor cheerfully, but you must be 
 my help-mate and companion. I will oppose a cheer- 
 ful face to sorrow, but yours must no longer wear a 
 frown'. V/e are not utterly deserted of Heaven — v/e 
 have youth and health ; and for how many of the 
 creatures of God do these form a sufficient provision ! 
 Such fair and promising children are not vouchsafed 
 to us in vain. They are given us as pledges of better 
 days — they arc given us as encouragement to bear and 
 to forbear — they are given as an incitement to our ef. 
 forts, and a comfort to our cares. For them, dearest, 
 and for 7ne, look to the brighter side of things. If I 
 do not forget my father, I have at least forgotten my 
 father's house ; nay, I have forgotten all, save love 
 and duty — love that makes duty light, and duty that 
 sobers and consecrates the sportiveness of love. Low 
 as we are in life, I am happy ; be happy too, and no- 
 thing will be left me to desire." 
 
 And, lo I thus cheered and comforted, there was 
 hope by the desolate fireside of the necessitous man. 
 
 But this was not all. Words of solace were not the 
 only offering of the good and tender wife. She had 
 words of counsel, too, for his ear, which, after much 
 debate, tended to a happy issue. 
 
 Lady Anne persuaded him to quit Lancaster, to re- 
 nounce the intercourse of those of their own degree — 
 people who loved f hem no jot the better for attempts 
 to maintain a position in life ruinous to their narrow 
 fortunes. After much seeking, they found notice at 
 an attorney's office of a vacancy at the miserable farm
 
 126 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 of Helisle : ,and nearly the remainder of Warnford's 
 heritage was expended in the necessary outlay for 
 lease, stock, and plenishing. Having settled them- 
 selved thus, at the extremity of civilization, they re- 
 signed all pretence to gentleness of condition, the 
 pomps of life ; v/orked hard, fared hard ; and after 
 two years buffeting between necessity aud the linger- 
 ing influence of their early breeding, found their re- 
 finement of nature and sentiment worn down to the 
 exigencies of their condition. Algernon Warnford 
 held the plough which was to procure bread for his 
 children, wliile Mistress Warnford tended the tv\"o lean 
 milch-kine ; which afforded their chief subsistence. 
 
 The unfruitful soil was such as to tax the utmost 
 efforts of the inexperienced husbandman. The peas- 
 ant's boy and girl hired to assist the labors of the dis- 
 ti'essed family, gave only trouble by their ignorance. 
 But in the sequel, perseverance prevailed. Though 
 he who, as a gentleman, had been a bad scholar, 
 proved as a farmer an indifferent agriculturist, the 
 effort of being up early and late, toiling through sum. 
 mer's* sun and winter's frost, overcame, as providence 
 hath promised, the stubborn curse of nature ; and at 
 the close of five years of heavy labor, the Warnfords 
 were not only able to maintain their elder children, 
 and a younger — an ocean pearl, born in the briny sol- 
 itude of Helisle — but had amassed great store of wealth 
 — a press full of linen, spun under their roof — several 
 articles of household furniture, the product of their 
 united ingenuity — and, above all, a stout coble-boat, 
 which, with the aid of an able builder from White- 
 haven, who passed a couple of summer months domi- 
 ciled with them at the farm, Warnford had launched 
 with great ceremony from the stocks, and christened 
 and painted with the auspicious name of "The Lady 
 Anne of Helisle." It may be doubted whether the 
 Earl of Lovell, who was now officiating in his frivo- 
 lous old age as Lord Chamberlain to his most gracious
 
 KATLHE AISD ART. 127 
 
 Majesty, had in the iiiterhn achieved any effort half 
 so gratifying. 
 
 Nor was the ornamental department wholly ne- 
 glected. Warnford had retouched and whitewashed, 
 within and without, the plaster walls of the little 
 dwelling, had contrived a rude carpet of sheepskins 
 for the portion of the hall or kitchen specially habited 
 by his wife, and had even planted the spot of ground 
 beneath her window with hedges of fragrant rosemary, 
 which, as its name denotelh, rejoices in the dew of the 
 sea; for the sea spray reached it there. On winter 
 nights the humbleness of the one-storied mansion was 
 its sole security against the tremendous storm-bursts 
 of the Irish channel ; and often, when signals of dis- 
 tress boomed from the offing. Mistress Warnford would 
 start from her pillow, and with a prayer of interces- 
 sion for the souls in peril, bless the roof that gave such 
 comfortable shelter to the helpless ones whom her soul 
 loved. 
 
 In fine weather, she and her children — moi'e espec 
 ially her son Walter — often accompanied Warnford 
 when his day's labors were done, in an evening sail, 
 coasting those beautiful shores. Or she would follow 
 him to the mainland, when business carried him to 
 market at Daltou or Rampside, for a kindly visit to the 
 wives of one or two small farmers, with whom they 
 maintained interchange ofgood-will,borrovring or lend- 
 ing, nursing or claiming tendance in sickness, exchang. 
 ing a basket offish for a brood of early chickens, or a 
 measure of rapcsced or yarn, for faggot wood or turf. 
 It was one of the sacrifices expected of Warnford's 
 pride by his more nobly constituted wife, that he should 
 sloop in all things to his altered condition, and live, 
 and let live, with those among whom Providence had 
 appoi)ited their career. 
 
 There was old Hal llobbs and his danje, caterers on 
 the Condish estates, which extend along the coast by 
 Furness, who thought the month a long one in v.hich
 
 128 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Mistress Warnford, or her good man, forgot to bring 
 Watty and Lecny to taste their honey, or garden ber- 
 ries. 
 
 "IVIarry — the boy and girl v>rere so sprightly, yet so 
 jaunty and WfU-spoken withal," that the old people 
 hailed the coming of the young mother, (with her large 
 loving eyes beaming tenderness on the fair child, the 
 young Lucy, that still lingered in her arms, from 
 fondling more than helplessness,) as a festival in their 
 life of labor. 
 
 Bat as years drew on, the mother, as by nature ap- 
 pointed, began to outweigh the wife in the bosom of 
 Lord Lovell's daughter. She had borne cheerfully 
 with her lot for herself, and for her husband ; she 
 could not be so easily contented for her children. Her 
 mind, and that of Warnford, had been formed by early 
 education ; and though no leisure or opportunity was 
 left them now for indulgence of scholarship, they knevv' 
 enough to derive double enjoyment from the revealed 
 phenomena of nature, which afforded the recreation of 
 their uneventful lives. But the children had no books, 
 no instructors ; and, engrossed by the homely industry 
 indispensable to their support, their parents could do 
 little in that task of unremitting preceptorship indis- 
 pensable to drive the young and volatile through the 
 thorny ways of learning, 
 
 Walter and Helena accordingly wandered all day 
 long about the featureless fields of the islet, without a 
 shrub or bush to fix their attention, or a field-llower 
 to enliven the saline herbage. Hand in hand they 
 watched by the shore till the receding tide left clear 
 to their eager feet those sparkling sands, to which ev- 
 ery ebb of the watex's afforded hazard or novelty; pur. 
 pie sea-shells, lightly embedded there, the curious 
 pebble, the stranded weed, detached from the podded 
 vegetation clinging to the sunken rocks ; the living 
 jellies of the sca-anem-one or star.fish, or some shelly 
 outcast flung by the waves on the shore to crawl its
 
 NATURE AND ART. 129 
 
 avvkwaril way back again to a more congenial cle- 
 ment. The white gulls would stand unheeding, while 
 the two little ones went wandering up and down ; or 
 the curlew dip its wing into the wave within reach of 
 their little hands ; so gentle were their movements, 
 and so customav}'- their presence on the spot. 
 
 Bat when Waller attained the age of hardihood, and 
 at ten years old, delighted to unmoor the coble from 
 its chain, and havijig set the sail, steer boldly along 
 the shore tovrards Furness, having compelled his sis- 
 ter to bear him company, that they might encounter 
 together the chastisement of their disobedience, Mis- 
 tress Warnford felt that the boy's spirit was breaking 
 bounds. He had none of the usual occupations of 
 youth to exhaust his elasticity of limb and muscle — 
 no pony to ride — no tree to climb — no companion to 
 overcome in wrestling, quoits, or other athletic exer- 
 cises. He had no associate but his sister Helena ; for 
 a sort of innate arrogance kept him aloof from the 
 herdsman emploj'cd in the out-door labors of the farm. 
 At length, having cficapcd one day from home to the 
 fair at Dalton, and tarried away till the tide had 
 flowed, and ebbed and flowed again, distracting his 
 mother with apprehensions lest, finding himself be- 
 lated, he should attempt to wade through the channel 
 of the flowing waters when nearly breast-high as she 
 had often known him do before — she resolved, when 
 she cla.^pcd the truant once more in her arms, (after 
 having dared the passage in a crazy tub of a boat, long 
 conde.nned as unseaworthy by the fishermen of Ram- 
 side,) to make some attempt at rescuing her son from 
 a state of life, where the energies of his arrogant na- 
 ture v.'cre thus afHictingly doomed to run to waste. 
 
 A letter was accordingly indited to the Earl of 
 Lovell by his daughter ; pretending no penitence for 
 the past, but setting forth the degraded prospects of 
 her children for the future, unless he deigned to ex- 
 tend a succorable hand, and enable them by fitting ed- 
 11
 
 130 INATUKE AND ART. 
 
 ucation to assume at some future time a positioa in 
 the world more consonant with their honorable kins- 
 manship. For herself, she asked nothing — low as was 
 her estate, Lady Anne avou'ed herself content. All 
 she entreated of her father was to call her fair young 
 son to his presence, and decide, by personal investiga- 
 tion, whether it were not foul shame for a 3-outh so 
 nobly gifted in mind and body, to sink into a hewer of 
 wood and drawer of water. Unknown to Warnford 
 was the letter written and despatched to the Dal ton 
 post-office ; and as his wife stood watching the coble 
 driving over the little channel to the main land, bear, 
 ing with it the missive which was to decide the desti- 
 nies of her offspring, slie almost trembled at the re- 
 flection that her proceeding might become a source of 
 alienation in the little family, even as her island home, 
 which at sunrise had been part and parcel of the con- 
 tinent, was nov/ a severed islet, cinctured by the roar- 
 ing sea. 
 
 Time passed away, but no anwer from Lovell Court ! 
 Lady Anne felt that she had humiliated herself in vain. 
 Her father's heart like her father's door, was irrevoca- 
 bly closed against her, and she congratulated herself 
 that she had net acquainted Warnford with her meas- 
 ures, and so procured hmi a share in her disappoint- 
 ment. For Warnford was now a gloomy-minded, un- 
 yielding man. Hard labor and severe care had extin- 
 guished the happier impulses of his nature. His slavery 
 had become mechanical to him, for he saw that it was 
 to be the unamending portion of his life ; but not even 
 the gentle companionship of his angelic wife could 
 bring smiles to his face, or words of gladness to his 
 lip. His fatlier's spirit Avas breaking out in him. He 
 had grown devout ; not with the wholesome piety of a 
 heart at ease, which beholds motive for giatitude in 
 even the least of the benefits conferred by the bounty 
 of Providence ; but with a sour, fretful, fractious spirit 
 of superstitious fear ; a peevish interpreting of text5 — >
 
 NATUIU: AND ART. 131 
 
 an angry resentment of the triumph of the king and 
 the church. With his wife he was invariably irrita- 
 ble — with his children tyrannical and unjust ; and 
 while grieving that young Walter must grow up in 
 such bitter bondage, she rejoiced that the father knew 
 nothing of the emancipation she had premeditated for 
 his son. 
 
 One day when the lad was assisting his father to- 
 cart slrlngles from the seaward shore, and Mistress 
 Warnford was busied in hanging out upon the rose- 
 mary bushes a web of fine linen, the product of her 
 winter's spinning, which she had destined for clothing 
 the boy, had he been called away by liis grandsire, 
 Helena shouted from the garden stile tidings that two 
 strangers, richJy dressed, were crossing the sands on 
 horseback guided by 3'oung Hob, the stable knave of 
 the hotel at Dalton. Involuntarily the matron blushed, 
 and drew closer round her face the pinners which the 
 fcca breezes had blown away, as she hastened towards 
 the porch of her humble home, to set her house in or- 
 der for the reception of guests whom she suspected to 
 be on their way to visit tiie Lady Anne Lovcll, not to 
 confer with Master Warnford of Helislc Farm. 
 
 They came. They doffed their broad beavers cour- 
 teously to the trembling woman, requesting her to an- 
 nounce to her mistress that the auditor and chaplain 
 of the Farl of Lovell were under her roof; and when 
 her exclamation, " You come to me from my father !" 
 revealed the truth, they were sufficiently wanting in 
 fact to betray their amazement that the daughter of 
 their illustrious patron should be clothed in linsey 
 woolsey, and have her cheeks swarthy and withered 
 by everlasting exposure to the sun and winds of that 
 shapeless island. 
 
 Their errand w-as quickly said. They brought mis. 
 sives from the earl, undertaking the charge of his elder 
 grand-children, on condition that they were given up 
 to his rare, to be bred as became the future inheritors
 
 132 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 of his fortunes. His elder daughter'^,, the Marchior.ess 
 of Saltram, and the Lady Helena Mauleverer, having 
 ill their turn incurred his displeasure, he engaged to 
 make forthwith a handsome settlement ou Walter and 
 Helena Warnford, upon a renunciation on the part of 
 their parents of all interference in their future desti- 
 nies. 
 
 Lady Anne trembled as she read ; not lest her hus. 
 bnnd should refuse his assent to the hmriiliating pro- 
 posal she had brought upon herself, but rather lest he 
 should agree to part with the children. It was only 
 for her son she had petitioned. She knew her own ca- 
 pability to bestow upon her blooming Helena such ed- 
 ucation as she held indispensable to an humble home- 
 staying woman ; and the project of the earl to deprive 
 her at once of both her children, filled her bosom v/ith 
 dismay. She would fain have answered by a hasty 
 negative, and dismissed the two delegates of Lord 
 Lovell ere Warnford could be apprised of their arrival. 
 But this was impossible. Two horsemen could not 
 easily arrive at Helisle unknown to the farmer ; and 
 accordingly, after the lapse of a fev/ minutes, "Warn- 
 ford, in his fustian suit, and wearing his stern looks, 
 entered, and bade a surly welcome to the strangers. 
 
 To the surprise of his wife, however, those looks 
 brightened when the object of the mission came to 
 be explained. The Helisle outcast had that morning 
 discovered that he wks likely to be a heavy loser by 
 the season's crops ; and had received within a few dayp, 
 an insolent letter from the attorney of his landlord, 
 claiming arrears of rent, and threatening ejection ; 
 and having the.se evil prospects before him for his help- 
 less family, the offers vouchsafed by Lord Lovell came 
 like manna in the wilderness. It was not a generous 
 sentiment which decided his grateful acceptance. He 
 thought nothing of the ultimate beaefit of his offspring. 
 He thought only of the joy of deliverance from a pre- 
 sent burthen ; of having fewer moutlis to fill by the
 
 NATURE AND ART. 137 
 
 ing affected by the man designated by Rochester, 
 nn-kiiitrliam, and Tom Killegrew, as " the pompos- 
 tcrous Earl of Lovell." 
 
 Harder iii his nature, and more worldly than ever, 
 Lord LovcU hailed with delight tlie coming of the 
 stately marquise, whose brceauig of Versailles was to 
 add new dignity to his domestic circle, and the beau- 
 tcous grandchild who was to breathe the rejuvenes- 
 cence of her eighteen years upon his withered exist- 
 once. His vanity was tickled by anticipation of the 
 gay figure these daughters of his line would make in 
 tlie royal circle of Whitehall ; and his malice gratified 
 by the notion of tlie envy with which their elevation 
 to his favor must be regarded by his two rebellious 
 daughters, the Ladies Saltrarn and Mauleverer. Of 
 his third daughter, his once-loved Anne, he thought no 
 more than if she liad been buried Jearf instead of alive 
 in the uliima thule of Ilelisle ! Morality extinguished 
 by her mes-alliancc, his lordship deemed it superfluous 
 to inform himself whether she retained so much as 
 physical existence. 
 
 But there was one person at Lovell House, to whom 
 the arrival of the two ladies afforded anything but sat. 
 isfaction. Sir Walter Lovell (for the vain youth had 
 been knighted by the king v.hen oflieiating as proxy 
 to the earl at the installation of Knights of the Gar- 
 ter) had long reigned supreme in the affections of his 
 grand-father. Frivolous, and licentious, the false po- 
 sition ia v.-hich he was placed, by Lord Lovell's per- 
 emptory alienation from all natm'al tics, had gradually 
 effaced all natural atTcctions in his bosom. To love 
 the earl v.'as impossible. His sister v/as banished to a 
 foreign country. His parents were henceforvvai'd no- 
 tliln.g to his tenderness or duty. ' The world was to be 
 all in all ; its splendors his solace — its favor his euf- 
 ileicnt happiness. The lessons of adversity were for- 
 Lottcn. As the manners of the young courtier softened, 
 )iia heart grew hard. Dissolute in his habits, his chief
 
 138 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 anxiety was to keep from the knowledge of his grand- 
 father, excesses of a nature to be held derogatory by 
 the stately old nobleman ; and Sir Walter justly feared 
 that the establishment of female espionage at Lovell 
 House would be fatal to his superficial reputation. 
 
 " I kiss your hand, sweet sister !" cried he, throw- 
 ing himself Avithout ceremony into a seat, in the 
 gorgeous withdrawing-room, appointed to the mar- 
 chioness's use, the day after Helena's arrival in her own 
 country. " I was dining last night with Muskerry, 
 or should have been at hand to assist our lady aunt 
 from her coach, and tuck the chaplain and lapdog un- 
 der either arm, to make their solemn entry into Lovell 
 House." 
 
 -" The latter duty you v^'ould have been spared," 
 said Helena, smiling at his affectation of dress and 
 manner, which all but rivalled her own. '• In place of 
 chaplain and lapdog, the chere marquise travels with 
 a pair of the prettiest and most adroit soubrettes that 
 ever pinned up a fontange, or stretched a stomacher ; 
 and neither Mademoiselle Peroline, nor Mademoiselle 
 Celeste, is in the habit of being " tucked" under the 
 arm of a cavalier so unlettered as to groan under the 
 w^eight of Alencon point after Easter, or to sport boots 
 of chamois leather, while Spanish morocco is to be for 
 money." 
 
 " r faith, well said I" cried Sir Walter, enchanted 
 by the grace with which the belle Parisienne sat toss- 
 ing a cassolette of perfumes, affixed to her wrist by a 
 golden chain, which ever and anon she caught in her 
 snow white hand, to cast it lightly forth again. "And 
 I was wrong to talk of such old-world pets as lapdogs 
 and chaplains to ladies of degree, who doubtless enter- 
 tain a marmoset and an astrologer ! But tell me, 
 sweet sister I what is the last news from the Salle de 
 Diane, and the circle of its purest Diana, Athenee de 
 Montespan ? Is his hoiiness's Bolognese bull promul. 
 gated yet by the" cardinal, and sanctioned by la hon
 
 NATURE ANU ART. 139 
 
 eompagnie ? And is it now a leceivod thing to inter- 
 sperse breast-knots of lilac on an amber-colored bod- 
 ice ?" 
 
 " Even as you see, good brother," replied Helena ; 
 "but trouble not your fastidious eyes with a thing so 
 trivial as this my morning neglige. Suspend 3'our 
 judgment until Thursday night ; when, having been 
 presented to her Majesty in her private closet, we are 
 to appear at the ball at court, and lo ! you shall behold 
 a certain robe of silver gauze, embroidered on the 
 scams in Parma violets, whereof every eye hath an en- 
 crusted topaz, of v.hich even Lanzan protested the 
 fashion to be unique, vrhen I danced in it, as one of the 
 handmaidens of Flora, in the last royal ballet per- 
 formed at St. Cloud." 
 
 " Silver gauze is altogether cittish and tawdry," said 
 Sir Waller, disdainfully. " Gauze of silk or thread is 
 your only wear. I protest to you, ma mignonne, that 
 cloth of gold or silver is obsolete and unseasonable for 
 this merry monlli of May." 
 
 *« Obsolete 1" cried the young beauty with rising 
 bloom : " how Idng, pray, has Scythian London pre- 
 sumed to affect principles of its own upon such sub- 
 jects ? Have we Parisians so liberally supplied you 
 with tailors, embroiderers, and bulletins of fashion, in 
 the overflov.-jng of our goodness and frippery, that you 
 end by setting up as dictators on your own account? 
 Ah ! Content yourselves — worthy fog-bewildered 
 souls as ye are — with legislating in musty parliaments^ 
 long-robod courts of justice, but presume not (as Eliza- 
 beth said m her haste to her senate) to meddle with 
 matters beyond your roach. / maintain that gauze of 
 silver is fitting wear for a ball-room, even were the 
 dog-star ranging. But here comes the marchioness, 
 tottering under the weight of her ronge faux toupet — 
 a salute on cither cheek, if you love yourself my gentle 
 brother. To kiss her finger-tip, as you did mine, would 
 pass for most unnephew-like eang froid"
 
 140 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " My dear soul, how is this ?" cried Madame de Cas- 
 tries, having courteously accepted from Sir Walter the 
 gallant embrace suggested by her neice. " What is it 
 I hear— that my brother has neither evening set apart 
 for the reception of society ; nor groom-porter, nor 
 pharo-bank, -nor ombro, nor basset, nor anything usual 
 or decorous, established in the house ? What means 
 such strange irregularity in an establishment of so 
 much note and splendor ? and what does he intend us 
 to do with ourselves when there is nothing going on at 
 court, and neitlier ball nor masquerade in question? 
 Does he expect us to mew ourselves up with him of an 
 evening in this state-prison, to the light of half a dozen 
 sconces, and perhaps the tune of a couple of fiddles, 
 lullabying one to sleep, ' Damon, god of my affection,' 
 or some other playhouse ditty ?" 
 
 " Doubtless, my dear madam," replied Sir Walter, 
 having led her to a chair, " ray grandfather will accede 
 to all your reasonable desires. Hitherto his household 
 hath been neglected : his office detaining him chiefly 
 near the king, and my own naturally studious and re- 
 tiring disposition having engaged me in literary and 
 scientific society, whence such toys as cards and dice 
 are necessarily banished." 
 
 " I cannot live without my hocca," cried the mar- 
 chioness, taking a long pinch ofrapee from a glittering 
 box, enamelled with a portrait of her friend St. Evre- 
 mont, having a stanza from Voiture engraven on the 
 golden reverse. " To sleep without the incentive of 
 my nightly game is as impossibleas to wake without the 
 excitement of my morning coffee. See to this for me, 
 Walter ; consult the Chevalier Hamilton and the few 
 other civilized beings you have got among you — make 
 me up a little coterie, to wean me gradually from the 
 cream of luxurious Paris down to the skim-milk of 
 splenetic London ! — conversation, taste, or elegance, 
 we do not look for from you ; but, in pity to two for- 
 lorn females, give us that which even blockheads can
 
 XATUUE A^'B ART. 141 
 
 provide, a pack of cards and a tolerable cup of Mo- 
 cha." 
 
 Thus adjured, Sir Walter decided that it would be 
 more prudent to seek a confederate in the marchioness 
 than to out-general her manojuvres. He promised, 
 therefore, to do his best for her ladyship's enlivenmcnt ; 
 and Lord Lovell was induced to endure, as the avowed 
 guests of his sister, the society of the profligate com- 
 ])anions of his nephew. Assured by the marchioness 
 that high play was one of the vices de hon Ion monop- 
 olized by \\\o grand monarque for the delectation of his 
 court, the earl submitted to see a bank established in 
 the grand gallery of Lovell House, illuminated twice a 
 week for the reception of visiters ; and there, as a pre- 
 text for quaffing Spanish wines with the gay and 
 brilliant Sir Walter Lovell, and bandying light retorts 
 with his beautiful sister, the Duke of Buckingham, 
 Beau Fielding, Jermyn, Count Flamilton, and other 
 leading fashionists and wits of the day, consented to 
 sacrifice their patience to the tedious patter of the old 
 earl, and a few gold pieces to the insatiable love of 
 play of the Marchioness de Castries. It became one of 
 the best frequented mansions in London ; and Charles 
 himself, .sometimes laughingly deplored the etiquette 
 which forbade him to become a lounger in the gay sa- 
 loons of his lord chamberlain. 
 
 But the fair Helena had not been educated in Paris 
 to so little purpose as to imagine that the brilliant 
 homage of these libertines of fashion was the one thing 
 needful. Her grandfather had promised her a noble 
 fortune ; but not even the broad lands he was to be- 
 queath her would obliterate at the court of a Stuart, 
 the shame of ignoble and roundhead descent. The Iri- 
 umphs of the new comer, in her robe of silver gauze 
 and Parma violets,, had excited universal indignation 
 among the maids of honor, both of the queen and the 
 duchess. Who was this Miss Lovell that smiled so in- 
 solently as she walked a minuet with the young Duko 
 12
 
 142 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 of Monmouth, after fixing the admiring attention of 
 Grammont and all his satellites ? — an impostor I The 
 offspringof a J'ciMrier, whose real name wag besprinkled 
 with the mire of the commonwealth. The whisper 
 went round. Helena's eyes sparkled with indignation. 
 " They should repent the ignominy cast upon her. — 
 She would soar above them, and surprise them yet." 
 Already the Earl of St. Albans was among her reject, 
 ed suitors. She had set her heart — (her heart) — upon 
 a duke I The laurels wherewith she would fain be 
 crowned were strawberry leaves ; and it was after 
 forming this resolution (while apparently devoting her 
 attention to the beauty of a pair of cats of cracked 
 porcelain, gracing the marchioness's chimney piece,) 
 that his young grace of Glamorgan was invited by Ma- 
 dame de Castries to become her pupil in the mysteries 
 of basset. Lord Lovell was satisfied that the duke 
 visited so assiduously at his house, in compliment to 
 himself — the venerable friend of his grandsire. Sir 
 Walter found that the youth was ambitious of forming 
 himself in his ecole des bonnes manieres. The mar- 
 chioness decided that he came there to pay his compli- 
 ments to her snuff-box, and the four aces. But Helena 
 was equally positive that, whatever the Duke of Gla- 
 morgan might come to seelc at Lovell House, he should 
 find nothing less important than a duchess. He was 
 a gentle, ingenuous youth ; and fearing to alarm him 
 by a display of her Parisian levities, she gave up co. 
 quetting with Harry Jermyn, and bandying witticisms 
 with Rochester, to edify the world of fashion by the 
 strict decorum of her maidenly resolve. 
 
 While these glittering pageants were enacting in 
 the vicinity of Whitehall, the desolation of Helisle 
 waxed gloomier and yet more gloomy. Warnford's 
 reason was now completely disordered. It was only 
 by following him incessantly, in his wanderings, that 
 his matchless wife prevented him from becoming the 
 victim of his delusion. Often did he rush forth upon
 
 NATURE AND ART. 143 
 
 the sands when the tides were rolHng in upon a win- 
 ter's night ; and amid the bellowing of the storm, and 
 the frightful violence of the night winds, command the 
 waves to recede, in confirmation of his faith ; nor could 
 an}' thing but the persuasive caresses of his wife, (her 
 voice being inaudible among the tumults of the scene,) 
 induce him to seek shelter at home from the inclemen- 
 cies of the weather. At other times she would follow 
 him to Dalton, and from Ualton pursue her weary way 
 to the mountains of Black Comb or Langdalc, and 
 while he wandered frantic among the ravines and re- 
 cesses of the hills, attend his steps with bleeding feet 
 and panting bosom, clinging to him protectingly when 
 she saw him about to precipitate himself from some 
 frightful precipice, as an ordeal of the protection of 
 the Almighty. 
 
 But, alas I during these frequent absences^frorn home, 
 her gentle Lucy was left alone with a boorish servant 
 on the solitary islet ; and this necessity was, of all her 
 trials, the most painful to Mistress Warnford. 
 
 " Not unto me should this duty lia\c been appoint- 
 ed !" did she more than once murmur while following 
 the wanderings of the demented man through storm 
 and xbrd, among perilous morasses, or shelving rocks. 
 " It is his son, with a strong arm to restrain, and a 
 strong voice to overmaster the paroxysms of his fear- 
 ful madness." 
 
 But there was no son at hand to relieve her painful 
 efforts by the sacrifice of his filial duty. Walter Warn- 
 ford had ceased to exist ; for the Sir Walter Lovcll, 
 in whom his existence was merged, was a vain volup- 
 tuary, who would have pished and pshawed at the 
 mere mention of his absent parents, and their misfor- 
 tunes. 
 
 " I have been pestered with a strange letter this 
 morning ;" said Helena to her brother, producing one 
 day at arm's length a clumsy packet, by mere contact 
 with which she seemed to think herself dishonored.
 
 144 NATUHi: AND ART. 
 
 " Did you know that those people in \he north were 
 still alive ? jMy aunt informed me at Paris, (on my 
 inquiry about them on some occasion or other,) that 
 they were all swept away by an inundation — a confla- 
 gration — or the Heavens know what." 
 
 " Leave that knowledge to the Heavens, then, my 
 pretty Helena," drawled 8ir Walter ; " for it is writ- 
 ten in black and white, that we are cither to know no 
 parents or know no grandsire ; and I have a notion 
 that our elderly gentleman with a rent-roll of sixty 
 thousand per annum, is the acquaintance worth pre- 
 serving of the two." 
 
 " Tlie more so, that our aunts, Saltram and Maul- 
 everer, have lately been attacking the earl on his weak 
 side, per favor of his ghostly comforter, Father O'Ma- 
 hony," observed Helena. 
 
 " And what says yonder inopportune letter ?" de. 
 nianded her brother, setting his ruffles. 
 
 " Many things unseemly to repeat. 'Tis v/rit by 
 little Lucy, (the child, though grown into a v/oman, is 
 endowed apparcnLly with scarce instruction or breed- 
 ing for a cambermaid,) who informs me that her fa- 
 ther is a lunatic, and her mother, it would seem, 
 scarcely more rational — since she trudges after him 
 up and down, like an esquire of the body, leaving her 
 young daughter to be devoured by rats and mice, and 
 such small deer, but lacking nourishment of her own. 
 In short, they are all crazy, and all starving. What is 
 to be done ?" 
 
 " Nothing ! The smallest intercourse would be fol- 
 lowed by our expulsion from the favor of the Earl. 
 Such, since I attained years of discretion, hath been 
 the reiterated lesson of old Rickatts, who stands so 
 much our friend." 
 
 " 'Tis a most misjudging thing of this young girl to 
 have placed me in so sore a strait," observed Helena, 
 tearing to pieces a rose, the gift of the Duke of Gla-
 
 xNATUKli A.ND AKT. 145 
 
 iMorgau, which she had taken Irom her busoin. " ilow 
 am I to answer her letter ?" 
 
 " Take no note of it, child — as I do by those of my 
 unruly creditors. 'T would be an encouragement to 
 importunity were such applications favored with an 
 answer. Miss Lucy will conclude that her petitioi\ 
 miscarried, and we shall be troubled no more with her 
 importunities." 
 
 Lucy did conclude so ; for, to her young heart, the 
 monstrous idea of filial ingratitude had never present- 
 ed itself. She pictured to herself her beautiful sister, 
 shining like a star in courtly resorts, and revelling in 
 the luxuries of life — she pictured to herself her brave 
 brother, connnanding the respect of society by the ex. 
 ercise of every manly virtue ; (for, blest as both had 
 been with the enlightenment of education, how could 
 they be otherwise than high-minded and virtuous ?) 
 and could not refrain from conjecturing what would 
 be their anguish, could they dream, that while they 
 v.-rre pampered with the sweets of life, want was in 
 the dwelling of their parents I 
 
 For want was there indeed ! The fields of Helisle 
 lay uncultured, the fences brokcji, the garden-ground 
 a waste I Xot a head of cattle — not a sheep — not a 
 living thing in the ruinous sheds — not a handful of meal 
 — not a root — to yield nourishment to the misera'jle 
 family. For some time the neighbors were generous, 
 and administered to their necessity. But the "demand 
 came too often. The season was a bad one, and there 
 was a famine generally upon the land. Winter was 
 comiiig on severely; fuel was unattainable. Mistress 
 Warnlbrd had shaped her own warm clothing into 
 garments for the lunatic ; while, one by one, Lucy in- 
 sinuaied her vestments into her mother's hoard ; and 
 with blue lips, and wasted, shivering arms, protested 
 when charged by the tender woman with her good 
 deed, that she could not work while encumbered with 
 winter covering. The poor girl grew weaker and 
 12*
 
 146 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 weaker ; yet every day she went forth on pretext of 
 rural labor, though there was neither stock nor crop to 
 exact her cares ; she only wished to hide from her 
 mother the wanness and sadness of her hungry face. 
 
 Yet, even in that depth of misery, the mother bore 
 all with resignation. Her faltering voice had 3'et 
 strength to talk of better days in store ; her languid 
 eye to look forward to some remote epoch of worldly 
 felicity, when her absent children were to be restored 
 to her, and all was to be well. 
 
 " Heaven is merciful," was her constant exhortation 
 to the gentle girl, who brought water to lave her bruised 
 feet when she returned froin her painful wanderings — 
 and water was the only offering that remained to Lucy 
 as a token to her parents. " ' Heaviness may endure 
 for a night, but joy cometh in the m.orning.' When 
 your brother comes into possession of his independence, 
 will it not be his fii'st thought to fly to our relief? 
 And what delight, to be rewarded for my past miseries, 
 clasped in the arms of my lovely Helena, and beholding 
 thee, my duteous child — my youngest born — my best 
 beloved — walking at length in the sunshine of pros, 
 perity !" 
 
 But while talking thus wixh parched but patient lips 
 of the sun-shine of prosperity, " a hopeless darkness 
 settled o'er her fate." The miserable man, whose in- 
 sanity had recently taken a furious turn, (the result of 
 wretchedness, witnessed and shared,) was one day mis- 
 sing from the chamber Avhere he v/as accustomed to 
 lie, and howl away the intervals of his more restless 
 paroxysms ; and his wife, girding on her tattered rai- 
 ments, prepared herself, as usual, to cross to the main- 
 land, and inquiring the direction of his course, follow 
 and follow through the pitiless storm, till some lucid 
 interval enabled him to recognise her voice, and to re- 
 turn with her to their destitute abode. But, lo, as she 
 was about to go forth, Lucy met her upon the thresh- 
 old, and in silence prevented her departure. It was
 
 NATURE AND ART. 147 
 
 in vain that Mistress Warnford remonstrated or ques- 
 tioned. Lucy could reply only by the tenderest ca- 
 rcsscs — by clasping her mother's hand — by imprinting 
 kisses on her mother's cheek; till after some time, she 
 gathered courage to lead her to I he spot where lay the 
 dead and disfigured body of the maniac. 
 
 For a single moment the widow beheld in him once 
 more the lover of her youth, and wrung her hands in 
 anguish. But better thoughts succeeded. The suf- 
 ferer had gone to his rest ; though he had perished by 
 his own hand, his \-.-ill was guiltless of the deed ; and 
 the poor friendless woman had still fortitude to ex- 
 claim, " The will of God be done !" She remained 
 alone with the dead while the weeping Lucy went her 
 way to the mainland, and brought back those who, 
 with sore grumbling at the interruption, dug a grave 
 in the deserted island for the mangled remains. of the 
 unhappy Warnford ! 
 
 To abide longer on that calamitous spot, the two 
 helpless women felt to be impossible. Gathering to- 
 gether the scanty remnant of their property, they set 
 forth to beg their way to London. A charitable friend 
 at Dalton gave them shelter on that first homeless 
 night ; and even at that desolate moment, the poor 
 widow felt, as she wept upon the head of her loving 
 and lovely child, that a treasure was hers in the affec- 
 tions of her devoted Lucy, that counterbalanced the 
 evils of her lot. 
 
 Weeks of patient perseverance conveyed them to 
 the capital. But, alas I they arrived at a moment dis- 
 astrous as the history of their own destinies I The 
 plague had broken out, and high and low were flying 
 from the infected city. When at last the miserable wan- 
 derers made their way to the stately portal •f Lovell 
 House, a train of coaches was at the door to convey 
 the family in haste into Oxfordshire. The postillions 
 were cracking their whips, lackeys uncovered stood 
 thronging the door-stops, lining the way for the mar-
 
 148 KATUKE AInD ARl. 
 
 chiouess and her fair niece to reach the equipage ; and 
 when Helena, radiant with beauty, issued from the 
 gate, her mother burst through the restraining throng, 
 and flung herself at the feet of her bright and prosper. 
 ous child, with sobs of ecstacy and love. 
 
 " Take her away — take her away I — 't is some poor 
 infected wretch," cried Miss Lovell, recoiling with a 
 piercing shriek from her approach. 
 
 " No, no I" faltered the seemmg mendicant ; "I 
 bring thee no evil — I would die sooner than bring thee 
 evil. I am thy mother, Helena — thy loving, misera- 
 ble mother I" 
 
 Another shriek betrayed the consternation of the 
 young lady, to whom the terms of this address were 
 wholly inaudible, but who fancied she beheld a plague- 
 stricken beggar clinging to her feet. But Sir Walter, 
 who stood inspecting the packing. of his travelling-cha- 
 riot, had caught sufficient insight into the matter to 
 feel that the results of this vexatious scene might be 
 fatal to his prospects in life, surrounded as they were 
 by household spies, by idlers, and above all, in presence 
 of the Duke of Glamorgan, who was come to take a 
 hasty farewell of Helena, ere he rejoined the family at 
 Lovell Court. Rumors of the strange incident would 
 be sure to reach the ears of the earl who had preceded 
 them a few hours, upon the road. He felt persuaded 
 that Lord Lovell would not fail to resent upon his 
 grandchildren so indecent an intrusion, unless they 
 promptly marked their disavowal of the measure. — 
 " Drive the woman hence," cried he, to the herd of 
 lackeys around him. '• Would you see the life of your 
 young lady periled before your cowardly faces?" 
 
 " Walter ! my own brave, beautiful, noble Walter !" 
 faltered the half-fainting woman — "I die content to 
 have lookisd upon your face once more. W^ alter ! my 
 sweet Walter, have pity 1 It is your mother who is 
 grovelling at your feet !"
 
 NATURE AND ART. 149 
 
 " Away witli her !" cried young Lovell, deaf to those 
 tender worcis, which were drowned in the stir and tu- 
 mult of departure ; and while Helena stepped into her 
 gilded coach, a servant in the Lovell livery seized the 
 helpless woman, who had sunk upon the doorrSteps, 
 and flung her ujion a stone-bench fronting the opposite 
 wall of the court. 
 
 " Farewell," cried Helena, kissing her hand to the 
 young duke, as her heavy vehicle was dragged forth 
 through the gate-way by six equally cumbrous Flan- 
 ders marcs. 
 
 " Farewell, my dear Glam ! — au revoir .'" adc'ed her 
 brother, gaining his own gay carriage and folio .ving 
 the van. "To-morrow, by dinner time, at Lovell 
 Court." 
 
 And away went the gaudy train of servants and out- 
 riders ; and away the mob of idlers collected to gaze 
 upon their bravery. No one remained in the place but 
 the decrcpid porter, yawning on the steps of Lovell 
 House, the young Duke of Glamorgan about to re- 
 mount his horse and ride homewards preparatory to 
 his departure from town ; the body of the beggar on 
 the bench, beside which a miserable girl was now 
 kneeling ; and the all-seeing eye of Providence watch- 
 ful over all. The auburn curls fell scattered round 
 Lucy's beautiful face as she took the bonnet from her 
 head, to fan the insensible mother, who lay there as at 
 the point of death ; and the eyes of the young duke 
 were attracted by its matchless loveliness. 
 
 " Can I t!o any thing to assist you ?" said he, in a 
 gentle voice, approaching the agonized Lucy. 
 
 " A cup of water — in charity procure me a cup of 
 water I" cried she. 
 
 -\t the req\iest of the duke, both water and -.vire 
 were hastily brought forth by the old porter of Lord 
 Lovell's house for the wayfarer's relief. After some 
 minutes the sufferer unclosed her eves.
 
 150 KATUEE XKD ART. 
 
 *' My children !" was her first exclamation ; " where 
 
 are my children ?" Then recalling to mind what had 
 occurred, she added mournfully, pressing the hand of 
 Lucy to her lips, "bat, no I there is only one child left 
 me now, the dearest and the best of daughters !" 
 
 " You had better enter the house, my good woman, 
 and rest a little," said the old porter, condescendingly, 
 to the tramper, patronized by a duke. " You are wel- 
 come to the use of my chair I" 
 
 While Glamorgan kindly added, " x\y, hie into Lord 
 Lovell's house and rest awhile — hie into Lord Lovell's 
 house !" 
 
 " Steal like a thief and an outcast into my fathers's 
 house 1" exclaimed the almost distracted woman. " No, 
 no I I should then deserve the cruel iudignities heaped 
 upon me. Renounced by my father, spurned by my 
 ungrateful children, I can go and die elsewhere." 
 
 But though these ejaculations remained incompre- 
 hensible to his Grace, Ralph, the old family porter, to 
 whom the history of Lady Anne was familiar, and who 
 knew the interdiction placed by the earl upon all in- 
 tercourse between his daughter and her children, be. 
 gan to entertain suspicions of the truth ; and tears 
 gushed from the poor man's eyes, as he exclaimed — 
 " My lady ! my honored lady I my sweet young Lady 
 Anne I and 1 not to recognise her in all this misery 
 and shame 1" 
 
 Rapid as were the explanations bestowed by old 
 Ralph on the noble spectator of the affecting scene 
 that followed, they sufficed to rouse his utmost sym. 
 pathy and indignation. His very utterance failed him 
 on learning that he beheld, in the victims of destitu- 
 tion before him, the daughter and the grand-daughter 
 of the Earl of Lovell — the mother and sister of Hole- 
 na. It was to his own roof that he now insisted upon 
 her being removed ; and when, as they were accom- 
 panying him from the spot, there arrived a servant on
 
 Nature and art. 151 
 
 horseback, despatched back by Sir Walter Lovell, to 
 have a cam of the two beggars whom he had left at 
 the gates of Lovell House, the duke commanded ihe 
 man to bear back word to his friend, that " henceforth 
 his deserted mother and sister abided under the proLec- 
 tion of the Duke of Glamorgan." 
 
 Such an intimation naturally apprized Helena that 
 all hope was lost to her of securing the hand of her no. 
 ble admirer. Bu^. it did not forewarn her of ihe still 
 more unw3!come fact, that, afier a fow weeks' intima. 
 cy, his affjc.ions were to be iraasferred to her fair and 
 artless sister, whose virtues gradually confirmed the 
 conquest her beauiy had begun. 
 
 The Earl of Lovell, meanwhile, who had carried 
 with him from London the germs of the prevailing 
 epidemic, fell a victim to that frightful disease ; nor 
 did it surprise the world that a will, executed by the 
 wayward man in his last moments, disinheriting his 
 grandson, secured the whole of his vast property to the 
 daughter of his daughter Anne, on the day of her be- 
 coming the Duchess of Glamorgan. 
 
 '• Bat what then will become of my grandfather's 
 fortune ?" inquired Lucy, when apprised by her moth, 
 er's 3'outhful benefactor, of the singular terms of the 
 bequest. "Surely the legacy will never take effect." 
 
 " That, dearest, must depend upon yourself," was 
 his fervent reply. " By becommg Duchess of Glamor- 
 gan, Lucy Warnford, the daughter of the Lady Anne 
 Lovell, will not only render me the happiest and proud- 
 est of men, but be enabled to confer peace and inde- 
 pendence on the best of mothers; and exemplify to the 
 world the comparative influence upon the human cha- 
 racter and destinies, of the schools of — Natcre and 
 Art."
 
 152 
 
 ©n©i!Ki©i>o^Kiirffii][EKi'[ra 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON. 
 
 Do not ask me why I loved him, 
 
 Love's cause is to love unknown 5 
 Faithless as the past has prov^ him, 
 
 Once his heart' appeared mine own. 
 Do not say he did not merit 
 
 All my fondness, all my truth : 
 Those in whom Love dwells, inherit 
 
 Every dream that haunted youth. 
 
 He might not be all I dreamed him» 
 
 Noble, generous, gifted, true. 
 Not the less I fondly deemed him, 
 
 All those flattering visions drew. 
 All the hues of old romances 
 
 By his actual self grew dim ; 
 Bitterly I mock tlie fancies 
 
 That once found their life in him. 
 
 From the hour by him enchanted, 
 
 From ihe moment when we met, 
 Henceforth with one image haunted. 
 
 Life may never more forget. 
 All my nature changed — his being 
 
 Seemed the only source of mine. 
 Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing 
 
 Thy sad future to divine ? 
 
 Once, upon myself relying, 
 
 All I asked were words and thought 
 Many hearts to mine replying, 
 
 Owned the music that I brought,
 
 DISENCHANTMENT. 153 
 
 Eaffcr, spiritual, and lonel)% 
 
 Visions filled the fairy hour, 
 Deep with love — though love was only 
 
 Not a pretence, but a power. 
 
 But from that first hour I met thee, 
 
 All caught actual life from you. 
 Alas I how can I forget thcc, 
 
 Thou who mad'st the fancied true ? 
 Once my wide world was ideal, 
 
 Fair it was — ah I very fair ; 
 Wherefore hast thou made it real ? 
 
 Wherefore is thy image there ? 
 
 Ah I no more to mc is given 
 
 Fancy's far and fairy birth ; 
 Chords upon my lute arc riven, 
 
 Never more to sound on earth. 
 Once, sweet music could it borrow 
 
 From a look, a word, a tone ; 
 I could paint another's sorrow — 
 
 Now I think but of mine own. 
 
 Life's dark waves have lost the glitter 
 
 Wnich at morning-tide they wore, 
 And the well within is bitter, 
 
 Nouglit its sweetness may restore ; 
 For I knovv^ how vainly given 
 
 Life's most precious things may be, 
 Love that might have looked on heaven, 
 
 Even as it looked on thee. 
 
 Ah, farewell I — with that word dying, 
 
 Hope and love must perish too. 
 For tliy sake themselves denying. 
 
 What is truth with thcc untrue ? 
 I'd
 
 154 THE E:\'CL0SED COI\iMO.\. 
 
 Farewell I — 't is a dreary sentence, 
 Like the death-doom of the grave, 
 
 May it wake in thee repentance, 
 Stinging when too late to save I 
 
 BY MRS. ABDY. 
 
 I STOOD and gazed from the breezy height, 
 The scene was fair in the morning light. 
 And I cast my joyous glance around 
 On a grassy track of smiling ground ; 
 The silvery stream ran clear and cold. 
 The broom looked gay with its flowers of gold, 
 In each path the clustering wild-rose smiled, 
 And the purple thyme grew thick and wild. 
 
 There, blooming children in playful glee, 
 Gathered white wreaths from the hawthorn tree 
 There, w^earied peasants, their labors done. 
 Watched the rich rays of the setting sun ; 
 And the fevered slaves of Mammon's toil, 
 There rested from anxious strife awhile, 
 And seemed new vigor, new life to breathe. 
 From the fragrant air of the open heath. 
 
 Again I stood on the breezy height, 
 But an altered prospect met my sight ; 
 Where flowers had blushed in their varied hue. 
 The smoke of the brick-field rose to viev/ ; 
 And I gazed on formal and measured roads, 
 And on crowded, comfortless abodes. 
 And found no trace of the birds and bowers, 
 That had lent a charm to my childish houi's.
 
 THE ENCLOSED COIMMON. 155 
 
 "Oh! why," I sifrhed, in my deep distress, 
 
 " Must the grasping spirit of worldliness, 
 
 A scene so fair and so free profane, 
 
 For the sordid purposes of gain ? 
 
 Must traffic spread o'er the world its ban, 
 
 And cannot the selfish hand of man 
 
 P^orbear to seize on one spot of sod, 
 
 Thus brightly decked by the hand of God ?'* 
 
 I spoke, wlicn a voice distinct and clear. 
 Appeared to fall on my listening ear — 
 " Thou mournest the loss of this pleasant range, 
 May'st thou not mourn for a greater change I 
 Long hast thou roamed in the world's vain mart, 
 Has it wrought no work on thine own weak heart ; 
 Is it still as simple, as wild, as free, 
 As in former days it was wont to be ? 
 
 " When a child thou wert sporting gladly here. 
 Thou did'st not wish for a busier sphere. 
 Bounding the flowery paths along, 
 And blithly singing some mirthful song ; 
 Glad thoughts, bright visions, blessed thy mind. 
 Thou wert full of love for all mankind. 
 Thy smile was beaming, and clear thy brow, 
 Such wert thou then — art thou altered now ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," I sighed, '= on my spirit gay, 
 
 The world's dark spell has had its sway ; 
 
 Ambitious longings, and restless schemes. 
 
 Have chased the light of my girlish dreams ; 
 
 And if in my bosom's inmost cell 
 
 Some kindly feelings yet chance to dwell, 
 
 Like the lingering flowers on this fated ground, 
 
 They are crushed and scorned by the throng around.
 
 15G THE IONIAN CAPTIVE. 
 
 " O Tiine ! O Change ! ye have cast a gloom 
 
 On this lovely region of light and bloom ; 
 
 But on scenes like these ye might wage your war, 
 
 Would ye spare possessions dearer far I 
 
 Go, the free bounties of nature seize — 
 
 Go, spoil the meadows, the brooks, the trees. 
 
 So that ye play not your cruel part 
 
 On the warm, ingenuous, happy heart I" 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON. 
 
 Sadly the captive o'er her flowers is bending. 
 While her soft eye with sudden sorrow fills ; 
 
 They are not those that grew beneath her tending 
 In the green valley of her native hills. 
 
 There is the violet — not from the meadow 
 Where wandered carelessly her childish feet ; 
 
 There is the rose — it grew not in the shadow 
 Of her old home — it cannot be so sweet. 
 
 And yet she loves them — for those flowers are bringing 
 Dreams of the home that she will see no more ; 
 
 The languid perfumes are around her flinging 
 What almost for the moment they restore. 
 
 She hears her mother's wheel, that slowly turning 
 Murmured unceasingly the summer day ; 
 
 And the same murmur, when the pine-boughs burning 
 Told that the summer-hours had passed away.
 
 ■ STANZAS. 15' 
 
 .She licars her young companions sadly singing 
 A song they loved — an old complaining tune ; 
 
 Then comes a gayer sound — the laugh is ringing 
 Of the young children — hurrying in at noon. 
 
 By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister, 
 They tell old stories, broken by the mirth 
 
 Of her young brother ; alas I have they missed her, 
 She who was borne a captive from their hearth ? 
 
 She starts — too present grows the actual sorrow, 
 By her own heart she knows what they have borne ; 
 
 Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow, 
 It can but find her prisoner and forlorn. 
 
 What are the glittering trifles that surround her — 
 What the rich shawl — and what the golden chain — 
 
 Would she could break the fetters that have bound her, 
 And see her household and her hills asrain ! 
 
 ON nP:ARING THE BELLS RING IN THE 
 NEW YEAR. 
 
 BY MRS. CRAWFORD. 
 
 Hark I how the chime of merry bells 
 
 Proclaims the new-born year ! 
 What magic in their music dwells. 
 
 To wake the slumb'ring tear ? 
 It seems as though a thousand strings 
 
 Were vocal in my heart, 
 Breathing of long forgotten things, 
 
 In v.hich I once had part : — 
 1.3^
 
 158 SONG. 
 
 Of festivals and birth.days kept, 
 
 And Christmas, rife with glee, 
 When those who long in dust have slept 
 
 Shared hopes and joys with me ; 
 And songs, and tales, and frolic mirth 
 
 Beguiled our wint'ry hours. 
 And young affection round the hearth, 
 
 Knit heart to heart with flowers. 
 
 The aid year 's dead and past away ; 
 
 A chequered robe it wore. 
 Of mingled tints, some dark, some gay, 
 
 Like years that went before. 
 And, ah ! how many wishes vain. 
 
 With days and nights of thought, 
 Are linked to that prolonged chain 
 
 Another year has wrought ! 
 
 Awaken, slumberer, from thy sleep ! 
 
 Count not on things of time I 
 Up, up, and mount the starry steep 
 
 Supernal spirits climb ! 
 Let not another year depart 
 
 Without some hopeful tears — 
 Some golden fruits, laid up in heart. 
 
 For the eternal years. 
 
 BY MRS. C. GOPtE. 
 
 There 's joy 'mid the green forest boughs at noon, 
 When the autumn breezes wave them. 
 
 There 's joy on the shores 'neath the cloudless moon, 
 When the spring-tide billows lave them ;
 
 CAN YOU FORGET ME ? 159 
 
 There 's joy e'en in wintry wastes at even, 
 
 When our home lies brisrlit bclbrc us ; 
 Ent the sweetest of all is the blue summer heaven, 
 
 When inoniing is shining o'er us. 
 
 Oh I give niu a bower o'crshaded and lone, 
 
 To gaze on the calm sunnncr weather ; 
 A bower cool and fragrant, and sacred for one, 
 
 Hut pweeter when two are together. 
 There our licarts, that with sorrow too long have striv'n, 
 
 To our youth's bright dreams restore us, 
 Bcr)oalli the soft light of the blue summer heaven, 
 
 While morniii"' is shininir o'er us. 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON, 
 
 Can you forget me ?— I who have so cherished 
 
 The veriest trifle that was memory's link ; 
 TIse roses that you gave me, altliough perished, 
 
 Were preciou:^ in my sight ; they made me think, 
 You took them in their scentless beauty stooping 
 
 From the warm shelter of the garden wall ; 
 Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, 
 
 Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fall. 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? — I am not relying 
 
 On plighted vou's — alas I I knovv' their worth 
 
 ^Man's faith to woman, is a trifle, dying 
 Upon the very breath that gave it birth.
 
 160 CAN YOU FORGET ME ? 
 
 But I remember hours of quiet gladness, 
 
 When, if the heart had truth, it spoke it then, 
 When thoughts would sometimes take a tone of sad- 
 ness, 
 And then unconsciously grow glad again. 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? — My whole soul xvu.s blended. 
 
 At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
 My life's whole purpose, winning thee, seemed ended ; 
 
 Thou wert my heart's sweet home — my spirit's 
 shrine. 
 Can you forget me ? — when the firelight burning, 
 
 Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, 
 How would thy words, to long past moments turning, 
 
 Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy gloom ! 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 There is no truth in love whate'er its seeming. 
 
 And heaven itself could scarcely seem more true — 
 Sadly have I awakened from the dreaming. 
 
 Whose charmed slumber — false one ! — was of you. 
 I gave mine inmost being to thy keeping — 
 
 I had no thought I did not seek to share ; 
 Feelings that hushed within my soul were sleeping. 
 
 Waked into voice, to trust tliem to thy care. 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? — This is vainly tasking 
 
 The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
 Too well I know the idleness of asking — 
 
 The misery — of why am I forgot ? 
 The happy hours that I have passed while kneeling, 
 
 Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face. 
 — But what to thee this passionate appealing — 
 
 Let my heart break — it is a common case. 
 You have forgotten me.
 
 IGl 
 
 A TALE OF A COUNTRY TOWN. 
 BY MRS. ABDY. 
 
 INlARRinD people arc very fond of match-makinsT, and 
 wieked wils say, that they act on tlie principle of the 
 man who, when irretrievably stuck in the mire, called 
 to a friend to come and a^^sist him, with the vievv of 
 gettinjT him into a similar situatioji. Old maids are 
 remarkably f jnd of match-breaking-, and the reason is 
 the same ; they feel that they are doomed to perpetual 
 banishment from the temple of Hymen, and therefore 
 are desirous of securinj^ as many companio-is as possi- 
 ble in their exile. T do not dislike the old maid who 
 is fairly turned of sixty ; by that time she gives up all 
 matrimonial speculations for herself, and is not ren- 
 dered miserable by the succes.v of them in others; she 
 betakes herself to cards, lap-dogs, and paroquets, ac- 
 cepts the flattery of a toad-cater if rich, or becomes 
 the toad-eater herself if poor ; she may be generally 
 splenetic, but is seldom individually spiteful. The old 
 maid of forty, or five-and-forty, however, is the very 
 genius of mischief; she has not yet taken leave of the 
 air, dref^s, and manners of juvenility ; she has a lin- 
 gering hope that she may be able to rival girls, which, 
 nevertheless, always terminates in the sad certainty 
 of being rivalled by them ; and next to the apparently 
 inaccessible felicity of being married herself, she learns 
 to rank the pleasure of spoiling the marriages of her 
 young female friends. My business, however, is not 
 to write a treati."o upon old maids ; but to relate the 
 history of two of the class who were no contemptible 
 and njcan professors of the art of match-breaking. 
 
 Miss Oglcby was five-and-forty ; she had been hand, 
 some when young, and might ?:till have appeared to
 
 1G2 :\IATCII-BREAKING. 
 
 advantage had she condescended to wear dark silks, 
 blonde caps, and tolerably-sized bonnets, to walk a 
 moderate pace, and to speak in a moderate tone. Miss 
 Ogleby, however, v/as bent on playing the light-heart- 
 ed, gay, fearless, juvenile beauty; the hair of her Vv'ig 
 was drawn back so as completely to display the marks 
 of time on her forehead, her thin arms fully displayed, 
 not their whiteness and symmetry, but their want of 
 them, through gauze or book-muslin sleeves; she adopt- 
 ed a tripping, playful Vvalk, which ill-assorted with 
 her frequent attacks of the rheumatism ; and her voice, 
 which even in youth was more remarkable for loudness 
 than for melody, had acquired that sort of sharp, dog- 
 matical quickness, which is more fit for cross-examin- 
 ing a witness than for any office to which a lady's 
 voice ought to be applied ; her eyes, which v/cre black, 
 and remarkably large and bright, lost all attraction 
 from the bold stare which characterized them ; her 
 teeth were in tolerable preservation, and if two of the 
 front ones were of a more brilliant whiteness than the 
 rest, it is nothing wonderful that inconsistencies should 
 sometimes exist in the human mouth, when we con- 
 sider how many are continually coming out of it. 
 
 Miss Ogleby had tried unremittingly to gain a hus- 
 band from the age of sixteen, but her large share of 
 forwardness completely neutralized the effect of her 
 small share of beauty ; she had, besides, no fortune in 
 her youth ; and when the death of an aunt put her in 
 possession of a few hundreds a year, her faded person 
 and unfeminine manners prevented her from receiving 
 proposals, except from decided adventurers, whose mo- 
 tives she had sufiicient shrewdness to detect, and whose 
 overtures she had sufficient wariness and self-denial 
 to reject. iMiis Ogleby took the round of all the wa- 
 tering-places, and then pursued the plan of Lady Dain- 
 ty in the comedy, who when she had gone through all 
 the complaints of the day-book went all through them 
 again ; at length, she was induced to take a house in
 
 MATCH-EKEAKING. IGS 
 
 llic prcUy, clieaj), cheerful counlr}' town of Allingliam; 
 a country town is a delightful locality for an old maid. 
 Gossip is as avowedly the great study and pursuit there, 
 as the classics at Oxford, or the mathematics at Cam. 
 bridge ; and Miss Ogleby soon qualified herself to take 
 a first degree in the science ; whether she took honors 
 or not I will not pretend to say ; I do not myself con- 
 sider that the science of gossip has any honors attached 
 to it, but I am quite ready to allow that a great many 
 j)copIe are of a contrary opinion. Miss Ogleby's chief 
 j)astime now consisted in match-breaking, and she cer- 
 tainly organized her plans very well ; she did not frown 
 contempt on the young girls of her acquaintance, cen- 
 sure their frivolities, and repulse their civilities ; but 
 she eagerly sought their society, joined in their amuse- 
 ments, and rallied them about their admirers ; she 
 constantly avoided at parties the sofa where sat the 
 matrons — she never approached the card table either 
 as player or spectator ; Ijut took her scat by the piano, 
 or stood by the bagatelle-board, generally indicating 
 her position by her loud laugh and ready jest. Not- 
 withstanding all these juvenilities, people did not be- 
 lieve IMiss Ogleby to be young, but they said that she 
 was remarkably fond of young people ; now in this 
 conclusion they were v.-rong. Miss Ogleby v.as not 
 fond of young people, but she knew that her machina- 
 tions against them would work much better if she ap- 
 peared as their friend than as their foe, and took her 
 measures accordingly. If a young man appeared dis- 
 posed to admire a different girl. Miss Ogleby would 
 immediately attach herself to her side, take the con- 
 versation completely out of her hands, answer every 
 observation of the inamorato herself, and, under the 
 veil of great protection and fondness, contrive to make 
 the retiring fair one appear as a child and a cipher ; if, 
 on the contrary, the lover was timid, Miss Ogleby 
 would, in the very first budding of his inclination, tell 
 him that everybody said his wedding-day was fixed,
 
 164 3IATCII-BREAKING. 
 
 ask where tlie honeymoon excursion was to be taken, 
 and petition for bridecake. If a man of wealth seemed 
 smitten with a penniless beauty, she would tell him 
 that she understood he had offered to settle ten thou- 
 sand pounds upon her, but that the lady's friends stood 
 out for twenty, and that she begged to give her humble 
 advice that they would split the difference and make it 
 fifteen ; if a prudent, careful man of small income 
 formed an attachment, she would, with the utmost 
 simplicity, eulogize to him the liberal ideas and noble 
 spirit of his chosen fair one ; and as all these observa- 
 tions were made with the most smiling hilarit)^, and as 
 she was always on excellent terms with the girls Vv'hom 
 she depreciated, it was impossible to prove, or even to 
 believe her guilty of wilful aspersion. 
 
 Miss Ogleby had formed an intimacy at Bath witii 
 Miss Malford, another old maid : she began to feel a 
 great want of a confidante and coadjutor, and therefore 
 v/rote to her friend, extolling the advantages and rec- 
 ommendations of Allingham, and pressing her to come 
 and settle there ; a pretty and cheap house near her 
 ovv'n v.-as to be disposed of, and Miss Malford soon took 
 up her residence there. Miss Malford was three years 
 younger than Miss Ogleby, but she had not, like her, 
 the advantage of having ever been handsome ; she was 
 decidedly deformed, and her countenance had that el- 
 fin, shrewd expression, which frequently exists in per. 
 sons so afflicted ; and although not more ill-natured 
 than Jier friend in rcalit}^ she had the character of 
 being so, because, being much cleverer, she had a great 
 ability of saying sarcastic things. Her property was 
 enough to keep her in independence, but not sufficient 
 to be an indemnification for the unloveliness of her 
 person and disposition. 
 
 One " poor gentleman," however, who was rapidly 
 advancing to the end of the London season and his 
 own finances, wrought himself up to the desperate re- 
 solution of making a proposal to Miss Malford. Feci-
 
 MATCII-BKEAKING. 165' 
 
 ing thai this darling measure required the protection 
 of numbers, he determined to make known his passion 
 in some public place. He accompanied Miss Malford 
 lo the exhibition at Somerset House ; but, alas ! the 
 beautiful productions of innumerable delightful por- 
 trait-painters smiled and shone around him on every 
 side, and he felt he could not profane the atmosphere 
 of such forms of loveliness, by applying any expressions 
 of admiration to the little, sallow, frowning spinster, 
 hanging on his arm. 
 
 The next attempt was at the Adelaide Gallery, and 
 he was actually on the point of making a proposal, 
 when hi.s liege lady inadvertently expressed a wish to 
 bo electrified ; it was instantly complied with, and the 
 fjrcc cmplo)'ed being greater than she had calculated 
 upon, her starts and contortions made her appear so 
 much more frightful than usual, that she lost the op- 
 portunity of receiving a far more gratifying electric 
 sho?k in the shape of an offer of marriage. 
 
 The third act of the comedy or tragedy, call it 
 which you will, took place at Madame Tussaud's 
 wax-work. The hesitating suitor had accompanied 
 Miss Malford and two of her friends thither in the 
 evening ; the grand room was splendidly lighted up, 
 and a band was playing " Love in the Heart ;" but, 
 alas I love was not in the heart of the unfortunate 
 young man, he did not " own the soft hnpcach- 
 ment." Presently, however, he entered with his i)arty 
 into the " room of horrors ;" a faint lamp burned dim- 
 ly ; he looked at Miss xAIalford, she had never appeared 
 to such advantage ; her complexion was actually only 
 a faint shade of primrose wlien compared to the yellow 
 waxen elfigy in the centre of the room; and although 
 her head was very ungracefully set upon her shoulders, 
 it boas'.ed at least one great superiority to the ghastly 
 hcado around her, from the circumstance of its being 
 on iier shoulders at ail. 
 14
 
 166 r.IATCK-BKEAKI.XG. 
 
 The lady and gentlemen of their party quitted the 
 room, and the rash suitor was on the point of pouring- 
 forth his pas.sionatc protestations, wlien I\Iiss Malford 
 stopped him by beginning to speak herself. A lady is 
 proverbially anxious for the last word, it would be well 
 f-ometimes if she were not equally anxious for the first. 
 Miss Malford poured forth such a torrent of spiteful 
 vituperation, against the lady who had just left the 
 room — and whose only fault was that her prettiness 
 and amiability seemed likel}'^ to make a conquest of the 
 gentleman who was her escort — that the feelings of 
 the poor suitor undervv-cnt a sudden revulsion ; he 
 looked around the room, the quietude and repose of 
 the yellow figures were quite refreshing after the dis- 
 play of very disagreeable vivacity which he had wit- 
 iiessed ; and although the heads were divorced from 
 their shoulders, tJiose little unruly members, the 
 tongues, had become silent and innoxious in the pro- 
 cess. The gentleman led I\Iiss Malford from the room 
 of horrors, still likely to remain IMiss Malford, and re- 
 turned to his peaceable, though humble lodgings, not 
 a " sadder," but certainly a " wiser man," than when 
 he contemplated the desperate expedient of enriching 
 and enlivening them by the introduction of a shrewish 
 wife. 
 
 Miss ?»IaIford was deeply hurt by his secession ; she 
 now began to despair of making conquests, and formed 
 her character on the model of Bonnel Thornton's 
 " mighty good sort of a woman ;■' she interfered in the 
 affairs of families — made husbands discontented with 
 their Vv'ives — put variance between parents and child- 
 ren — got gay nephevrs and saucy neices scratched out 
 of the wills of rich uncles and aunts — domineered over 
 servants — and lectured poor people. 
 
 After her intimacy with Miss Ogleby, however, she 
 became convinced that although there may be much 
 pleasure in mischievous actions in the aggregate, that 
 peculiar branch, which consists in match-breaking.
 
 MATCII-KREAKIXG. 107 
 
 seems most decidedly cut out f^or llie vocation of the 
 old maid ; aud when she was once settled at Alling- 
 Jiam, she devoted all her energies to that one single 
 great point. I will not relate the number of proposed 
 )iiatches which these well-assortcd friends nipped in 
 the bud or the blossom, during the first year of their 
 residence at Allingham ; but will hasten to hitroduce 
 my readers to a very pretty young la ly, v/ho had the 
 misfjrtunc of falling under their especial ban. Ailing, 
 hatn was a town which, on account of its fine air, rea- 
 sonable provisions, ar^d frequent gaieties, was consid- 
 ered a very desirable residence by persons of genteel 
 habits and small fortune;^; and Mrs. Stapleton, the 
 handsome widow of an officer, deemed it an advan- 
 tageous spot for herself and her only daughter, Rose, 
 to settle iii. 
 
 Rose Stapleton was about twenty years old, and a 
 complete personification of youlli in her appearance 
 and motions ; perhaps I may be considered to have been 
 guilty of tautology in this sentence ; but I know many 
 girls whom I maintain have never been young — who 
 are, and always have been, destitute of the uprightness, 
 elasticity, and freshness of youth. Such was not Rose 
 Stapleton ; she was remarkably pretty ; and her beauty 
 on account of its decidedly bright and juvenile charac- 
 teristics, was likely to be peculiarly objectionable to 
 the sight of an old maiJ. She had a profusion of rich 
 sunny ringlets, intensely blue e3'es, ro.~y cheeks, and 
 scarlet lips, and teeth so brilliantly white, that Miss 
 ]\Ialford said they offered an infallible indication of 
 consumption ; the figure of Rose, hov.'ever, had nothing 
 consumptive about her, being somcv.-hat below the mid- 
 dle size, and inclined to a degree of plumpness which 
 might have injured its girlish air, had it not been coun- 
 terbalanced by the light and sylph-like agility of her 
 mien. Rose had also a smile so very sweet, as to give 
 reason to suppose that her temper was equally so. Mrs. 
 Stapleton was generally considered and denominated
 
 1G8 r.IATCK-EnEAKIXG. 
 
 a worldly-wise woman ; bat I am of opinion that she 
 was rather injured by the phrase ; she had none of the 
 cold, calculating policy, which usually appertains to 
 such a character. She certainly wished and expected 
 that her daughter should marry a wealthy man, and 
 the exceeding personal attractions of Rose did not 
 seem to render such a hope at all unreasonable ; but 
 she took no particular means to secure her point, save 
 giAnng smiles and invitations to rich men, and cool re- 
 ceptions and averted looks to poor ones. She did 
 not carry her beautiful Rose to display " her buskins 
 gemmed with morning dew" in the early promenade of 
 Cheltenham, or to " wave her golden hah'" in the stir- 
 ring breezes of Brighton. 
 
 Rose Stapleton was not educated or put for display ; 
 she neither acted charades, nor shot at archery meet- 
 ings, nor officiated at fancy fairs, nor attitudinized in 
 tableaux — she was simply an engaging, unsophisticated 
 girl, with a lovely face, moderate accomplishm.ents, 
 and a fine temper. Mrs. Stapleton shov/ed one proof 
 of sti ict attention to her daughter's matrimonial inter, 
 ests, which she considered to indicate great shrewd- 
 ness on her part, but which in my opinion was decided- 
 ly the reverse. She did not permit Rose to form a 
 close intimacy with any of the girls among her acquain- 
 tance, but as she felt that it would not be desirable to 
 have her unaccompanied by female associates, she 
 readily accepted the overtures of Miss Ogleby and Miss 
 Malford to exceeding sociability. Mrs. Stapleton ar- 
 gued to herself, with what she considered the tact of 
 a woman of the world. " If Rose be surrounded by 
 young and attractive girls, the attentions of any one 
 disposed to admire her will be divided, or perhaps even 
 alienated ; now, Miss Ogleby and ]\Iiss Malford are 
 excellent foils, and although they are v/orthy, kind crea- 
 tures, no man in his senses who is a good match, would 
 ever think of ofTerhig to either of them ; then they are 
 both \ery fond of Rose, and will lie sure to drav/ l:!er
 
 r-IATCH-RREAKLNn. 1G9 
 
 out, nnd speak liiglily of li?r if rpouirod, for she is 
 young cnoiigia to he the da!i2;iiler of cither of them, 
 and of course is quite out of the question as a rival." 
 
 Poor ^Irs. Stapleton ; she little knew the instinctive 
 hatred felt hy an old maid for a young beauty ; she 
 was a thoroughly good-natured woman, v.ithout tlie 
 least taste for mischief, and would just as soon have 
 thought of amusing herself in breaking matches, as in 
 breaking china. 
 
 Rose also gave full credit to the protestations of 
 friendship which she received from the spinsters ; she 
 and her mother both wondered that two or three gen- 
 tlemen, who had seemed greatly to admire her, had 
 never made any serious proposal to her ; but they lit- 
 tle imagined that the constant spying, the officious in- 
 trusions, and the sly inuendoes of their two dear friends, 
 were the real cause of the apparent coolness and dila- 
 toriness of the lovers. Had Rose selected young and 
 pretty girls for her intimate associates, they would fre- 
 quently have been sought for by the beaux, who would 
 have been anxious to become their partners in the 
 dance, or their escorts in the rural walk, and they 
 would have been too well employed and too well pleased 
 to watch and circumvent all her proceedings ; but Miss 
 Ogleby and Miss Malford were always at hand to re- 
 lieve guard v.-ith each other ; they acted, in fact, the 
 part of complete duennas; but poor Rose never suspect- 
 ed them to be such, .since she was unable to picture a 
 duenna abounding in compliments, tender phrases, 
 and fair speeches. One of the favorite amusements 
 of the people of Allinghain, was to join in picnic par- 
 lies to some secluded and beautiful spot in the neigh- 
 borhood, and these pleasure-parties were often produc- 
 tive of anything but pleasure to the old, rheumatic, 
 and ailing. They were generally fixed a week or ten 
 days beforehand, and therefore, as weather in England 
 is generally rainy if it is particularly wanted to be 
 otherwise, it was no uncommon thing to sec the whole 
 14*
 
 170 MATCII-EREAKINGc 
 
 party pet out armed with nmbrellap, and follovved by 
 servants laden with wrapping-cloaks and box-coats. 
 Sometimes they made their way through thorny hedges 
 to the peril and destruction of scarfs, veils, and drapery; 
 sometimes they, pursued the path of a slippery declivity, 
 not frequently achieving the whole distance from top 
 to bottom in a minute, at the slight expense of a spoiled 
 dress, or a fi-actured limb, and they then refreshed 
 themselves after their fatigues by sitting with their 
 legs doubled up under them, in the fashion of a Turk 
 or a tailor, upon the wet grass, eating cold delicacies 
 from plates sliding 0:1 their laps, and maintaining a use- 
 less conflict with the wasps who hummed around them, 
 attracted by the good cheer in which they abounded. 
 
 Now Rose was eminently qualified to appear to ad- 
 vantage at these pic-nics ; she had unrivalled abilities 
 at scrambling — she wore no finery which it injured her 
 temper or her spirits to get spoiled — she scarcely ever 
 caught cold — she had a natural grace, which prevent- 
 ed her from appearing awkward, even in the doubled- 
 up attitude fitted to a pic-nic board — and her beautiful 
 complexion could triumphantly defy the most search- 
 ing ordeal of a bright blazing July sun ; add to these 
 recommendations those of an exquisitely turned foot 
 and ancle, and my readers will not be surprised that 
 the firm of Ogleby and Malford deemed it particularly 
 neccsasry to act as a shadow to Rose on every pic-nic 
 party, lest any of the young men vAio were in the habit 
 of frequenting them, should be so struck with the 
 charms of Rose, and the combined delights of country 
 seclusion, spreading trees, cold .chickens, and cham- 
 pagne, as to put their admiration into the awful and 
 tangible shape of an offer of marriage. Once Miss 
 Ogleby got a sprained ancle by rapidly following Rose 
 down some rude steps cut in a rock, where a young 
 ofiicer in the neighborhood was tenderly conductmg 
 her, and Miss Malford had a severe cold and sore throat 
 from insisting on sitting between her dear Rose and
 
 .■\IATCII. BREAKING. 171 
 
 the handsome attorney of Allin^iham on the dajnp 
 t^rass, alllioupjli rliairs and camp-stools had been pro- 
 vided for the seniors of the company. The kind-heart- 
 ed unsuspcctinjT Rose went con.'^lantly to sit with Mii?s 
 Ogleby, and read to her, till the sprained ancle grew 
 well, and she was iiulofatigable ia her presents of lo-^- 
 engcs and black currant jell}'' to Miss Malford during 
 the continuancj of her sore throat ; she would have 
 softened the hearts of almost any other adversaries ; 
 but match-breakers have no hearts of their own, and 
 their greatest pastime consists in probing and torment- 
 ing those of other people. An c'^ent was now to liap- 
 pen v/hicli converted the Ciivious ill--.vi;l of those ladies 
 towards the blooming, into decided and malignant en- 
 mity. Every town has its great man, and Allingham 
 had a very great man belonging to it. Sir Peregrine 
 Dalliiig, a baronet of old family and large fortune, had 
 a mansion a little way out of the town ; he was about 
 fifty-five years old, had higli spirits, a loud voice, and 
 a strong constitution ; he was fond of the country, 
 fond of field sports, and especially fond of embellish- 
 ing and improving his beautiful residence, and there- 
 fore had about as great an aversion as Hav/thorn, for 
 
 " That region of smoke. 
 That scene of confusion and noise," 
 
 known by the name of London. 
 
 A country town is generally full of ladies, who are 
 keenly ahvc to detect every symptom of a marrying 
 man, provided such man be possessed of sufficient for- 
 tune to render a marriage with him desirable ; but, 
 strange to say, nobody ever suspected the possibility 
 that Sir Peregrine might be inclined to marry. I rath- 
 er think that I can assign a reason for this strange 
 dullness. Sir Peregrine had been a widower fivc-and- 
 twenty years, and during that time no one had ever 
 heard a whisper of his predilections or flirtations ; now,
 
 172 MATCII-BKEATCING. 
 
 when an old bachelor falls in love, and wishes to mar- 
 ry, no one is ever astonished ; it may be supposed that 
 he is anxious to ascertain the efrect of a strange and 
 untried state of existence ; but when a widower lias re- 
 mained wifeless through a long period of 3'cars, it may 
 reasonably be conjectured, either that the good quali- 
 ties of his deceased partner have wedded him to her 
 remembrance, or that her bad ones have affrighted him 
 from encountering the chance of a second edition of 
 them in the person of a second v/ife. Accordingly, no- 
 body attempted to entrap Sir Peregrine as a husband, 
 although all were delighted to receive his lavish civili- 
 ties and hospitalities as the master of a large income, 
 and a large house. His parties were numerous, and 
 liis presents abundant ; he was a kind-ltearted, gener- 
 ous man, and as he did not see through the characters 
 of our two spinsters, and was pleased with their atten- 
 tive and obliging manners to him, gifts of fruit and 
 game, and drives in his carriage, u-ere frequently at 
 their command, and as they really believed him un- 
 likely to marry, they spoke no more than the truth, 
 when they designated him as " an excellent neighbor, 
 and a great acquisition to Allingham." 
 
 One morning, Sir Peregrine called on Miss Ogleby, 
 and after some nervous hesitations, and divers tv^'itch- 
 ings of the hat, actually confided to her that he thought 
 of again entering into the matrimonial state. Miss 
 Ogleby, who, to do her figure justice, was so upright 
 as to be on the continual bridle, now bridled still high- 
 er ; she bit her thin pale lips to make them look red, 
 shook the long gold ear-rings in her ears, and artlessly 
 sported v.uth a drooping side ringlet of her v\^ig ; she 
 could not doubt that his intention referred to herself. 
 
 " The object of my choice is your most intimate and 
 highly-valued friend," pursued the baronet. 
 
 Priiss Ogleby loosened her hold of her ringlet, and 
 ceased to bristle ; she bit her lip, however, more vio- 
 lentlv than ever ; her most intimate and chosen friend
 
 MATCII-EREAKING. 173 
 
 was Miss IMalford. Could it bo endured that her sis. 
 ter match-breakcr should silly have secured such au 
 excellent and s])lendid match for herself. 
 
 "Dear Sir Peregrine," she said, "my very heart 
 ar-hes for you ; Miss Malford has certainly forced her- 
 self into some degree of intercourse with mc, but 1 do 
 not know any one calculated to make a worse wife ; 
 her person is that of a malevolent old fairy, and her 
 actions are not far different ; she is the terror of her 
 servants, whom she starves, suspects, and insults ; the 
 horror of the poor, to whom she never gives a shilling, 
 her donations entirely consisting of lectures on the ex- 
 pediency of living on oatmeal and red-herrings, and the 
 facilities of bringing up a fanuly on ten shillings a week, 
 and a perfect spirit of discord among her friends and 
 acquaintance, who can trace most of their quarrels 
 and misimderstandi".gs to her mischievous instigations. 
 Do, Sir Peregrine, consider twice before you place 
 your happiness in the charge of such a woman." 
 
 " My dear Miss Ogleby," said the baronet, dryly, 
 "you give yourself needless pain. In respect to Miss 
 ?tIalford'd bad qualities, I may reasonably be allowed 
 to suppose that they must be counteracted by some 
 powerful recommendations, else you could never be in- 
 duced to indulge her with so much of your valuable so- 
 ciety ; but whether her qualities be bad or good, can be 
 of little consequence to me, except as a common ac- 
 quaintance. I am on the point of endeavoring to gain 
 the hand of another of your intimate friends, Rose 
 Slapleton." 
 
 INIiss Ogleby for a wonder was completely silenced 
 by the excess of her eonslernation ; had she been com- 
 niitting treason to her faithful and guiltless friend, Miss 
 Malford ? had she been exposing herself to the evident 
 ridicule of Sir Peregrine ? had she deprived herself of 
 the op})ortunity of speaking against the vanity and lev- 
 ity of Rose, and the worldliness and cunning of Mrs. 
 Stapleton? It was all too true; and while she was
 
 174 IVTATCK-BEEAKING, 
 
 attempting to find some form of words, by wiiich she 
 could repair her unfortunate mistake, Sir Peregrine 
 gaily smiled, bowed, and said "Good morning I" and 
 the awful bang of t])c street-door informed her that he 
 was gone to protTer wealth and honor, conservatories, 
 ice-houses, green-houses,* pineries, &,c., to the little 
 insignificant Rose Stapleton. Sir Peregrine, having 
 a natural turn of mind for the ludicrous, and not being 
 Fo enthusiastically in love as to deem it necessary to 
 look pensive in the matter, actually laughed to him- 
 self as he pursued his way down the High street. He 
 Jiad not intended to call on ■\[iss Malford, but now the 
 prospect of a repetition of his late amusement induced 
 him to do so. He knocked at the door of the " malevo- 
 lent old fairy," and was admitted. 
 
 " Miss Malford," said Sir Peregrine, " I have jus-t 
 been calling on your charming, avimated, and, I may 
 add, lovely friend, Miss Ogleby. The cause of my vis- 
 it I will not hesitate to own to you, her chosen inti- 
 mate ; in fact, I am convinced she will herself be able 
 to inform you of it. For some time it has been my in- 
 tention to marry again, and — and — " Sir Peregrine 
 hesitated, as if laboring under embarrassment, but 
 Miss Malford had already seized on the idea he meant 
 to convey ; her habitual frown was increased three-fold 
 and her sallow complexion assumed a tint of deep yel- 
 low. 
 
 " Marry 7>Iiss Ogleby !" she exclamied ; " oh ! Sir 
 Peregrine — do not allow yourself to be so grievously 
 deceived in a woman, whose fame and manners are 
 equally artificial and made up. You speak of her 
 beauty and animation — she is a complete piece of mock- 
 ery in both ; the secret of the former is hid in the re- 
 cesses of her toilette boxes ; and as for the latter, her 
 forced hysterical giggle is about as similar to the light- 
 hearted laughter of youth, as the tones of a cracked 
 hurdy-gurdy to the notes of the mounting lark ; she is 
 a sort of flying-f^si, hovering between the old and the
 
 matcii-bheakiag. 175 
 
 young, and disowned by both, and the affectation of 
 juvenility whicli she displays in her dress and manner 
 might excite our pity, were it not converted into con- 
 tempt by the knowledge that her apparently supera- 
 bundant spirits and hilarity, in reality, mask a dread- 
 ful temper. If you must marry a fray, showy woman, 
 Sir Perejri'in-1 althoiigh, for my part, I think you had 
 njuch better select a steady, well-informed, sober per- 
 son, I would rather advise you to choose a wife who 
 actually j)ossesses the cliarms and vivacity of youth, 
 tlian one who presents a melancholy withered carica- 
 ture of them." 
 
 The violent piiillippics of INIiss I\Ialford and ^licS 
 Onrleby against each other may be accounted for when 
 we consider that they v^•erc very intimate friends ; and 
 it is immeasurably more provoking to behold an inti- 
 n)ale friend called to honor than a stranger. The au- 
 thoress of " Our Village" observes, that "juxta-posi- 
 tion is a great sharpener of rivalry," and this is seen in 
 places as well as in persons. Brighton abhors the 
 dullness of Worthing, and Worthing is scandalized at 
 the dir^j^ipation of Brighton. Ramsgate used to be 
 horrorficd at the vulgarity of ^largate ; and Margate, 
 to retort on the stillness and formality of Ramsgate ; 
 but now, thanks to cheap steamboat fares and tlis ab- 
 sence of picr-dues, Ramsgate rivals Margate in its pro- 
 miscuous company, and they must both submit to bow 
 their heads, "like a lily drooping." beneath the aristo- 
 cratical sneers of Broadstairs. Hastings dilates on the 
 unfinished buildings and uncomfortable aspect of .St. 
 Leonard's, and St. Leonard's satirizes the narrow 
 streets and dingy lodging-Jiouses of Hastings. In the 
 same way, it is unspeakably trying to the temper of 
 the grnerality of ladies, to behold a cousin or a partic- 
 ular I'ricnd contract a very advantageous m.arriage, al- 
 thougli a mere acquaintance may form one much more 
 f). Without occasioning any thing beyond a momentary 
 tiiriil of envy and dissaiisfac'.iou.
 
 176 JIATCH-BREAKING. 
 
 But all this time Miss Malford is violently fanning 
 herself, with an immense antique green fan, and Sir 
 Peregrine is maliciously suffering her to remain in sus- 
 pense. At length he spoke. " My good lady," he said, 
 " I never told you that I had heen making an offer of 
 marriage to Miss Ogleby, nor have I the least intention 
 of doing so. I have the highest respect for 3^our good 
 sense and judgment," (here Miss Malford took off her 
 spectacles, cleared her brow, and tried to look very 
 amiable,) " and I am therefore most happy to tell you 
 that I am going to do what you have recommended, 
 namely, to unite myself to the reality of youth, beauty, 
 and vivacity, instead of the mockery of th^ni ; by this 
 time to-morrow, I hope to be the accepted lover of Rose 
 Stapleton." 
 
 Sir Peregrine again performed a quiet exit, and Miss 
 I\Ialford was left, like her iTiend, to the torments of re- 
 gret and mortification. Sir Peregrine, meanwhile, 
 proceeded (o Mrs. Stapleton's house, begged a private 
 audience with that lad}', and solicited in due form, the 
 hand of her beautiful daughter. Mrs. Stapleton was 
 very much surprised and pleased ; she assured the baro- 
 net, with truth, that he might rely on her consent and 
 best exertions in his behalf, but she could not answer 
 for Rose ; and v/ith some difficulty she "prevailed on him 
 to leave the house without an audience with his fair en- 
 slaver, since she felt aware iJiat a little (or perhaps not 
 a little) preparation, argument, and expostulation, 
 must be expended on Rose, to induce her to accept the 
 baronet as favorably as a young lady, possessing a dow- 
 er of two thousand pounds, ought to receive a gentle, 
 man of seven thousand a year, who offers a carte 
 hlapxhc as to settlements. 
 
 Rose and her mother had a long conversation that 
 evening, and the result v/as creditable to both. Rose 
 forcibly, but calmly and respectfully represented to 
 Mrs. Staplelon the extent of the sacrifice which she 
 should be making in accepting a partner for life so dis-
 
 3IATCII.B11EAKII\'G. 177 
 
 pioporlionecl lo her iji a^e, and so uncongenial lo her 
 in taylc, as Sir rcregrine ; she professed herself ha])j)y 
 and contented with her present situation, and promis- 
 in.T never to marry witliout her mother's full consent 
 a:id approbation, entreated tliat she Vvould kindly suf- 
 fer her in this and every other instance, to exercise the 
 I»riv:li"fje of rejection. 
 
 Mrs. .Srapleloii made some faint attempts to cxcilc 
 the ambition of Rose to be mistreps of two carriages, a 
 train of servant:-, and a service of plate ; but the alter- 
 nate tears and smiles of licr beloved daughter prevent- 
 ed her from expressing hcrr elf with any severity, and a 
 kind, courteous, but decided refusal, was conveyed to 
 ►Sir Pcregtinc the following morning. 
 
 iS'ext lo the pleasure of acceptmg a baronet, Mrs. 
 Stapleton felt the honor of rejectuigone was to be reck- 
 oned, and she could not resist the ten)ptation of call- 
 ing on her friends, tlie spinsters, to relate the triumphs 
 of Rose's charms, and to deplore Rose's romantic deter- 
 mination of only marrying for love. They were de- 
 lighted with the intelligence. Rose Staplctoii's matri- 
 monial prospects were still capable of being marred — 
 tihc was not at present to be raised above the reach of 
 llieir malice ; besides, they felt no doubt that Sir Pere- 
 grine would rescn.t her refusal of his proposals as v/arm- 
 ly and deeply as an elderly gentleman usually resents 
 the rufusai of a juvenile beauty, and that tiie gaities 
 and festivities of the hail would henceforth be withlicld 
 from Mrs. Staplcton and her daughter — no trifling de- 
 jn-ivation, wlien it is considered that Sir Peregrine was 
 frequently in the habit of ranking stylish young men 
 among his vi;-itcr.s. He was fond of the society of the 
 young and cheerful of his own sex, and he never found 
 any difficulty in obtaining it, having a capital pack of 
 hounds, good preserves of gan^c, a cellar of fine old 
 wines, and a potent worker of culinary wonders, whoiu 
 3Iiss Maiford very delicately and scrupulously desig- 
 nated by the title oC male cook. Sir Pcrcgri!:e. hovvev- 
 • 15
 
 178 MATCII-BEEAKLNG. 
 
 er, did not gratify the ill-nature of the spinsters by any 
 indulgence of his own. The refusal of Rose was 
 couched in terms of such gentleness, sweetness, and 
 gratitude, that he was angry with himself instead of 
 her, very candidly settled in his mind that he was " an 
 old fool for his trouble," and that Rose deserved a much 
 better husband. Accordingly, after a few embarrassed 
 interA-iews, every thing went on its usual track, and 
 the intimacy between Sir Peregrine and the Stapletons 
 was neither more nor less than before the loss of his 
 heart and the refusal of liis hand took place. .Sir Pere- 
 grine felt rather mortified that he had in the exube- 
 rance of his hopes confided the secret of his attachment 
 to Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford, since he doubted not 
 that they would industriously publish his disappoint- 
 ment throughout Allingham. Accordingly he deter- 
 mined to be beforehand v/ith them, and related every 
 where their misapprehension of his meaning, and their 
 calumnious strictures on each other, in so jocose and 
 humorous a style, that people forgot to laugh at him in 
 their eagerness to laugh at the discomfiture of his con- 
 fidants. The spinsters were greatly annoyed at the 
 publicity which this story gained. Neither of them 
 much admired the knowledge of her friend's perfidy 
 and double-dealing, for they rated their friendship for 
 each other at precisely its real value — a bond of mutual 
 convenience, and a means of enabling them more rea- 
 dily to annoy and mortify the rest of the world. Ac 
 cordingly, as soon as they found out that they had no- 
 thing to fear from the rivalry of each other, they be- 
 came as dear friends as ever ; but they could not bear 
 the idea that the wliole town of Allingham should be 
 as well aware as themselves of the slender and worth- 
 less tie that united them, and, like most persons fond of 
 ridiculing others, they were keenly susceptible of ridi- 
 cule in their own persons. They did not suspect Sir 
 Peregrine of having been the circulator of the story, 
 for they unagined that he v/ould feel very tender in
 
 MATCH-BRI-AKIXG. 179 
 
 touching on the subject of his rejection, wliich was so 
 closely connected with it ; accordingly they imputed 
 ihe whole of its publicity to Mrs. Staplcton and her 
 daughter, and vowed revenge against them. ]\Irs. 
 Stapleton, poor woman 1 with all her imputed world- 
 linci^s, had no plans and manceuvres on her own ac- 
 count which they could hope to baffle ; her peace of 
 mind could only be reached through that of Rose, and 
 a dozen times a day did the match-breakers wish that 
 they could see Rose Stapklon warmly and devotedly 
 attached, and have the felicity of placing insurmount- 
 able obstacles between herself and her lover. 
 
 About three months afler these events a young man 
 of the name of Saville, of pleasing person and gentle- 
 manly, although rather shy and distant manners, came 
 on a visit to Sir Peregrine. In Saville's early life 
 there was nothing either interesting or eventful ; liis 
 family was respectable, but far from rich, and at an 
 early age his friends procured him a situation in the 
 India House, where he devoted Ihe bloom of his 3'outh 
 and (literary as well as figuratively) the light of his 
 days, to a scries of dull monotonous duties, receiving 
 the remuneration of a small income, which, hov/ever, 
 had the recommendation of increasing ten pounds 
 every year ; and those Vvho have known what it is to 
 be many pounds the worse at the end of the year, may 
 allow that there is some satisfaction in the certainly 
 of being even ten pounds the better. Saville also had 
 received a few lifts from the deaths of his seniors in 
 the course of twelve years, and at the age of thirty 
 had an income which his friends considered a very 
 pretty one ; but he pathetically replied that it was not 
 enough to marry upon, and as thirty was a very suitable 
 a<je for marrying^ it was a pity that he had not an in- 
 come to match with it. 
 
 If I was inclined to digressions, (and, by the bye, I 
 am naturally very much inclined to them, although I 
 exercise my self-denial in keeping the evil propcuLuly
 
 ISO I^IATCn-BKEAiaXG. 
 
 in mbjecticn.) I could make a digression of several 
 pages on the subject of the phra?e " an income suffi. 
 cient to marry upon," It is just as difficult to define 
 as that other mysterious phrase, " a lady of a certain 
 age." I once knevr a young lady (portionless more- 
 over) who made a great merit of her condescension in 
 accepting the addresses of a gentleman with three 
 tliousand a year, because, she observed, she was re- 
 markably fond of a to'.vn life, and although three thou- 
 sand a 3"ear was a pretty income for the country, it 
 would be a paltr}" stipend in London I I also read in 
 the biography of a very excellent man, a love-letter 
 which he addressed to the lady to whom he \vas en- 
 gaged, in vv'hich he prudently warned her that, as their 
 united incomes v.'ould only amount to fifiy-fivc pounds 
 a year, she must not set her heart on the vanities and 
 luzuries of life. There are many intermediate grada- 
 tions on which I could enlarge, but not to keep my 
 readers in suspense, I will inform them that .Saville's 
 income at the time of which I am speaking vvas exactly 
 four hundred a year. 
 
 Saviile was not particularly popular with the ladies ; 
 although his feelings were warm, his manners were 
 reserved ; and although he was sensible and well-in- 
 formed, he vras deficient in off-hand conversation and 
 !-.howy accomplishments. A certain Miss Anna Ma- 
 ria Riley, however, the sixth of a family of ten unmar- 
 ried daughters, won his heart, and received his atten- 
 tions most kindly and favorabl}' — told him that she 
 could never love but once, and had never loved before 
 — that she was an excellent manager — that she de- 
 ppised money — that she had no wants, and that she 
 thought four hundred a year a very a.mple income. 
 Saviile was enchanted at her atTcction, moderation, 
 and disinterestedness, and the relations on both sides 
 liad been spoken to on the subject, when suddenly a 
 wealthy, portly citizen, knowing nothing of what had 
 happened, proposed for Miss Anna ?ylaria. She wrote
 
 ?iIATCir. BREAKING. 181 
 
 .ir. inur.cdiate answer of acceptance to him, sent a 
 iarewell letter to Saville, telling him that she had re- 
 solved on sacrificing herself for the good of her family, 
 and immediately drove to a fashionable milliner's at 
 the west end of the town, where her nine sisters or- 
 dered nine blue silk dresses and nine white satin hats, 
 decorated with nine forget-me-not garlands, and v/here 
 she herself ordered— more things than I will weary 
 the patience of my readers by enumerating. In one 
 respect she was consistent ; she had always told Sa- 
 ville that she despised money, and no one who wit- 
 nessed her lavish expenses at the milliner's could have 
 doubted the fact ! 
 
 Saville rated the loss of this unfeeling, mercenary 
 girl at a much higher value than she deserved. He 
 had a serious illness in consequence, and when he 
 recovered, betook himself to the monotonous labors of 
 his vocation, fully resolved to forswear " the light that 
 lies in woman's eyes" forever. An unexpected event, 
 however, was to occur. An eccentric distant relation 
 of Saville's died, and bequeathed to him the whole of 
 a large fortune. Anna Maria had been some time 
 siiarried, otherwise she would have undoubtedly owned 
 ihe omnipotence of her early love, even at the church- 
 door ; but Mrs. Riley overwhelmed him with invita- 
 tions to family-dinners and carpet-dances in Guilford- 
 strect, and told him that Maiy Jane, her seventh 
 daughter, was far prettier, cleverer, and more amiabl.; 
 than ever Anna Maria had been, and that it had al- 
 ways been her own private opinion that Mary Jane 
 was ten limes better suited to liim as a wife. Saville, 
 however, resolutely repulsed the advances, not only of 
 IMary Jane, but of fifty Fannys and Louisas of his ac- 
 quaintance, who appeared resolved to atone for all 
 their former coldness and indifference by the extreme 
 of attention and kindness. He absolutely blushed for 
 the whole sex, when he v.-as oppressed by the invita- 
 tion cards and kind looks and speeclies of the mothers 
 15*
 
 182 ?IATCII-BREAKING. 
 
 and dauglitera, who, a few monthp before, had shunned 
 him as a nonentity, or cut him as a detrimental. He 
 felt a thorough contempt and distaste for them all, and 
 was only anxious to get out of their way. He had 
 given up his situation in the India House, and there- 
 fore he had no tie to London, and felt much tempted 
 to accept a warm invitation to stay at the country seat 
 of Sir Peregrine Balling, to v.'hom he had been intro- 
 duced at a friend's house. Accordingly he wrote to 
 the worthy baronet, telling him all his circumstances 
 and feelings, and all his dread of mercenary and hus- 
 band-hunting beauties, and earnestly requested that he 
 would never mention to any one at Allingham the se- 
 cret of his newly acquired wealth, or the resignation of 
 his situation, but v;ould simply introduce him as v/hat 
 he lately was, a young man who had been laboring 
 twelve years to gain four hundred per annum in the 
 India House. 
 
 The baronet laughed heartily at the delicate and 
 nervous susceptibility of his young friend, but promised 
 secrecy, and as Allingham v/as a hundred miles from 
 London, and Saville vras not in a rank of society to 
 have his changes of fortune and situation chronicled 
 in the nev/spapers, it appeared likely that he would 
 enjoy his wish of being considered as a poor man by 
 the " womankind" of the neighborliood. 
 
 The very day after Savillc's arrival, however, in 
 v.-alking down the High Street with Sir Peregrine, 
 tliey encountered Miss Ogleby, who, when she was in 
 London, about a year ago, had met Saville at the lii- 
 ley's ; she eagerly seized his hand, and congratulated 
 him on his acquisition of fortune, an event which, she 
 said, had been communicated to her a short time ago 
 in a letter from her dear young friend, Mary Jane Ri. 
 ley. Saville could have spared her presence and lier 
 congratulations, but he sav/ that he had no resource but 
 to be extremely civil to her, and thereby engage her in 
 his interests ; accordingly he a?kcd her if she had men-
 
 MATCH-BREAKING. 183 
 
 tinned the circumstance to any one in Allingham, and 
 when she replied in the negative, earncptly requested 
 her to keep it secret during his stay. This Miss Ogle- 
 by instantaneously promised, and with the fullest in- 
 tention of performing her promise ; she never liked to 
 talk a'oout any one's good fortune so much as their bad, 
 and the good fortune of .Savillc would have been par- 
 ticularly disagreeable to her, because she felt that, as 
 soon as Mrs. Stapleton became acquainted with it, she 
 would invite him to her house, throv/ Rose in his way, 
 and very likely completely console him for the loss of 
 Miss Anna Maria Riley. Miss Oglcby remembered 
 that Shakespeare, that wonderful master of the human 
 heart, b.ad made Romeo's ardent passion for Juliet im- 
 mediately succeed to disappointment in Rosalind ; and 
 she apprehended that tlio artless, blooming, and unso- 
 phisticated beauty of Allingham, might, by a similar 
 j)rocpss, banish from Saville's memory, the artificial, 
 over-dressed, scmi-fme lady of Bloombury. Miss Oglc- 
 by only departed from her bond of concealment so far 
 as to reveal the circumstances of the case to Miss Mai- 
 ford, who eagerly united with her in the expediency 
 of never breathing them to any person in Allingham, 
 especially the Stapletons. 
 
 The next day, Miss Ogleby called on Mrs. Staple- 
 ton, and mentioned, with seeming carelessness, that 
 Sir Peregrine had a very shy, stupid young man stay- 
 ing with him, whom she had met in London, and she 
 forthwith did the honors of his small situation in the 
 India House, and his rejection by Anna ?vlaria Riley, 
 adding that " it was very silly of him to be breaking 
 his heart about the matter, for that dear Anna Maria 
 had never given him the least encouragement, and 
 was as happy as the day was long with Mr. Hobson, 
 who had the spirit of a prince, and would look ten 
 years younger than he was, if it were 7U;t that he Avas 
 so amazingly stout." The ladies were not prepossessed 
 in Saville's favor by this account of him ; and although
 
 184 MATCH-BP. BAKING. 
 
 they were in his company three times the next week, 
 there appeared no chance of a close intimacy between 
 him and Rose. Miss Ogleby was constantly at her 
 side, rallying Saville whenever he approached in no 
 very measured terms ou his iil-fate in having been 
 crossed in love, and making delicately playful allusions 
 to green willov/, pining swains, and " Barbara Allen's 
 cruelty." 
 
 Saville, however, was as completely fascinated with 
 Rose as the spinsters could have feared, but he v/as 
 timid, silent, and easily kept at a distance. Mrs. Sta- 
 pleton treated him with all the freezing constrained 
 civility which she considered the proper portion of a 
 young man possessing so very small a life-income that 
 it would be impossible even to squeeze a settlement out 
 of it in the shape of life-insurance, and Rose felt no 
 great interest in the victim of the cruelty of a Guild- 
 ford street Anna Maria, who had refused him in favor 
 of a fat elderly common-councilman! Rose and Sa- 
 ville, however, were destined to become better ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 Every year the town of Allingham was enlivened by 
 a visit from the county yeomanry, and they were cer- 
 tainly very amusing, not from the similarity of their 
 movements to those of the military, but from their 
 utter dissimilitude ; the heroes themselves, however, 
 did not perform their parts so badly, but the horses, 
 who were many of them in the habit of drawing wag- 
 ons and market-carts, were singularly obstinate and 
 intractable ; they stood still when they were required 
 to move, and moved when it was in order that they 
 should stand still, and the manceuvres and evolutions 
 which they were partly forced and partly coaxed to 
 execute, always produced a scene of " most admired 
 disorder." At the conclusion of their visit, they fa- 
 vored the inhabitants of Allingham with a sham fight, 
 (a very sham one indeed,) which took place in a large 
 field about a mile from the town, and it was the cus-
 
 jrATCII-EREAKING. 185 
 
 tom for the licanty and fasliion of Allingliam to attend, 
 to witnops thoir liarmlcss attacks and powerless dc- 
 frnccn. The review was at this time about to take 
 place, and Sir Peregrine Iiad promised to convey Mrs. 
 Stapleton and her daupjlitcr to the scene of action. 
 Accordingly his barouche and curricle drove up to the 
 door, and Mrs. Slaplcton found that she v/as expected 
 to occupy a scat in the former, with Sir Peregrine and 
 a married couple in the neighborhood, while Savillc 
 was to have the pleasing oflice of driving Rose in the 
 curricle. It was too late to make any objection to this 
 plan, and the parties proceeded on their destination. 
 The review was rather more ridiculous than ever. The 
 young pair were both amazingly entertained by it, and 
 nothing equalizes and makes people sociable like a mu- 
 tual joke. Rose had dazzling teeth, an enchanting 
 dimple, and also that prime attraction, a sv%-ect- toned, 
 musical laugh. A pretty girl is never more fascinating 
 than when she is laughing, provided always that her 
 laughter be neither silly, coarse, nor sarcastic. Saville 
 cxj)rcG?cd much wonder at seeing both t*he contending 
 armies with pistols in their hands. Rose informed him 
 that on the preceding year they had muskets, but that 
 the elTcct of the first volley of firing on the horses was 
 such, that when the smoke cleared away it was discov- 
 ered that every rider on the field was dismounted. En- 
 sign Suckling lost a false tooth in the fall ; Captain 
 Papkin's nose bled for ten minutes, though he was sur- 
 rounded by a bevy of old maids, prescribing cold keys, 
 and writing-paper ; and Colonel Tim's face vv-as se- 
 verely scratched, and his wig throvv'n down and tram- 
 pled upon by the crowd ; the rest of the unhorsed war- 
 riors ran wildfy about the field for above half an hour, 
 catching their chargers, and many, after all, caught 
 that of tiieir neighbor by mistake. Consequently it v.-as 
 resolved, on tlie next review, to have nothing but pis. 
 lols ; and the pistols on the present occasion were of so 
 delicately diminutive a size, that when a dozen of them
 
 180 MATCH-BREAKING. 
 
 were fired at once, (it was not considered safe or ex- 
 pedient to discharge a greater number,) the report 
 somewhat resembled that occasioned by the artillery 
 of the " Marvellous Fleas." Happily nobody was dis- 
 mounted ; the horses, unused to the " pride, pomp, and 
 circumstance of glorious war,*' certainly curvetted, 
 reared, and snorted most fearfully, but their riders held 
 firmly by their manes ; and, v.'ith the exception of a 
 few hysterical shrieks from the old maids in the imme- 
 diale vicinity, the firing passed off very quietly. 
 
 Saville's spirits were exhilarated by the fineness of 
 the morning, the novelty of the scene, and the society 
 of the lovely girl beside him ; hs became very agreea- 
 ble, and raised himself considerably in the opinion of 
 his fair companion. 
 
 Two days afterwards, Saville had anotiicr opportu- 
 nity of being in company with Rose, without being 
 haunted by the intervening shadows of the match- 
 breakers. The married couple, who occupied a part 
 of Sir Peregrine's barouche on the occasion of the re- 
 view, had organized an impromptu pic-nic party for the 
 next day but one, into which the lady vehemently pro- 
 tested Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford should not be 
 admitted, for she had every reason to suspect that they 
 had spoiled a match for her youngest sister, by giving 
 the irresolute admirer long and exaggerated details of 
 one of her former flirtations. The day (probably ow- 
 ing to the very short notice that had been given of the 
 pic-nic party) was splendidly fine. Rose and Saville 
 were in intimate association during the whole of it ; 
 ihey walked home arm-in-arm, and before the close of 
 the evening the faithless heroine of Bloomsbury was 
 forgiven by Saville, and forgotten by Rose. Mrs. Sta- 
 pleton, however, now began to look very avv'ful and 
 disapproving, and took leave of Saville with marked 
 coldness. He complained of this to Sir Peregrine, and 
 the good-natured baronet, Vv'ho by this time was quite 
 cared of his passing passion for Rose, earnestly recom-
 
 MATCH-BREAKING. 187 
 
 mended his young friend to make public at once tlie 
 Btatc of his pecuniary circumstances, and bohlly stand 
 forward a candidate for tlie ^ood graces of botii mother 
 and daughter ; but Saville felt all liis horror of ma- 
 noeuvring mammas and mercenary young ladies return 
 upon him, and he did not rest till he had exacted a fresh 
 j)roraise from Six* Peregrine to preserve his secret invi- 
 olate. 
 
 The day after the picnic the town of Allingham v.-as 
 full of the flirtation between Mr. Saville and Miss iSta- 
 pleton, and the spinsters trembled with fear and envy 
 at the tidings. Miss Ogleby inunediatcly called on 
 Mrs. Stapleton, and so forcibly dwelt on the demerits 
 of Savillc's small income, so earnestly recapitulated 
 Mrs. Riley's horror lest " poor dear x\nna Maria should 
 be induced to tliink of hinV" and so courteously dilated 
 on the immeasurably superior pretentions to make a 
 good match possessed by " sweet lovely Roec" beyond 
 the aforesaid " poor dear Anna Maria," tliat Mrs. Sta- 
 pleton worked herself up to a pitch of thorough disdain 
 and hard-heartedness. Saville called on her about an 
 liour after the departure of the Match-breaker, and just 
 as he entered the drawing room, caught a glimpse of 
 the retreating white muslin dress of the banished Rose. 
 Mrs. Stapleton received him with a frown, answered 
 liim in monosyllables, and looked at her watch seven 
 times during the ten minutes to which he limited his 
 slay. 
 
 Poor Saville was deeply wounded and disconcerted. 
 As Sir Peregrine had company that day, he had no op. 
 porlunity of speaking to him till the ensuing morning ; 
 but at breakfast he made known to him his intention of 
 quitting Allingham the next day, never to return to it 
 while Rose remained Miss Stapleton. Sir Peregrine in 
 vain attempted to combat the romantic high flown no- 
 tions of his young friend ; and after a time suffered him 
 to pursue hii; own course, and to make preparations for 
 ills departure,
 
 188 MATCil-BREAKlA'G. 
 
 All now went on most prosperously for ihc match- 
 breakers ; tJicy had done enough ; all that remained fur 
 them was to keep quiet. Whether they did keep quiet 
 or not shall be disclosed to the reader in good time. 
 Saville had resolved not to pay any farewell visits to 
 Allinghani ; but on second thoughts he determined to 
 call on Miss Ogleby, whose fidelity in keeping his se. 
 cret demanded sonie little return of attention from him. 
 He knocked at her door. Her footboy replied that she 
 was not at home, but (knowing the predilection of his 
 mistress for handsome young men) begged Saville to 
 walk in and wait her return, which, he o.ssurcd hijn, 
 would take place in a few minutes. Saville declined, 
 and v/alkcd to the end of the street ; but presently he 
 rcilected that he should like to caution Miss Ogleby not 
 even after his departure to ren-cal his secret, for he had 
 a. vivid recollection of the v/hole pack of invitation 
 cards which Mrs. Riley had lately inflicted on him, 
 and feared that .Mrs. Stapleton might despatch some 
 tenderly-apologetic billet to London after him, v.'hich 
 might put his fortitude to the test. He returned to the 
 door, but did not again knock at it. The footboy, wh j 
 Vi-as a marvellously pmall person, engaged on marvel- 
 lously small wages, did most things in a very clumsy 
 manner, and instead of shutting the door afier Saville, 
 had left it ajar. Consequently he entered unseen by any 
 body into Miss Ogleby's front parlor, there to av^ait the 
 return of its mistress. 
 
 There was little amusement for my hero during the 
 period of his solitude. He looked at Miss Ogleby's 
 frame of worsted work, (a sprawling eagle, in all the 
 colors of the rainbow, intended for an ottoman.) held 
 a brief dialogue v.'ith her parrot, which speedily fell to 
 the ground on account of the total deficiency of repar- 
 tee in the feathered colloquist, and turned over a music 
 book which was filled with the fac^hionable songs of 
 Miss Ogleby's girlhood : " The Garland of Love," 
 * The Mischievous Ecc," " When Time, who steals
 
 MATrii-n?vr:AT:ixr,. 180 
 
 onr yoarp away," •' Said a Smile to a Tear," •' Vvill yen 
 corrn" to the Cower ?" «fcc. 
 
 Tired of'thi;; iavestigatio)! he proceeded i;ironc;}i the 
 nniall Iblding-donrs to tlic hack parlor, in liojies ol' 
 amusing hiniseh^ with Mir-s Ogr]c])y'K liooks ; hut, alas I 
 iVIiss Ojijleby never read any novels but old ones, and 
 never read ar.y thing l)uL the womt among the old. 
 iShe had aho'.il a dozen sets of these, Vv'hioh f;hc had 
 bought very cheap from a circulating library selling 
 otT, and whcii she had finished them, she read them 
 through again with jn.st as much pleasure and profit as 
 {:he had derived from their first perusal. Savijle toolc 
 down llie first volume of a thin yellow dirty novel, 
 called " Adaliza, or tiie Amiable Artifice," shut the 
 foliling donrs, and rat himself down calmly to his stud- 
 ies on the faded amber sofa in the back parlor. Saville 
 had frequently v/ondered v.hat could be the mysterious 
 pecret possessed by the celebrated Dr. Gardiner, b}' 
 vv'hich he enables people to go to sleep whenever they 
 please ; but he had not perused more than twenty 
 jiages, v.'hen he ma;le up li'ui mind that it must be by 
 the perusal of an old novel, for, althoiigh by no means 
 of a lethargic nature, and although Miss Ogleby's hard 
 high sofa was anything but inviting to repose, he grad- 
 ually sank back in his seat, closed his eyes, and fell 
 back into a deep slumber. He had been asleep about 
 hair an hour, when he was awakened by the shrill 
 Innd voice of Miss Ogleb}'' in the next room, and soon 
 ascertained that hor companion was Miss i\Ialf )rd ; he 
 was on the point of opening the folding-doors and an- 
 nouncing himself, when he licard his ov/n name men- 
 tioned, and to his great horror, Miss Malford eoollj' 
 and unhesitatingly expressed her great satisfaction at 
 having found herself able exactly to imitate his hand- 
 writing. .Saville remained, as the author of Adaliza 
 would liave raid, " rooted to the ground ;" the idea of 
 forgery instantly occurred to his mind — he had a large 
 sum Iving at his banker's, a^.d he trembled al ihe pros-
 
 190 JIATCPI-EKKAKIXG. 
 
 pect before him. It is very distressinjr to a man of 
 gallantry to contemplate the necessity of transportincf 
 a lady, however delightful it may be to be transported 
 by her. 
 
 " I will read yon what I have wric'en in Savillc's 
 rame," said Mi;-s Ptlalford ; " I do not think it is a bad 
 love-letter." 
 
 Saville's fears now took a contrary direction ; il 
 was evident that this deformed spinster, whose mind 
 peemed to him as distorted as her person, had written 
 an offer of marriage to herself in his narno. Westmin- 
 ster Hall, coimsellors, lawyers, stammering witnesses, 
 and tittering spectators, all swam before his eyes, 
 and he valorously resolved, like Mr. Pickwick, of im- 
 mortal memory, that he would rather go to jail than 
 pay a farthing of awarded damages. Presently, how- 
 ever, he had reason to exonerate Miss Malford from 
 any personal designs on him ; for when she read aloud 
 the letter, which was indeed a proposal of marriage, 
 it appeared that he apostrophized the ladj' addressed, 
 as "young and beautiful;" terms wliich the utmost 
 excess of huniaii vanity could never have enabled Miss 
 Malford to apply to herself. At tlie conclusion, he 
 (or rather his double) candidly confessed that his an- 
 nual income only amounted to four hundred pounds, 
 "rising" ten pounds yearly, in the India House, audit 
 was signed, " Your faithful and devoted, John Sa- 
 ville." 
 
 " So far, so good," thought Saville ; " this letter 
 cannot be intended to form the ground work of a breach 
 of promise of marriage trial, or I should have been 
 made frankly to plead guilty to my large independent 
 fortune ; but what purpose can it be intended for ?" 
 
 " You have imitated Saville's handwriting very suc- 
 cessfully," said Miss Ogleby. 
 
 " Yes," replied Miss Malford, " but I found it by no 
 means difficult. Lavatcr truly enough says, ' that the 
 disposition is indicated by the handwriting;' now Sa-
 
 3Iatcii-]:;;eakl\g. 191 
 
 villc is of an exceedingly weak, bending, timid nature, 
 nothing masculine or decided about him, and bis neat 
 {'ormal handwriting is one that any female could easi- 
 ly imitate." 
 
 Poor ^^aville ! he quailed under this double-barrelled 
 attack on his'characfer and handwriting, and fervent- 
 ly wished that Miss Malford would leave both of them 
 alone. 
 
 " I have the greatest respect for your judgment, my 
 dear friend," said Miss Ogleby, (for when these ladies 
 were mutually concerned in any plot of mischief, they 
 were as affectionate as do%'es to each other,) " but I 
 confess I hardly sec the policy of addressing an offer 
 of marriage in Saville's name to Rose Stapleton — it 
 seems to mc a scheme more likely to make a match 
 than to break one." 
 
 Saville's heart beat quickly at the " one loved name," 
 and he felt greatly relieved that his malicious neigh, 
 bors had not thought proper to make him offer his 
 heart and iiand to some pastry-cook's high-priestess, 
 or milliner's show-girl. 
 
 "Why, n^.y love," answered Miss Malford, "you 
 have repeatedlv agreed with me that Rose Stapleton is 
 evidently attached to Saville, and that her mother per- 
 sonally likes him extremely, and merely objects to him 
 as a son-'u-law on account of the smallness of his for- 
 tune ; this is an objection that you and 1 know could 
 be obviated in a moment ; and every day I am on thorns, 
 tearing either that Saville will take leave of his roman- 
 tic scrujtles, and proclaim his riches, or that Sir Pere- 
 grine, who, with, his usual stupid meanness of spirit, 
 would be delighted to see the girl who had rejected 
 him, well married, will blab the truth to the Staple- 
 tons by way of smoothing all objections to the match." 
 
 " To be sure — that might happen any day," said 
 .'\Iiss Ogleby. 
 
 " Now," continued the animated Miss Malford, "as 
 matters stand at present, there is not a doubt that Mrs.
 
 192 MATCII-BKEAKING. 
 
 Staple lull will compel Rose to write a refusal, aud Sa- 
 ville will be so irritated tliat he will immediately set 
 out for London ; of course he will write to them to deny 
 Iiaving sent the letter, but as thej believed it to come 
 from him, the refusal will be just as cutting to his feel- 
 ings and his vanity as if lie had actually sent it." 
 
 "But, arc you quite sure that the olfer will be re- 
 fused ?" said Mif-s Ogleby. " xMrs. Stapleton is ridic- 
 ulously attached to her daughter, and allows her to 
 have her own way to a shameful degree — witness the 
 rejection of Sir Peregrine ; suppose Rose should coax 
 her mother into a permission to accept the offer." 
 
 " I have my counter-plot read}' for that," answered 
 Miss Malford. " Saville will know that he did not 
 write the letter, and it must be our business to persuade 
 him that Mrs. Stapleton did ; you, in particular, may 
 be of the most essential use — you must tell Saville, 
 with apparent contrition, that you secretly disclosed 
 to Mrs. Stapleton the circumstances of his large pro- 
 perty, in order to calm her apprehensions that Rose 
 was flirting with a detrimental ; and the result will be, 
 that he will be so enraged and angry at the idea of 
 having been duped and imposed upon, that he will quit 
 AUingham without delay in the full enjoyment of sin- 
 gle blessedness." 
 
 Saville could not repress a deep hollov/ groan at this 
 avowed determination of Miss Malford to cast a wan- 
 ton slander on the fame of the unsuspecting and good- 
 natured woman, for whom she professed friendship ; 
 the sound startled the conspirators in the front par- 
 lor. 
 
 " Dear me, what is that ?" said Miss Malford ; " it 
 seemed to come from the next room." 
 
 " Nothing to alarm you, my dear," answered Miss 
 Ogleby ; " I dare say it is a string of Mr. Scrapewell's 
 violincello, which he has sent to my house, to be in 
 readiness for my little musical luncheon-party to-mor- 
 row."
 
 MATCH-BREAKING. 193 
 
 All iJial now remains," said Miys Malfuru, willi 
 renewed placidity, " is lo envelope tlic letter, and seal 
 it. I HJiall send it to-night to the Slaplctons, by a man 
 on whom I can depend. I have done hun some favorj-', 
 and lie knows himself to be in my power. I shall di. 
 rect hhn to flap his hat over his eyes, and merely ring 
 at the door, and leave it." 
 
 " I can give you rosc-colorcd wax," said ]\Iiss Ogle- 
 by, " and a seal that will be just the thing for a love-let- 
 ter — the motto is, ' Each moment makes you dearer.' 
 Come up to my dressing-room, and you will there iind 
 iny writing-case." 
 
 Accordingly the spinsters quitted tlic front parlor, 
 and ascended the stairs, and Saville, having first care- 
 fully replaced " Adaliza, or the Amiable Artifice," on 
 the shelf, seized the opportunity to dart out into the 
 street, and ruminate on the artifice, certainly anything 
 but amiable, whicli had just come to his knowledge. 
 Several times in the course of the colloquy, Saville had 
 felt inclLned to burst out on the spinsters in all the ma- 
 jesty of an insulted and injured man, but he thought 
 better on tlie subject, and remained quiet. Some years 
 ago, Saville had been driving in a gig wuth a friend, 
 and the horse took fright. Saville, anxious, as he af- 
 terwards expressed himself, " to know the worst at 
 once," threw himself from the gig, and received the 
 information of which he was desirous, in the shape of 
 numberless severe contusions and bruises, which con- 
 fined him to the house for several weeks, while his 
 friend, who was one of the " take-things-easy" class of 
 men, sat perfectly quiet, and when in the course of a 
 few minutes the horse was stopped, was assisted from 
 his scat without having had a fold of his cravat rumpled, 
 or a curl of his hair disarranged. Ever since, Saville, 
 under circumstances of difficulty, had been disposed 
 to wait patiently, and let things take their course, 
 rather than to accelerate their progress by any strong 
 procccdurc on hh owni)art. Besides, to tell the truth, 
 16*
 
 194 3iATCll-i;REAKING. 
 
 Savillc was not particularly desirous to impede the 
 flight of the love-letter in question; if Rose should re- 
 fuse him, he should know his fate more decidedly than 
 he could otherwise have done, and his pride would suf. 
 ler no wound from her disdain, since he should then 
 immediately disclaim the letter. Savillc returned to 
 the Hall, and told Sir Peregrine that on reconsidering 
 the matter, he should be happy to avail himself of his 
 hospitality for a day or two longer. The baronet 
 clapped him on the shoulder, told him lie was glad he 
 had thought better of it, and predicted that he should 
 yet see him and the prett}' Rose -Staplcton man and 
 wife. Savillc was nervous and dispirited all the eve. 
 ning, and lost hit after hit at backgammon to Sir Pere- 
 grine, wondering all the time, in the inmost recesses 
 of his mind, what would be the precise time at which 
 Miss Malford's messenger with the flapped hat would 
 deliver the letter, and what conversation Rose and her 
 mother would hold touching the contents. The next 
 morning Sir Peregrine went out shooting, and Savillc 
 remained in solitude, nervously starting every time a 
 servant entered the room, expecting that he would be 
 the bearer of Rose Stapleton's refusal on a silver salver. 
 Miss Oglcby was almost as anxious ; she expected that 
 Mrs. Stapleton or Rose would call on her to inform 
 her of Saville's letter, or perhaps that Saville him- 
 self would come to disclose to her the trick that had 
 been played on him, and she strictly enjoined her " lit- 
 tle foot page to summon her immediately from lier 
 "musical-luncheon party,' if either of the above men- 
 tioned three persons called to see her.'' At eleven 
 o'clock, Mr. Scrapeall, and the rest of the amateurs 
 arrived ; none of them played well, even when they 
 played their best, and the reader may conclude, that 
 as they met expressly for rehearsal, their present per- 
 formance was not of the most harmonious nature ; 
 however, they were abundantly comi)limentary to each 
 other. Mr. Jenks said that Mr. Todd had quite Mori's
 
 xMATCll-DKKAKhNl-. 195 
 
 luucli ; and Mr. Todd responded lliat Mr. Jcuks |)uL 
 him aniaziiigly iji mind ot" Pagannii. Mis^i .Siinpkins 
 iJioiiglit thai Miys Dabb's lower toneii bore an advan- 
 tageous rej-emblauee to those of Pasta ; and ■\lisb 
 Dabbs retorted tliat i\Iisa Simpkius went two note.:, 
 higher than Gri.ii. Miss Iliggin.s, a little pink and 
 while girl just emancipated from boarding-sehool, sang 
 •'Child of Earth, with the golden hair," in a small, 
 faint, shrill, lluttcring voice, and was universally com- 
 pared to Mrs. Wood ; and a pale, sickly, silly looking 
 Jad, who was heir to a large fortune, sang "Light of 
 other Days," in remarkably husky, broken tones, and 
 was pronounced by all the ladies to be immeasura- 
 bly superior to Phillips. In the midst of this scene of 
 urbanity and politeness, a young man entered the room, 
 who took the first violin at the AUingham monthly 
 concerts ; he was clever in his profession, and the AL 
 lingham amateurs liked to have him at their little so- 
 cial meetings ; and as they all took tickets for his benc- 
 lit, he was toe wise to give them any unpleasant infor- 
 mation on the subject of their perfect ignorance of the 
 delightful science which they professed to understand 
 and patronize. 
 
 " ]\ow Mr. Tune well is come," said Miss Ogleby, 
 " we will have the overture to ' Der Frcischutz.'" 
 
 Accordingly they all applied themselves to their re- 
 spective parts, and went on tolerably well for about 
 two minutes, when, with amiable anxiety to have all 
 things in common, cac'i began to encroach upon the 
 part of the other. In two minutes more, Mr. Todd, 
 inspired by a noble feeling of emulation, got far before 
 the rest of his comrades ; Mr. Scrapeall, actuated by 
 interesting timidity, kept far behind ; the other ama- 
 teurs eacli connnitted some sc{)arate indiscretion ; and 
 Mr. Tunewell was the only steady and orderly indi- 
 vidual vlio played precisely as he ought to do. They 
 fuul J not longer pretend to remahi unconscious of the
 
 196 :\IATCII-BUEAK1NG. 
 
 dreadful discords they were producing. At length Mr^ 
 Scrapeall spoke. 
 
 " It is all Tunewell's fault — he plays dreadfully out 
 of taj:e — it is impossible to keep pace with him." 
 
 " Yes," said little Miss lliggins, who presided at the 
 piano, " I was just thinking how admirably I could get 
 on with tJie other gentlemen, but Mr. Tuncwell quite 
 discomposes us." 
 
 " Really, Tuncwell," said the pale, silly-looking 
 young heir, in a patronizing tone, "you must be more 
 careful ; here is a whole company put into confusion 
 by your slovenly playing." 
 
 Poor Tuncwell bowed to one, and apologized to an- 
 other, confessed that he was very stupid ; but that he 
 had been sitting up late last night, and had a violent 
 cold and headache ; and having received a condescend- 
 ing permission to depart, gladly gathered his violin 
 under one arm, and a roll of music under the other, 
 and quitted the room, the v/holc circle agreeing that 
 Tuncwell was a good sort of young man, but certainly 
 never intended by nature for a musician. 
 
 Luncheon followed, scraped-bcef, sandwiches, baked 
 custards in tea cups, heart cakes, pastry-cook's tart- 
 lets, drawns clinging to lemonade glasses, and inter- 
 spersed vrith sprigs of parsley, and guinea hen's eggs 
 reclining on a bed of moss to do duty for plover.^;. Hot, 
 hard port, and deep-colored, fiery sherry, constituted 
 the libations at the banquet. Mr. Scrapeall, who was 
 a member of the Temperance Society, having inadver- 
 tently taken a glass of the sherry, begged leave to ex- 
 change it for one of the port, since he observed that it 
 " hurt his conscience to take any thing manifestly con- 
 taining so large a proportion of brandy." Whether he 
 meant tliis speech for a compliment or a sarcasm, I 
 cannot pretend to say, but it was evidently considered 
 to be the former ; for Mr. Jenks, helping himself to an- 
 other bumper of the aforesaid sherry, benevolently re- 
 marked that ■Mis.i Oglcby's v.-ine-merchant (who was
 
 MATCII-liliEAKiNG. 197 
 
 also Ilia ow'ij) wa^ a capi'al fellow, and always did jus- 
 tice lO lii:5 custoiuers. ARcr a few more songs, sona- 
 las, and fine ppecclics, the musical luncheon party 
 Kcparalcd, delighted with their morninfl's amuseincnt 
 and wiih Ihcm.selves, Fcllling to meet that day week 
 at Mr. Scrapcall's, and unanimously expressing a hope 
 that Tunewell would profit by tlic hints that he had re- 
 ceived, and be more attentive to iiis playing. 
 
 Although, liowcver, the guests departed satisfied, the 
 lioslcss and Miss Malford were restless, excited, and 
 uncomforlable, and full cf wonder, that they heard n«j. 
 thing of the poor young people wliom they wisJicd to 
 victimize. Joy, lieverthcless, triumphs in one house, 
 wliile disapj)ointment " rules and reigns without con- 
 control" in another. Saville had just finished his 
 solitary luncheon, when the wished-for, yet dreaded, 
 letter was delivered to him ; it was from Mrs. Staple- 
 lou. He opened it hi fear and trepidation — could he 
 believe his eyes ? it was a letter of acceptance ! Mrs. 
 Stapleton candidly ov.ned that she could have wished 
 her daughter to contract a more advantageous alli- 
 ance ; hut that in the long and interest ing conversa- 
 tion which followed the receipt of lilr. SaVille's letter 
 on the preceding night, she felt thoroughly convinced 
 that the happiness of Rose depended on a union v.ith 
 him ; and as their united incomes would be pufllcient 
 Ibr the necessaries of life, dw would not withhold her 
 co:i.'-cnt. She concluded by expressing the wish of 
 hcr.'-clf and Rose to sec Mr. .Saville as soon as possible. 
 Saville, almost beside himself v/ith joy, made a hasty 
 tnilettc, directed a bcrvant to beg Sir Peregrine not to 
 wait dinner for him, and ran all tlie way to Mrs. Sta. 
 plcton's Iiouse. 
 
 I will not dilate on the conversation that ensued ; 
 sufllee it to say, that Saville half, but not wholly, en- 
 lightened the ignorance of his fair friends ; he coniesscd 
 the fact, that he possessed a large, independent fortune, 
 but he did not own that hij love-letter was the compo-
 
 198 MATCH. BREAKING. 
 
 sition of another person ; he feared that the delicacy 
 of his darling Roeo, and the dignity of her mother, 
 would be \vounded at the idea that he had been in a 
 manner entrapped into an engagement ; and as the 
 letter, to do justice to Miss Malford's powers of elo- 
 quence, was a very tolerable one, he had determined 
 to sit down quietly under all the honors of it. He, 
 however, ventured to beg that Mrs. Stapleton and 
 Rose would be very guarded and distant in their man- 
 ners to Miss Oglcby and Miss Malford, observing that 
 he had good reason to know that these ladies were by 
 no means so sincere and friendly as they appeared to 
 be ; and they readily promised him that the spinsters 
 should hear of the engagement through some other 
 channel. Saville returned to Sir Peregrine at night, 
 fall of spirits and happiness, and informed him that he 
 was engaged to Rose Stapleton, but not of the means 
 by v.'hich the engagement had been brought about. 
 Sir Peregrine was unaffectedly delighted, told Saville 
 that he must stay with him till the wedding-day, 
 ofiered to give tlie bride avv^ay, and to be trustee to the 
 settlement,. and spread about the news in every part 
 of AUingham throug'.j the whole of the next day. 
 
 The Match-breakers heard of it with horror ; and 
 Miss Ogleby had a violent quarrel with her dear friend 
 Miss ]\Ialford, telling her that she had foreseen every, 
 thing that had happened, and that Miss Malford's offi- 
 cious letter had been the cause of the explanation tak- 
 ing place. The ensuing morning, Miss Ogleby was 
 walking alone, and met Saville. She fixed her eyes 
 on him with that determined, fearless stare, which is 
 the constant brading mark, designating women of un- 
 daunted disposition and bold manners, and said, " Well, 
 you took us all by surprise by your engagement to Rose 
 Stajdctdn." " Did 1 ?" returned Saville, drily. 
 
 " Yes," she proceeded, affecting an air of great play- 
 fullness ; " pray may I ask w^hethcr you made your 
 offer by letter or word of month ?"
 
 ^lATCII-EKEATCINr,. 199 
 
 •' Propof-'als of marria^'o," answered Savi'lc, '■ arC; 
 I ))'licve, gfcnerally made by letter." 
 
 " That is an eqnivnoation, and not a direct anf^v/cr," 
 rejoined Miss Ofrlchy. 
 
 " Well, then," said Saville, " I did not make my of- 
 ier by word of moulli." Willi ihis answer Mi.ss Ogleby 
 was ff)rccd to sccni contented. 
 
 " One more fjnestion and I have done," said she. 
 " I have a strange fancy to know wliat messenger yon 
 ''cnt with your letter ?" 
 
 Saville, lor the first time in his life, met Miss Ogle- 
 by's s'.are with an ("qnally fixed gaze, and rejoined, " I 
 cannot tell you the name of the person ; but your friend, 
 Miss Malford, has done liini some favors, and b.e knows 
 himself to be in her power; on the occasion alluded 
 to, he could not easily be recognised by anybody, for 
 he was directed to flap his hat carefully over his eyes." 
 
 Miss Ogleby, for the first time in her life, looked on 
 the ground, and appeared di3conipo.'5ed and embar- 
 rassed. She immediately went to Aliss Malford, and 
 taxed her with having betrayed the secret. Miss Mal- 
 ford replied that slie had never mentioned it to a crea- 
 ture, and that the disclosure of it was doubtless owing 
 lo Miss Oglcby's gossipping loquacity. Severe rc- 
 criniiiialions ensued; each believed the other to be 
 guilty, although in this particular instance, each hap- 
 j)ened to be guiltless; and they separated, mutually 
 declaring that thry never v.'ishcd to sec each other 
 again. Their quarrels, hov.'ever, were something like 
 those of lovers ; habit and congeniality soon reconciled 
 them, and before the expiration of a week, they Vv-ere 
 again the "inimitable inseparables" that they were 
 wont to be. It had always been Savillc's intention 
 to reveal the truth to Rose immedialely after their 
 jnarriagti, since he justly considered that there ought 
 lo be no .secret between man and wife ; but accident 
 occasioned a premature disclosure. It was two days 
 iKiforc the tine appointed for the marriage, Sir Pere.
 
 200 r.TATCTI-EKEAinXG. 
 
 griiie and Savilie had dined at Mrs, Staplofon's; in 
 the evening a book of Mrs. Opie's lyin^^ on the tabic, 
 led to a eonvcrsalion on allov/able and blamable instan- 
 ces of dissimuialio)!. Sir Peregrine contended that 
 Mrs. (~>pie was much too severe, and tliat there wore 
 instances where a little misrepresentation was excni^a. 
 hie. Savilie took the contrary side of the question, and 
 7naintained that under any circumstances it must be 
 blamable. Rose could not help playfully taxing her 
 lover with having been guilty of a little misrepresenta- 
 tion himself, when he staled in his letter to her that 
 liis whole income was derived from a place in the In- 
 dia House, whieh it afteru'ards appeared he had given 
 up for some months ; and Savilie, eager to defend iiim- 
 Kclf from the charge of inconsistency, detailed \hr 
 v/hole history of the letter. 
 
 Sir Peregrine vvas highly indignant, and called the 
 heroines of the plot " harpies," "jades," and manv 
 other mythological and cvery-day denominations, with 
 v.'hich I Vi'^ill not trouble my readers. Mrs. Stapleton 
 and Ro5;e, truly good-tempered by nature, and rendered 
 particularly amiable at the present juncture by the un- 
 clouded happiness and prosperity which they enjoj'ed, 
 did not express themselves with equal acrimony. At 
 last, however, Mrs. Stapleton said that she thought 
 the spinsters ought to be punished, and suggested the 
 truly rigorous chastisement of .sending tliein no bride- 
 cake. Sir Peregrine, hovrever, requested that they 
 might have it, and that lie might be entrusted with the 
 rare of wrapping it up and delivering it ; he tlicn re. 
 quested Rose to give him the letter in question — thi:^ 
 was easily produced ; for the poor girl had laid it uj) in 
 rose leaves, and kissed it half a dozen times a day, lit- 
 tle surmising the v/ithcrod 3'^8llov.'^ eld fingers that had 
 penned it; and on the wedding day, Sir Peregrine 
 wrapped up one piece of cake in the love-letter, and 
 another in tlie envc-lope, and himself left the former at 
 the door of M\r^?. Malfird, and th- hiu-r at that of Mi-s
 
 ^lATCTT-nnE/iTrTNC. 201 
 
 OTlcby. Nor did hr> r:top licrc. Hir Pcrc^rinr v/af n 
 luan v.'ho had beon known topacrifjcp cv^n a friond lr> 
 p jokf, lliercfore i;. wa'^ not vnry likely he ?hoiil(] spare 
 his enemies Caiid lie reg^art'e.l the cncniifs of Ro^^eSta- 
 pleton and her mother a?; his own) when a joke eame 
 in the way ; hn aninseJ the whole lown of Allinjrhani 
 hy his comic detail of tlic business, and many ol' ihe 
 young people openly exulted at the idea that such skil- 
 ful maleh-breakcrf? had been unconsciously playing the 
 part of match-maker?. 
 
 Saville and his bride passed the honey-moon with 
 'ome of his relations, and Sir Peregrine considered if 
 no more tiian kind to pa'' frequent visits lo Mrs. Sla- 
 pleton in her solitude. She had lately much raii^ed 
 herself in his opinion ; the spinsters h.ad always led 
 1-im to consider her as worldly and interested, but her 
 fhcerful acquiescence in the desire of Rose to accept 
 f h'- hand of .Saville when slie believed liis circumstances 
 to be narrow, fully exonerated her from that charge; 
 hn could not but admire the good nature which she 
 displayed in her ob?ervations even upon her foes ; and 
 he could not be blind to the fact, that although a very 
 'inndsome woman in the prime of life, she had never 
 'light lovers or flirtations far herself, but had soiciy 
 '•.-.veted thcin for her daughter. Sir Peregrine soon 
 began to think he had been very fiolish, a fev.' monlh-^ 
 ago, in proposing to Rose iiistead of her mother ; short- 
 ly he considered that his error, great as it was, migli) 
 perhaps not be irreparable, and accordinglj^ he offered 
 iiis hand to i^Irs. Staplcton, and was frankly and unaf- 
 fectedly accepted. 
 
 Miss Ogleby and Miss Malford were still more ex- 
 asperated by this .match ihan they would have been 
 had the baronet married Rose ; in that case they could 
 have had the satisfaction of ridiculing the disparity of 
 age, and predicting that the young wife would make 
 her husband's heart ache; but the union of a hand, 
 ^ome, amiable woman of forlv-tv/o, Vk'ilh a good-look- 
 17
 
 202 IMATCII-BREAinXGc 
 
 irig, good-raturcd man of fifty-five, could not be ren- 
 sured by any one, and, in fact, universal pleasure was 
 caused by the elevation of Mrs. Staplcton lo the title 
 of Lady Dailin.'^, and the dio-nitics of the carriages, 
 conservatories, ice-houses, pineries, &c. 
 
 Saville purchased a beautiful pl-ico in the immedi- 
 ate neigh!)orhood of Alliuo-ham, and the old maids 
 were continually tormented by the sight of the happi- 
 ness they had unwittingly promoted. They had some 
 thoughts of quitting Allingham in consequence, but 
 they reflected that it would be a long lime before they 
 could obtain the same knowledge of all tlie private af- 
 fairs of the familes in a new place, and they hoped by 
 the harm they might 3'ct do, to atone for that which 
 they had failed to do. Their expectations, however, 
 were disappointed ; all their power to injure was com- 
 pletely gone. When they depreciated any young girl, 
 hov/ever justly, their auditors delicately hinted to them 
 that "the tongue of the evil speaker is no slander;" 
 young men delighted to teaze them by making love to 
 others before their faces, and compliments and fine 
 speeches flew about like sugar plums at a Venetian 
 Carnival, among all the female population of Alling- 
 ham, with tlie exception of themselves. Such was the 
 effect of this playful warfare, that many actual 
 matches were produced by it. Allingham had never 
 been considered a marrying place ; but now " a change 
 came o'er the spirit" of the town ; it was indeed ruled 
 by a most potent spirit in the affairs of love, a spirit of 
 contradiction ; from the time of Rose Staplelon's mar- 
 riage, the young people " paired off" like so many 
 members at a division, and Allingham, at this time, 
 presents the strange anomaly of a country-town flour- 
 ishing in a constant excitement of blonde-veils, bride- 
 cake, orange-biossoms, and bell-ringing, although the 
 habitation of tv%'o noted and experienced Match-break-
 
 203 
 
 BV LIISS L. E. LANDON. 
 
 In the deep silence of the midnight hours, 
 I call upon ye, oh ye viewless powers ! 
 Before whose presence mortal daring cowers. 
 
 I have subdued ye to my own stern will ; 
 I fear ye not ; but I must shudder still, 
 Faint with the awful purpoise ye fulfil. 
 
 Not for myself I call the aether-born, 
 
 They have no boon ray being doth not scorn — 
 
 Wholly and bitterly am I forlorn. 
 
 Dearly is bought the empire of the mind; 
 It sitteth on a sullen throne, designed 
 To elevate and part it from its kind. 
 
 Long years my stricken soul has turned away 
 From the sweet dreams that round my childhood lay 
 Would it still ov\^ned their false but lovely sv/ay 1 
 
 In the dark grave of unbelief they rest. 
 Worthless tliey were, and hollow, while posscst. 
 I am alone — uublessing, and unblest ! 
 
 Knowledge is with me — guest that once received, 
 Love, hope, ambition, are no more believed ; 
 And we disdain what formerly had grieved. 
 
 A few fair flowers around their colors fling. 
 But what docs questioning their sources bring ? 
 Tiiat from corruption and from death they spring
 
 204 THE TROrilETESS. 
 
 'T is thus wiUi those sweet dreaiiis which life bej^in, 
 We weary of them, and we look within ; 
 What do \vc find ? Guile, suffering-, and sin. 
 
 I kaoiv my kind too well not to despise 
 TJie gilded sophistry that round it lies ; 
 Hate, sorrow, falsehood — mocking their disguise. 
 
 Oh, thou old world ! so full of guilt and care^, 
 So mean, so small — I marvel Heaven bears 
 Thy struggle, which the seeing almost shares. 
 
 Yet, mine ancestral city, for thy sake 
 A lingering interest on this earth 1 take ; 
 111 the dim midnight 't is for thee I wake. 
 
 Softly the starlight falletli over fanes 
 That rise above thy myrtle- wooded plains, 
 \'/hcre summer hath her loveliest domains. 
 
 Beneath, the gardens spread their pleasant shade, 
 The lutes arc hushed that twilight umsic made, 
 •Sleep on the Vrorid iier ho:iey-spclI halh laid. 
 
 Sweet come the winds that o'er these flower-bedt; rove, 
 I only breathe the perfumes that ye love. 
 Spirits I my incenue summons ye above. 
 
 What of yon stately city, where arc shrined 
 The warrior's and the poet's wreath combined- 
 All the hiifh honors of the human mind I 
 
 Her wails are bright Vv'ith colors, who.se fine dye^ 
 Embody shapes that seem from yonder skies. 
 And in her scrolls the v^'orld's deep v^isdom liea.
 
 GIBRALTAR, FROM THE SEA. 205 
 
 What of her future ? — Throuf^h the silvery smoke 
 
 I see the distant vision I hivoke. 
 
 These glorious walls have bowed to Time's dark yoke. 
 
 I sec a plain of desert sand extend 
 
 Scattered with ruinf5, where the wild flowers bend, 
 
 And the green ivy, like a last sad friend. 
 
 Low are the marble columns on the sand, 
 
 The palm-trees that have grown among them stand 
 
 As if they mocked the fallen of the land. 
 
 Hence, ye dark Spirits ! bear the dream away ; 
 To-morrow but repeatcth yesterday ; 
 First, toil — then, desolation and decay. 
 
 Life has one vast stern likeness in its gloom, 
 
 We toil with hopes that must themselves consume — • 
 
 The wide world round us is one mighty tomb. 
 
 BY MISS L. E. LANDON, 
 
 Down 'mid the waves, accursed bark, 
 Down, down before the wind ; 
 
 Thou canst not sink to doom more dark 
 Than that thou leavcst behind. 
 
 Down, down for his accursed sake 
 Whose hand is on thy hehn. 
 
 Above the heaving billows break — 
 Will they not overwhelm ? 
 17*
 
 206 e^lERALTAlI, KKOM THE SEA. 
 
 The bluod is red iipoii the deck, 
 Of murder, not of strife ; 
 
 Now, Ocean, let tlie hour of wreck 
 Atone for that of life 1 
 
 Many a brave heart has grown cold, 
 Though battle has been done ; 
 
 And shrieks have risen from the hold. 
 When hunjan help was none. 
 
 We 've sailed amid the Spanii^h line;^, 
 The black flag at the mast, 
 
 And burning towns and rifled shrineo 
 Proclaimed where we had past. 
 
 The captive's low and latest cry 
 
 Has risen on the night, 
 Wiiile night carousals mocked the sky 
 
 With their unholy light. 
 
 The captain he is young and fair — 
 How can he look so young ? 
 
 His locks of youth, his golden hair, 
 Are o'er his shoulders flung. 
 
 Of all ihe deeds that he has done. 
 
 Not one has left a trace ; 
 The midnight cup, the noontide sun, 
 
 Have darkened not his face. 
 
 His voice is low — his smile is sweet — = 
 
 He has a girl's blue eyes ; 
 And yet I would far rather meet 
 
 The storm in yonder skies.
 
 THE WKEATllb. 207 
 
 I'he lierccot ofour [lirale baud 
 Holds al his name tlie breath ; 
 
 For there is blood on his right hand, 
 And ill liis heart is death. 
 
 He knows ho rides above his grave, 
 
 Yet careless it! his eye ; 
 He looks with licorn upon the wave, 
 
 With scorn ujion the sky. 
 
 Great God ! the sights that 1 have seen 
 
 When far upon the main I 
 I 'd rather that my death had been 
 
 Than see those sights again. 
 
 Pale faces glhniner, and are gone, 
 Wild voices rise from the shore ; 
 
 1 see one giant wave sweep on — 
 It breaks I — we rise no more. 
 
 BY ELIZA COOK. 
 
 Whom do we crown with the laurel leaf? 
 The hero god, tlie soldier chief, 
 liut we dreainof the crushing cannon-wheel. 
 Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
 Of the crimson jdain where warm blood smoke- 
 Where clangor deafens and sulphur chokes. 
 Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
 Plucked from the gory field of death ?
 
 20§ THE WPtEATHS. 
 
 Whom do wc crown with summer flowers ? 
 The young and fair in their happiest hours. 
 But the buds will only live in the light 
 Of a festive day or glittering night; 
 We know the vcrmil tints will fade, 
 That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid. 
 And who can prize the coronal 
 That 's formed to dazzlcj wither, and fall ? 
 
 Who wears the cypress, dark and drear ? 
 The one who js sheddnig the mourner's tear, 
 The gloomy branch for ever twines 
 Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines. 
 'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart, 
 That hath seen its dearest hopes depart ; 
 Oh, who can like the chaplct, band, 
 Tha: is wove by Melancholy's hand ? 
 
 Where is the ivy circlet found ? 
 
 On :he one whose brain and lips are drowned 
 
 In the purple stream — who drinks and laughs 
 
 Till his checks outflush the wine he quaffs ; 
 
 Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown, 
 
 Wii.i its gems of grape-juice trickling down; 
 
 But bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl. 
 
 It has stam for the heart, and shade for the soul. 
 
 But :herc 's a green and fragrant leaf 
 Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief; 
 'T is the purest amaranth springing below, 
 And rests on the calmcct, noblest brow ; 
 It is not the right of tlie monarch or lord. 
 Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword, 
 For Jie lowliest temples gather a ray, 
 Of qucnchlcos light from the palm of bay.
 
 THE MEETIA'G OF TilE BKOTIIERS. 209 
 
 beauLiful bay ! I worship thcc — 
 
 1 homage thy wreath — I cherish thy tree ; 
 And of a!l the chaplets Fame may deal, 
 'T is only to this one 1 would kneel ; 
 
 For as Indians fly to the Banian branch, 
 When teinj)ests lower and thunders launch, , 
 So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife, 
 xVnd seek from the bay- wreath joy and life. 
 
 '^i'i^^ E/JildTrOl^a© ©■?■ ^KE [iJfF^QirHglP.Sc 
 
 •' llis early days 
 ■' Were with him in his heart."" — Wunhworih. 
 
 The voices of two forest boys, 
 In years when hearts entwine. 
 
 Had fill'd with childhood's merry noioc 
 A valley of the Rhine. 
 
 To rock and stream that sound waa known, 
 
 (jladsonie as hunter's bugle tone. 
 
 The sunn}' langliter of their eyes 
 There had each vineyard seen ; 
 
 \]\i every clilF wlience eagles rise. 
 Their bounding step had been ; 
 
 Ay I tlieir bright youth a glory tinevv 
 
 O'er the wild place wlierein they grew. 
 
 But this, as day-spring's Hush, wa;:> brief 
 
 As early bloom or dew ; 
 Alas ! 't is but the withered leaf 
 
 That wears the enduring hue 1 
 Tliosc rocks along the Rliinc's fair shore.
 
 liiO THE MEETI.XG OF THE BROTHERS. 
 
 For now on manhoofPs verge they stood, 
 And heard life's thrilling call, 
 
 As if a silver clarion woo'd 
 To some high festival ; 
 
 And parted as young brothers part, 
 
 \^ ith love in each unsullied heart. 
 
 They parted — soon the paths divide 
 
 Wherein our steps were one, 
 Like river-branches, far and wide 
 
 Dissevering as they run, 
 And making strangers in their course 
 Of waves that had the same bright source. 
 
 Met they no more ? — once more they met. 
 Those kindred hearts and true ! 
 
 'T was on a field of death, where yet 
 The battle-thunders fiew. 
 
 Though the fierce day was well nigh past, 
 
 And the red sunset smiled its last. 
 
 But as the combat closed, they found 
 For tender thoughts a space. 
 
 And ev'n upon that bloody ground 
 Room for one brief embrace. 
 
 And poured forth on each other's neck 
 
 Such tears as warriors need not check. 
 
 The mists o'er boyhood's me:nory spread 
 All melted with those tears ; 
 
 The faces of the holy dead 
 Rose as in vanish'd years ; 
 
 The Rhuie, the Rhine, the ever blessed, 
 
 Lifted its voice hi each full breast.
 
 METASTASIO. 51 i 
 
 Oh ! was il, Ihcn a time to die '. 
 
 It was ! that not in vain 
 The noul of childhood's pnrity 
 
 And peace mio:ht tnrn again. 
 A ball swept forth — 1 was friiidcd well — 
 Heart unto heart those brothers fell. 
 
 Happy, yes, happy thus to go ! 
 
 Bearing from earth away 
 AiTections, gifted ne'er to know 
 
 A shadow — a decay, 
 A passing: touch of change or chill, 
 A breath of aught whose breath can kill 
 
 And they, between whose severed souls. 
 
 Once in close union tied, 
 A Gfulf is set, a current rolls 
 
 For ever to divide, — 
 Well may thry envy such a lot, 
 Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not, 
 
 TRANSLATED BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 Dunque si sfoga iir pianto. 
 
 In tears, the heart opprest with gritf 
 
 Gives language to its woes ; 
 In tears, .its fulness finds relief, 
 
 When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 
 Who then unclouded bliss would seek 
 
 On this terrestrial sphere ; 
 When e'en the delight can on!}' .'-peak, 
 
 Like sorrow — in a tear ?
 
 212 
 
 Time rolls liis cenrelsss course. Tl:e rare of yore. 
 
 Who ilnsiccil our iniancj' upon their hneo. 
 AnJ told our marvelliiifT boyhood lewnd's store, 
 
 or their stran~e ventures happ'd by land or sea.' — 
 How are they blotted from the things that be ! 
 
 Yet live there Fti'.l v/ho can remernler well 
 Mow, wiien a mountain chief his bugle blew. 
 
 Both field and I'orest, dingle, clift', and dell, 
 Ar.d solitary heath, the signal knew : 
 
 And fast the JaiUiful clan around him drew." 
 
 Walter Scott 
 
 I iiAvr. a frequent l^abit of cojicludingmy dail^'^ ram- 
 ble by a half-lio:ir'.s saunter, towards the (gloaming, in 
 the church-yard. Independently of the mysterious 
 feeling inspired by the contemplation of no many gen- 
 erations of himian bcinjrs, once active and intelligent 
 a.^. ourf-elves, nov>' lost in tlie dust around us, Ihere is a 
 romantic beauty in t!ie Eituation of this lonely ruin 
 which often drew my homeward step:^ aside. Its per. 
 feet politude, the gloom of the pine-clad mountain and 
 the dark lake they bound, fitted the fancy to dwell on 
 tb.ose long-past times whose history the groups of 
 swelling turf related. Crowds of martial .shadows 
 would seem to flit before me ; and the legends of their 
 even'iful days ro.se in long succession to my thouglits, 
 as the twilight gradually darkened. A tale of tender 
 melancholy seldom obtruded iLself on my imagination 
 as I gazed on the nameies.s graves — visions of war 
 alone haunted me ; and the tramp of a martial step, or 
 the clangor of sounds of death, would almost ring on 
 my ear, as I conjured up in memory the r-tories of the 
 clans. Tondernes.s hardly appears to me to be a char- 
 acteristic of the Highlander. He passe.«?scs great del- 
 icacy both of manner and il-eling ; but as far as I, a
 
 :^IACALISTER MORE. 213 
 
 Soulhron, can jiulgc cither of llie talcs of their bards, 
 or tho turn of their poelry, their simple manners have 
 kept tlicm still far behind tlieir Lowland neighbors in 
 this particular refinement of sentiment. Women, too, 
 play but a moderate part in the annals of their country. 
 
 I walked on one evening during these reflections ta 
 the further corner of the church-yard, and stopped be- 
 fore a low sto!:e-wall v/hich enclosed a portion of the 
 hurying-ground. It v.as strongly but roughly built, 
 without cement, completely moss-grown, and along its 
 top ran a clumsy wooden paling, of apparently later 
 erection. This rude enclosure was the burial-place of 
 the Laird's family — this humble spot was the last asy- 
 lum of their proud and ancient race — it might, in a 
 moralizing hour, seem in its decay to keep pace with 
 the fortunes of its founders. Many a noble relic had 
 taken his silent place there since the lowering clouds 
 of destiny had settled over the house of MacAlister. 
 
 I remarked with some curiosity, close to the gate of 
 this melancholv-looking cemetery, a grave of more 
 than ordinary dimensions. At the head was placed a 
 stone crucifix, nearly half-buried in tho rising sod — at 
 the foot a small gray stone, perfectly round, and very 
 much indented, witli more seeming regularity than 
 could easily have been effecied by the lapse of time ; 
 and beside this stone a towering thistle flourished. My 
 landlord, who lias some turn for ancient learning, 
 made me rather a mysterious answer to the questions 
 I asked concerning it ; he seemed desirous to avoid the 
 conversation ; and when my perseverance forced him 
 to be more explicit, he drew his chair closer to the fire, 
 raised the logs to make a brighter blaze, and, tin-owing 
 a cautious glance around the kitchen, commenced his 
 :4ory in a lower tone. 
 
 That grave, he told me, was the grave of Duncan 
 
 Roy, the boldest man that ever yet the Highlands 
 
 boasted of, bold and bad — the greatest of his day, and 
 
 tJie sworn foe to tho house of MacAlislcr. Throufili 
 
 18
 
 214 :\rACA LISTER :jop:e. 
 
 h\s life he liad pursued his mig-hty adversaries with 
 imextingnishable hatred ; and at his death (here in}' 
 landlord cast a fearful meaning look at his wife) — he 
 was buried at the threshold of their tomb, to reinhid 
 them in calmer times of one who had wrought them 
 so much evil. They dared not remove his body — they 
 dared not touch the holy crucifix erected on his grave I 
 'T was said a warning voice had forbid the sacrilege. 
 
 Dark times, long since past, had rolled over the 
 feuds of the families, but still the legends of old lived 
 in the memory of succeeding generations, and a fear- 
 ful connexion betwixt the house of MacAlister and the 
 grave of Duncan Roy exists to this hour among its fol- 
 lowers. So long as the soil which covers his fatal re- 
 mains continues green above him, so long, said my 
 landlord, using in his eagerness tlie Gaelic word which 
 means something more ruthless than a conqueror, — so 
 long must the clan of his destro3^er flourish ; but wo to 
 the sacrilegious hand that should strike at his ever- 
 blooming thistle I — and let the MacAlisters tremble if 
 ever the round stone against which he rests his feet be 
 stolen from him 1 — " It is strange," said my landlord, 
 "but those are yet living that can say it 's true — it is 
 strange that that grave to this day rises against an}' 
 evil to the family. The night before the lady went," 
 continued he, in a scarcely audible whisper, " it was 
 seen" said he with emphasis, " to heave like the bil- 
 lows of the ocean, as if the body would have burst the 
 ground to laugh at the dole war coming on its enemy ; 
 and the stone," pursued he, warmed by his subject, 
 and forgetting in his eagerness his former caution, — 
 " the honest man is living yet who swore to me his 
 ov/n eyes saw it, that on the day Miss MacAlister and 
 her young cousin were to be trysted, the stone was 
 away — the hole it left the man put his hand in, full of 
 worms, and snails, and yellow withered grass — it 's Al- 
 lan's widow's fatlicr — I know the man — himself told 
 me : but who took it off, and v/lio brought it back, it
 
 MACALISTER MORE. 215 
 
 i"^ not {"or us to inquire." And my landlord concluded 
 his talc in a voice of fearful so!cmnit3^ 
 
 There was a long' pause, for the story had impressed 
 the whole fauiily with the superstitious awe its mys- 
 tcry excited. I cannot say I was myself quite free 
 from the sort of hrcathlessness with which one listens 
 to the wild hclicf of ages ; but the hint at the conclu- 
 sion had caus^cd a keener feeling — " Miss MacAlister 
 trystcd to her cousin ?" 
 
 " No — she was 7iot trysted," replied the landlord a 
 little hastily. 
 
 His Vv'ife gave a short cough, and pushed her young- 
 est boy something farther from the fire. 
 
 "Which cousin?" said I; "young Mr. Patrick's 
 father?" 
 
 " His elder brother," replied the landlord, quietly — 
 " the heir." He pronounced the magic word with 
 dignity. 
 
 " And," continued I impatiently, " what — wh}' — 
 how did it never happen ?" 
 
 iMy landlord's memory suddenly rorsock hi.m. I saw 
 it would be ill manners to press tlic subject, so I was 
 forced to turn again to Duncan Roy ; but the chain 
 for that night v/as broken — we had both lost the spirit 
 of the theme, and from some accident it was not after- 
 wards renewed between iis. Not till the filling of my 
 friend the minister's second tumbler, on the last day of 
 my visit to his nuanse, did I gain a true knowledge of 
 the history of Duncan Roy. 
 
 In times too remote to allow of any question as to 
 their character, two pov/erful rivals disturbed the tran- 
 quillity of the Highlands. MacAlister More — for all 
 legends of his race refer to him as their hero — was the 
 only cljild of his parents. He was bred with all the 
 care his qualify demanded, and with more than tJie 
 ordinary tenderness of his times. A close connexion 
 subsisted then betwixt his family and the Barons of 
 Wcvys, whose fame, great in the annals of their day,
 
 21G r-lACALISTER MOKE. 
 
 is now one of tlic dreams of history. Tiic Barou of 
 Wevys had tv/o sons ; the cider, gentle, gay, and beau- 
 tiful, — the younger imperious, subtle, and of very in- 
 ferior personal attractions ; he was large, clumsy, raw- 
 boned, and hard-featured, and sirnaraed, from a fright- 
 ful peculiarity and the color of his hair and complex- 
 ion, "Duncan Roy tda reugh cachghlin ;" the literal 
 translation of which is, " Red Duncan of the two rows 
 of teeth." Nature liad furnished his otherwise un- 
 prepossessing countenance with a complete double set 
 of large back teeth; both jaws were equally encum- 
 bered ; and the size of the formidable mouth which 
 held this hideous assemblage was proportioned to the 
 ornament it contained, it was hardly to be sup])oscd 
 that in his early years Duncan of the Double Teeth 
 could expect to share equally with his brother, and his 
 still handsomer friend the smiles of beauty, yet it is 
 believed his pretensions were not the less arrogant for 
 1 his deformity ; and to the disappointment of his youth- 
 ful pride was traced those dreadful ftjuds between the 
 families which ceased but with the life of one of the 
 rivals. 
 
 The young Master of Wevys married. Wedding 
 festivities then were quite unlike the mysterious pri- 
 vacy of such events in our day — they lasted weeks, in 
 the cyG:i of all the kindred ; and the hospitalities of 
 the two contracting houses were unlimited. Far or 
 Jiear, every connexion on either side was invited to the 
 festival ; and many a future bride had cause to bless 
 the gay liberty of a meeting which gained her the 
 heart of the bridegroom's friend. MacAlister More 
 was the only hope of his people — it was of instant con- 
 sequence that he should marry early ; the choice of his 
 companion had brought this necessity before him, and 
 during the merry scenes of the master's bridal he made 
 his selection. Tiie bride had a lovely sister, young 
 and fair, and blythc as a summer morning, brought 
 iUto notice for the first time on this occasion. Mac-
 
 -MACALIbTEK MOKE. '2 17 
 
 Alisler More wooed and won her ; but of course she 
 had anoUier suitor — Duncan Roy. There was little 
 struggle between tlieni — the handsome heir of Mac 
 Alister had little to fear from tlie present pretensions 
 of a younger brotiicr, rude and ungainly ; but his af- 
 ter-resentment was of very different consequence — il 
 was unccashig, iiuplacablc, and pursued him through 
 weal and wo to the brink of his fearful grave — ay, and 
 beyond it. For some years his smothered hate could 
 work but casual evil to his prosperous rival ; but the 
 day came when his revengeful passions could be in- 
 dulged without control — the changes of life altered 
 their relative situations — MacAIisler More became the 
 chief of his people, and Duncan Roy was, upon his 
 brother's death, chosen tutor to his orphan son. 
 
 Now did the feuds of these rival heroes ripen. Long 
 was the strife — unequal the fortunes of their never- 
 ending hate ; battle after battle was waged keenly be- 
 tween them — victories were doubtful, success was dis- 
 puted, rancor continued. 
 
 Mac Alister More was the chief of a small but gal- 
 lant clan, too circumscribed in territory to excite jeal- 
 ousy either from their possessions or their numbers ; 
 but their valor, and a certain degree of honesty in their 
 transactions, has given them an influence in the rude 
 Highlands they were otherwise hardly entitled to as- 
 sume. MacAlister found them great, and left them 
 greater, and tliis in spite of his deadly striving with 
 the formidable Duncan Roy. The Barons ofWevys 
 v/as a branch of one of the greatest families that Scot- 
 land ever boasted of, and the strength of their connex- 
 ion made their power over the fortunes of their neigh- 
 bors for many ages almost unlimited. They were be- 
 ginning, in their pride, to v.ithdraw themselves from 
 all clanish dependence, and, trusting to themselves 
 alone, had assumed a rank in their country scarcely in- 
 ferior to the noble chief from whom they sprung. Un- 
 der the haughty reign of Duncan Roy, the arrogance 
 18--
 
 218 3IACAL1STER JiORK. 
 
 of his race was fully fostered ; and ineetiiisr with no 
 domestic check to his ambitious daring, he despised all 
 foreign efforts to reduce his pride. His nephew grew 
 up to man's estate without discovering any symptoms 
 of maniiood in his character ; the clan would never 
 have acknowledged him, undirected, as their head. 
 There was one instance in their annals, of a former 
 baron, equally insignificant, having suddenly disap- 
 peared from among them ; and the wisilom of tlieir 
 present lord was just sufficiently developed to make 
 him lean with the utmost resignation on the councils 
 of his uncle. 
 
 The Tutor of Wevys had never married. More 
 than once he had threatened MacAlister, that to him 
 he should look for his bride ; but the charms of Mac 
 Alister's lovely lady were fading, and the stern chief 
 had long laughed in scorn at the boasts of his foe. 
 
 It was the custom in the Highlands for the large 
 herds of black cattle, on which the wealth of the coun- 
 try prmcipally depended, to be sent regularly from 
 the plains to summer among the rich green glens of 
 the mountains. The whole family usually accompa- 
 }iied them, carrying only such common necessaries as 
 were indispensable. A balkic was their residence — a 
 long, low hut of turf, containing generally but two 
 apartments, into which laird, lady, children, and ser- 
 vants, packed with little ceremony. The ladies, who 
 lived in great seclusion in their more splendid homes, 
 j)artieularly liked these hill excursions, when they 
 cheerfully amused themselves with all the rural occu- 
 pations of their times ; and 't is said they watched the 
 closing week of these days of liberty with regret. They 
 seem, in general, to have mixed little in company. — 
 They seldom went from home, and they did not often 
 grace their husband's banquets. The great hall v/as 
 the only public apartment ; and as the revels it Vv'it- 
 nesscd constantly continued without interruption for 
 days, the ladies could not be supposed lo appear there
 
 MACALISTEK 310KE. 219 
 
 irc<iuciilly ; it was not, therefore, .siirprifchijx that lliey 
 ionged to cxcliaiige tlic dull employ incnts of their more 
 stately apartments, and the routhic of their household 
 mauagcment, for the merry bustle of mountain free- 
 dom. 
 
 These excursions seldom took place till after the 
 Lammas flood rains, which, in complhnent to St. 
 .Swithin, seldom attempt in the Highlands to cheat 
 him of one of his forty days. One beautiful autumn, 
 MacAiister More carried his family, as usual, to the 
 hill ; and having settled them there, he collected the 
 briskest of his attendants, and set forward himself on 
 a hunting expedition which was to last some days. 
 The lady, her daughter, and their maids, with one or 
 two elderly men left in charge of the herds, and a crew 
 of boys, inseparable from every Highland establishment, 
 continued alone at the botliie. In ihoze primitive 
 ages, the Highland ladies, like the ancient Grecian 
 dames, held themselves superior to none of the domes 
 tic employments of their homes ; it \\as very common 
 for them, on these hill excursions, to superintend the 
 yearly washing of the family linen, wliicli the pure air 
 of these elevated regions, or the virtue of some partic- 
 ular spring, was thought to bleach with peculiar per- 
 fection. The lady of MacAiister seized the occasion 
 of his hunting expedition to employ her maidens in this 
 long-delayed labor. A piece of turf near the burnside 
 was soon lifted, a small hollow scooped underneath the 
 spot where it had lain, and a large kettle hung on 
 the poles v>'hich had been rudely fastened together to 
 support it. The crew of boys collected the fuel and 
 fed the fire ; and the numerous damsels, whom the 
 due state of their lady required ever to hang about her, 
 were quickly employed in the merry service of the 
 day. 
 
 The lady had chosen for the scene of her occupation 
 a bit of green turf, above which towered the rocks that 
 closed the glen. A noisy cataract dashed down the
 
 220 TMACALISTER 3iORE. 
 
 steepest precipice, aud rushed on past the bothie to 
 plunge into the lake which filled the rest of the valley. 
 Along the banks of this wild burn the groups of cheer- 
 ful girls were scattered ; some bending over the cogues 
 in which they wrung their linen — some tramping with 
 noisy glee in larger tubs beside them — some in the very 
 middle of the burn, dashing the water upon the long 
 line of snow-white napery, amongst which the lady 
 herself was walking, her stately step and dignified de- 
 meanor contrasting with the quick and active motions 
 of the train by which she was surrounded. The night 
 was coming on, and the herds, that had been scattered 
 throughout the day upon the sides of the mountains, 
 were beginning slowly to gather towards the best de- 
 scent. 
 
 MacAlister's only daughter, his only child, was 
 standing aloof from her mother near the margin of the 
 lake, watching, with unusual seriousness, the close of 
 evening. She wandered till she reached a high rock, 
 advancing so far into the water as to form a little bay, 
 where her father's fishing-boat could lie secure in eve- 
 ry wind. She stopped when she reached it, and turned 
 to look at the groups still busy by the side of the burn. 
 Just at this moment a loud shriek burst from the rocky 
 mountain at the head of the glen, which echoing round 
 and round from every hollow, rung through the valley. 
 Another scream succeeded, and the herds, as if im- 
 pelled by sudden fear, came pelting down the deep 
 slopes of the hills in hurried disorder. 
 
 The lady and her maids stared round them in breath- 
 less wonder. It was the voice of the trusty bowman. 
 He shouted again, and the report of the small carbine 
 he carried in virtue of his office as protector of the herd 
 peeled round the closing hilis. The lady raised her 
 eyes, and, looking up, beheld him leaning in an attitude 
 of despair over the summit of the precipice ; the white 
 foam of the cataract sprinkled his garments, and the 
 noise of its v»alero prevented the few words he wildly
 
 .■\IACAL1STEK ZIOKE. 221 
 
 iiUcrcd iVoia being distinguished in tlic vale bciow. 
 Tiic lady's blood ran cold wilhia her — she sunk upon 
 licr knees by the burn-side, and fixed a look of horror 
 on the adventurous bowman ; he had thrown himself 
 from the rock, and hanging, like some devoted being, 
 against its side, witli no support but the grasp his 
 iiands had taken of the point above, he searched with 
 liis feet in vain for some small step to rest his weight 
 on. He imng a minute more, when, slackening his 
 feeble hold, he fell lieavily upon a patch of mossy bog 
 at tlic foot of the fearful craig, which goes to this day 
 ■!iy the name of the Bowman's Leap. He lay for a mo- 
 ment motionless; then rising at abound, he continued 
 with an air of desperation his difficult descent, leaping 
 from rock to rock over chasms which in calmer mo- 
 ments a younger and more active man than he might 
 have shuddered at. He darted down the rough ground 
 with the speed of the flying wild deer ; and springing 
 at length with frantic precipitation from the last stone 
 that clieckcd his v/ay, he dropped on the green sward 
 almost exhausted. 
 
 His fall was greeted b}' a loud, insulting shout from 
 the water. There, alrcad}^ near the middle of tlie lake, 
 glided securely away the little boat. Two unwearied 
 rowers speeded its flight ; and standing immediately 
 before them, his cap waving scornfully in his hand, 
 and MacAli.ster's only daughter lying senseless in his 
 arms, was the stout martial figure of Duncan Roy. 
 With a laugh that made every echo of the wild glen 
 tremble, he sliouted the fearful war-cry of his clan ; 
 and while the thrilling " Follow me I" yelled through 
 every corner of the liills, the boat seemed to leap on 
 the waters that bore it away. 
 
 Pursuit was hopeless ; yet the three aged men and the 
 little crew of boys attempted it while the helpless lady 
 and her maids ran to and fro upon the rocky margin 
 of the lake in perfect agony. The audacious victors 
 suddenly struck up one of the wild boat-songs of their
 
 222 MACALISTER MORE. 
 
 country, keeping time in insulting chorus to their oars ; 
 but gradually their measured strains died away, the 
 proud form of Duncan Roy grew indistinct as they 
 watched him, and the boat he had so dearly freighted 
 became a mere speck on the distant waters. 
 
 MacAlisler's daughter recovered from her swoon of 
 fear before she had quite reached the opposite shore. 
 There another scene of dread awaited her. The Tu- 
 tor of Wevys had long been preparing for this bold at- 
 tempt; it was one of his settled plans of revenge, and 
 he had not entered upon it carelessly. At the further 
 end of the loch a chosen band of his adherents awaited 
 him, leading several of the little spirited ponies of their 
 country. On one did the ferocious Tutor place, with 
 all the gallantry of his nature, his trembling prisoner ; 
 and comforting her in the gentlest tone he could sub- 
 due his haughty voice to speak in, he seized himself 
 the bridle, and directing at once the disposal of his 
 troop, he gave the brisk time of their march, by begin- 
 ning, with all the spirit of his race, the heart-stirring 
 air of " Come away with me, lady 1" 
 
 The party trampled loudly on over the stony paths 
 of the corrys and the wide heaths that succeeded 
 them, till they reached a ford on the rapid river that 
 bounded the plains of the property of MacAhster. — 
 They stopped before they prepared to pass it ; and 
 prying round them through the gloom, checked their 
 progress for a few short moments, then gathering 
 firmly, at a v.'ord they silently plunged into the cur- 
 rent. The moon, which had hitherto been concealed 
 by the clouds of a lowering sky, now burst from be- 
 hind the distant mountains, as if to afford the unfortu- 
 nate young lady a last view of the home of her child- 
 hood. She had hitherto pursued her way in silence, 
 hardly replying to the occasional gallantries of her 
 guide ; but now, when every liope of redress seemed 
 fled, unable longer to control her griefs, she gave loose 
 to her tears, and leaning forward on the shoulder of
 
 3rACAI.ISTEK I\IORE. 'SZo 
 
 lipr conductor, slie uttered a few words of gentle en- 
 treatjs which were afterwards wove into a pathetic 
 Gaelic song by the bard of her family, known as " the 
 Lady's supplication to Duncan Roy." The sweet tones 
 of her voice, and the tender, confiding manner she as- 
 sumed towards him, seemed to make some impression 
 on the stern temper of the Tutor. lie turned and 
 looked on her, and gazed on her pale features as they 
 escaped from the drapery of the scarlet plaid she had 
 thrown over her jet-black hair. He paused for a mo- 
 ment only, then slowly shaking liis head, he began to 
 sing one of the enchanting melodies of his peculiar 
 country, giving a pathos to the recurring chorus, — 
 "Horo Mhairi Dhul" "My Mary, turn to mel" very 
 little suitable to the cliaracter for ferocity which he 
 bore. The change in the style of his gallantry did not 
 escape the beautiful Mhairi ; but, alas ! she felt it ren- 
 dered her condition more hopeless. She performed the 
 rest of her journey in resigned despair ; and the histo- 
 rians of her day relate, not without a comment, that 
 when slie reached the castle of the Lordof Wevys, she 
 gave her hand, young and lovely as she Vv-as, without 
 apparent struggle, to his uncle. 
 
 It would be vain to try to describe the ungovernable 
 rage of MacAlister. Revenge — speedy, direful, dread- 
 ful, — was his only occupation. Furious from hate and 
 passion, he drove on his preparations ; and not trust- 
 ing alone to his private injuries, he espoused, in addi- 
 tion to his particular resentments, the wrongs of the 
 young Baron of Wevys, his lady's nephew, whom he 
 asserted to be the innocent victim of his uncle's ambi- 
 tion. The justice of his cause gained him powerful 
 assistance ; but not content with this, and determined 
 that no heiress should increase the pride of Duncan 
 Roy, he instantly entailed the succession to his pro- 
 perty on the male line only, cutting off, with the unan- 
 imous consent of his people, his daughter and all her 
 descendants. To prove himself in eai'ncst, he adopted
 
 224 ?.rACALISTEK ?.rOTlE. 
 
 his nearest of kin that moment into his family, ac- 
 knowledged him his heir, and treated him thencefor- 
 ward as his son. 
 
 The Tutor of Wevys awaited with fortitude the com- 
 ing storm, and he bore the news of his lady's loss vrith 
 a smile of contemptuous anger. His revenge was not 
 the less successful that it had forced MacAlister to 
 such a step against his only child. One piece of for- 
 tune, too, was in reserve for him — his nephew died. 
 How this obstruction to the Tutor's schemes came to 
 be thus suddenly removed at so critical a point of his 
 affairs, the legends of the house of Wevys have not in- 
 formed posterity ; but they tell that Duncan Roy made 
 a kind husband lo the beautiful jMhairi, and, as there 
 was no rival to dispute her state, 't was said that, even 
 in the young lord's lifetime, MacAlisler's daughter 
 ceased after a while to regret the less dignified home 
 she had quitted. 
 
 Just at this eventful period, the national troubles, 
 wliich had so deeply agitated the southern parts of the 
 kingdom, began to make their way into the Higlands ; 
 and as the strife between the unfortunate King Charles 
 and his people heightened, the private animosities this 
 contention fostered, blazed forth with a fury that quick- 
 ly desolated their unhappy country. The Tutor of 
 Wevj's and MacAlister 3[orc of course took opposite 
 sides. Duncan Roy was one of those Vv'ho most fear- 
 lessly aided a sinking cause, rallying again and again 
 by the side of many an heroic leader. But with tlie 
 failure of the Duke of Hamilton's enterprise, the royal 
 party seemed to expire ; the execution of the King, and 
 the flight of the Prince of Wales, damped the energies 
 of the most daring. The bright and dazzling daj' of 
 Montrose's successless valor could not arouse them ; 
 and Duncan Roy sav/ himself a houseless, landless, 
 and proscribed fugitive. A price vras set upon his 
 head ; his lands were forfeited, and given, as the only
 
 MACALISTER nIOKE. 225 
 
 means of insuring the execution of the rentencc, to liis 
 vindictive enemy, MacAlistcr More. 
 
 MacAlister instantly proceeded to take rigorous 
 possession of his new property ; but its lord escaped 
 iiis vengeance. He v/as said to have transported him- 
 self beyond seas, and to have joined his wandering 
 sovereign abroad ; thougli there were many who be- 
 lieved he still lingered in some secure retreat among 
 his own mountains. 
 
 The lady of Wevys had been allowed to remain in 
 lier husband's castle ; and there, after a separation of 
 so many years, did she receive her father. She enter- 
 tained him v/ith the respect that was due to him ; but 
 she obtruded herself rarely into his presence. She 
 was occupied, as was the custom of her times, in the 
 domestic arrangements of her family. It was whis- 
 pered among a few of her servants, that more provis- 
 ions were prepared than ever quite appeared upon the 
 strangers' tables ; and 't was thought, too, that she 
 often looked wearied at the morning's meal ; and two 
 of her most favored maids were sometimes observed 
 skulking out towards the gloaming ; but these suspic- 
 ions never reached the ears of Mac Alister, nor did one 
 of the faithful followers of her house breathe them till 
 calmer times. 
 
 MacAlister More speedily retired to his parental in- 
 heritance, carrying his daughter along with hhn. He 
 treated her as a sort of state prisoner ; and 't was said 
 i.he drooped and pined away from the day of her forced 
 return to her father's home. 
 
 Things went on pretty quietly with MacAlister More 
 and his new followers, till it came to the time of draw- 
 ing his first rents. One and all refused to pay them ; 
 and MacAlister was preparing more violent means to 
 enforce obedience, when his easily-kindled rage was 
 provoked to the height by a secret message from Glen- 
 Wevys. Duncan Roy was known to be there con- 
 cealed. Uncertain how far his rival's influence might 
 19
 
 226 MACALISTER MORE. 
 
 have spread, and extremely suspicious of the sentiments 
 of his new vassals, MacAlister, determined on his de. 
 struction, applied for the assistance of government. 
 A troop of dragoons was despatched to relieve him; and 
 with these, to the horror of the Highlanders, crusii 
 at once every s^-mptom of rebellion. 
 
 Duncan R03' had never left his country. He had 
 been faithfully secreted in a cave a short distance 
 from his castle, where, during the whole time of Mac 
 Alister's residence, he had been visited constantly by 
 his lady and a few confidential attendants, who had 
 regularly supplied him with food. He had intended, 
 when the first heat of pursuit was over, to try to es- 
 cape to France ; but for this purpose it was necessary 
 to obtain such funds as would enable him to cross the 
 seas with decency. As soon as MacAlister and his 
 followers had retired, he ventured cautiously from his 
 hiding-place ; and finding his party stronger than his 
 ill fortune at first made him look for, he took up his 
 temporary abode in a hut at the foot of a steep moun- 
 tain, m a retired corner of his property, whence he 
 could easily escape, by a hill-path not generally knovni, 
 to the ocean. In the dead of the night, before that 
 dawn which was to witness his departure, his adhe- 
 rents were secretly assembled m the small cottage, to 
 renew their oaths of allegiance, to receive fresh tacks 
 of their farms, and to pay him their last year's rents 
 they had refused to the call of MacAlister. They were 
 sitting sadly together, hurrying over their business with 
 the stealthy eagerness of fear, when they were alarmed 
 by a hasty step, and a rap against the door of the cot- 
 tage. It could be no foe who moved so secretly ; but, 
 to guard against surprise, the party ranged themselves 
 round their lord ; and the constant companion of all 
 his fortunes — his second in every victory, his follower 
 in every difficulty, the handsomest of his race, and the 
 hero of his clan — the young and gallant Callum-a- 
 Glinne, Malcolm o' the Glen, rushed towards the guard.
 
 MACALISTER MORE. 227 
 
 eJ door. lie opened it hastily, and the breathless 
 messenger ahuost dropped into his arms. " The dra- 
 goons I" was all that he had strength to utter — all that 
 there v/as time to hear ; for, amidst the stillness of 
 night, and the trembling silence of the Baron's vassals, 
 there came sweeping through the air the fast approach. 
 ing tramp of the troop at full gallop. Cullum-a-Gliune 
 and the Lord of Wevys rushed from the cottage. — 
 Hardly had they turned the projecting corner, when 
 the clash of rattling arms rang through the gloom of 
 night, and the stern " Halt !" of the English officer 
 thrilled on every ear. The dragoons instantly dis- 
 mounted ; and entering the cottage, seized the whole 
 party it contained. Duncan Roy was not among them; 
 and the troopers, little accustomed to Highland war. 
 fare, and satisfied with their close examination, would 
 have at once retreated ; but by the side of their com- 
 manding officer rode MacAlistcr More. Sure of his 
 intelligence, and, from the consternation of the party 
 and tlie persons of vdiom it vras composed, almost cer- 
 tain of his prey, he was in no mood to relinquish his 
 liopes of vengeance. Turning towards the craggy hill 
 at the foot of which they stood, he briefly explained 
 the possibility of flight in that direction. The officer 
 looked up at the precipice with incredulity, and the 
 troopers clustered together, without expecting orders 
 to advance. 
 
 The gray dawn was now breaking. MacAlistcr, 
 laying his heavy hand on the arm of the officer, point- 
 ed to a rock not high above them, and showed him two 
 moving figures creeping noiselessly along its edge. — 
 MacAlistcr More sprang forward, and bounding up the 
 nearest ascent, lea2}ed towards his enemy. Strong, 
 hrm, and active, though his dhnensions were gigantic, 
 and he was past the middle age, lie gained apace upon 
 his flying foe, who, large, thick-set, and heavy, and 
 furious at the necessity which urged him to flight who 
 never yet liad failed to face his danger, made slower
 
 2"28 3IACALISTER 3I0RE. 
 
 progress towards the summit. He fled, but with a 
 tardy step ; and MacAlister pursued with the fury of 
 long-delayed vengeance. The heavy step of Duncan 
 Roy lagged on the uneasy ground, and the springing 
 course of MacAlister had brought hira almost to his 
 side. One rugged craig was alone between them. — 
 Duncan Roy had gained its top ; and MacAlister had 
 laid his hand upon the fragment which he meant should 
 support his well-aimed bound. Duncan Roy stopped, 
 turning round, stood resolutely upon the edge of the 
 precipice. He half-unsheathed his ponderous broad- 
 sword ; and, fixing his eyes with the glare of a savage 
 on his enemy, he grinned horribly through the double 
 rov.-s of teeth with which nature had so fearfully 
 armed him. The dragoons were still far below, plac- 
 ing their reluctant footsteps on the rocky ascent. — 
 There was time for a mortal struggle ; but as thcv 
 darted towards each other, Cullum-a-Glinne rushed 
 before them, and crying aloud to his lord to flee, he 
 sprung fearlessly upon the point of rock on which Mac 
 Alister in vain attempted to secure a footing. Fa- 
 vored by his situation, he checked every movement of 
 the desperate chieftain, up or down, here or there, at 
 every turn he presented his matchless sword-arm. — 
 Foiled in every eftbrt, MacAlister More gnashed his 
 teeth in sullen rage ; and collecting his utmost strength 
 for one last determined struggle, he rushed forwards. 
 The dragoon? had now^ nearly reached the spot, and 
 the faithful Highlander saw himself upon the point of 
 being overwhelmed by numbers. In this extremity, he 
 seized a moment which the ungarded madness of Mac 
 Alister presented, and letting fall a heavy blow with 
 the back of his broad-sword, he hurled him senseless 
 from his insecure position. The soldiers darted on- 
 ward with a hideous clamor ; they surrounded the 
 rock on which the young hero stood, and assaulted 
 hun at once on every side ; but Callum-a-Glinne de- 
 spised their numbers. It was not for his own life he
 
 MACALISTEK MORE. 229 
 
 Ibiigiit. Placing his back against a higher licr, wJiich, 
 unhappily, reached only to his shoulders, he dealt about 
 him with the energy despair alone can give. For long 
 he kept the whole dragoons at bay ; when, alas I as he 
 was raising his claymore to strike a more than ordina- 
 rily adventurous soldier, the weapon fell from his 
 nerveless hand, his head rolled down the mountain 
 side, and his body dropped prostrate on the narrow 
 shelf — the scene of his heroic bravery. A dragoon 
 had, unperceived, stolen along round up the rock, and 
 creeping till he got immediately behind the point he 
 stood on, severed at one stroke of his sabre his head 
 Irom his shoulders. 
 
 His grave, or rather the cairn of stones which his 
 countrymen gathered on his remains, is visited to this 
 day with respect. 
 
 But the murder of the gallant Malcolm came too 
 late. Duncan Roy got clear away ; and MacAlister 
 iMore, on recovering from his trance, saw that pursuit 
 was needless. 
 
 Years passed away, and nothing was heard of the 
 fate of the Lord of Wevys. How he fled, or where he 
 wandered, never, even in a whisper, reached the glen 
 of the MacAlistcrs. His lady and his pretty boy never 
 returned to his property, and his vassals were obliged 
 reluctantly to submit, without reserve, to their con- 
 queror. One stormy winter's night, MacAlister got 
 news from a hasty messenger, which entirely disturbed 
 his temper. He told none the cause of his disorder, 
 nor did he change in aught the disposition of his house- 
 hold ; but he barred with his own hands the door of 
 his daughter's chamber before he retired to rest. Did 
 he rest ? His lady^ on the following day, appeared 
 fixed with horror ; MacAlister himself was wild and 
 uneasy ; and the mysterious looks of his two most 
 trusted followers, his he''* in^' bis hpr.r»VimoM <r.iri r,^ 
 some fearful deed. 
 19*
 
 230 XACALISTEK MOKE. 
 
 At the entrance to the family burying-ground, in 
 the churchyard, there lay a new-made grave ; and 
 traces of blood, and marks of long and mortal strug- 
 gle were seen in a little woody dell, not many paces 
 from the castle. Three times, by order of MacAlister, 
 was that new-made grave burst open, and three times, 
 in defiance of the dread and horror of his deed, was 
 ihe plaid-bound corpse it enclosed, hurled from its place 
 of rest. It was thrown on the bare heath — it was laid 
 in the bloody dell — it was sunk in the gloomy lake ; 
 but the heath — the dell — the water, were alike treach- 
 erous to MacAlister. The grave would not remain 
 untenanted ; and MacAlister, after his third attempt, 
 dared not dispute with fate ; but, to his dying day, he 
 frowned when he passed that grave. 
 
 He never prospered more. His daughter, who, till 
 then, had been, since her restoration to him, gentle 
 and dutiful, altered her carriage from that hour. She 
 never saw him again ; and she retired to a small tower 
 in an unfrequented corner of the glen, still called the 
 Lady's Tower, where she lived a few sad years in ex. 
 treme seclusion ; and she followed her pretty boy to 
 the tomb he early sunk into, long years before her stern 
 father's raven locks grew gray. Her story has been 
 the constant theme of all the bards of her country. — 
 There is scarcely an event of her own or her husband's 
 life, which has not been commemorated by the Gaelic 
 poets. The MacAlisters, however, do not like to al- 
 lude to her history ; and it would liave been very im- 
 perfectly known to me, had I not had the good for- 
 tune to gain the confidence of my friend, the minis, 
 ter.
 
 231 
 
 BY 3IRS. C. BARON WILSON. 
 
 The moon glitters over the sea, 
 
 Whose waters are tinged with her light ; 
 No eomrade is waking with me, 
 
 To look on the calmness of night. 
 As I pace the lone deck, by yon pale guiding slar^ 
 
 Thoughts steal o'er me, that come not by day ; 
 Like a beautiful vision I see from afar 
 
 My home, 'mid its mountains of gray I 
 
 Fancy pictures those bright summer hours, 
 
 Ere the dial of life knew a shade, 
 When each pathway was covered with llowers, 
 
 Where in childhood's young morning 1 strayed , 
 Then the weed-covered pond was an ocean to me, 
 
 As my toy-ship skimmed over its green ; 
 And I wished in my heart a young sailor to be — 
 
 As all my forefathers had been 1 
 
 Nor long were those wishes dela3'cd ; 
 
 Boyhood's canvass was scarcely unfurled 
 Ere I sailed, when hope's anchor was weighed 
 
 To meet the rough waves of the world ! 
 How swelled my proud heart, as my mother first met 
 
 The young tar in his jacket of blue I 
 Her half-faltered blessing I ne'er shall forget, 
 
 As she sobbed — " To your duty be true." 
 
 I have been so ; — through sunshine and storm — 
 Whether fortune may ebb or may flow ; 
 
 1 've a heart for my country still warm, 
 And an arm that shall conquer each foe.
 
 232 LOVE AiND HOPE. 
 
 Thus when the crew moor in their hammocks to real, 
 Thoughts hail me, that come not by day ; 
 
 And waft me far lieiice to that spot ever blessed, 
 The home of my youth, far away. 
 
 BY MRS. TURNBULL, 
 
 As young Love and Hope together were rovmg, 
 And boasting of those they fondly were loving, 
 The sky v/as all sunshine, earth full of fair flowers. 
 And Joy with old Time danced away the bright hours 
 
 But Cupid was always a changeable boy. 
 
 And the hearts he once played with, he longed to 
 
 destroy ; 
 So he parted with Hope with a petulant air, 
 And took to his councils her rival, Despair. 
 
 With such a companion it soon became known. 
 That dimples and smiles from his godship had flown, 
 And young hearts were withered, and bright eyes grew 
 
 dim, 
 As they gazed on the spectre so different to hhu. 
 
 But Love became tired of sighs and of tears, 
 And recalled back the friend of his happier years ; 
 From that moment, whenever the god spread his snare, 
 The net-vvork was woven by Hope and Despair.
 
 233 
 
 BY ELIZA COOK. 
 
 Talk who will of the world as a detiert of Ihrall, 
 Yet — yet, there is bloom on \hc waste; 
 
 Though the chalice ot'Jile hath its acid and gall, 
 There arc honey-drops too for the taste. 
 
 We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay, 
 
 And note all the shades of our lot ; 
 But the rich scintillations tliat brighten our way, 
 
 Are basked in, ciijoycd, and forgot. 
 
 Those who look on mortality's ocean aright, 
 Will not moan o'er each billow that rolls. 
 
 Hut dwell on the glories, the beauties, the might, 
 As much as the shipwrecks and slioals. 
 
 How thankless is he, who remembers alone 
 All the bitter, the drear, and the dark, 
 
 Though the raven may scare with its wo-boding ton 
 Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark ? 
 
 We may utter farewell when 't is torture to part, 
 
 JJut in meeting the dear one again. 
 Have we never rejoiced with that wildncss of heart 
 
 Which outbalances ages of pain ? 
 
 Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss, 
 
 When the soul in iis fulness of love 
 \Vould waver, if bidden to choose between this 
 
 And the paradise promised above ?
 
 234 THE WORLD. 
 
 Though the eye may be diinmed with ils gricf-drop 
 awhile, 
 
 x\nd the whitened hp sigh forth its fear, 
 Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile 
 
 Is not ofLener seen than the tear. 
 
 There are times wlien the storm-gust may rattle 
 around, 
 There are spots where the poison-slirub grows ; 
 Yet are there not hours when nought else can be 
 found 
 But the south wind, the sunshine and rose ? 
 
 O haplessly rare is the portion that 's ours, 
 
 And strange is the path that we take, 
 If there spring not beside us a few precious flowera 
 
 To soften the thorn and the brake. 
 
 The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife, 
 
 The soul's harmony often may mar ; 
 But I think wc iiiiist own, in the discords of life, 
 
 'T is ourselves that oft waken the jar. 
 
 Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom, 
 
 And the voice of the grateful will tell, 
 That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb, 
 
 Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well. 
 
 Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppressed 
 
 O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine. 
 Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast, 
 
 And some pleasure ynust kindle in mine. 
 
 Then say not the world is a desert of thrall. 
 There is bloom, there is light on the waste ; 
 
 Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall 
 There arc honey-drops too for the taste.
 
 235 
 
 BY MUS. CRAWFORD. 
 
 Farewell, ye myrtle bowers, 
 
 Elysiaii haunts of love — 
 Ye garlands of sweet flowers, 
 
 For Leonora wove I 
 Farewell dear liberty, 
 
 As love itself supreme ! 
 Hope has no gifts for me ; 
 
 And mein'ry, shadowy dream, 
 Like moonlight shed on beauty's tomb, 
 But coldly lights my prison gloom. 
 
 Ye walls, where madness dwells, 
 
 And mindless beings roOse 
 'I'he echoes of rude cells, 
 
 Ye witness Tasso's vows. 
 Dear cause of all the tears, 
 
 That wash my galling chain, — 
 Of all the wrongs of years, 
 
 That cloud my heart and brain ! 
 Sweet mistress of my thoughts and fate 
 Dost thou not piiy Tasso's state ? 
 
 Oh ! bring me cypress drear 
 
 To bind my captive lyre, 
 And let my deep despair 
 
 Thrill every trembling wire, 
 fome, wilding harp, awake, 
 
 Beneath .thy master's touch. 
 And tell how hearts will break, 
 
 That love hath troubled much ; 
 How, by our warm affections we 
 Throw off this cold mortalitv.
 
 23G 
 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 Annie Leslie was neither a belle nor a beauty — a 
 gentlewoman, nor yet an absolute peasant — " a for- 
 tune," nor entirely devoid of dower ; — although born 
 upon a farm tliat adjoined ray native village of Ban- 
 now, she might almost have been called a flower of 
 many lands ; for her mother u^as a Scot, her father an 
 Englishman ; one set of grand-parents Welsh — and it 
 was said that the others were (although I never be- 
 lieved it, and always thought it a gossiping story) 
 Italians, or foreigners, " from beyant the salt sea." It 
 was a very charming pastime to trace the different 
 countries in Annie's sweet, expressive countenance. — 
 Ill-natured people said she had a red Scottish head, 
 which I declare to be an absolute story. The maiden's 
 hair was not red ; it v/as a bright chestnut, and glow- 
 ing as a sun-beam — perhaps in particular lights it might 
 iiave had a tinge — but nonsense I it was any thing but 
 red ; the cheek-bone was certainly elevated, yet who 
 ever thought of that, when gazing on the soft cheek, 
 now delicate as the bloom on the early peach — now 
 purely carnationed, as if the eloquent color longed to 
 eclipse the beauty of the black lustrous eyes, that were 
 shaded by long, long, eye-lashes, delicately turned up 
 at the points, as if anxious to act as conductors to my 
 young friend's merry glances, of which, hou'ever, I 
 must confess, she was usually chary enough. Her 
 iigure was, unfortunately, of the Principality, being 
 somewhat of the shortest ; but her fair skin, and small, 
 delicate mouth, told of English descent. Her father 
 was a respectable farmer, who had been induced, by 
 some circumstance or other, to settle in Ireland; and 
 lier mother — but what have I to do with either her 
 father or mother just no'.v ?
 
 ANNIE i.F.si.ir.. \:.>i 
 
 The sun-firers liaJ faded in l.lie wcfjf, and Annie was 
 Irauinij on iha neat giccii gate lliat led lo her coUage, 
 liLM- eyes wandering down llie hranching lane, then lo 
 the softening sky, and not unfrequently to a little 
 spotted dog, Phillis by natne, who sat close to her mis- 
 tress's feet, loaking upwards, and occasionally raising 
 one ear, as if he expected somebody to join their parly. 
 It was the full and iragrant season of hay -making, and 
 Annie had borne her part in the cheerful and pleasant 
 toil. 
 
 A blue muslin kercliief was sufficiently open todis- 
 j'lay her well-formed throat ; one or two wilful ring- 
 jets had escaped from under her straw hat, and twisted 
 themselves into very picturesque, coquettish attitudes, 
 tliaded, but not hidden, by the muslin folds ; her apron 
 was of bright check ; her short cotton gown, pinned in 
 the national three-cornered fashion behind, and her 
 petticoat of scarlet stutT, displayed her small and deli- 
 cately turned ancle to nmcli advantage. She held a 
 bunch of mixed wild flowers in her hand, and her fin- 
 gers, naturally addicted to mischief, were dexterously 
 employed in scattering the petals to the breeze, whieli 
 Kporled them amongst the long grass. 
 
 "Down, Phillis! — down, miss I" said she at last to 
 ihe little dog, v^'ho, weary of rest, stood on its hind 
 legs to kiss her hand ; " down, do, ye're always merry 
 when I am sad, and that 's not kind of ye." Tlie ani- 
 mal obeyed, and remained very tranquil, until its mis. 
 tress unconsciously murmured to herself — " Do I re- 
 ally love him ?" Again she looked down the lane, and 
 then, after giving a very destructive pull to one of the 
 blossoms of a v.'ild rose that clothed the hedge in beau- 
 ty, repeated, somewhat loader, the words, " Do I in- 
 deed love him ?" " Never say tlie word twice — ye do 
 it already, ye little rogue 1" replied a voice thai, sent 
 an instantaneous gnsh of crimson over the maiden's 
 rheek — while, from amid a group of fragrant elder- 
 irecs, which grev; out of the uionnd tl-.al e;icomnas!eJ 
 20
 
 238 AXNIE LESLIE. 
 
 the cottage, sprang a tall, graceful youtli, who ad- 
 vanced towards the blufhing maiden. 
 
 I am sorry for it, but it is, nevertheless, an incontro- 
 vertible fact, that women, young and old — some more 
 and some Ie?s — arc all naturally perverse ; they can 
 not, I believe, help it ; but their so being, although or. 
 casionally very aaiusing to themselves, is undoubtedly 
 very trying to their lovers, whose remonstrances on 
 the subject, since the days of Adam, might as well 
 have been given to the winds. 
 
 It so happened that James Mc'Cleary was the very 
 person Annie Leslie was thinking about ; the one of ail 
 others she wished to see ; yet the love of tormenting, 
 assisted, perhaps, by a little mtiiden coquetry, prompted 
 her first to curl her pretty Grecian nof;c, and then to 
 bestow a hearty cuft" on her lover's cheek as he at- 
 tempted to salute her hand. 
 
 " Keep your distance, sir, and don't make so free I" 
 said the pettish lady. 
 
 " Keep my distance, Annie I Not make so free !" 
 echoed James ; " an' ye, jist this minute, after talking 
 about loving mo I" 
 
 " Loving you, indeed I Mister James Mc'Clear)% it 
 v\-as y'er betters I was thinking of, sir ; I hope I know 
 myself too well for that." 
 
 " My betters, Annie ! — what's come over ye ? Sure- 
 ly ye hav'n't forgot that y'er father has as good as 
 given his consent ; and though y'er mother is partial 
 to Andrew Furlong — the tame ncgur I — jist because 
 he's got a bigger house (sure, it's a public, and can't be 
 called his own), and a few more guineas than me, and 
 never thinks of hi??. being grayer than his ould gray 
 mare — yet she'll come round ; — let me alone to man- 
 age the women — (nov/, don't look angry) — and didn't 
 y'er own sweet mouth say it, not two hours ago, down 
 bp the loch — and, by the same token, Annie, there's 
 the beautiful curl I cut off with the reaping-hook — 
 that, however ye trate m.e, shall slay next my heart,
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 239 
 
 as long as it hates — anci, oh, Annie I as yc sat on the 
 mossy stone, I thought I never saw ye look so beauti- 
 ful — with that very bunch of flowers that ye'vc been 
 pulling to smithereens, resting on y'er lap. And it 
 wasn't altogether what ye said, but what ye looked, 
 that put the life in mc ; though yc did say — yc know 
 ye did — 'James/ says you, ' I hate Andrew Furlong, 
 that I do, and I '11 never marry him as long as grass 
 grows or water runs, that I won't.' Now, sure, An- 
 nie, dear, sweet Annie ! — sure yc 're not going against 
 y'er conscience, and the word o' true love." 
 
 " Sir," interrupted Annie, " I don't like to be found 
 fault with. Andrew Furlong is, what my mother says, 
 a well-to-do, dacent man, staid and steady. I'll trouble 
 ye for my curl. Mister James — clever as yc are at man- 
 aging the women, may-be yc can't manage me." 
 
 James had been very unskilful in his last speech ; he 
 ought not to have boasted of his managing powers, 
 but to have put them in practice. The fact, however, 
 was, that though proverbially sober, the fatigue of hay- 
 making, and two or three ' noggins' of Irish grog, had 
 in some degree bewildered his intellects since Annie':; 
 return from the meadow. lie looked at her for a mo- 
 ment, drew the long tress of hair half out of his bosom, 
 then replaced it, buttoned his waistcoat to the throat, 
 as if determined nothing should tempt it from him, 
 and said in a subdued voice — 
 
 " Annie, Annie Leslie I — like a darliut, don't be so 
 fractious — for 3'our sake — for " 
 
 " My sake, indeed, sir I — My sake I — I'm very much 
 obliged to you — very nmch — Mister James; but let me 
 tell ye, yc think a dale too nmch of y'ersclf to be speak- 
 ing to me after that fashion, and yc inside my own 
 gate; if ye were outside I'd tell ye my mind; but 1 
 know better manners than to insult any one at my own 
 door-stone. It's little other people know about dacent 
 breeding, or they'd not abuse people's friends before 
 people's faces, Mister Jaaies Mc'Cleary."
 
 210 A.NNIE LESLIE. 
 
 •' I f^ec lio'.v il is, ]Miss Leslie," replied James, really 
 angry ; " ye've resolved to sell y'ev.self for y'cr board 
 and Iodising to that great cask of London porter, An- 
 drew Furlong by name, and a booby by nature ; but 
 I'll not stay in the place to witness y'er parjury — I'll 
 go to sea, or — I'll — " 
 
 "Ye may go where ye like, responded the maiden, 
 who now thought herself a much aggrieved, injured 
 person, " and the sooner the better 1" She threw the 
 remains of the faded nosegay from her, and opened the 
 green gate at the same instant ; the gate which not 
 ten minutes before she had rested on. thinking of 
 James M'Cleary — thinking that he was the best wrest- 
 ler, the best hurlcr, the best dancer, and the most so- 
 ber lad in the country ; — thinking, moreover, that he 
 was as handsome, if not as genteel, as the young 
 'squire ; and wondering if he would always love her as 
 dearly as he did then. Yet, in her perversity, she 
 flung back the gate for the faithful minded to pass 
 from her cottage, careless of consequences, and, at the 
 moment, really believing that she loved Iiim not. So 
 much for a wilful woman, before she knows the value 
 of earth's greatest treasure — an honest heart. 
 
 "Since it's come to this," said poor James, "any 
 how bid me good bye, Annie. — What, not one ' God be 
 Vi-id j'e,' to him vv'lio will soon be on the salt — salt sea ?" 
 But Annie looked more angry than before ; thinking, 
 while he spoke, that lie would come back fast cnougli 
 to her window next morning, bringing fresh grass for 
 her kid, or food for her young linnets, or, perchance, 
 flowers to deck her hair; or (if he luckily met Peggy 
 the fisher) a new blue silk neckerchief as a peace-offer- 
 ing. 
 
 " Well, God's blcfsing be about ye, Annie ; and may 
 ye never feel what 1 do now I" So saying, the young 
 man rushed down the green lane, frighting the wood- 
 pigeons from their repose, and putting to flight the 
 limid hare and tender leveret, who sought their eve-
 
 AXXIE LESLIE. 241 
 
 ing meal wlicro the dew fell thickly and tiie clover 
 was most luxuriant. There was a fearful reality about 
 the youth's farewell that startled the maiden, obsti. 
 nate as she was ; — her heart beat violently, and the 
 demon of coquetry was overpowered by her naturally 
 affectionate feelings. She called, faintly at first, 
 '• James, James, dear James ;" and poor little Phillls 
 scampered down the lane, as if she comprehended her 
 mistress's wish. Presently, Annie was certain she 
 hoard footsteps approaching ; her first movement was 
 to spring forv.-ard, and her next (alas, for coquetry I) 
 to retire into the parlor and await the return of lier 
 lover ; — " what she wished to be true love bade her be- 
 lieve;" there she stood, her eyes freed from their tears, 
 and turned from the open window. Presently the gate 
 was unlatched ; in another moment a hand softly 
 pressed her arm, and a deep-drawn sigh broke upon 
 her ear. 
 
 " He is very sorry," thought she, " and so am I." 
 She turned round, and beheld the good-humored rosy 
 face of mine host of the public ; his yellow bob-wig ev- 
 idently placed over his gray hair ; his Sunday suit 
 well brushed ; and his embroidered waistcoat (pea- 
 green ground, with blue roses and scarlet lilies) cov- 
 ering, by its immense lapelles, no very juvenile rotun- 
 dity of figure. Poor Annie ! she was absolutely dumb; 
 had Andrew been an horned owl she could not have 
 shrunk with more horror from his grasp. Her silence 
 afforded her senior lover an opportunity of uttering, or 
 rather growling forth, liis 'proposal.' "Ye see, Miss 
 Leslie, I see no reason why we two shouldn't be mar- 
 ried, because I have more regard for _ve, tin to one, 
 than any young fellow could liave ; for I am a man of 
 exparience, and know wrong from right, and right 
 from wrong — which is all one. . Y'er father, l)ut more 
 especially y'er mother (who has oceans of sense, for a 
 woman), are for me ; and, beautiful as ye are. and 
 more beautiful for sartin than any girl in tlic land, yet 
 20*
 
 242 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 ye can't know what's ^ood for ye as well as they I 
 And ye shall have a jaunting-car — a bran new jaunt- 
 ing-car of y'er own, to go to mass or church, as may 
 suit y'er conscience, for I'd be far from putting a chain 
 upon ye, barring one of roses, which cupid Avaves. as 
 the song says, ' for all true constant loviers.' Now, 
 miss, macree, it being all settled — for sure ye're too 
 wise to refuse sich an offer I — here, on my two bare 
 knees, in the moon-bames — that Romeyo swore by, in 
 the play I saw when I was as good as own man to an 
 honorable member o' parliament, (it was in this ser. 
 vice he learned to make long speeches, on which he 
 prided himself greativ) — do I swear to be to you a kind 
 and faithful husband — and true to you and you alone." 
 Mister Andrew sank slowly on his knees, for the 
 sake of comfort resting his elbows on the window-sill, 
 and took forcible possession of Annie's hand ; who, an- 
 gry, mortified, and bewildered, hardly knew in what 
 set terms to vent her displeasure. Just at this crisis 
 the garden gate opened ; and little Phillis, who by 
 much suppressed growling had manifested her wrath 
 at the clumsy courtship of the worthy host, sprang 
 joyously out of the window. Before any alteration 
 could take place in the attitudes of the parlies, James 
 Mc'Cleary stood before them, boiling with jealousy and 
 rage. " So, Miss Leslie — a very pretty manner you 've 
 treated me in 1 — and it was for that carcase (and he 
 pushed his foot against Andrew Furlong), that ye 
 trampled me like the dust ; it was because he has a 
 few more bits o' dirty bank notes, that he scraped by 
 being a lick-plate to an unworthy mimber, who sould 
 his country to the Union and Lord Castlereagh ; but 
 ye'll sup sorrow for it — ye will, Annie Leslie, for y'er 
 love is wid me, bad as ye are ; y'er cheek has blushed, 
 y'er eye has brightened, y'er heart has bale for me, as 
 it never will for you, ye foolish, foolish ould cratur, 
 vrho thinks the finest — the holiest feeling that God 
 gives us, can be bought with gould 1 But I am done ;
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 243 
 
 as ye have sowed, Annie, so reap. I forgive yc — though 
 my heart — my heart — is torn — ahnost, almost broken ; 
 for I thought ye faithful — [ was wound up in ye — ye 
 
 were the very core of my heart — and nou- " The 
 
 young man pressed his head against a cherry-tree, 
 whose wide-spreading branches overshadowed the cot- 
 tage, unable to articulate. Annie, much affected, 
 rushed into the garden, and took his hand afiection- 
 ately ; he turned upon her a withering look, for the 
 jealous fit was waxing stronger. 
 
 " What ! do ye want to make more sport of me to 
 please y'er young and handsome lover ? Oh ! that 
 ever I should throw ye from me I" He fiung back her 
 hand, and turned to the gate ; but Andrew, the gallant 
 Andrew, thought it behoved hira to interfere when his 
 lady-love was treated in such a disdainful manner ; 
 and after having, with his new green silk handker- 
 chief, carefully dusted the knees of his scarlet plush 
 breeches, came forward. 
 
 " I lake it that that's a cowardly thing for you to 
 do, James McCleary — a cow ^" 
 
 " What do you say ?" vociferated James, whose pas- 
 sion had now found an object to vent itself on — "did 
 you dare call mc a coward ?" He seized the old man 
 by the throat, and, griping him as an eagle would a 
 land-tortoise, held hira at arm's length ; " Look ye, ye 
 fat ould calf, if ye were my equal in age or strength, it 
 isn't talking to yc I'd be ; but I'd scorn to ill trate a 
 man of y'er years — though I'd give a thousand pounds 
 this minute that ye were young enough for a fair fight, 
 that I might have the glory to break evey bone in y'er 
 body — but there I" — He flung his weighty captive from 
 him with so much violence, that mine host found him- 
 self extended amid a quantity of white-heart cabbages; 
 while poor James sprang amid the elder-trees, which 
 before had been his place of happy concealment, and 
 rushed away.
 
 9A4: ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 Annie stood erect under the shado'.v of the cherry- 
 tree against which James had rested, and the rays of 
 the clear full inoon, flickering through the foliage, 
 showed that her face was pale and still as marble. In 
 vain did Phillis jump and lick her hand ; in vain did 
 Andrew vociferate, in tender accents, froin the cab- 
 bage-bed Vv'here he lay, trj'ing first to turn upon one 
 side, and then on the other — "Will no one take pity 
 on me ?" — " Will no body help me up ?" There stood 
 Annie, wondering if the scene v,^as real, and if all the 
 misery she endured could possibly have originated with 
 herself. She might have remained there much longer, 
 had not her father and mother returned from the mea- 
 dows, where they had been distributing the usual dole 
 of spirits to their bare-legged laborers. " Hey, mercy, 
 and what's the matter noo I" exclaimed the old Scotch 
 lady, " Vv"hy, Annie, ye're clean daft for certain ; and, 
 good man Andrew I what has happened to you, that 
 ye're rubbing y'er clothes with y'er bit napkin, like a 
 fury ? Hey, mercy me, if my beautiful kail isn't per- 
 fectly ruined, as if a hail hogshead of yill had been 
 rovv'd over it ! Speak, ye young hizzy !" — and she 
 shook her daughter's arm — " what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Annie," paid her less eloquent father ; " tell me 
 all about it, love, how pale you arc I" He led his child 
 affectionately into the little parlor, while Andrew, 
 with doleful tone and gesture, related to the " gude 
 wife" the whole story, as far as he was concerned. 
 The poor girl's feelings were at length relieved by a 
 passionate burst of tears ; and, sobbing on her father's 
 bosom, she told the truth, and confessed it was her love 
 of tormenting that had caused all the mischief. 
 
 " I do believe," said the honest Englishman, " all 
 you women are the same. Your mother was nearly 
 as bad in our courting days. James is too hot and too 
 hasty — rapid in word and action ; and, knowing hun 
 as you do, you were \vrong to trifle with him ; but
 
 A-\.\li: LICSLIU. '^'lO 
 
 llicro, l'i\-c, I Kii'.st, 1 sii[i;)or-;c, go and fxiiu hi;n, and 
 make all rigiit again ; shall I, Aunie ?" 
 
 " Father I" exclahucd the gh-1, hiuiiig her face ia 
 thai safe rcstm^j-placo, a parent's bosom. 
 
 " Send old Andrew off", and bring James back to sup- 
 per — eh ?" 
 
 " Dear father I" 
 
 " And you will not bo pervert;e, but make sweet 
 friends again ?" 
 
 " Dear, dear father I'* 
 
 The good man set off on his cmbass;/, first warning 
 his wife not to scold Annie ; adding, somewhat stern- 
 ly, ho would not permit her to be sold to any one. To 
 which speech, had he waited for it, he would doubtless 
 have received a lengthened reply. 
 
 As 3Ir. Leslie proceeded down the lane I have r-o 
 ofieii mentioned, he encountered a man well known in 
 the country by the soubriquet of " Alick the Travel- 
 ler," who witli his wearied donkey, was in search of a 
 place of rest. Alick v.'as a person of great importance, 
 known to every body, high and low, rich and poor, in. 
 the province ot'Lcinster ; he v/as an amusing, cunning, 
 good-tempered fellow, v.dio visited the gentlemen'.- 
 lioiises as a hawker of various fish, particularly oysters, 
 which he procured from the far-famed Wexford beds ; 
 and, after disposing of his cargo, he was accustomed 
 to re-load his panniers from our cockle-strand of Ban- 
 now, which is cfiually celebrated for that delicate little 
 fish. Neither shoes nor stockings did Alick wear; no, 
 he carried them in his hand, and never put them on, 
 until he got within sigiit of the genteel houses ; — "he'd 
 be long sorry to give dacent shoes or stockings such 
 u<agc ; sure his feet were well u?ed to the stones 1 ' 
 His figure was tall and erect ; and the long stick of 
 :;ca-weed, with which he urged poor Dapple's speed, 
 was thrr)\vn over his shoulder with the careless air that, 
 in a well-dressed man would be called elegant. A 
 wcathcr-bca'icn ch^pcaii de paille shaded his rough
 
 246 AN^'lE LESLIE. 
 
 but agreeable features ; and stuck on one side of it, in 
 the twine which t^crved as a hat-band, were a 'cutty 
 pipe,' and a few sprigs of beautifully tinted sea-weed 
 and delisk, forming an appropriate but singular garn- 
 iture. He was whistling loudly on his way, and cheer- 
 ing his weary companion occasionally by kind words 
 of encouragement. 
 
 " God save yc, this fine evening, Mr. Leslie ; I was 
 just thinking of you, and all y'er good family, which I 
 hope is hearty, as well as the woman that owns ye. 
 And I v.-as just sa3'ing to myself that may-be ye'd let 
 me and the baste stay in the corner to-night, — for I've 
 a pov/er of beautiful fish, and I want to be early among 
 the gentry. But if the mistress likes a taste of news, 
 or a rattling hake — " 
 
 " Alick," said Leslie, who knew by experience the 
 difficulty of stopping his tongue * v.'hen once it was set 
 a going,' — " go to the house ; and there's hearty wel- 
 come — a good supper and clean straw for ye both. 
 But tell me, have you seen James McClcary this eve- 
 ning ?', 
 
 " Och I is it James ye'rc after ? There's a beautiful 
 lobster I — let Kenny, Paddy Kenny (may be yc don't 
 know Paddy the fishmonger, wid the blue door at the 
 corner of the ould market in Wexford), let Paddy 
 Kenny bate that I " 
 
 " But James McCIeary " 
 
 " True for ye, he'll be glad to see ye. Now, Mister 
 Leslie, tell us the truth, did yccver see sich crabs as 
 thim in England ? Where 'ud they get them and they 
 so far from the sea ?" 
 
 " I want " 
 
 " 1 humbly ax y'er pardon — I saw him jist now cut- 
 ting off in that Vv-ay, as straight as a conger eel — I had 
 one t'other day. Mister Leslie (it's as true as that ye're 
 standing there), it weighed " 
 
 " What ? — did he go across tlie fields in that dircc. 
 lion ?"
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 If? it l:e ? — Irotii, r,o, I skinned lii; 
 
 n a': natc- 
 
 •'Och! no; the conger." 
 
 " Will you tell me in what direction you saw James 
 Mc'Cleary go ? — the misfortune of all Irishmen is, that 
 they answer one question by asking another." 
 
 " I don't like ye to be taking the country down, afier 
 that fashion, Mister Leslie ; it's bad manners, and I 
 can't see any misfortune about it ; and if I did, there's 
 no good in life of making a cry about it; — but there's 
 an ilcgant cod I — there's a whopper I — there's been 
 no rest or peace wid that lump of a fellovr all the eve- 
 ning — whacking his tail in such a way in the face of 
 ever}"- fish in the basket ; I'll let the misthress have 
 him a bargain if she likes, list to get rid of him — the 
 Tory !" 
 
 Leslie at last found tliat his questions v\'ere useless ; 
 so he motioned ' Alick the Traveller' to his dwelling, 
 and proceeded on his way to James's coltage ; — while 
 Alick, gazing after him, half muttered, ' there's no 
 standing thim Englishmen ; the best of them are so 
 dead like — not a word have they in their head ; not 
 the least taste in life for conversation. Catch James ! 
 — I hope it didn't turn out bad, though," he continued, 
 in a still lower tone ; " what I said a while agone was 
 all out o' innocence, for a bit o' fun wid the ould one." 
 He turned, and for a moment watched the path taken 
 by Leslie, then proceeded on his way, muttering, " 'tis 
 very quare though." 
 
 At the door of James McCleary's cottage, Leslie 
 encountered the young man's mother. " I was jist 
 going to your place to ask what's come over my boy," 
 said she ; " I can't make him out ; he came in, in such 
 a fluster about tin minutes agone, and kicked up sich 
 a bobbery in no time ; fioostered over his clothes in 
 the press, cursed all the women in the world, bid God 
 bless me, and set ofl', full speed, like a wild deer, across 
 the country."
 
 248 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 " Inucr.il 1" exfJaimcd Lcslir. 
 
 " I know, i\Ir. Leslie, that my boy Ijas been keeping 
 company wid your g^irl ; and I have noibing to say 
 agin her ; she has a dale o' the lady abont her, yet is 
 humble and modest as any laiub : but I think may-be 
 they've had a bit of a ruction about some footy thiufj 
 or o.her ; but men can't bear to be contradicted, though 
 I own it's good for them, and more especially James, 
 who has a dale of his father in him, •who I had to man. 
 age (God rest his sowl 1) like any babby. However, 
 James has too much sense to go far, I'm thinking — 
 only to aunt's husband's daughter, by the Blackwater, 
 fancying, may be, to bring Annie round ; and to I was 
 going to see her, to kncv the rights of it." 
 
 The kind-hearted farmer told her nearly all lie 
 knew, with fatherl}' feeling glossing over Annie's pet- 
 tishness as much as he possibly could. Mrs. Mc'- 
 Cleary remained firm in her opinion that he had onl}' 
 gone down to the Blackwater, and would return the 
 next day. Bat Leslie's mind foreboded evil. When 
 he arrived at home, he found ' Alick the Traveller' 
 eomfortably seated in the large chimney corner; a 
 cheerful turf fire casting its light sometimes in broad 
 masses, sometimes in brilliant tlashes, over the room ; 
 the neat white cloth vras laid for supper ; and the busy 
 dame was seated opposite the itinerant man of fish, 
 laughing long and loudly at his quaint jokes and merry 
 stories. Annie was looking vacantly from the door 
 that was shut, to the v.'indow through which slie could 
 not see ; and Phillis was stretched along the comfort- 
 able hearth, rousing himself occasionally to reprimand 
 the rudeness of a small white kitten, Annie's particu- 
 lar pet, who obstinately persisted in playing with the 
 long silky hairs of the spaniel's bushy tail. Wh.en 
 Leslie entered, the poor girl's heart beat violently ; 
 and the color rose and failed almost at the E;ame mo- 
 ment. She busied her.self about liouseholu matterf? to 
 escape ob.-ervation ; broke the salt-celler in endeavor-
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 249 
 
 iijg to force it into the cruet-stand, aad verified the oU 
 proverb, •' ppill the salt and get a scolding," for the 
 mother did scold, in no measured terms, at the destruc- 
 tion of what the careless hizzy had broken. — '• Did ye 
 na ken that it had been used for twenty years and 
 mair ?" — she reiterated ; " and did Christian woman 
 ever see sic folly, to force a broad salt, of thi;;k glass, 
 into a place that can na mair than baud a wee bottle I 
 The girl's daft, and that's the end on't." Notvvath. 
 standing the jests of Alick, the evening passed heavily; 
 Annie complained of illness, and went soon to bed ; 
 and as her father kissed her, at the door of her little 
 chamber, he felt that her cheek was moist and cold, 
 Mrs. Leslie sooii followed ; and the farmer replenislied 
 his long pipe as Alick added fresh tobacco to hir^ 
 stumpy one. " I'm sorry to see Miss Annie so ill," 
 said the honest hav.ker in a kindly tone ; " but this 
 time all the girls get tired at the hay.making ; well, it 
 bates all, to tliiuk liov/ you farmers can be continied 
 jist wid looking on the sky, and walching the crops, 
 over and over again in the same place. I might as 
 well lie down and die an oa'st, as not keep going from 
 place to place. One sees a dale more o' life, and one 
 sees more o' the tricks o' the times. Och, but the 
 world's a fine world, only for the people that's in it I 
 — it's them spiles it. — I had something to say to you, 
 ^Mister Lci^Iie, very particklar, that I ca-ne to knowl- 
 edge of quite iniiocent. Ye mind that Mister MuUa- 
 ger, Maley, as he calls himself for the sake of the En- 
 glish, has been playing the puck wid Lord Cliiford's 
 tinnants, as might be expected ; for his mother was a 
 chimbley sweeper, tliat had the luck to marry a dacent 
 boy enough, only a little turned three-score ; and thin 
 this beautiful scoundrel came into the w^orld, and, be- 
 twixt the two, they left him the pov.'cr and all o' hard 
 yellow guineas. Now, ho being desperate 'ciite, got 
 into my lord's cnijiloy, being only a slip of a boy at the 
 time. Well, lord:;- to mv tiiinking, ''barring the ould
 
 250 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 ancient oucs) are Oiily foolisli sort of min, any how — 
 I could go bail that my Lord Clifford hadn't a full 
 knowledge-box any way ; and so, through one sly turn 
 or other, this fellow bothered him so, and threw dust 
 in his e3"es, and wheedled him, that, ye know, at last 
 he comes the gintleman over us ; and tould me, t'other 
 day, that as fine a jackydory as iver ye set y'er two 
 good-looking eyes on was nothing but a fluke — the ig- 
 norant baste ! Fine food for sharks he'd be ; only the 
 cralur that 'ud ate him must be hungry enough — the 
 thief o' the world !" 
 
 " V/hat has all this to do with me, Alick?" inquired 
 the Englishman steadily, while the traveller, incensed 
 at the rem.embrance of the insult offered to his fish, 
 scattered the burning ashes out of his cutty pipe, to 
 the no small consternation of the crickets — merry 
 things ! — who had come on the hearth-stone to regale 
 on cold potatoes. *• I know," he continued, " that the 
 agent, or whatever he calls himself, is no friend of 
 mine. When my landlord came to the country, he 
 did me the honor to ask my opinion ; I showed him 
 the improvements, that I, as an English farmer, 
 thought might be profitable to the estate ; he desired 
 me to give in an estimate of the expense ; 1 did so ; 
 but the honest agent, or, more properly speaking, mid- 
 dle-man, had given one in before ; his lordship found 
 that, by my arrangements, the expense was lessened 
 one half; but ?*Ialey persuaded my lord that his plans 
 were best, and so " 
 
 " Ay," interrupted Alick, "couldn't ye have been 
 content to mind y'er farm, and not be putting English 
 plans of improvement into an Irish head, where it's so 
 hard to make them fit. When the devil was civil, 
 and, like a jintleman, held out his paw to ye, why 
 didn't ye make y'er bow, and take it? — sure, that had 
 been only manners, let alone sense — don't look so 
 bleared I What, ye don't understand me I" Alick 
 advanced his body slowly forward, rested his elbows on
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 251 
 
 the small lable, pressed his face aiinost close to Les- 
 lie's, whose turn it was now lo la)^ down his pipe, and 
 slowly said, in a firm, audible whisper, — " Whin Tim 
 i\lullager, the curse o' the poor — the thing in man's 
 shape, but widout a heart — met me one evening, by 
 chance as you thought, at the far corner of the very 
 field ye cut to-day, what tempted 3'e (for ye mind the 
 lime — my lord thought a dale about y'er Englisli no- 
 tions thin), whin he axed ye, as sweet as new milk, to 
 join him in that very estimate unknownst to my lord, 
 and said, ye mind, that it might be made convenient 
 to the both o' ye, and a dale more to the same purpose ; 
 and, instead of seeming to come in, my jewel! you 
 talked something about 'legrity and honor, which was 
 as hard for him to make out as priest's Latin, and 
 walked off as stately as the tower of Hook." 
 
 " But I never mentioned a syllable of his falsehood 
 to do him injury," exclaim.ed the astonished farmer ; 
 " I never breathed it, even to Lord CiiiTord." 
 
 " And more fool you — I ax y'er pardon, but more 
 fool you — that was y'er time ; and it was the time for 
 more than that — it was the time for ye to get a new 
 lase upon the ould terms, and not to be trusting to 
 lords' promises, v.hich are as easy broke as any body 
 else's." 
 
 •' You arc a strange fellov.', Alick ; how did you 
 knov/ any thing about vcij lease ? At all events, though 
 it is expired, I am safe enough, for I am sure that even 
 Maley could not v/ish a better tenant," 
 
 " A better tinant I" responded Alick, fairly laugh- 
 ing. " A better tinant I — fait, that's not bad I What 
 does he care v/hether ye 're a good or bad tinant to my 
 turd ? Does n't he want — m.an alive 1 — to have ye body 
 and sowl ! — the rig'lar rint, to be sure, for the master ; 
 all fair — the little dasshure for himself; the saaling 
 money, if a lase is to the fore ; and a five-pound note, 
 not amiss as a civility to his bit of a v/ife ; thin the 
 dufy-hens, duty-turkies, duty-geese, duty-pigs ; — 'Jie
 
 252 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 spinning and the knitting : — sure, if my lord or my 
 lady isn't to the fore, they'll sa're them the trouble of 
 looking after sich things ; and they, ye know, get the 
 cash — that is, as much as the agent chooses to say is 
 their due — and spend it in foreign parts, widout think- 
 ing o' the tears and the blood it costs at home. — Och, 
 Mister Leslie ! it's no v.'onder if we'd have the black 
 heart to sich as them !" 
 
 Leslie, for the first tim.e of his life, felt a doubt as 
 to the nature of the situation in which he was placed ; 
 he looked around upon the fair white walls, so dear, so 
 very dear, to the purest feelings of his heart ; ev- 
 ery object had a claim on his affections, even the 
 long v/ooden peg, upon v.hich his great coat hung be- 
 hind the door, v/as as valuable to him as if it were of 
 gold. 
 
 "I can hardly understand this," said he at last ; 
 *'3'ou knov\r I have ah.vays been on good terms with 
 my neighbors, 3'et I have acquired little knovvledge in 
 these matters ; I have always paid my rent to the mo. 
 ment ; a7id, a"^ my twenty-one years' lease only ex- 
 pired two or three days ago, I have had little opportu- 
 nity of judging hovv' Irish agents behave on such occa- 
 sions." 
 
 " Don't be running down the country, Mr. Leslie," 
 f;aid Alick, quickly, " there's a dale in the differ be- 
 twixt the raale gintry and such viusheroons a,s he ; 
 but keep a look out, for he's after no good. The day 
 afore yes'erday, whin he behaved no unhandsome to 
 myjackydorey — ('twould ha' done y'er heart good to 
 look at that beautiful fish), he was v/alking with an- 
 other spillogue of a Mlosv (the ganger, by the same 
 token) ; and so, as they seemed as thick as two rogues, 
 vrhispering and nodding, and laying down the law, I 
 thought if I let the baste go on lie'd keep safe to the 
 road ; and so, as they walked up one side of the hedge 
 that leads to the hill, I jist slreeled up the other, to 
 see, for the honor of ould Ireland, if I could fish out
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 253 
 
 liic rogue's iiieaiiiiig. Well, to be sure, they pcti led 
 as how the riiit should be doubled on llie land that fell, 
 more especially yours, and fines raised, and the gan- 
 ger's to act as ' turney :' but he said that he knew 
 you'd pay any thing rather than lave the house ye set- 
 tled up y'crself ; and then t'other said that ('twas the 
 word he spoke), ' the ould Scotch cat' wouldn't let ye 
 spind the money ; and then t'other held to it, and said 
 ye must go, for yc set a bad example of indipindence 
 to the neighbors, and a dale more ; but the upshot was 
 that they nmst get rid o' yc. And now, God be wid 
 ye, and do y'er best ; and take care of that girl o' 
 yours, and don't let the mistress bother her about that 
 old man, any more ; she's full o' little tricks — may 
 sense, not sorroio, sober thim, say I ; good night, and 
 thank ye kindly ; Mr. Leslie ; I'm the boy '11 look to 
 ye. and don't think bad o' my saying that to the likes 
 o' you ; for ye remimber how the swallow brought word 
 to the eagle where the fowler stood. God's blessing 
 be about ye all, Amin !" And the keen, wandering, 
 good-natured fellow left the house, to share, according 
 to custom, dapple's couch of clean straw, in the neigh- 
 boring shed. 
 
 The next morning, Leslie's family received a visit 
 from the agent, to the surprise of Annie and her moth- 
 er, who welcomed him with much civility, while 
 the farmer's naturally independent feelings struggled 
 stoutly with his interest. If there be one thing more 
 than another that I love in the character of English 
 yeomen, it is their sturdy bearing towards their superi- 
 ors ; they feel that they arc free-born men, and they 
 act zs such ; but an Irish farmer must play the s}>au- 
 iel to his landlord, and to all that belong to his house- 
 hold, or bear his name ; the very sound of justice is to 
 him unknown ; he hardly dare believe himself a man, 
 much less fancy that from his Maker's hand he came 
 forth a being gifted with quick and high intellect — 
 with a heart to feel and a head to think, as well, if not 
 21*
 
 254 AI\'.ME LESLIE. 
 
 bcUcr, than tiic lord of tlie soil. But mind, though it 
 may he suppresyed, cannot be destroyed ; with the 
 Irish peasant, cunning frequently takes the place of 
 boldness, and lie becomes dangerous to his oppressors. 
 Landlords may thank their own wretched policy for 
 the crimes of their tenantry, when they cease to reside 
 amongst, or even visit them, but leave them to the 
 artful management of ignorant and debased middle- 
 jnen, who uniformly have but two principles of action, 
 to blindfold their employer, and gain wealth at the ex- 
 pen?e of proprietor and tenant. 
 
 " Y'er house is always nate and clane, Mrs. Leslie," 
 said Maley, " and y'er farm does 3'e credit, master ; 
 I'm sorry it's out of lase, but my duty to my employer 
 obliges me to tell you that a new lase, if granted, must 
 be on more advantageous terms to his lordship. Y'er 
 present payments, arable and meadov/ land together, 
 average something about two pounds five or sLx per 
 acre." 
 
 " Yes," replied Leslie, " always paid to the hour." 
 
 " And if it please ye, sir," said the good dame, 
 " when his lordship was down here he made us a faith- 
 ful promise, on the honor of a gentleman, that he'd 
 renew the lease on tlie same terms, in consideration of 
 the money and pains my husband bestowed on the 
 land." 
 
 The agent turned his little gray eye sharply on the 
 honest creature, and gave a grunt, that was less a laugh 
 than a note of preparation for one, observing, " Ma}'- 
 be he's lost his memory ; for there, Mr. Leslie, is the 
 proposal he ordered me to make (he threw a sheet of 
 folded foolscap on the table,) so you may take it or lave 
 it." 
 
 " lie was preparing to quit the cottage, wlien his 
 eye glanced on a basket of turkey eggs, that Annie 
 had arranged to set under a favorite hen — " What 
 line eggs !" he exclaimed ; " I'll take two or three to 
 show my wife." And, one after another, he deposited
 
 A.\ME LESLIK. liOO 
 
 ail Llie poor girl's embryo cljickcus in his capacious 
 pockets. 
 
 Leslie, really aroused by the barefaced inipudeiice 
 rif the act, was starting forward to prevent it, when 
 his wife laid her hand on his arm ; not that she did 
 not sorrow after the spoil, but she had a point to gain. 
 
 "May-be, sir, ye'd jist tell me the laird's present 
 address ; Annie, put it down on that bit paper." 
 
 " Tell his address I — any thiiig ye have to say must 
 be to mc, good woman. And so ye write pretty one ; 
 I wonder what is the use of teaching such girls as you 
 to write: but ye're up to love-!ettcr.s before this ; ay, 
 ay, ye'll make the best of y'er black eyes, my dear 1" 
 VVith this insulting speech, the low man in power left 
 the cottage. 
 
 Bitter was tlie anguish felt by that little p.arty. 
 The father sat, his hands supporting his head, his eyes 
 tixcd on the exorbitant demand the agent had left up. 
 on his table; large tears passed slovvly down Annie's 
 cheek ; and, if the poor mother suffered less than the 
 others, it was because she-talked more. 
 
 " Dinna be cast doon, Robert," said she, at last, to 
 Iter husband ; *'ye hac nae reason, even if he ask sac 
 much money as yc say, as a premium, forbyc other 
 matters ; why, there are as gude farms elsewhere, and 
 landlords that look after their tenants themselves. 
 < )h, that wicked, wicked wretch I — to see him pocket 
 the eggs — and his speech to my poor Annie !" 
 
 " My darling girl !" exclaimed the father, pressing 
 his daughter to his bosom, where he held her long and 
 anxiousl}'. 
 
 It was almost impossible for Leslie to accede to the 
 terms demanded ; four pounds an acre for the farm, a 
 heavy fine, and both dutj'-work, and duty provisions, 
 required in abundance. 
 
 " Dinna think o't, Robert," repeated the dame, 
 " we'll go elsewhere, and find better treatment. If ye 
 keep it at that rate, we shall all starve." But the
 
 256 A.NNIE LESLIE. 
 
 I'aruier's heart yearned to every blade of grass that 
 had grown beneath his eye ; he hoped to frustrate the 
 intended evil, and yet keep the land. His crops had 
 been prosperous, his cattle healthy ; then, his neigh, 
 bors, when, through Alick's agency, they found how 
 matters stood, had, with the genuine Irish feeling that 
 shines more brightly in adversity than in prosperity, 
 come forward, affectionately tendering their services. 
 
 " Sure, the cutting the hay need niver cost ye a 
 brass fardin,'' said the kind-hearted mower ; " I'm half 
 my time idle, and I may jist as well be doing something 
 for you as nothing for myself; so don't trouble about 
 it, sir, dear ; we like to have ye amongst us." 
 
 Then came 'Nelly the Picker,' as the spokes-woman 
 of all her sisterhood, " Do n't think of laving us, Mrs. 
 Leslie, ma'am, sure every one of us 'ill come as usual, 
 but widout fee or reward, excipt the heart love, and do 
 twice as much for that as for the dirty money ; and 
 I '11 go bail the pratees will be as well picked, and the 
 corn as well reaped, bound, and stacked, as iver. Sure, 
 though we did n't much like ye at first, hasn't Miss An- 
 nie grown among us, borne as she is on the sod, and a 
 credit to it too, God be praised." 
 
 These were all very gratifying instances of pure and 
 simple affection ; indeed, even Arthur Furlong forgot 
 his somerset in the cabbage-bed, and posted down to 
 the farm with his stocking full of gold and silver coins, 
 of ancient and modern date, which were all at Leslie's 
 service, to pay the premium required by the agent for 
 the renewal of the lease. This last favor, however, 
 the worthy farmer would not even hear of; he there- 
 fore sold a great part of his stock, and to the annoy, 
 ance of the agent, obtained the lease. From this cir- 
 cumstance, he might be said to triumph over the 
 machinations of his enemy ; but matters soon changed 
 sadly ; the family was as industrious as ever ; the same 
 steady perseverance on the farmer's part ; the same 
 bustle and unwearying activity on that of the good
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 25 i 
 
 (lanie ; and, though poor Annie's clicek was more 
 pale, and hor eyes less bright, yet did she unceasingly 
 labor in and out of their sn;a!l dwelling. Notwith- 
 standing all these exertions, the next season was a bad 
 one ; their sheep fell olF in the rot, their pigs had the 
 measles, their chickens the pip, and two of their cows 
 died in calf. Never did circumstances in the little 
 Fpace of six months undergo so great a change. Les- 
 lie's silence amounted almost to sullenuess ; his wife 
 talked much of their ill fortune ; Annie said nothing ; 
 but her step had lost its elasticity, her figure its grace, 
 and her voice seldom trolled the joyous, or even the 
 mournful songs of her native land in the eldcr-bower, 
 that, before the departure of James Me'Cleary, had 
 rung again and again v.-ith merry laughter and music. 
 James never returned after that unfortunate evening ; 
 and his mother had only twice heard from him since 
 liis absence ; his letters were brief. — " He had gone," 
 he said, " to sea, to enable him to learn something, and 
 to forget much." His mother and younger brother 
 managed the farm with much skill and attention dur- 
 ing his absence. No token, no word of her whom 
 he had doatingly loved, appeared in his letters. — 
 It v.'as evident that he tried to think of her as a 
 heartless, jilting woman, unworthy to possess the af- 
 fections of a .sensible man; but there must have been 
 times when the remembrance of her full beauty, of her 
 frank and generous temper, of her many acts of char- 
 ity (and in those she was never capricious), came up- 
 on him ; then the last scene at the cottage was forgot- 
 ten, and he remembered alone her sweet voice, and 
 sweeter look, ia the hay meadow, when he cut off the 
 curling braid of hair v/hich doubtless rested on his bo- 
 som in all his wanderings. And then he refreshed his 
 memory by gazing on it, in the clear moonlight, dur- 
 ing the night watches, v/hen only the eye of heaven 
 was upon him. Let not any one iinagine that such 
 iny.' i-^ loo refined to throb in a peasant'.s bosom ; triist
 
 258 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 me, it is not. The being wlio lives amid the beauties 
 of nature, although he may not expreDs, must feel, tlie 
 elevating yet gentle influence of herb, and flovrer, and 
 tree. Many a time have I heard the ploughman sus- 
 pend his whistle to listen to that of the melodious 
 blackbird ; and well du I remcnjber the beautiful ex- 
 pression of one of my humblest neighbors, when, rest- 
 ing on his hay-fork, he had silently watched the sun 
 as it set over a country glowing in its red and golden 
 light. " It is very grand, yet h:ird to look upon," said 
 he, " one can almost think it God's holy throne." 
 
 The last letter that reached our sailor-friend con- 
 tained, amongst others of similar import, the following 
 passage — " Ye '11 be sorry to hear, James, (though it 's 
 nothing to ye now), that times are turned bad with the 
 Leslies ; there has been a dale of undcr-hand work by 
 my lord's agent ; and the girl 's got a cold dismal look. 
 My heart aches for the poor thing ; for her mother is 
 ret upon her marrying Andrew Furlong, which she 
 has no mind in life to." 
 
 Gale-day (as the rent-day is called in Ireland) had 
 come and gone, and much sorrow was in the cottage 
 of Robert Leslie. In the gay twilight he sat in a dark- 
 ened corner of his little parlor, the very atmosphere of 
 which appeared clouded ; the dame stood at the open 
 casement, against which Annie reclined more like a 
 stiffened corpse than a breathing woman. Andrew 
 Furlong was seated also at a table, looking earnestly 
 on the passing scene. 
 
 " Haven't ye seen." said the mother, " haven't ye 
 seen, Annie, the misery that's come upon us, entirely 
 by my advice being not minded. And are ye goin' 
 tamely to see us turned out o' house and hame, when 
 we have na the means of getting anither ? I, Annie," 
 she continued, " am a'maist past my labor ; ah, my 
 bonny bairn, it was for you we worked — for you we 
 toiled ; y'er faither an' me had but the one heart in 
 that ; and if the Lord Almighty has pleased to take it
 
 ANME LESLIC. 259 
 
 iVac U.S, it's jia reason why you sliould i'orgci how ye 
 were still foremost in y'cr parents' love." 
 
 Annie answered nothing. 
 
 " Speak to her, Robert," said Mrs. Leslie, " she 
 disna mind mc noo." 
 
 Annie raised her ej'cs reproachfully to her mother's 
 face. The farmer came forward, — he kissed the mar- 
 ble brow of his pale child, and she rested her head ou 
 his siioulder. As he turned towards her she whis- 
 pered, " Is all indeed as bad as mother says ?" 
 
 " Even so," was his reply, " unless something be 
 done, to-morrow we shall Jiave no home. Annie, it is 
 to shield you I think of this ; my delicate, fading flow. 
 cr, how could ijou labor as a hired servant ? And — 
 God in his mercy look upon us ! — I should not be able 
 to find a roof to shelter my only child." 
 
 " My bairn," again commenced Mrs. Leslie, " sure 
 the mother that gave ye birth can wish for nacthing 
 sac much as y'er v;eel-doing. And sure sic a man as 
 Maistcr Furlong could no fail to make ye happy. All 
 the goud ye'r faither wants he will gi'e us noo, trust- 
 ing to his bare v/ord ; to-morrow, and it will be too 
 late ; — all thing saukl — the sneers of that bitter man — 
 (for poverty is aye scorned) of a cauld world — and, 
 may-be, y'er faither in a lanely prison ; eh, child — what 
 could ye do for him then ?" 
 
 " Mother I" exclaimed the girl, starting with con- 
 vulsive motion from her father's shoulder ; " say no 
 more ; here — a promise is all he wants to prevent this 
 — here is my hand — give it where you please." She 
 stretched out her arm to its full length — it was rigid 
 as iron. Furlong advanced to take it, and whether 
 Leslie would have permitted such a troth-plight or 
 not, can not now be ascertained, for the long form of 
 Alick the Traveller, stalked abruptly into the room. 
 
 ♦' -\sy, asy, for God's sake 1 — put up y'er hand, Miss 
 -\nnic, dear ; keep your sate, I beg. Mister Furlong ; 
 no rason in life for y'er rising ; all of ye be asy. WiU
 
 260 ANxMK leslip:. 
 
 nobody quiet that woraan, for God's sake I" lie contin- 
 ued, seeing that the dame was, naturally enough, an- 
 gry at thi.i intrusion ; " first let me say my say, and 
 be off, for sorra a minute have I to waste upon ye, 
 Robert Leslie by name, didn't I, onsL upon a time, tell 
 ye truth? — and a sore hearing it was, sure enough. 
 Well thiji, I tell it ye again, and if it's not true, why 
 ye may hang me as high as Howth ; — don't let y'er 
 daugluer mum herself away after that fashion. Mis- 
 ter Furlong, ye're a kind-hearted man, so ye are, and 
 many a bit au' a sup have ye bestowed upon me and 
 the baste — thank ye kindly for that same — but yarra a 
 much sense ye have, or ye wouldn't be looking afcer 
 empty nuts ; — what the divil would be the good o' tlie 
 hand o' that cratur, widout her heart ? And that ye'll 
 niver have. Mistress Leslie, ma'am, honey, don't be 
 after blowing me up ; — now jist think — sure I know 
 that ye left the bonny bills and the sweet scented broom 
 of Scotland, to marry that Engllsmaa. And ye mind 
 the beautiful song that ye sing far before any one I 
 ever heard — about loving in youth, and thin climbing 
 the hill, and thin sleeping at the fat of it — John An- 
 derson, ye call it ; wouldn't ye rather have y'er heart's 
 first love, though he's ould and gray now, than a king 
 upon his throne ? Ay, woman, that touches ye ! And 
 do ye think she hasn't some o' the mother's feel in her ? 
 Now, Mister Leslie, don't — don't any of ye make her 
 promise to-night ; yc'll bless me for this, even you, 
 Mister Andrew, by to-morrow sunset ; promise Robert 
 Leslie !" 
 
 "You told me truth before," said the bewildered 
 man, " and I have no right to doubt you now — 1 do 
 promise." Alick strode out of the cottage ; An- 
 drew followed, like an enraged turkey-cock, and the 
 family were left again in solitude. The vv'ords of the 
 fisherman had affected Mrs. Leslie deeply ; she had 
 truly fancied she was seeking her child's happiness ; 
 and, perhaps for the first time, she remembered how
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 261 
 
 miserable she would have been with any other husband 
 than " her ain gude-man." 
 
 Tlie little family passed the night almost in the ver}^ 
 extremity of despair. " Such," said Leslie afterward, 
 " as I could not pass again ; for the blood now felt as 
 if frozen in my veins — now rushing through them with 
 fearful rapidity — and, as my head rested on my poor 
 wife's shoulder, the throbbing of my bursting temples 
 but echoed the beating of her agitated heart." 
 The early light of morning found Annie in a heavy 
 sleep ; and the mid-day sun glowed as brightly as if it 
 illumined the path-way of princes, on three or four ill- 
 looking men who entered the dwelling of the farmer. 
 Their business was soon commenced — it was a work 
 of heart-sickening desolation. On Annie's pure and 
 cimple bed sat one of tlic officials, noting down each 
 article in the apartment. Leslie, his arms folded, his 
 lips compressed, his forehead gathered in heavy wrin- 
 kles over his brow, stood firmly in the center of the 
 room. Mrs. Leslie sat, her face covered with her apron, 
 which was soon saturated by her tears, and poor lit. 
 tie Phillis crouched beneath her chair ; — Annie clung 
 to her father's arm ; her energies were roused as she 
 feelingly appealed to the heartless executors of the law. 
 What increased the wretchedness of the scene was the 
 presence of Mr. Maley himself, who seemed to exult 
 over the misery of his victims. He was not, however, 
 to have it all his own way ; several of the more spir- 
 ited neighbors assembled, and forgot their own inter, 
 ests in their anxiety for the Leslies. One young fel- 
 low entered, waving his shillelah, and swearing in no 
 measured terms, that " he'd spill the last drop of his 
 heart'.s blood afore a finger should be laid on a single 
 scrap in the house." The agent's scowl changed into 
 a sneer as he pointed to the document he held in his 
 hand. This, however, was no argument to satisfy our 
 Irish champion ; and in truth matters would have tak- 
 en a terious turn, but for the prompt interference of
 
 262 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 an old man, wlio held back the arms of ihe young lie- 
 ro. The door was crowded b}" the sympathizuig peas- 
 antry ; som.e, by tears, and many by deep and awful ex- 
 ecrationf!, testin?d their abhorrence of the man, "dress, 
 ed in a little brief authority." " Oh I" ejaculated Mrs. 
 Leslie, " Oh I that I had never lived to see thi;! day of 
 ruin and disgrace I Oh I Annie, you let it come " 
 
 " Hold, woman I" exclaimed her husband ; " remem- 
 ber v/hat we repealed last night to each other ; remera- 
 ber how we prayed, v;hen this poor child was sleeping 
 as in the sleep of death ; remember how we botli be. 
 thought of the fair names of our parents ; how you told 
 me of the men of 3'our kin who fought for their faith 
 among your native Scottish hills : and my own ances- 
 tors, who left their possessions lor distant lands fur con- 
 science sake I O woman, Janet, remember the words, 
 ' yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his 
 seed begging bread.' " 
 
 Doubtless Mrs. Leslie felt in their full force these 
 sweet sounds of consolation ; again she hid her face 
 and wept. It is in the time of afHictiou that the words 
 of scripture pour balm upon the wounded spirit ; in the 
 world's turmoil they are often unhappily forgotten ; 
 but in sorrow they are sought for, even as the hart 
 seeketh for the water-brooks. 
 
 The usually placid farmer had scarcely given vent 
 to this extraordinary burst of feeling, when there v.'as 
 a bustle outside the door, which was speedily account- 
 ed for. A post-chaise, rattled down the lane, and 
 stopped suddenly opposite the little green gale ; from 
 off the crazy bar, propped upon two rusty supporters 
 in front of the creaking vehicle, sprang our old friend, 
 Alick the Traveller. — - Huzza I huzza, boys 1 Ould 
 Ireland for ever ! Och I but the bones o' mg are in 
 smithereens from the shaking. Huzza for justice I — 
 Boys, dear, won't ye give one shout for justice ? His nH 
 often it trouble ye — Och I stand out o' my wa}', for I'm 
 dancing mad 1 Och 1 by St. Patrick !— Stand back, ye
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 263 
 
 pack o' bogtrottcrs, till I see the meeting. Och ! love 
 is the life of a natc — Och I my heart's as big as a 
 whale I" 
 
 While honest Alick was indulging in tlicse and many 
 similar exclamations, capering, snapping his fingers, 
 (to use his own expression) "sky liigh," and shouting, 
 singing, and swearing, with might and main, two per- 
 sons had descended from the carriage. One, a tall, 
 slight, gentlemanly man, fashionably enveloped in a 
 fur travelling cloak ; the other a jovial sailor, whose 
 handsome face was expressive of the deepest anxiety 
 and feeling. 
 
 The sailor was James McCleary ; the gentleman — 
 but I must carry my story decorously onwards. 
 
 Poor Annie I she had suffered too much to coquet it 
 again. Whether she fainted or not I do not recollect ; 
 but this I know, that she leaned her weeping face upon 
 James's shoulder ; and that the expression of his coun- 
 tenance varied to an almost ludricious degree : — nov/ 
 beaming with love and tenderness as he looked upon 
 the maiden — now speaking of" death and destruction" 
 to the crest-fallen agent. The gentleman stood for a 
 moment wondering at cvc^y body, and every body 
 wondering at him. At last, in a firm voice he said, 
 " I stop this proceeding ; and I order you (and he fixed 
 a withering glance upon Maley) — I do not recollect 
 your name, although I am perfectly acquainted with 
 your nature — I order you, sir, to leave this cottage ; 
 elsewhere you shall account for your conduct." Ma- 
 ley sank into his native insignificance in an instant ; 
 but then impudence, the handmaid of knavery, came 
 to his assistance ; pulling down his wig with one hand, 
 and holding his spectacles on his ugly red snub nose 
 with the other, he advanced to where the gentleman 
 stood, and peeping up into his face, while the other 
 eyed him as an eagle would a vile carrion crow, in- 
 quired, with a quivering lip, that ill assorted with his 
 words' bravery, — " And who the devil are you, sir,
 
 264 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 who interferes in what doesn't by any manner of means 
 concern you ?" 
 
 " As you wish to know, sir," replied the gentleman, 
 removing his liat and looking kindl}^ around on the 
 peasants, " I am brother to your landlord I" Oh, for 
 Wilkic, to paint the serio-comic effect of that little 
 minute I — the look of abashed villany — the glorious 
 feeling that suffused the honest farmer's countenance 
 — the uplifted hands and ejaculations of Mrs. Leslie — 
 the joyous face of Annie, glistening all over with smiles 
 and tears — the hearty, honest shout of the villagers — 
 and even the merry bark of little Phillis ; — then Alick, 
 striding up to the late man of power, his long back 
 curved into a humiliated bend, his hand and arm fully 
 extended, his right foot a little advanced, while his 
 features varied from the most contemptuous and sa- 
 tirical expression to one of broad and gratified humor, 
 addressed him, with mock reverence : " Mister Maley, 
 sir, will ye allaw me (as the gintry sa}'^) the pleasure 
 to see ye out ; iL's your turn now, ould boy, though ye 
 don't know a fluke from a jacky-dorey." 
 
 " Sir — my lord," stammered out the crest-fallen vil- 
 lain, " I don't really know what is meant ; 1 acted for 
 the best — for his lordship's interest." 
 
 " Peace, man I" interupted the gentleman ; " I do 
 not wish to expose you ; there is my brother's letter ; 
 to-morrow I will see you at his house, where his ser- 
 vants are now preparing for my reception." The man 
 and his minions shrunk away as well and as quietly as 
 they could ; and the Leslies had now time to wonder 
 how all this change had been brought about ; the neigh- 
 bors lingering around tlie door, with a pardoiiable cu- 
 riosity, to " sec the last of it." 
 
 " Ye may thank that gentleman for it all," said 
 James ; " besides being brother to the landlord, I had 
 the honor to sarve under him, in as brave a ship as 
 ever stcpt the sea ; and ye mind when matters were 
 going hard here, Alick (God for ever bless him for it I)
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 265 
 
 lurucd to at the pen and wrote me every partieular, 
 and all about the agen's wickedness; and (may I say 
 It, Annie, now 7) y'er love for me ; and how out o' di- 
 vilment he sent the ould man to make love to you that 
 sorrowful evening — when I went away — and then put 
 me up to catch lum ; little thinking how the jealousy 
 would drive me mad ; well, his honor the captain had 
 no pride in him" — 
 
 " Stop, my brave lad, towards yoa I could have 
 none," exclaimed the generous officer ; " where the 
 battle raged the most, you were at my side ; and when, 
 in boarding the P>enchman, I was almost nailed to the 
 deck, you — you rushed forward, and amid death and 
 danger bore me, sadly v.ounded, in your arms, back to 
 my gallant ship." He extended hisliand to the young 
 Irishman, who pressed it respectfully to his lips. — '• To 
 see the like o' that now," said Alick, " to see him shak- 
 ing hands with one that's as good as a lord I" — " I held 
 frequent conversations with my brave friend," eontin« 
 ued the captain, " and at length he enlightened me as 
 to the treatmeiit my brother's tenants experienced from 
 the agent, and I am come down expressly to see jus. 
 tice done to all, who I regret to find have suffered from, 
 the ill effects of the absentee system. Miss Leslie, I 
 am sorry to lose so good a sailor, but I only increase 
 my number of friends when I resign James McCleary 
 to his rightful owner." 
 
 " Ocli I my dears," exclaimed Alick ; " it 's as good 
 as a play — a beautiful play ; and there's honest An- 
 drew coming over ; don't toss him in the cabbage-bed, 
 James, honey, this time. And, James, dear, there's 
 your ould mother running up the lane, — well, ould as 
 she is, she bates Andrew at the step. Och I Miss An- 
 nie, don't be looking down after that fashion. And, 
 sir, my lord, if y'er honor plases, ye won't forget the 
 little bit o' ground for the baste." 
 
 " Every thing I have promised I will perform," said 
 the young man as he withdrew ; an example that I 
 22*
 
 266 THE CONTRAST* 
 
 must follow, assuring all who read rny story that, how- 
 ever strange it may appear, Annie made an excellent 
 wife, never flirted the least bit in the world, except 
 with her husband ; and practically remembered her 
 father's wise and favorite text — " / have been young 
 and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous for- 
 saken, nor his seed begging bread." 
 
 BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 The mother sat beside her lire, 
 
 Well trimmed it was, and bright, — 
 
 While loudly moaned the forest phies. 
 Amid that wintry night. 
 
 She heard them not, — those wind-swept p'lnez 
 
 For o'er a scroll she hung, 
 That bore her husband's voice of love, 
 
 As when that love was young. 
 
 And thrice her son, beside her knee. 
 
 Besought her favoring eye. 
 And thrice her lisping daughter spoke, 
 
 Before she made reply. 
 
 " O, little daughter, many a kiss 
 
 Lurks in this treasured line, — 
 And boy, — a father's counsels fond, 
 
 And tender prayers are thine. — 
 
 '' Thou hast his proud and arching brow^ 
 Thou hast his eye of flame, —
 
 THE CONTRAST. 267 
 
 And l)c the purpose of thy soul. 
 Thy sunward course the same." 
 
 Then, as she drew them to licr arms, 
 
 Down lier fair check would jjlide 
 A tear, that shone like diamond spark, 
 
 Tile tear of love and pride. 
 
 She took her infant from its rest, 
 
 And laid it on her knee; 
 "Tliou ne'er liast seen thy sire," she said, 
 
 '• But he Ml be proud of thee. 
 
 '' Yes, — he '11 be proud of thee, my dove, 
 
 The lily of our line ; 
 1 know what eye of blue he loves, 
 
 And such an eye is thine." 
 
 '• Where is my father gone, mannna .' 
 
 Why docs he stay so long ?" 
 " He 's far away in Congrcss-IIail, 
 
 Amid the noble throng. 
 
 •'He 's in the lofty Congress-Hall, 
 
 To swell the high debate. 
 And help to frame those righteous lawt 
 
 That make our land so great. 
 
 " But ere the earliest violets bloom. 
 
 You in his arms shall be ; 
 .So go to rest, my children dear, 
 
 And pray for him and me." 
 
 The snow-flakes reared their drifted mound, 
 
 They buried nature deep. 
 Yet nought within that peaceful home, 
 
 Stirred the soft down of sleep.
 
 268 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 For lightly, like an angel's dream, 
 
 The trance of slumber fell, 
 Where innocence and holy love 
 
 Entwined their guardian spell. 
 
 Another eve, — another scroll, — 
 Wot ye what words it said ? 
 
 Two words, — two fearful words it bore,— 
 The duel I — and the dead ! .' — 
 
 The duel .' — and the dead ! I — how dark 
 Was that young motlier's eye, 
 
 How fearful her protracted swoon — 
 How wild her piercing cry. 
 
 There '.s many a wife, whose bosom's lord 
 
 Is m his prime laid low — 
 Engulphed beneath the wat'ry main. 
 
 While bitter tempests blow ; 
 
 Or crushed amid the battle-field, 
 
 Where crim.son rivers flow ; 
 Yet know they not the deadly pang 
 
 That dregs her cup of wo. 
 
 Who lies so powerless on her couch, 
 Transfixed by sorrow's sting ? 
 
 Her infant in its nurse's arms 
 Like a forgotten thing ? 
 
 A dark-haired boy is at her side, 
 
 He lifts his eagle eye, 
 ■''■ Mother, — they say my father's dead, 
 
 How did my father die ?"
 
 FAIR ANXIE MACLEOD. 269 
 
 Again, — the spcar-point in her breast ! 
 
 Again, — that shriek of pain I 
 Child I — thou hast riven thy nioliier's soul, 
 
 Speak not those words again. 
 
 " .Speak not those words again, my son I" 
 
 What boots the fruitless care ? 
 They 're written whereso'cr siie turns, 
 
 On ocean, earth, or air. 
 
 They're seared upon her shrinking heart, 
 
 That bursts beneath its doom ; 
 The duel ! — and the dead ! — they haunt 
 
 The threshold of her tonjb. 
 
 So, llirougii her brief and weary years 
 
 That broken heart she bore, 
 And on her pale and drooping brow 
 
 The smile sat never more. 
 
 BY 3IKS. CRAV.'FOKD. 
 
 Those attachments that take place in early life, 
 contrary to the wishes of lender and not ambitious 
 parents, seldom, if ever, end happil}'. l^he ia^nis 
 falnus of passion, which leads the young and trusting 
 maid to the arms of her lover, vanishes when the cares 
 of her own creating press upon the heart of the wife 
 and mother. 
 
 In my native village, before I had entered upon that 
 world which owes, like some descriptions of beauty, 
 half il3 enchantment to the veil that ohadcs it, I v.a.s
 
 270 FAIR ANNIE MACLEOD. 
 
 acquainted with a young maiden, whose personal and 
 mental attractions were of that cast which romance 
 loves to betray. 
 
 Annie Macleod was the belle of our little hamlet. 
 She had a bright and loving eye ; a cheek ever dimp- 
 ling with the smiles of gladness ; and a fairy foot, 
 which was as elastic as the stem of the bonnie blue 
 bell, her favorite flower. Annie had many lovers ; but 
 one, a stranger at Roslin, was the chosen of her heart. 
 To him her hand was often given in the dance ; and 
 many were the inquiring glances at, and frequently 
 the whispered surmise about him, by 'kerchiefed ma- 
 tron and snooded maid. Annie's was a first love ; and, 
 like every thing that is rare and beautiful, Vv^hen seen 
 for the first time, was irresistible. Just emerging from 
 the girl into womanhood, with all the unwe'akened ro- 
 mance of nature playing round her day-dreams, and 
 coloring the golden visions of her sleep, the manly 
 beauty of the stranger's countenance, and the superior 
 refinement of his speech and manners to the youth of 
 that sequestere 1 hamlet, came with all the power of 
 enchantment to ensnare and bewilder her innocent 
 mind. 
 
 Rumors about this favored stranger at length reached 
 the ears of Annie's mother — unfortunately, she had no 
 father. Questioned by her parent, her answers were 
 in character with her youth and simplicity. She knew 
 nothing of the stranger ; but " was sure he was a gen- 
 tleman, for he had offered, and really meant, to marry 
 her." Mrs. Macleod, upon this information, acted 
 without delay. She forbade Annie, on pain of her 
 maternal displeasure, to see the stranger again, unless 
 he, by his own conduct, proved himself to be worthy 
 of her. But on a fine Sabbath morning, when going 
 to kirk, dressed out in all her pretty bravery, and 
 blooming as the rose-colored ribbons that tied her bon- 
 net, Annie met the stranger at the place where they 
 had so often held tryste together ; and there Robin
 
 FAIR ANNIE MACLEOD. 271 
 
 Bainbogle, as he crossed the rude bridge lliat leads 
 over a wild ravine lo Roslin Castle, saw, as he said, 
 " the boniiie lassie for the last time, wi' a face like a 
 dripping rose." Tears Annie might, and probably did 
 shed — but that day she fled from her home. 
 
 Years ])assed away. The mother of the lost girl 
 sank under this blow to her parental hopes. The 
 young maidens, Annie's compeers in age and beauty, 
 became wives and mothers ; and the name of " fair 
 Annie Macleod" was seldom mentioned but by sage 
 matrons, to warn their daughters, or by chaste spin- 
 sters to draw comparisons to their own advantage. 
 
 It was on a dark and stormy night in November, 
 
 189:2, that the pious and venerable pastor of was 
 
 sent for to attend a dying woman. Wrapped in his 
 plaid, the kind man walked hurriedly along the com- 
 mon footway to a settlement of squalid cotlages, such 
 as vice and poverty usually inhabit. In one of these 
 cottages, or rather huts, he found the object of his 
 search. Pale, emaciated, and sinking away, like the 
 flickering light of an exhausted taper, lay the once 
 beautiful — the once innocent and happy Annie Mac- 
 leod. What had been her fate since she left her moth- 
 er's roof 'twas easy to imagine, though the veil of se- 
 crecy rested upon the particulars of her history. Her 
 senses were at times unsettled ; and it was only dur. 
 ing the short gleamings of a sounder mind, that she 
 was able to recognize in the Rev. Dugald Anderson, 
 the pastor of licr sinless youth, and to recommend to 
 him, witli all the pathos of dying love, the pretty, un- 
 conscious child that slumbered at her side. That done, 
 her heart, like the last string of a neglected lu!e, 
 broke, and the spirit that had once so joyously rev- 
 elled in its abode of loveliness, fled from the ruined 
 tenement of beauty for ever. 
 
 "And these are the fruits of love !" said Anderson, 
 bitlcrly, as he eyed the cold and stiffened features of
 
 272 FAIR ANNIE 3IACLE0D. 
 
 Annie. "Oh I monstrous violation of that hallowed 
 name 1" 
 
 " Of a troth, 't is a sair sight !" said an old woman, 
 the owner of the hut ; " and I count me the judgment 
 o' the gude God winna sleep nor slumber on sic doings 
 as the ruin o' this puir lassie." 
 
 "No," said Anderson, emphatically, "the justice of 
 God may seem to slumber, but is awake. Accursed is 
 the seducer of innocence ; yea, the curse of broken 
 hearts is upon him. It shall come home to his heart 
 and to his spirit, till he lie down and die, in very wea- 
 riness of life." 
 
 The pious pastor took home the little Alice to the 
 Manse ; and after the remains of her mother were de- 
 cently interred in the village kirkyard, a simple head- 
 stone, inscribed with her name, told of the last resting 
 place of " fair Annie Macleod." 
 
 Some years subsequently to this melancholy event, 
 
 the good pastor of went out, as was his wont, to 
 
 " meditate at even-tide." As he stood leaning over 
 the white wicket gate, that opened from his garden in- 
 to the church-yard, thoughts of early days and early 
 friends came trooping to his mind. 
 
 " No after friendship's e'er can raise 
 The endearments of our early days ; 
 And ne'er the heart such fondness prove. 
 As wlien \tjirst began to love."' 
 
 The last rays of the setting sun shone full upon the 
 windows of the chapel, reflecting from them a thou- 
 sand mimic glories. His eye glanced from the holy ed- 
 ifice to the simple tombs, partially lighted by the slant- 
 ing sun-beams, as they quivered through the branches 
 of the patriarchal trees, which here and there hung 
 over the forgotten dead. Suddenly, a man habited in 
 a foreign garb, advanced up the broad pathway leading 
 from the village. Looking about him, he at la.^t stood 
 opposite a v.'hite headstone, over which a decayed yew
 
 FAin ANNIE ?TACLnOD. 27" 
 
 thrf^Vi' its meiannhnl}^ rliadow. ll wa^? iho hradstonr 
 tlia! marked llin grave of ihe or.cc joyns Annie, As 
 if oppressed by some suddea emotion, he sank ratlier 
 tlian leaned against the liollovr trunk ; but soon ajrain 
 returning to the g-rave, he Itnelt dovrn, and buryinjT liip 
 face with both hands, appeared to weep. The good 
 pastor, interested in the scene, stood gazing unob- 
 served at the stranger, who, after the lapse of a few 
 seconds, rose up from his knees, and turned away as if 
 to retrace his steps. Then again coming back, he 
 stooped down, and plucking something from the green- 
 sward, kissed it, hid it in his bosom, and v/ith rapid 
 sleps left the church-yard. 
 
 Anderson returned into the 3Ianse, drev/ a chair to 
 the hearth, sat down, took up a book, laid it down 
 again, and walked out into the little com-t that fronted 
 the village. A feeling of cariosity perhaps led him to 
 glajice his eye over the way, where stood the only ale- 
 house in the hamlet, when he saw the same stranger 
 come out, and, crossing the road, stop at his own gate. 
 To his inquiry if the Ilev. Dugald Anderson was at 
 home, the good pastor, answering in the affirmative, 
 courteously held back the gate for the stranger to en- 
 ter ; while the little bare-footed lassie who opened the 
 door, seeing a visiter with her master, bustled onwards, 
 and ushered them into the best parlor, carefully wiping 
 v.'ith a corner of her blue-checked apron the tall, spin- 
 ster-looking elbow chair, and then vrithdrew to tell 
 the young Andersons what " a bra' gallant the master 
 liad brought hame wi' him." 
 
 The stranger's appearance justified Jennie's enco- 
 miums. Though past ihe summer of his life, the un- 
 extinguished fire of youth still lingered in his dark full 
 eye ; and his tall athletic person accorded well with 
 the lofty bearing of his looks, and t)ie refined courtesy 
 of his manners. 
 
 " I believe," said he, addressing Anderson, " you 
 23
 
 274 FAIR ANNIE r.IACLEOD. 
 
 have the care of a young giiL wiiose mother died some 
 years suice ?" 
 
 "You mean llie danohtor of Annie ^lacleod ?" 
 
 " The same ; and il is to ascertain her siluaiion in 
 yonr family, that I liavc ttken the liberty to wait up- 
 on you." 
 
 " Her situation in my family, my g;ood sir," said the 
 worthy man, "is that of a daughter to myself — a sis- 
 ter to my children. The calamity which robbed her 
 so early of her mother was an inducement, but cer- 
 tainly not the only one, to my becoming her protector. 
 T was acquainted with her mother in the happier years 
 of her life ; and the friendship which I had felt for 
 Annie Macleod, revived in full force when duty con- 
 ducted to her death-bed. I there pledged myself to be 
 a father to the fatherless ; to keep her unspotted from 
 the world — the pitiless world, as the dying mother 
 called it, in the lucid intervals of her wandering 
 mind." 
 
 " What !" said the stranger ; " did sorrow overcome 
 her reason ?" 
 
 " Alas I yes ; for many weeks before her death, they 
 told me that her senses v^ere completely gone ; and 
 u'hen I saw her in the last mortal struggle, the deli- 
 rium of mind was only partially broken in upon by 
 flashes of reason." 
 
 The features of the stranger became convulsed, and 
 he seemed to wrestle with some violent einotion. 
 
 " You were a friend — perhaps relative, of the un- 
 fortunate Annie ?" rejoined Anderson. 
 
 " Yes — I was a friend ; — tliat is, I — I — knew her," 
 £sid the stranger. 
 
 " Then you will like to see my little charge ;" and 
 vs'ithout waiting reply, the good pastor left the apart- 
 ment ; but almost immediately returned, holding by 
 the hand a pretty fair-haired girl, v.'ith dark blue eyes, 
 that seemed made for weeping. " Tlii.?." said Ander-
 
 FAIR ANNIE M.^CLEOD. 275 
 
 son, leading Iicr towards the stra,nger, "is Alice 3Iac- 
 leod, or, as she calls hertr-elf, Birdalanc."* 
 
 The stranger drew her to him ; and taking her 
 hand, gazed long and earnestly in her blushing face. 
 " Why do you call yourself Birdalane, my pretty 
 child ■?" 
 
 " Because nurse called me so, when she used to cry 
 over me, and say I had no mother and no father to 
 love me, and give me pretty things, like Donald and 
 Ellon Anderson." 
 
 The .stranger's eye fell, and tears hung upon the 
 dark lashes that swept his cheeks. He rose, and 
 walked to the window ; and Anderson heard the long- 
 drawn sigh that seemed to burst from a heart laden 
 with old remembrances. Presently turning to the 
 pastor, he said, " I am satisfied, good sir, fully satis- 
 fied, that this friendless one cannot be in better hands, 
 to fulfil her mother's. wish, and keep her 'unspotted 
 from the world.' " Then presenting a sealed packet, 
 he added, warmly grasping Anderson's hand, " Be still 
 a father to that orphan girl, and God requite you ten- 
 fold in blessings upon your own 1" He stooped dov.n, 
 kissed the wondering Alice, and hastily left the apart- 
 ment. Anderson went to the v/indow, and in a few 
 moments he saw a groom lead out two horses. The 
 stranger mounted one, and putting spurs to his steed, 
 Anderson soon lost sight of him in the winding.^ of the 
 road. 
 
 The worthv pastor, dismissing the little Alice to 
 her playmates, prepared to open the packet. In an 
 envelope, upon which was written, " A marriage por- 
 tion for the daughter of Annie Macleod," wa3 a draft, 
 for one thousand pounds ; and on a paper folded round 
 a small miniature, the following words : " A likeness 
 of Annie, such as she was when the writer first knew 
 
 * Birdalane. means in Scotch, the last, or only one of 
 their nice — one who has outlived all ties.
 
 'J/0 FAIU ANNIE 3IACLE0D. 
 
 ])er. 'T iy iiuw but the thaciow of a shade. The 
 beaut}', galeiy, and itinocence, it would perpetuate, 
 are gone, like the hopes of him, who still eliiigs to the 
 iijcniory of what she w 
 of an laidyiijg remorse. 
 
 Some time after this event, business called Anderson 
 to Edinburgh. One day, while perambulating the 
 streets on his various engagements, he saw the self- 
 same figure, which remained indelibly imprinted on 
 his i7iemory — the identical mysterious stranger, who 
 had visited him at tlie Manse, issue from the castle 
 gates, and descend with a slow step and melancholy 
 air, down the high street. Curiosity, or perhaps a 
 better feeling, prompted Anderson to follow at a dis- 
 tance, and ascertain who he was. It was Lord . 
 
 " 'T is even as I thought," said the good pastor ; 
 
 "poor Annie fell a victim to the arts of Lord . 
 
 Alas I he was too accomplished a seducer, for such 
 artlessness as hers to cope with." 
 
 The su'cct tics that bind the sons of virtue to their 
 sjcial fireside, arc too simple for the epicurean taste 
 of the libertine ; the tender interchange of wedded 
 minds, the endearing caress of legitimate love, are 
 simple wild flovi'ers, that wither in that hot-bed of 
 sensuality, a corrupt heart. Never can the proud joy, 
 the refined pleasures of a faithful husband, be his. 
 
 For higli the bliss that waits on wedded love, 
 Best, purest emblem of the bliss above : 
 To draw new raptures from another's joy, 
 To share each pang, and half its sting destroy. 
 Of one fond heart to be the slave and lOrd, 
 Bless and be blessed, adore and be adored, — 
 To own the link of soul, the chain of mind, 
 .^ublimest friendship, passion most refined, — 
 Passion, to life's last evening hour still warm, 
 And friendship, brightest in the darkest storm. 
 
 To conclude. The little Alice never left the Manse, 
 where she lived as her mother wished, " unspotted
 
 THE YOUNG POET. 277 
 
 from the world." As she grew to womanliood, her 
 simple beauty and artless manners won the affections 
 of Donald Anderson, the son of her henefactor. They 
 were married, and often when Alice looked upon the 
 smiling cherubs that climbed her maternal knee, the 
 silver-headed pastor, as he sate by the ingle in his 
 elbow chair, would put on an arch expression, and ask 
 her where was Birdalane now ? while Alice, blushing, 
 and laughing, would draw her little nestlers closer to 
 her womanly bosom, and so answer the good man. 
 After a life of active charity, full of years and good 
 
 deeds, the venerable pastor of slept the sleep of 
 
 peace, in that church where he had often roused others 
 from a darker slumber than that of death. After his 
 decease, and Vv'rittcn in the neat old-fashioned hand of 
 his father, Donald Anderson found amongst his papers 
 a manuscript, dated many years back, containing the 
 history of Annie Macleod ; which, with some slight 
 alterations, and the omission of particular names, (for 
 obvious reasons,) is now submitted to those readers, 
 whose hearts will not permit their heads to criticise a 
 shnple and unadorned tale. 
 
 BY MRS. ABDY. 
 
 " Young Poet, take the lyre. 
 
 And wake its sleeping fire 
 To the glad wonders of thy own sweet story ; 
 
 Tell of the palmy state 
 
 That crowns his envied fate 
 Who stands upon the height of minstrel glory. 
 23*
 
 278 THE YOUNG POET. 
 
 " Tell of the pkudifs loud 
 
 Gained in the dazzling crown, 
 Where lamps, and gems, and starry eyes are beamino- 
 
 Tell of the thoughts that start ^ 
 
 Within the springing heart 
 In the calm hours of solitary dreaming. 
 
 " Thou seem'st to me to stand 
 
 On an enchanted land, 
 Lulled to repose by soft and magic measures ; 
 
 Tell then those joys to me, 
 
 Unfold thy destiny. 
 And sing, young poet, of its fairy treasures," 
 
 The Poet sadly sighed, 
 
 " Expect no song of pride, 
 Lady, from me, no glad and bright revealings ; 
 
 Mine is a mournful tale. 
 
 Mine is a dirge-like wail 
 Of withered hopes, false joys, and blighted feelings. 
 
 " I scorn the servile strain 
 
 Breathed by the idle train. 
 Such flatteries are but worthless dross and glitter ; 
 
 Like Dead Sea fruits they smile. 
 
 Charming the eye awhile. 
 But to the taste are mocking false and bitter. 
 
 " I occupy alone. 
 
 An intellectual throfte. 
 My shrinking subjects will not let me love them. 
 
 Even my kindred learn 
 
 In trembling awe to turn 
 From the kind gaze of him that towers above them. 
 
 " The thoughts thou deem'st so bright. 
 Start not at once to light, 
 The bard must slowly nurse his fragile numbers ;
 
 THE YOL'NG POET. 279 
 
 They crown hh midnight toil, 
 His bioom and health they spoil, 
 And rob of rest his short and feverish slumbers. 
 
 " The miner strives in pain, 
 
 Wasting his youth to gain 
 A few bright gems by eager worldlings cherished,. 
 
 They shine in com-tly halls. 
 
 But none his lot recals. 
 Who in the brilliant labor slowly perished. 
 
 " And thus the Poet's thought. 
 
 To palaces is brought. 
 All to its flashing rays their homage render ; 
 
 Its owner droops the while — 
 
 Alas I his funeral pile 
 Was lighted by his mind's destructive splendor. 
 
 " Lady, thine eyes are dim ; 
 
 Oh ! shed not tears for him 
 Who owns that sweetest, best of consolations. 
 
 The thought that he has given 
 
 To serve the cause of heaven. 
 The freshness of his earliest inspirations. 
 
 " 1 have not weekly bowed 
 
 To the deluding crowd. 
 But it has ever been my high endeavor 
 
 That all who read my lays 
 
 May learn His name to praise. 
 Whose mercy and whose love endure for ever. 
 
 " I grieve a sway to hold 
 
 O'er triflcrs vain and cold. 
 Their fickle heartlessness has deeply tried me, 
 
 But in a land more blest, 
 
 I trust to gain the rest 
 That earth's ungrrateful children have denied me."'
 
 280 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 The Poet ceased ; and I 
 
 Took back wiih streaming eye 
 The lyre that he had wakened thus to sadnesr 
 
 And, when I hear the throng 
 
 Speak of that child of song, 
 I think on hini with mingled grief and gladnt 
 
 Heavier, each day shall seem 
 The bonds that fetter his young f-piriL's lightness 
 
 With joy — for I helicTe 
 
 He shall in heaven receive 
 A crown of lasting and immortal brightness. 
 
 BY WISS MITFOFlD. 
 
 Between two and three years ago, the following 
 pithy advertisement appeared in several of the London 
 papers : — 
 
 " Country Lodgings. — Apartments to let in a large 
 farm-house, situate in a cheap and pleasant village, 
 about forty miles from London. Apply (if by letter, 
 post-paid) to A. B., No. 7, Salisbury-street, Strand." 
 
 Little did I think, whilst admiring in the broad page 
 of the " Morning Chronicle" the compendious brevity 
 of this announcement, that the pleasant village referred 
 to was our own dear Aberleigh ; and that the first 
 tenant of those apartments should be a lady whose fam- 
 ily I had long known, and in whose fortunes and des- 
 tiny I took a more than common interest I 
 
 Upton Court was a manor-house of considerable ex- 
 tent, which had in former times been the residence of 
 a distinguished Catholic family, but which, in the
 
 changes of property iuciJuiit to <->ur lluulualirig neigh- 
 borhood ; wao '• falicu from ita liigh cstat-e," and de- 
 graded into the h jincslcad of a farm so small, that the 
 tenant, a yeoiiian cf the pourest class, was fahi to eke 
 oat his reijt by entering into an agreement v.ith a spec- 
 ulating Belford uuholsicrer, and letting oil" a part of 
 the fine old mansion ia the shape of furnished lodgings. 
 
 Xothmg could be finer than the situation of Upton, 
 placed on the sumaiit of a steep acclivity, looking over 
 a rich and fertile valley to a range of woody hills ; no- 
 thing more beautiful than tlie approach from Eelford, 
 the road leadmg across a common between 'a double 
 row of noble oaks, the ground on Oiie side sinking with 
 the abruptness of a north-country burn, whilst a clear 
 ^:pring, bursting from the hill side, made its way to the 
 bottom between patches of shaggy underwood and a 
 grove of small trees ; a vine-covered cottage just peep- 
 ing between the foliage, and the picturesque outlhie of 
 the Court, with its old fashioned porch, its long v/in- 
 dov»-s, and its tall, clustered chimneys towering in the 
 distance. It was the prettiest prospect in all Aber- 
 leigh. 
 
 The house itself retained strong marks of former 
 stateliness, especially in one projecting wing, too re- 
 mote from the yard to be devoted to the domestic pur- 
 poses of the farmer's family. The fine proportions of 
 the lofty a . 1 spacious apartments, the rich mouldings 
 of the ceilings, the carved chunncy-pieces, and the 
 panelled walls, all attested the former grandeur of 
 ihe mansion, whilst the fragments of stained glass in 
 the windows of the great gallery, the half-effaced coat 
 of arms over the door-way, the faded family portraits, 
 grim black-visaged knights, and pale shadowy ladies, 
 or the relifjues of mouldering tapestry that fluttered 
 against the walls, and, above all, the secret chamber 
 constructed for the priest's hiding-place in days of 
 Protestant persecution, for in darker ages neitlier of 
 the dominant churches v/as free from that foul stain,
 
 2S2 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 — each of these vestiges of the manners and the histo- 
 ry of limes long gone by appealed to the imagination, 
 and conspired to give a Mrs. RadclifFe-like, Castle.oi- 
 Udolpho-sort of romance to the manor-house. Really, 
 when the Vvdnd swept through the overgrown espaliers 
 of that neglected but luxuriant vx'ilderness, the ter- 
 raced garden ; when the screech-owl shrieked from 
 the ivy which clustered up one side of the walls, " and 
 rats and mice, and such small deer," were playing 
 their pranks behind the v.'ainscot, it would have formed 
 as pretty a locality for a supernatural adventure, as 
 any decayed hunting-lodge in the recesses of the Hartz, 
 or ruined 'fortress of the Castle Rhine. Nothing was 
 wanting but the ghost, and a ghost of any taste would 
 have been proud of such a habitation. 
 
 Less like a ghost than the inhabitant who did arrive, 
 no human being well could be. 
 
 Mrs. Cameron was a young widow. — Her father, a 
 Scotch officer, well-born, sickly, and poor, had been 
 but too happy to bestow the hand of his only child up- 
 on an old friend and fellow-countryman, the princi- 
 pal clerk in a government office, whose respectable 
 station, easy fortune, excellent sense, and super-excel- 
 lent character, were, as he thought, and as fathers, 
 right or wrong, are apt to think, advantages more than 
 sufficient to counterbalance a disparity of years and 
 appearance, which some daughters might have thought 
 startling, — the bride being a beautiful giri of seven- 
 teen, the bridegroom a plain man of seven-and-fifty. 
 In this case, at least, the father was right. He lived 
 long enough to see that the voung wife was unusually 
 attached to her kind and indulgent husband, and died, 
 about a twelvemonth after the marriage, v/ith the full- 
 est confidence in her respectabilit}'^ and happiness. 
 Mr. Cameron did not long survive him. Before she 
 was nineteen the fair Helen Cameron was a widow 
 and an orphan, with one beautiful boy, to whom she 
 was ]ci\ sole guardian, an income being secured to her
 
 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 2S3 
 
 ample for her rank in life, but clogged wilii ihe one 
 condition oflicr not marrying; again. 
 
 Such was the tenanl, who, u-earied of her dull sub. 
 urban home, a red brick house in the middle of a row 
 of red brick houses ; tired of the loneliness which nev- 
 er presses so much upon the spirits as when left soli- 
 tary in the environs of a great city ; pining for coun- 
 try liberty, for green trees, and fresh air ; much caught 
 by the picturesqueness of Upton, and its mixture of 
 old-fashioned stateliness and village rusticity ; and, 
 perhaps, a little swayed by a desire to be near an old 
 friend and correspondent of the mother, to whose 
 memory she was so strongly attached, came in the 
 budding spring time, the showery, flowery month oi' 
 April, to spend the ensuing summer at the Court. 
 
 We, on our part, regarded hor arrival v/ith no com- 
 mon interest. To me it, seemed but yesterday since I 
 had received an epistle of thanks for a present of one 
 ofdear Mary Howitt's charming children's books, — an 
 epistle undoubtedly not indited by the writer, — in huge 
 round text, between double pencil lines, with certain 
 small errors of orthography corrected ia a smaller 
 hand above ; followed in due time b}' postscripts to her 
 mother's letters, upon one single line, and tlie spelling 
 much amended ; then by a short, very short note in 
 French ; and at last, by a despatch of unquestionable 
 authenticity, all about doves and rabbits, — a holiday 
 scrawl, rambling, scrambliiig, and uneven, and free 
 from restrauit as heart could desire. It appeared but 
 yesterday since Helen Graham was herself a child ; 
 and here she Vv'as, within two miles of us, a widow and 
 a mother ! 
 
 Our correspondence had been broken off by the death, 
 of Mrs. Graham when she was about ten years eld. 
 and although I had twice called upon her in my cas- 
 ual visits to town during the lifetime of Mr. Cameron, 
 and although these visits had been most punctually 
 returned, it had happened, as those thing> do happen
 
 284 COTJXTRY LOBGTNGS. 
 
 in dear, provoking; London, v.-herc one i-^ fv-o in mipr 
 t!ic people one most v;ifhes to roc. that neither party 
 liad ever Ijcen at liome ; ro tiiat we liad never met, and 
 I was at full liberty to indulfre in my foolish propensi- 
 ty of sketching in my mind's e;/e a fancy portrait of 
 my unknown friend. 
 
 n Pensero?o is not more different from L' Allegro 
 llian was my anticipation from the charminjT reality. 
 Remembering well her mothcr'c delicate and fragile 
 grace of figure a)id countenance, and coupling w^th 
 that recollection her own unprotected and solitary 
 slate, and somewhat melancholy story, I had pictured 
 to myself (as if contrast were not in this world of ours 
 much more frequent than congruity) a mild, pensive, 
 interesting, fair-haired beauty, tall, pale, and slender ; 
 I found a Hebe, an Euphrosjme, — a round, rosy, jo}-- 
 ous creature, the very impersonation of youth, health, 
 sweetness, and gayety, laughter flashing from her ha- 
 7.el eyes, smiles dimpling round her coral lips, and the 
 rich curl of her chestnut hair, — for having been four- 
 teen months a widow, she had, of course, laid aside 
 the peculiar dress, — the glossy ringlets of her "bonny 
 brown hair" literally bursting from the comb that at- 
 lempted to confine them. 
 
 We soon found that her mind was as charming as 
 lier person. Indeed, her face, lovely as it v/as, derived 
 the best part of its loveliness from her sunny temper, 
 iier frank and ardent spirit, her affectionate and gen- 
 erous heart. It v^^as the ever-varying expression, an 
 expression which could not deceive, that lent such 
 matchless charms to her glov^'ing and animated coun- 
 tenance, and to the round and musical voice, sweet as 
 the spoken voice of Maill>ran, or the still fuller and 
 more exquisite tones of Mr. Jordan, which, true to tlie 
 feeling of the moment, vibrated alike to the wildest 
 gaiety and tlie deepest pathos. In a word, the chief 
 beauty of Helen Cameron was her sensibility. It v/an 
 the perfume to the rose.
 
 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 285 
 
 Tier little boy, horn just boforo his father's death, 
 and upon vvhoni she doated, was a niagnincent ])iece 
 of still life. Calm, plaeid, dignified, an infant Heron- 
 les for strengtii and fair proportions, grave as a judge, 
 quiet as a flower, he was, in pojjit of age, exactly at 
 that nios<t delightt'ul period when chiUh-en are very 
 pleasant to look upon, and rcfniiro no other sort of no- 
 tice whatsoever. Of course tlii.s stale of perfection 
 could not be expected to continue. The young gen- 
 tleman would soon aspire to the accomplishments of" 
 walking and talking — and then 1 — but as that hour of 
 turmoil and commotion to which his mamma looked 
 forward with ecstacy was yet at some months distance, 
 T contented myself with saying of master Arf;hy, with 
 considerably less than the usual falsehood, that which 
 everybody does say of only children, that lie was the 
 tinest baby that was ever seen. 
 
 We met almost every day. Mrs. Cameron was nev- 
 er weary of driving about our beautiful lanes in her 
 little pony-carriage, and usually called upon us in her 
 way home, we being not merely lier oldest, but almost 
 her only friends ; for, lively and social as was her tem- 
 per, there was a little touch of shyness about her. 
 which induced her rather to shun than to covet the 
 company of strangers. And indeed the cheerfulness 
 of temper, and activity of mind, which made her sn 
 charming an acquisition to a small circle, rendered 
 her independent of general society. Busy as a bee. 
 sportive as a butterfly, she passed the greater part of 
 her time in the open air, and having cauglit from mo 
 that very contagious and engrossing passion, a love of 
 floriculture, had actually undertaken the operation of 
 restoring the old garden at the Court — a coppice of 
 brambles, thistles,, and weeds of every description, 
 mixed with flowering shrubs and overgrown fruit-trees 
 — to something like its original order. Tlie farmer, to 
 be sure, had abandoned the job in despair, contenting 
 himself v.ith growing his cabbaf^es and potatoes in a 
 24
 
 28G COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 field hard h}'. But she was certain that she and her 
 maid Martlia, and the boy Bill, vvlio looked after her 
 pony, would weed the paths, and fill the flower-borders 
 in no time. We should see ; I had need take g-ood 
 care of my reputation, for she meant her garden to 
 beat mine. 
 
 AVhat progress Helen and her forces, a shatter-brain 
 boy who did not know a violet from a nettle, and Lon- 
 don-bred girl who had hardly seen a rose-bush in her 
 life, would have made in clearing this forest of under- 
 wood, might easily be foretold. Accident, however, 
 that frequent favorer of bold projects, came to her aid 
 in the shape of a more efficient coadjutor. 
 
 Late one evening, the fair Helen arrived at our cot- 
 tage with a face of unwonted gravity. Mrs. Davies 
 (her landlady) had used her very ill. She had taken 
 the west wing in total ignorance of there being other 
 apartments to let at the court, or she would have se- 
 cured them. And now a new lodger had arrived, had 
 actually taken possession of two rooms in the centre 
 of the house ; and Martha, who had seen him, said he 
 was a young man, and a handsome man — and she her. 
 self a yonng woman unprotected and alone I — It was 
 awkward, very awkward I Was it not very awkward? 
 What was she to do ? 
 
 Nothing could be done tliat night ; so far was clear ; 
 but we praised her prudence, promised to call at Upton 
 the next day, and if necessary, to speak to this new 
 lodger, who might after all be not very formidable ; 
 and, quite relieved by the vent which she had given 
 to her scruples, she departed in her usual good spirits. 
 
 Early the next morning she re-appeared. "She 
 would not have the nev.' lodger disturbed for the world ! 
 He was a Pole. One, doubtless, of those unfortunate 
 exiles. He had told Mrs. Davies that he was a Polish 
 gentleman, desirous chiefly of good air, cheapness, 
 and retirement. Be;/ond a doubt, he was one of those 
 unhappy fugitives. He looked grave, and pale, and
 
 COU^■TRY LODGINGS. 287 
 
 thoughlful, quite like a hero of romanec. Besides, he 
 was the very person who, a week before, had eaught 
 hold of the reins when that little restive pony had tak- 
 en fright at the baker's cart, and nearly backed Bill 
 and herself into the gravel-pit on Lanton common. Bill 
 had entirely lost all command over the pony, and but 
 for the stranger's presence of mind, she did not know 
 what would liave become of them. Surely I must re- 
 member her telling me the circumstance. Besides, 
 he was unfortunate I He was poor 1 — he was an exile 1 
 She would not be the means of driving him from the 
 asylum which he had chosen, for all the world ! — " No, 
 not for all my geraniums I" — an expression which is 
 by no means the anti-climax that it seems — for, in the 
 eyes of a florist, an enthusiast, and a woman, what is 
 this rusty fusty dusty musty bit of earth, called the 
 world, compared to a stand of bright flowers ? 
 
 And finding, upon inquiry, that M. Choynovv'ski (so 
 he called himself) had brought a letter of recommend- 
 ation from a respectable London tradesman, and that 
 there was cA'cry appearance of his bfiug, as our fair 
 young friend had conjectured, a foreigner in distress, 
 my father not only agreed that it would be a cruel at- 
 tcmjjt to drive him from his new home, (a piece of ty- 
 ranny which, even in this land of freedom, might, I 
 suspect, have been managed in the form of an offer of 
 double rent, by that grand despot, money, but resolved 
 to' offer the fjw attentions in our poor power, to one 
 whom every look and word proclaimed to be, in the 
 largest scn.se of the word, a gentleman. 
 
 My father had seen him, not on his visit of inquiry, 
 but, Oil a few days after, billhook in hand, hacking 
 away manfully at the briers and brambles of the gar- 
 den. My first view of him, was in the position even 
 less romantic, assisting a Belford tradesman to put up 
 a stove in the nursery. 
 
 One of Mrs. Cameron's few causes of complaint in 
 her country lodgings, had been the tendency to smoke
 
 283 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 ill that iiuportant apartment. We all know that, 
 when those two subtle essences, smoke and wind, once 
 come to do battle in a wide, open chimney, the invisi- 
 ble agent is pretty sm-e to have the best of tlie day, and 
 to drive his vapory enemy at full speed before hhn. 
 M. Choynowski, who by this time had established a 
 gardening acquaintance, not mercl}'' with Bill and 
 Martha, but with their fair mistress, happening to see 
 her, one windy evening, in a paroxysm of smoky dis- 
 tress, not merely recommended a stove, after the fash- 
 ion of the northern nations' notions, but immediately 
 walked into Belford to give his own orders to a re- 
 spectable ironmonger ; and they were in the act of 
 erecting this admirable accessary to warmth and com- 
 fort (really these words are synonymous) when I hap- 
 pened to call. 
 
 I could hardly have seen him under circumstances 
 better calculated to display his intelligence, his deli- 
 cacy, or his good breeding. The patience, gentleness, 
 and kind feelinfj, with which he contriA'cd at once to 
 excuse and to remedy certain blunders made by the 
 workmen in the execution of his orders, and the clear- 
 ness with which, ia perfectly correct and idiomatic 
 English, slightly tinged with a foreign accent, he ex- 
 plained the mechanical and scientific reasons for the 
 construction he had suggested, gave evidence at once 
 of no common talent, and of a considerateness and 
 good nature in its exercise more valuable than all the 
 talent in the world. If trifling and cvery-day occur- 
 rences afford, as I believe they do, the surest and 
 safest indications of character, we could have no hesi- 
 tation in pronouncing upon the amiable qualities of M. 
 Choynowski. 
 
 In person, he was tall and graceful, and very noble- 
 looking. His head was particularly intellectual, and 
 there was a calm sweetness about the mouth that was 
 singularly prepossessing. Helen had likened him to a 
 hero of romance. In my eyes, he bore much more
 
 COUNTRY LOGGINGS. 289 
 
 plainly the stamp of a man of fashion, of thai very 
 highest fashion which is too refined for finery, too 
 full of self-respect for affectation. Simple, natural, 
 mild, and gracious, the gentle reserve of his manner 
 added, under ihe circumstances, to the interest which 
 he inspired. Somewhat of that reserve continued even 
 after our acquaintance had ripened into intimacy. 
 He never spoke of his own past history, or future pros, 
 pects, shuinied all political discourse, and was with 
 difficulty drawn into conversation upon the scenery 
 and manners of the north of Europe. He seemed 
 afraid of the subject. 
 
 Upon general topics, whether of literature or art, 
 he was remarkably open and candid. He possessed, 
 in an eminent degree, the talent of acquiring Ian- 
 guages for which his countrymen are distinguished, 
 and had made the best use of tliosc keys of knowledge. 
 I have never met with any person whose mind was 
 more richly cultivated, or who was more calculated to 
 adorn the highest station. And here he was wasting 
 life in a secluded village in a foreign country 1 Whal 
 would become of him after his present apparently 
 slender resources should be exhausted, was painful to 
 imagine. The more ])ainful, that the accidental dis. 
 covery of the direction of a letter had disclosed his 
 former rank. It was part of an envelope addressed, 
 " A Monsieur Monsieur le Comte Choynowski," and 
 left as a mark in a book, all except the name being 
 torn off*. But the fact needed no confirmation. All 
 his habits and ways of thinking bore marks of high 
 station. What would become of him? 
 
 It was but too evident that another calamity was 
 impending over the. unfortunate exile. Although m-st 
 discreet in word and guarded in manner, every action 
 bespoke his devotion to his lovely fellow-inmate. Her 
 v.-ishes were his law. His attentions to her little boy, 
 were such as young men rarely show to infanta except 
 for love of the mother ; and the garden, that garden 
 24*
 
 290 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 abandoned t^hice ihe memory of man, (lor the Court, 
 ;)rcvious to the arrival of the present tenant, liad been 
 for years unmhabited.) was, under his exertions and 
 superintendence, rapidly assuming an aspect of luxu- 
 riance and order. It was not impossible but Helen 
 might realise her playful vaunt, and beat me in my 
 ov.'n art after all. 
 
 John (our gardening lad) was near being jealous as 
 possible, and, considering the estuuation in which John 
 is known to hold our doings in the flower way, such 
 jealousy must be accepted as the most flattering testi- 
 mony to his rival's success. To go beyond our gar- 
 den was, in John's opinion, to be great indeed I 
 
 Every thought of the Count Choynovrski was en- 
 grossed by the fair Helen ; and we sav/, with some 
 anxiety, that she in her turn was but too sensible of 
 his attentions, and that every thing belonging to his 
 country assumed in her eyes an absorbing importance. 
 She sent to London for all the books that could be ob- 
 tained respecting Poland ; ordered all the journals 
 that interested themselves in that interesting though 
 apparently hopeless cause ; turned liberal, — she "who 
 had been reared in the lap of conservatism, and Avhom 
 my father used laughingly tu call the little Tory ; — 
 turned Radical, turned Republican, — for she far out- 
 soared the moderate doctrines of whiggism in her po- 
 litical flights ; denounced the Emperor Nicholas as a 
 tyrant ; spoke of the Russians as a nation of savages ; 
 and in spite of the evident uneasiness v/ith which the 
 Polish exile listened to any allusion to the wrongs of 
 his country, for he never mingled in such discussions, 
 omitted no opportunity of proving her spmpathy by de- 
 claring with an animation and vehemence, as becoming 
 as anything so like scolding well could be, against the 
 cruelty and wickedness of the oppressors of that most 
 unfortunate of nations. 
 
 It was clear that the peace of both was endangered, 
 perhaps gone 1 and that it had become the painful du-
 
 COUNTRY LODGLXGS. 291 
 
 t.y of friends] lip to awaken tlicia from tlieir t-co-bcwitch. 
 iiig dream. 
 
 We had made an excursion, on one sunny summer'.^ 
 day, as far as the EverJey Hills. Helen, always im- 
 passioned, had been wrought into a passionate recol- 
 lection of her own native country, by the sight of the 
 heather just bursting into its purple bloom ; and M. 
 Cho3niowski, usually so self-possessed, had beeti be- 
 trayed into the expression of a kindred feeling by the 
 delicious odor of the fir plantations, which served to 
 transport him in imagination to the balm-breathing 
 forests of the North. This sympathy was a new, and 
 a strong bond of union between two spirits but too 
 congenial ; and I determined no longer to defer in- 
 forming tlie gentleman, in whose honor I placed the 
 most implicit reliance, of the peculiar position of our 
 fair friend. 
 
 Detaining him, therefore, to coffee, (we had taken 
 an early dinner in the fir grove,) and sufi^ering Helen 
 to go home to her little boy, 1 contrived, by leaving 
 the conversation to cajirieious wills, to communicate 
 to him, as if accidentally, the fact of her forfeiting her 
 whole income in the event of a second marriage. He 
 listened v/ith grave attention. 
 
 " Is she also deprived," inquired he, " of the guar- 
 dianship of her child ?" 
 
 " No. But as the sum allowed for his maintenance 
 is also to cease from the day of her nuptials, and the 
 money to accumulate until he is of age, she would, by 
 marrying a poor man, do irreparable injury to her son, 
 by cramping his education. It is a grievous restraint." 
 
 He made no answer. After two or three attempts 
 at conversation, which his mind v.as too completely 
 pre-occupied to sustahi, he bade us good night, and 
 returned to the Court. 
 
 The next morning we heard that he had left Upton, 
 and gone, they said, to Oxford. And I could not help
 
 292 COU.NTKY LODGINGSi 
 
 hoping that he had seen his danger, and would not re^ 
 turn until the peril was past. 
 
 I was mistaken. In two or three days he returned, 
 exhibiting less self-command than I had been led to 
 anticipate. The fair lady, too, 1 took occasion to re- 
 mind of this terrible will, in hopes, since he w'ould not 
 go, that she would have had the wisdom to have taken 
 her departure. 
 
 No such thing ; neither party would move a jot. I 
 might as well have bestow^ed my counsel upon the two 
 stone figures on the great gateway. And heartily sor- 
 ry, and a little angry, I resolved to let matters take 
 their own course. 
 
 Several weeks passed on, when one morning she 
 came to me in the sweetest confusion, the loveliest 
 mixture of bashfulness and joy. 
 
 " He loves me !" she said ; "he has told me that he 
 loves me I" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " And I have referred him to you. That clause — " 
 
 "He already knows it." And then 1 told her, word 
 for word, what had passed. 
 
 " He knows of that clause, and he still wishes to 
 marry me I He loves me for mytelfl Loves me, 
 knowing me to be a beggar I It is true, pure, disin. 
 terested affection 1" 
 
 "Beyond all doubt it is. And if you could live up- 
 on true love ■" 
 
 " Oh, but where that exists, and youth, and health, 
 and strength, and education, may we not be well con- 
 tent to try to earn a living together ? — think of the 
 happiness comprised in that word 1 I could give Ics- 
 sons ; — I am sure that I could. I would teach music, 
 and drawing, and dancing — anything for him 1 or we 
 could keep a school here at Upton — anywhere with 
 himl" 
 
 " And I am to tell him this ?"
 
 COLWTKY LOLGlISb::. 293 
 
 '' Not the words I" replied she, blubhing like a roae 
 at her own cariieslucss ; " not those words I" 
 
 Of course, it was not very long before M. Ic Comtc 
 made his appearance. 
 
 " God bic&s her, noble, generous creature I" cried he, 
 when I had fulhlled my commission. " God for ever 
 bless her 1" 
 
 " And you intend, to take her at her word, and set 
 np school together ?" exclaimed I, a little provoked at 
 his unscrupulous acceptance of her proffered sacrfice. 
 " You really intend to keep a lady's boarding-school 
 here at the Court?" 
 
 " I intend to take her at her word, most certainly," 
 replied he, very composedly ; " but I should like to 
 know, my good friend, what has put it into her head, 
 and into yours, that if Helen marries me she must 
 needs earn her own living ? Suppose I should tell 
 you," continued he, smiling, " that my father, one of 
 the richest of the Polish nobility, was a favorite friend 
 of the Emperor Alexander ; that the Emperor Nicho- 
 las continued to me the kindness which his brother 
 had shown to my father, and that I thought, as he 
 had done, (gratitude and personal attachment apart,) 
 that I could better serve my country, and more effect- 
 ually ainelioratc the condition of my tenants and vas- 
 sals, by submitting to the Russian government, than 
 by a hopeless struggle for national independence ? 
 Suppose that I were to confess, that chancing in the 
 course of a three years' travel to walk through this 
 pretty village of yours, I saw Helen, and could not 
 rest until I had seen more of her ; — supposing all this, 
 would you pardon the deception, or rather the allow- 
 ing you to deceive yourselves ? Oh, if you could but 
 imagine how deliglitful it is to a man, upon whom the 
 humbling conviction has been forced, that his society 
 is courted and his alliance sought for the accidents of 
 rank and fortune, to feel that he is, for once in his life, 
 honestly liked, fervently loved for himself, such ao he
 
 294 COUNTRY LODGINGS. 
 
 is, liis own very self, — if you could but fancy how 
 proud he is of such friendship, how happy in such love, 
 you would pardon him, I am sure you vrould ; you 
 would never have the heart to be angry. And nov/ 
 that the Imperial consent to a foreign union — the gra- 
 cious consent for which I so anxiously waited to au. 
 thorize my proposals — has at length arrived, do you 
 think," added the count, with some seriousness, " that 
 there is any chance of reconciling this dear Helen to 
 my august master ? or will she continue a rebel ?" 
 
 At this question, so gravely put, I laughed outright. 
 " Why really, my dear count, I cannot pretend to an- 
 swer decidedl}' for the turn that the affair might take ; 
 but my impression — to speak in the idiomatic English, 
 more racy than elegant, which you pique yourself upon 
 understanding — my full impression is, that Helen hav. 
 ing for no reason upon eartli but her interest in you, 
 raited from Conservatism to Radicalism, she will, for 
 the same cause, lose no time in ratling back again. 
 A woman's politics, especially if she be a young wo. 
 man, are generally the result of feeling rather than of 
 opinion, and our fair friend strikes me as a most un- 
 likely subject to form an exception to the rule. How- 
 ever, if you doubt my authority in this matter, you 
 have nothing to do but to inquire at the fountain-head. 
 There she sits, in the arbor. Go and ask." 
 
 And before the words were well spoken, the lover, 
 radiant with happiness, was at the side of his beloved.
 
 29rj 
 
 TO HIS OxRAXGE TRCE. 
 
 BY MRS. GORE. 
 
 '■ Count DemidofT, being at Rome in the year I'llS. dis- 
 covered in the convent garden of the Agostini del Corso, 
 an Orange Tree of prodigious size. The monks declined 
 parting with it; and the count was obliged to employ 
 much money and influence to determine them to consent 
 to its removal. They were finally induced to accept his 
 overtures; and the tree, which was planted in the open 
 air, v.-as taken up with an immense ball of earth, placed in 
 a case on wheels constructed for the purpose, and thus 
 conveyed from Rome to Moscow." — Dele.vze. 
 
 Banished — uptorn — sent rudely forth 
 
 To wither in an alien land, 
 Where in yon desolating north 
 
 The torpid deserts chill expand ; 
 Thou veteran of centuries — 
 
 Thou TREE I — whose golden hours have thriven 
 Beneath these genial, sunlit skies — 
 
 This high o'erarching vault of heaven, 
 Go ! faithful to thine Italy, 
 In icy exile pine and die I 
 
 Here, in this cloister's solitude, 
 
 Safe from the jarring world's alarms, 
 From mountain tempests, raging rude, 
 
 From strife of tongues, or clang of arms ; 
 Here, when in twilight, musing, slow, 
 
 Our sandalled feet unechoing move- 
 Nought but the sepulchre below — 
 
 Nought but Eternity above ; 
 How softly o'er thy vernal head ^P^ 
 
 Have silent vcars their blossoms shed '
 
 296 
 
 The distant chant, — the vesper hymn — 
 
 The orjran's solemn voice of prayer, 
 Sweeping thy leaves subdued and dim, 
 
 Dispersed their sweetness to the air ; 
 Henceforth, the world's unhallowed cries — 
 
 The ruffian's threat. — the maniac's scream- 
 Taunts — treasons — tortures — blasphemies 
 
 Will rouse tliee from thy jrentle dream ; 
 That dream of soft imaginings, 
 When angels fanned thee with thy wings. 
 
 This for thyself, oh ! blessed one I 
 
 For me — for me — to whom thou wert 
 The dewdrop on the desert's stone — 
 
 The sunbeam on a blighted heart ; 
 The promise of a higher sphere — 
 
 In bliss and beauty bright as thine ; 
 Something that whispered patience here. 
 
 Something that augured joys divine : 
 How shall I bear, when thou art gone. 
 The earth thy shadow fell upon ! 
 
 Without thy bloom, thy gold-orbed fruit. 
 
 To grace each season's passing prime. 
 O ! how shall life its records suit 
 
 To the old calendar of time ! — 
 How — of thy gelid shade bereft, 
 
 How — plundered of thy shedding fiowers. 
 Shall I endure my penance, — left 
 
 To count my solitary hours 
 By sighs in hopeless sadness sent 
 Unto thy frozen banishment ! 
 
 O tree of life ! — O tree of love ! 
 
 What parting pledge can I bestow 
 Thy memory of the past to move, 
 
 Far in yon wilderness of snow ?
 
 MARCH OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS. 291 
 
 My tears I — my blessing ! — precious tree : 
 Bear them like dewdrops pure and bright, — 
 
 Bear them, like murmurs of the bee, 
 A token to the Muscovite ; 
 
 How dear thou art to those who dwell 
 
 In thine own land. Farewell I — farewell 1 
 
 BY MRS. CRAWFORD. 
 
 Sons of the mountain heroes I 
 Wing the arrow, wield the brand, 
 And save your native land ; 
 Invoking souls of deathless fame, 
 On to the fight I with hearts of flame, 
 And fired by high Llevrellyn's name. 
 The tyrant's power withstand I 
 
 Shades of the mountain heroes I 
 Hover o'er the field of wo I 
 And bless the avenging blow I 
 As stars within their distant spheres, 
 To man's adoring eyes appear. 
 All shining through the mist of years, 
 Look from your hills of snow I 
 
 Sons of the mountain heroes I 
 
 Rise like whirlwinds in your might ! 
 
 Be gods, and win the fight I 
 Our freedom and our hearths to keep. 
 Let every vein in Cambria weep ; 
 Up, soldiers I to the mountain steep I 
 
 St. David and our right I 
 
 25
 
 BY THE HON. AUGUSTA NORTON,'. 
 
 " Why did she love him ? — Curious fool, be still ' 
 Is human love the growth of human will ?'' 
 
 " It is very strange," said Caroline St. Clair, starl- 
 ing sudddenly from her seat, and pacing her room 
 with hurried steps ; " it is very strange I cannot learn 
 to love Lord Frederick Fitzraaurice ; the perfection 
 of every thing one could wish for, as every body says ; 
 handsome, rich, talented, amiable I — and it is equally 
 strange, and alas ! not less true, that I cannot help 
 loving Charles Moray, whom nobody seems to think 
 has anything particular to recommend him. It is true 
 his strange manner is rather against him ; but then, 
 though he seems cold, and almost indifferent to other 
 people, he is never so to me ; and this, in my vain eyes, 
 is just an additional reason for liking him. 
 
 " The sun shines bright when all 's awake. 
 On earth and o'er the deep ; 
 I like the moon which shines on mc 
 When all the v/orld's asleep !'' 
 
 " Still, thougli they are much too indulgent to press 
 It, I know my father and mother wish me to marry 
 Lord Frederick, and that consideration ought to out- 
 weigh my wayward predilection for Charles. I also 
 know that could my proud father see his darling daugh- 
 ter's heart laid bare before him — did he but suspect the 
 passion she is cherishing there — it would bring his gray 
 hairs with sorrow to the grave ; and this consideration 
 ought — not only to make me hate that passion, but 
 feel indifferent to its object; and yet," she continued, 
 and she shook her head mournfully as she spoke, " I
 
 LOVE AND VANITY. 299 
 
 cannot subdue it ; it has gained a place in my ver}' 
 soul, too strong, my conscience tells me, for any human 
 affection to hold there, and I must submit to its control. 
 Still my family need not fear" — and unconsciously she 
 walked more proudly through the room, — "If Care- 
 line St. Clair cannot make passion 3'^ield to principle, 
 she will at least be the only sufferer herself; if she 
 cannot make her father and mother happy by marry- 
 ing Lord Frederick, the object of their choice, she will 
 not make them miserable by uniting herself to any one 
 against their inclinations. No, no ! mine alone be the 
 misery, the proper penalty of encouraging a love which 
 my reason tells me to be wrong. But," she continued, 
 after a pause, my unhappiness will not be the only 
 fruit of that encouragement ; at least, if Charles loves 
 me as I love him, he will be miserable too, when he 
 finds that our love is hopeless, and can only be in- 
 dulged in at the expense of my father's curse ; and to 
 be the cause of misery to Charles is more than I could 
 bear. Oh !" she passionately exclaimed, throwing her- 
 self on a sofa, and burying her face in her hands ; "bet- 
 ter marry Lord Frederick than this I It may be still 
 time to save Charles ; he has never said he loves me — 
 perhaps he does not ; and v/ere I another's, his better 
 principle would soon enable him to get over any little 
 predilection he may now feel for me. Though I can- 
 not loce Lord Frederick, I could at least be a good 
 wife. I think I know what constitutes that. I would 
 endure every thing, try every thing; in sickness I 
 would watch over him, in sorrow sympathise with 
 him ; but then," and she shuddered as the idea came 
 over her — " should a thought of Charles steal across 
 me, how I should hate myself I Oh, how could I, with 
 my affections fixed on another, look in my hushand's 
 face and smile I No, no, no, that were impossible ! 
 And yet what to do ? the post hour approaches, and 
 my father says I must write definitively to Lord Fred- 
 erick to-day. Oh for one friend in the wide world
 
 300 LOVE AND VANITY. 
 
 whose opinion I might ask, whose opinion I could fol- 
 low I But," she exclaimed, as a sudden idea seemed to 
 strike her, " I have such a friend ; one whose advice I 
 have often asked, and always followed — and that friend 
 is Charles. Yes, I am resolved what to do ; I know 
 he is in the library just now ; I will go to him, tell him 
 of Lord Frederick's unfortunate fancy for me, my fa- 
 mily's more unfortunate wishes on the subject, and ask 
 him what I am to do. I shall discover whether he 
 loves me or not — if he Joes, no power on earth shall 
 induce me to accept Lord Frederick — if he does not, 
 for my father's and mother's sake, I will sacrifice my. 
 self, and marry him." 
 
 So reasoned Caroline, the only child of Sir John and 
 Lady St. Clair, and having arrived at this extraordi- 
 nary conclusion, to the library she forthwith proceed- 
 ed. She found Charles Moray reading, and laying 
 her hand gently on his shoulder, apologized for inter- 
 rupting his studies. 
 
 " You never interrupt me, Caroline," he replied, 
 "you know you do not ; so sit down, and tell me what 
 you want." 
 
 " Your advice, dear Charles ; it is on rather a 
 strange subject, but there is no other unprejudiced 
 person to whom I can apply." 
 
 " My best advice you shall have ; but do not be too 
 sure I am unprejudiced ; for I fear the best of us are 
 only so when we take no interest in the point in ques. 
 tion ; and this you know, Caroline, is not very likely 
 to be the case when you are my client." 
 
 Caroline blushed slightly at the implied compliment, 
 and seating herself in a window opposite, so that she 
 could study his expression without herself being ex- 
 posed to a like scrutiny, she began to state her case. 
 
 He listened with deep attention, nor could Caroline 
 discover the slightest emotion which betrayed anything 
 beyond the brotherly regard he had always expressed 
 for her, until she came to that part of her narrative
 
 LOVE AND VANITY. 301 
 
 which touched on lior own indifference. " And now, 
 Charles," she concluded, " here is the puzzling part of 
 the affair ; I do not love Lord Frederick, I feel I never 
 can." When he heard this declaration a deep flush of 
 pleasure suffused his usuall}'^ pale countenance, and as. 
 Caroline caught the gratified expression which sparkled 
 in his dark eyes, she felt almost certain he loved her. 
 It was however but for a moment he allowed his feel- 
 ing to get the better of him, for instantly resuming his 
 former quiet manner, he replied to Caroline's repeated 
 question as to what she was to do, with the most per- 
 fect calmness. "Why if 3-ou neither do love him, nor 
 ever can, I should say, you ought not to accept of him; 
 but I can scarce think it possible for any one to know 
 Lord Frederick and not to like him. He is one of the 
 most perfect characters I ever met with ; and when 
 you call to mind your father and mother's wish to see 
 you settled, their strong prepossessions in his favor, 
 and how v.'ell he merits their high opinion, I should 
 think you would not find it very difficult to comply 
 with their wishes." 
 
 " From all which I think it would appear, Charles, 
 that you recommend me to marry him now, upon the 
 chance of being able to like him afterwards. Well, 
 as it is your advice, I shall make the experiment ;" and 
 Caroline rose to leave the room. 
 
 " Nay Caroline," interrupted Charles, " stay a lit- 
 tle ; I don't think what I said quite amounted to that. 
 It would indeed be a fearful experiment, and one I 
 should not feel justified in recommending to any one, 
 far less to you, in whom I feel so deeply interested. 
 What I meant to say was, that if you knew Lord 
 Frederick better,- you would probably like him better ; 
 and I was going to suggest you should ask a longer 
 delay before finally deciding." 
 
 " That would scarcely be honorable, Charles," re- 
 plied Caroline, "because I feel convinced time can 
 make no alteration in my feelings lov/ards him ; and I 
 25*
 
 302 LOVE AND VANITY. 
 
 respect myself and him too much to trifle with him. 
 If I marry him it must be to study resignation to my 
 fate, not with the prospect of bettering it ; and there- 
 fore, if it is to be done, perhaps the sooner I begin my 
 hard lesson the easier I shall find it." 
 
 There was a tone of melancholy in the voice in which 
 Caroline uttered this last sentence which nearly proved 
 too much for Charles's philosophy. He longed to 
 throw himself at her feet, and there breathe out the 
 confession of a love he had felt for her for years — a 
 love at least as ardent, as exclusive as her own ; but 
 he was so well aware Sir John would consider him no 
 fit match for his beautiful and talented daughter, that 
 he had kept this secret of his heart locked up from eve- 
 ry human eye, and now he felt was not the time to dis- 
 close it. " If," he thought, " of her own free will and 
 accord she refuses Lord Frederick, then with a quiet 
 conscience may I continue to love her ; but if, from 
 any hint of mine she were induced to come to that de- 
 termination, never again should I know what peace 
 was. I know he is every way more worthy of her than 
 I am ; and Heaven forbid that my own selfish wishes 
 should ever interfere with the chance of her happiness !" 
 By thus reasoning with his better feelings, Charles was 
 enabled to resist a temptation which had nearly proved 
 too much for him ; and assuring Caroline of his total 
 inability to give an opinion on so difficult a subject, 
 he begged of her to be guided by her own good sense. 
 
 " And is this the result ?" she said, with a bitter 
 smile ; " is this the result of all your researches after 
 that knowledge of the world on which you so much 
 pride yourself, Charles ? Had you spent those years 
 you have devoted to the study of strangers in foreign 
 lands, at home, — ^you would at least have known more 
 of its feelings, and affections — you would perhaps have 
 known that at this moment I am the creature in the 
 world the least likely to be guided by my oion good 
 sense."
 
 LOVE AND VANITY. 303 
 
 " Perhaps I might, Caroline," he replied, with a tone 
 of deeply wounded feeling; "but, as it is, you must 
 see my inability to speak on a subject I so little under- 
 stand. What, indeed, can a cold philosophising in- 
 quirer into the OMfz^artZ customs of /ore/ o-Tzers, know 
 of the inward feeling of the heart and home ?" 
 
 And yet, thought Caroline, as a smile of triumph 
 passed over her countenance, never did I feel no con- 
 vinced of his knowledge of both as at this moment. — 
 And it was with a resolved step she left the library, 
 and with a lightened heart she wrote a polite refusal 
 to Lord Frederick. 
 
 It is now time to say a little about Charles Moray. 
 He was the orphan son of an intimate friend of Sir John 
 St. Clair, whose ward he was, and to whose guardian- 
 ship he had been committed when still a child. Sir 
 John instantly took him to his ovv'n home, and ever 
 since had acted the part of a parent tov.-ards him. He 
 was possessed of a small, but what is generally termed, 
 an independent fortune, and was now on a visit of a 
 few months to his guardian, previous to his taking up 
 his residence on his ov/n estate in Scotland. He was 
 aware of Lord Frederick's attachment to Caroline, and 
 had been endeavoring ever since his return from the 
 continent, to school himself into seeing her become the 
 wife of another with some degree of patience. But 
 now that he had heard her declare her indifference to 
 him, and knew from herself that she had refused him, 
 he once more allowed himself to love her ; and week 
 after week stole away leaving jio trace behind, except 
 the record of their increased affection. Still, when 
 Caroline did pause to think — v.-hcn, for a few moments, 
 she awakened from the dream wliich had taken such 
 strong possession of her, she was not happy. Her 
 conscience told her she had preferred her own gratifi- 
 cation to that of her indulgent parents; that she was 
 encouraging passion at the expense of principle ; and 
 there was a certain indistinct anticipation of retribu-
 
 304 LOVE AND VANITY. 
 
 lion which would often steal upon her in the silence of 
 the night, and send tlie blood mantling to her forehead, 
 though there was no human eye there to witness it. — 
 And Charlei^, too, had his hours of reflection and self- 
 accusation. It is strange how natural sophistry seems 
 to the mind of man; and how often, by its false rea- 
 soning, we try to reconcile our conscience to what we 
 hnow to be wrong ! But the still small voice will not 
 always be so silenced ; and though Charles said to 
 himself and said truly, he had never tried to win Ca- 
 roline's affections, and had never told her that he loved 
 lier, still he kncAv that he had won that confiding 
 heart, and that latterly he had taken no pains to con- 
 real how completely that love was returned. 
 
 About this time a distant cousin of the St, Clairs 
 came to pay them a visit. She was young, beautiful, 
 and accomplished ; but though her manner seem.ed 
 artless, and her heart warm, she was in fact cold, 
 worldly, selfish, vain. Caroline had not known Nora 
 Vivian long enough to find out her true character, and 
 welcomed her to Clair Park with unaffected pleas- 
 ure. Had she known — could she have anticipated the 
 viper she was taking to her bosom, how different would 
 have been her greeting I Miss Vivian had had macli 
 Intercourse with the world, and profited thereby ; and 
 she had not been long in the house with Charles and 
 Caroline before she discovered tlie attachment which 
 subsisted between them, and determined, " pour passer 
 le temps," as she expressed it in a letter to a chosen 
 spirit, to interrupt the course of their " innocent affec- 
 tion." This was the one object of her actions by day 
 and thoughts by night ; and for some time she could 
 scarcely conceal how much her vanity was mortified 
 by the slow progress she made in her heartless scheme. 
 Caroline was so confident in her own affection, so 
 confiding in Charles's, that no hint Nora could give, 
 distinct or implied, ever gave lier any uneasiness ; and 
 then, though always polite, Charles's manner towards
 
 LOVE AND VANITY. .305 
 
 her was so cold, so distant, that she felt her very pride 
 concerned in winning him from Caroline. " One smile 
 from that piece of indiflerencc," she said to herself one 
 day, as she sat musing how she was to proceed, " would 
 be worth more in my eyes than the adulation of a mul- 
 titude — but how to obtain it ? I see I must alter my 
 plans ; and as I cannot rouse her suspicions, I must 
 try and work upon his vanity. I will attract to my- 
 self by imperceptible degrees, and in a manner which 
 no polite person can refuse, all those little attentions 
 which now are so exclusively her own — she will feel 
 this and resent it. The vanity of woman has passed 
 into a proverb, but my experience proves that of man to 
 be greater ; therefore Charles Moray's pride is hurt by 
 Caroline's reproachful manner, I will minister to his 
 vanity by a thousand numberless attentions, which, 
 in that hour of mortified affection, will be to him like 
 sunrise to the benighted traveller." We will not stop 
 to follow Miss Vivian through the crooked path she 
 thus marked out for herself; sufnce it to say she had 
 drawn her conclusions from but too intimate a knowl- 
 edge of the human heart, and the truth and accuracy 
 of her calculations were but too well proved by the re- 
 sult. 
 
 By an appearance of great helplessness and depend- 
 ence upon Mr. Moray's assistance and support, which 
 she knew would gratify his pride, and which she knew 
 well how to assume, Nora soon managed to usurp al- 
 most the whole of his attention. If they rode, she 
 was nervous, and though it was dreadfully selfish to 
 steal him from dear, dear Caroline, still, if he would 
 ride alongside of her horse, she would feel secure. If 
 they v/alked, she was sure to feel fatigued almost im- 
 mediately, and compelled to take the arm Charles was 
 so polite as to offer. In the house it was the same 
 thing ; if she sung, Charles must take second ; she was 
 foolishly timid and never could sing alone. If she 
 played, he must turn the pages — in short, he was for-
 
 306 LOVE AKB VANITY. 
 
 ever by her side ; and so well did she play her part, 
 that, at first, he fancied that, without a great breach 
 of politeness, he could not act otherwise. By degrees, 
 iiowever, his politeness assumed a much warmer cha- 
 racter ; he neglected Caroline almost entirely, and at 
 last, much to his own surprise, found himself despe- 
 rately in love v%^ith Miss Vivian. It is human nature 
 io feel neglect, and to resent it ; and Caroline did some- 
 times feel mortified to see all the attention once so ex- 
 clusively her own, bestowed upon another, but she did 
 not resent it. Perhaps, at times, imconsciously her 
 manner towards him w^as colder than it used to be, but 
 that was but a passing feeling of wounded vanity ; she 
 was too strong in the strength of her own attaclur.ent, 
 to allow any thing of a serious suspicion of his to en- 
 ter her mind. Things, however, could not long con- 
 tinue in this state, and at last her eyes were destined 
 to be opened. 
 
 Cliarles had promised to accompany her to a village 
 a few miles off, to assist her in fixing on a site for a 
 cottage Sir John was anxious to have built for an old 
 servant. She walked into the drawing-room one beau- 
 tiful forenoon, and asked him if he was ready to ac- 
 company her, adding, she feared the distance was too 
 great for Nora to walk. 
 
 To this Nora instantly assented, but Charles made 
 no reply, and upon Caroline turning towards him, she 
 was surprised to see him standing irresolute in the 
 middle of the room. She smiled confidently on him, 
 and again asked him if he was ready to accompany 
 her. 
 
 " If to-morrow would do as well, Caroline," he re- 
 plied, with some confusion — " I should be delighted to 
 escort you — but I have just promised Miss Vivian to 
 stay at home and practise the duet we were trying 
 over last night." 
 
 " Strange," thought Caroline, " to prefer practising 
 a duet with Nora to walking with me !" but, adding
 
 LOV£ AND VANITV. 307 
 
 aioud, " Very well, Charles, though it is loo far for inc 
 lo walk aloiic, I can easily ride there," she left the 
 room ; before ^^hc had proceeded many steps, she re- 
 membered she had forgotten to order her horses, and 
 returned to the drawing-room, to do so. She gently re- 
 opened the door, and found Charles leo.ningover Nora 
 at the piano, his arm, unforbidden, thrown resting 
 round her waist. They started at her approach, a 
 cold shudder came over Caroline, and scarcely believ- 
 ing she saw aright, she fixed her eyes on those of 
 Charles — they sank beneath her searching glance, and 
 in the conscious flush of guilt which burned on his 
 brow, she read the truth. Caroline was a creature of 
 impulse, as we have seen ; she w'as sensitive too, to a 
 painful degree, but she was also proud ; as the truth 
 first flashed upon her, she thought she must have died 
 on the spot ; there was a sickness of heart — an anni- 
 hilation of all she cared about, of all that made life 
 dear to her, which nearly struck her to the ground ; 
 but pride came to her aid, and raising her eyes from 
 the carpet, and fixing upon Charles a smile " more 
 terrible in its reproachlessv.css than Gorgon hideous- 
 ness," she said, with a quietness almost unnatural, " 1 
 had forgotten to order my horses — will you ring and 
 do it for mc ?" And then, without giving him time to 
 answer, she v.'alked composedly out of the room, and 
 before Charles had time to collect his tempestuous 
 feelings, he sav,-^ her dash past the window on her beau- 
 tiful pet, Selim. 
 
 Poor Caroline's ride was a sad one ; there was the 
 agonising feelnig of misplaced affection, of outraged 
 confidence ; and that still small voice, which in her 
 happier hours had only ichiapercd blame for preferrmg 
 her own happincs:^ to that of her father and mother, 
 had nov/ increased into an accusation too loud for any 
 sophism to silence. Her brain was on fire, and giving 
 the reins to her horse, she sought, by bodily exertion, 
 to calm the fever which raged within ; but it would
 
 303 LOVE AND VANITY. 
 
 not do ; and checking Selim to a walk, she bent her 
 head on his mane and wept bitterly. — "And has it 
 come to this ?" she at last passionately exclaimed, as 
 she slowly raised her head, and threw back the long 
 dark ringlets which clustered down her burning cheeks 
 — " has il come to this — to tears? and does Caroline 
 St. Clair weep because she could not make her passion 
 yield to principle, and because a just and retributing 
 God has now made the object of her idolatry the in- 
 strument of his vengeance ? 1 know" — she continued, 
 as she raised her tearful eyes to the clear smiling sky — 
 " I know if I have inclined my heart to any evil way, 
 thou wilt not hear me — but now, in this hour of agony, 
 when I pray to thee for strength to tear that evil from 
 my soul, thou wilt not refuse thine aid to thine offend- 
 ing, but suffering child — Oh, give me strength patient- 
 ly to endure what I have but too well deserved. Ena- 
 ble me to veil from every eye, especially from his, the 
 desolation he has caused ; and do thou enable me not 
 only to endure, but to smile upon misfortune, even as 
 thine own clear sky smiles upon a v/orld of v^icked- 
 ness." 
 
 Thus did poor Caroline try to strengthen herself for 
 the trial she felt awaiting her, but she had received a 
 blow from which sh? never recovered, and though she 
 struggled on, and even smiled on those around, hers 
 was not the quiet smile of happiness ; it was too bright ; 
 too like the lightning's flash to speak of peace within ; 
 and those who were well versed in the mind's deep 
 philosophy, might have traced its meteoric brightness 
 home to the cloud from which it emanated ; its bright, 
 ness might have dazzled, but could not hide from 
 them the darkness of its origin. 
 
 Caroline's one aim and object now seemed to be lo 
 conceal, from all around her, the grief that was dc- 
 stroying her. There v/crc times, indeed, when she al- 
 most wished Charles knew the agony she endured, that 
 something
 
 LOVi: AND VANITV. 309 
 
 blackness of liis ingratitude ; but slic chased the wish 
 IVom her heart, as something too lowering, too humbling 
 to gain achnittauce there. " Never, never," she ex- 
 claimed, striking her beating heart, " shall he see the 
 havoc he has connnitted here ; perhaps the time may 
 come when a little experience may make him/ecZ iiow 
 he has outraged a heart that has trusted him, confided 
 in him, loved liim as no other woman will ever do again, 
 but never shall he hear this from my reproaches. No, 
 though the struggle may hasten a death which has al- 
 ready begun, I will be to him, in appearance at least, 
 the same as 1 ever have been," And Caroline acted 
 up to her resolves, v/ith a firmness scarcely credible. 
 She read to her father, drove with her mother, walked 
 and rode with Nora and Charles as before ; she omitted 
 no kindness, neglected no attention, and, if she ever 
 gave v/ay to her feelings, it was in the silent solitude 
 of her own chamber, or on the neck of her faithful Se- 
 lim. 
 
 It is strange how blind are those around us to the 
 change from health to sickness, if it be but gradual I 
 How, day by day, the cheek may pale, the eye grow 
 dim, the strength decay, and none mark the change I 
 And so it was with Caroline ; none saw her heart was 
 breaking ; none saw that she was dying ; till she sunk 
 exhausted beyond the chance of recovery. 
 
 Several months previous to this, Nora left Clair 
 Park, and was very soon followed by the deluded 
 Charles, who Vv'ent to lay his heart, his fortune, and 
 his fate at her tiny feet. She started with well- 
 feigned surprise, and then having begged of him to 
 rise, with a politeness that chilled him, she proceeded 
 with the utmost coolness to inform him that his case 
 v/as hopeless ; that she had been engaged for some 
 time before she had the pleafuuc of his acquaintance, 
 and that she was to be married to hio fortunate rival 
 next week. This was retributive ; but Charles's cup 
 was not yet full. Nora saw the wound she had in- 
 26
 
 310 LOVE A^D VANITY. 
 
 llicted, and with a hearllessness which but too well ac- 
 corded with the rest of her behavior, she determined to 
 probe still more deeply, and concluded her repl}' to 
 Ciiarles by saying, she never could sufficiently ex- 
 press her regret at the mistake vvhich had occurred, 
 but that really she could not understand how it had 
 arisen, for that, as far as she herself was concerned, 
 she could honestly declare, her regard for Mr. Moray 
 had never amounted to any thing beyond that friend- 
 ship which their country intimacy seemed to her com- 
 pletely to justify, but which she would not have suf- 
 fered herself to indulge in, had she not seen, or fancied 
 she saw, an attachment subsisting between himself 
 and Carolhie St. Clair, strong enough to defy every 
 danger." 
 
 Charles's eyes were now opened, but it was too late, 
 and he hurried to the Continent, in solitude to brood 
 over that disappointment, which he felt he but too well 
 deserved. One day, as he sat musing in his room and 
 gazing listlessly on the Lake of Geneva, which lay 
 stretched in beauty before^ him, his servant brought 
 him a letter. " From home, sir," said he, as he laid it 
 on the table, and left the apartment. The word home 
 sounded strangely in Charles's ear — 
 
 " I have no home now," he mentally exclaimed, as 
 lie took the letter up. 
 
 " I once had a home, and friends, but now ! I am an 
 isolated being vrith none to care for me, not worthy of 
 being cared about :" — and he opened the letter with a 
 degree of apathy that seemed strange in one so young. 
 It was from his guardian. Sir John St. Clair, inform- 
 ing hmi, in all the agony of a fond father's heart, of 
 Caroline's illness. " Come to us, dear Charles," — the 
 broken-hearted old man concluded ; — " ccome to us in 
 this our night of gloom ; wc are indeed in need of a 
 friend, and no where, 1 am sure, could we find so sin- 
 cere a one as yourself." This v% as indeed a severe blow 
 to Charles ; he, in a manner the murderer of Caroline,
 
 LOVE AND VAXITY. 311 
 
 to be written to by her fatlier in this trusting, this con- 
 fiding manner I — it was too much almost for human 
 nature to bear. " I will at least go," lie exclaimed, in 
 the torture of a self-accusing conscience, " and view 
 the wretchedness my heartless vanity has occasioned." 
 He rang the bell, and gave orders for his instant de- 
 parture, nor did ho halt by night or by day, rmtil he 
 reached his destination. How often in the course of 
 that journey did the thoughts of all that had passed 
 come over him, till his heart burned and his brain mad- 
 dened I How often did he vow that if Caroline were 
 but spared, a life of devotion should prove the sincerity 
 of his repentance, the devotedness of his again doating 
 heart ! But vain v^-ere his vows, vain his repentance I 
 
 He reached Clair Park on a beautiful autumn after- 
 noon ; the setting sunlx?ams fell redly on the oaks and 
 elms which clothed the richly wooded park, already 
 clad in all the varied hues of October ; and glittered 
 on the Gothic windows of the old hall in waving masses 
 of burnished gold. 
 
 All looked so like what he had often seen it before, 
 that Charles tried to persuade himself his fears were 
 exaggerated ; but as the post-boy slowly walked his 
 horses up a steep part of the approach, the lov/ moan- 
 ing of the wind sounded mournfully in his ears, and a 
 shower of dead leaves which it wafted into the car- 
 riage window checked his rising hopes. 
 
 A beam of pleasure passed over Sir John St. Clair's 
 countenance as his young friend entered his room, but 
 a melancholy shake of the head was his only reply to 
 Charles's inquiries after Caroline ; lie expressed his 
 v/ish to see her ; but Sir John seemed to doubt if she 
 had sufficient strength left to bear the agitation of the 
 interview ; he said, hovrever, she was aware he was 
 coming, and that he would send to inform her of his 
 arrival. 
 
 Gently and with many fears did Lady St. Clair com. 
 municate this piece of intelligence to her dying daugh.
 
 312 LOVE AND VANITY. 
 
 ter, for during anxious watchingsof many alongniglit 
 and day something like a suspicion of the truth had 
 dawned upon Jier. But, contrary to her expectation, 
 Caroline seemed quite pleased to hear that Charles 
 was in the house. " He will comfort you, molher, 
 when I am gone," she said ; " thank God, I can now 
 die tranquilly !" 
 
 "He is anxious to see you, Caroline ; may I tell him 
 to come ?" asked Lady St. Clair. The hectic flush, 
 which a moment before had burned on Caroline's 
 cheek, died suddenly away when she heard her mo- 
 ther's question, and a deadly paleness overspread her 
 countenance as her head sank back on the sofa on 
 which she was reclining ; at last she slowly raised it 
 again, and pressing her forehead against her mother's 
 hand, who w^as leaning alarmedly over her, she said 
 faintly — 
 
 " See him ! Oh no ! — I have loved him too much, 
 mother, — he would again estrange my thoughts from 
 that heaven wliere I hope so soon to be. I am glad he 
 has come ; but, indeed, indeed I cannot see him now." 
 
 " You shall not, then, my beloved child," replied 
 Lady St. Clair, soothingly ; " I will tell him you do 
 not feel strong enough to-day ; and to-morrow, per- 
 haps ." " Yes, mother," interrupted Caroline with 
 
 a faint smile, " tell him that to-morrow he may see me" 
 and Lady St. Clair left the room. " Yes, to-morrow," 
 continued Caroline, "he may, indeed, see me, for I 
 shall not be able to see him then — to-morrow, I feel, 
 I shall be beyond the reach of temptation." 
 
 The room in which Caroline was, had always been 
 her favorite sitting room ; it opened into a conserva- 
 tory, which again opened into some beautifully-kept 
 pleasure grounds ; and in consequence of an occasional 
 difficulty of breathing with which Caroline was an- 
 noyed, both these doors Vv^ere now open. A rustling 
 sound amongst the leaves caused her to look up ; one 
 glance told her the figure she saw in the conservatory
 
 LOVE AND VAXITV. ol3 
 
 v;as Cliarlos, and before she had time or strength to 
 fjrbid his approach, he was beside lier. 
 
 "Caroline," he exclaimed, as he took her wan hand 
 in his, " can you forgive me ? Can you pardon, angel 
 as j'OU are, the wretch who has sacrificed your happi- 
 ness and his own to a vanity as weak as it was heart- 
 less ?" 
 
 It was some moments before Caroline was able to 
 reply. A bright flash flitted over her face, then settled 
 into one deep red hectic spot on one cheek, whilst all 
 the rest of her countenance was of a marble whiteness 
 — at last she spoke, and it was with a calmness which 
 seemed to herself alm.ost unaccountable, and with 
 v.'hich Heaven alone could have inspired her. 
 
 " Charles," she said, " I have long since forgiven 
 3'ou ; it would ill have become one, standing so much 
 in need of forgiveness from Heaven, to withhold it from 
 you on earth ; but oh ! for the sake of that peace of 
 mind, without which this life is but a living death, 
 never yield again to the unrestrained influence of those 
 passions which have destroyed us both. In me, Charles, 
 behold an example of their desolating effects ; and if 
 ever again you feel your principles in danger of yield- 
 ing to these temptations, oh ! let this my dying warn- 
 ing, sound to you, like a voice from the tomb, and 
 awaken you in time to save you ! Too blest are my 
 sufferings, if they can pave from a single pang one still 
 too dear !" 
 
 " Bless you, Caroline ! a thousand times," faltered 
 the repentant Charles ; " but you must live, and must 
 not die, my Caroline I you must live to comfort your 
 father and mother ; to cheer me on my difficult course ;" 
 and he gazed intently on her face. 
 
 " Heaven will do both, Charles," she replied ; "that 
 heaven which enables me to feel my hand in yours, to 
 know once more that you love me, and yet to say, ' I 
 am content to die.' " And a smile, happy, triumphant, 
 
 26*
 
 314 THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE. 
 
 pure as that heaven she ppoke of, settled on her dying 
 oountenance. 
 
 Charles gazed en her for some minutes in silence, 
 fearful to interrupt a tranquility so beautiful ; but the 
 coldness of the hand he held in his alarmed him, and 
 he rose n-om his knee beside her, saying he would shut 
 the door, as the evening was chill. 
 
 " The cold will not hurt me now, Charles," she faint- 
 ly replied ; he felt his hand convulsively grasped by 
 hers, he heard one short deep sigh, and he saw she was 
 no more. He saw by the smile vrhich still illuminated 
 her countenance that her once erring but now purified 
 spirit had fled to its native home — but he felt his van- 
 ity had killed the only thing he ever truly loved on 
 earth. 
 
 ifs^ig ©@[yiB^ ^a^if 'irTiiKi[i3:^[i[2)©gc, 
 
 IN MDCLXIV. 
 
 The green slopes and birclien groves of Somerhill 
 were basking under the brightness of an unclouded 
 summer sun, and even the grey stone walls of the ven- 
 erable Hall looked gay and gladsome under its cheer- 
 ing influence. In addition to the innumerable song- 
 sters whose melody daily enlivens the flowery thickets 
 by which it is surrounded, there v.'^as a swell of sweet 
 and stately music pealing along the trim alleys, ac- 
 companied, at intervals, by a measure of harmonious 
 voices, breathing welcome to the fair of the fairest 
 court in Christendom — King Charles teas feasting at 
 Somerhill .' 
 
 The minstrels remained invisible among the entan- 
 gled garden-bowers ; but the gay beings unto whom 
 ihey addressed their flattering invocations, were seen
 
 THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE. 315 
 
 scallercd in groups upon the closely shaven turf, in- 
 haling the rich fragrance of the bursting magnolia- 
 flowers, or glancing from out the green-wood walkf; — 
 gorgeous and bright, and many-colored as the holly- 
 Iiocks that lifted up their stately heads beside them.—* 
 Nature, as well as majesty, had decreed that it should 
 be di jour dc fete ; and smiles, music, and sunshine, 
 united to adorn the scene. 
 
 " Methinks," said George Hamilton, throwing him- 
 self at listless length upon a green bank, on which Sir 
 Harry Brooke, the king's favorite page, was already 
 lying in solitary rumination, " Methinks 't is graceless 
 enough in Rowley to abandon our crack-brained host- 
 ess, the Princess of Babylon, in this her own particu- 
 lar day and domain, in order to loiter with the mad- 
 cap Stewart, by greenwood tree or mossy dell." 
 
 " Hush 1" replied Brooke, laying a cautionary finger 
 upon his lips, and glancing towards the thick hedge 
 of bay-trees by which they were shaded. " How know 
 you what birds may build in the neighboring covert ?" 
 
 " Tut ! man — the ears thou dreadest must be as 
 acute as those of Fine Oreille in the story, to render 
 them dangerous. Rowley and his rattlcpate ran laugh- 
 ing down yonder green alley, towards the stream in 
 the hollov\' below ; and, my life to a silver penny I they 
 are even now fishing for minnows with the lady's silk- 
 en sash and etui pin. But thou lookest neither at 
 brook nor dingle, Harry ! What seest thou among 
 the distant woods on which to gaze so earnestly ?" 
 
 " I see the gleam of an ancient stone wall — I see a 
 peaked roof rising above the dark chesnuts." 
 
 " And what then ?" 
 
 «' 'Tis the roof of Wildinghurst !" " Et puis?" 
 
 " Nay ! nothing further," replied Brooke, turning 
 away his moistened eyes. " 'Twere dull sport, Ham- 
 ilton, for a gallant like yourself to listen to a tale of 
 poor and unhappy, altliough God knows, of honest and 
 faithful love I"
 
 316 THE COURT AT TUNBRTDGE. 
 
 Hamilton raised his e)'e-bro\vs to the utmost stretch 
 of wonder and admiration, and a significant smile be- 
 gan to illuminate his handsome countenance, vrhen a 
 single glance towards his friend suddenly checked his 
 rising mirth. " Beshrew ray heart, Harry," exclaimed 
 lie, " I guessed thee not for so stricken a deer ! But, 
 since 'tis thus with thee in sober sadness, speed ftie thy 
 love-tale, man ! the how — the wherefore — ^Ihe when. 
 Trust me," he continued, extending his hand in friend- 
 ly cordiality, " I have both sym.pathy and counsel at 
 thy service. What of Wildinghm'st ? and who dwell- 
 eth beneath yonder peaked roof, Harry, that moves 
 thee so strangely ?" 
 
 " One who holds courts and courtiers as equally vile 
 and worthless ; the more especially, that he vv'as forced 
 to abandon both the one and the other, through lack 
 of Rowlev's good countenance — even old Sir Mark 
 Willoughby."" 
 
 " And wherefore should the name of a worn-out ca- 
 valier — ^ frondeur, whom all the world beside hath 
 forgotten, bring tears into thine eyes?" 
 
 " Simpl}', because he hath one fair daughter." 
 
 Hamilton's eye brightened, and his lip curled again. 
 
 " My stor}^ is as easily ended as begun," quoth the 
 page, reddening angrily. " Grace Willoughb}'- and 
 myself were playmates in childhood — lovers in youth 
 — self-confident — and self-betrothed. But Sir Mark, 
 who hath endured unworthy neglect at his Majesty's 
 hands, would not, for the worth of the Exchequer, be- 
 stow his daughter upon a minion of the court ; and he 
 hath accordingly closed his door upon my future visits." 
 
 " In order that thou maj'est find admission through 
 the casement ?" 
 
 " No !" replied Brooke, haughtily. " He gave me 
 a fair choice, between his daughter and my loyal ser- 
 vice." 
 
 " And thou didst gallantly prefer a liver}- and court 
 servitude, to freedom and the fair Grace ?"
 
 Tfir COURT AT TUNERIDf.T. 317 
 
 ''The livery 1 wear," said Brooke, looking down on 
 his embroidered sleeve, " is that of my sovereign ; and 
 my service waits upon the noble descendant of a line of 
 princes, lo whom that of my forefathers has been de- 
 voted for centuries." 
 
 "Spoken with right-earnest delivery and notable 
 emphasis, like many another fustian rant." 
 
 " In sober English, then," replied Brooke, warmly, 
 " I love Rowley. Despite his whimsies and vagaries, 
 there lives not a nobler gentleman — a kinder friend. 
 Born at Cologne, while my parents shared his exile, I 
 have scarcely left his side since I was high enough to 
 buckle his garter ; and not even the love of my pre- 
 cious Grace shall tempt me to throw back his favors in 
 his teeth. I have lived /or liim — ivith him — and I trust 
 to die so." 
 
 "Praying that time and our Lady's grace may re- 
 move old Willoughby's prejudices. Well, well, I shall 
 marvel no more at the staid gravity of thy demeanor, 
 nor at the philosophical coldness with which thou re- 
 ceivest the brigiit glances I have seek levelled at thee 
 from behind his Majesty's chair. But we must up and 
 away, Harry, for the halUbell sounds broadward ;" and 
 the two young men, after hurrying towards the stately 
 gallery at Somerhill, in which the groaning tables 
 were sumptuously spread, scarcely reached the upper 
 end in time to assume their post, as the gay monarch 
 entered from the garden ; and, by his high-bred cour- 
 tesies and cheerful gallantry, soon appeased the wound- 
 ed pride of his irate hostess — the abused and far-famed 
 Lady Muskerry. 
 
 It v^^as some days after the festivities at Somerhill, 
 that, one evening towards night-fall, two travellers 
 were seen riding at a brisk pace along one of the nu- 
 merous green lanes between Tunbridge and Knowle. 
 They were habited alike, in sad-colored suits, and ap- 
 peared to belong to the class of poorer gentry ; while 
 the horses on which they were Jiiounted might have
 
 318 THE COURT AT TTTNEPJDGK. 
 
 laid claim to a higher pedigree. " Yonder is f lie liouse, 
 if my memory serves me," said the elder of the two, as 
 they crossed the high road towards a plantation that 
 appeared to surround a mansion of respectability. The 
 other, immediately dismounting, opened an entrance 
 gate, and as they passed into a small wood, the moon 
 shone out brightl}' through the thickly interwoven 
 branches, and cast a Mosaic-like reflection upon the 
 wild flowers witli which it was carpeted. 
 
 A brighter radiance soon shone through the receding 
 trees ; and, reaching a second gate, the travellers sud- 
 denly came upon an open platform, in the centre of 
 v/hich rose the sequestered Hall of Wildinghurst. It 
 was a low, stone mansion, after the fashion of the early 
 manorial house — half castellated — belonging to no or- 
 der — and boasting fev.' ornaments, save the carved ma- 
 sonry of its porch. The strangers having advanced 
 v/ithin the screen of open stone-work fronting the 
 house, the younger hastened to set the great bell of 
 the hall in vigorous motion, till its clang broke inhar- 
 moniously upon the soft and slumberous effect of the 
 moonlight stillness around. The heavy portal soon 
 swung upon its hinges ; and out bounded two gaunt, 
 active blood-hounds, eager to prove their instinctive 
 discrimination of friend or foe upon the new-comers ; 
 closely followed by a decrcpid serving-man in a faded 
 livery, who, after receiving with civility the self-an- 
 nouncement of the elder stranger, as Master Hems, 
 worth, of Manor-field, in the m.arshes of Kent, pro- 
 ceeded to refer his request for a night's hospitality at 
 Wildinghurst, to the superior powers within. The 
 plea of a lame horse, and a pressing representation of 
 the perils of a midnight journey, with a well-filled 
 purse, and without fire-arms, were judged sufficiently 
 urgent by the old cavalier ; who was aware that not 
 a hostel of credit stood within ten miles of his gate ; 
 and the gentlemen were accordingly requested to dis- 
 mount and enter the Hall.
 
 THE COUKT AT TU.XBRiDGE. 319 
 
 The younger of the two, conscious;, pcrJiaps, tliat iJic 
 appearance of llieir horses might controvert tlie truth 
 of their alleged dilemma, insisted upon officiating in 
 the stable ; and having been placed by the staid mag. 
 gior d'uoino under the guidance of a red-headed sav- 
 age of a farming-lad, he proceeded, with no small awk- 
 wardness, to fulfil his self-imposed duties. 
 
 The young esquire, after loitering over his task, hi 
 order to afford an opportunity to his companion of tell- 
 ing their story in his own way, proceeded with some 
 hesitation towards the Hall ; but he was quickly re- 
 assured, by the shouts of laughter issuing from the 
 door, and by the familiar attitude in which, on his en- 
 trance, he found !\Iastcr Hemv.'orth seated at his host's 
 right hand. On the rudely covered board, .stood the 
 remains of a pastry and of a portly sirloin, now rapidly 
 dimmishing under the attacks of his comrade, who was 
 cordially pledging his opposite neighbor, the family 
 priest, in a deep cup of nut-brown ale. The two do- 
 mestics stood gazing vrith fixed wonderment at the 
 easy assurance with which the unbidden guest com- 
 manded their services ; and began to augur somewhat 
 suspiciously of the termination of this visit. But Sir 
 Mark, on the contrary, appeared delighted with the 
 frank joviality of the elder Hemworth ; and was listen- 
 ing with rapture to his humorous description of the 
 new-fangled pastimes of the courtiers, and of the ex- 
 travagant fashions of the court-beauties. 
 
 " I tarried at Tunbridge," quoth he, " but to bait my 
 horses ; yet, even in that short space of time, yonder 
 scatterbrains," glancing significantly at his nephew as 
 he entered, "found me time to lose half a year's rent 
 of my goodly hop-grounds, in a game at shovel-board 
 with one of the idlest rufflers of the Wells — a good for 
 nothuig little varlet of some distinction, named George 
 Hamilton." 
 
 Whether soinethmg in the countenance or bearing 
 of his guests had hit the fancy of the veteran, or wheth-
 
 320 THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE. 
 
 er the lack of better company, to which he had long 
 condemned himself, had rendered him little difficult to 
 please, certain it was, that he not only graced his hos- 
 pitality with friendly welcome, but even indulged in an 
 unsuspicious freedom of speech that might have better 
 becom.e a more mature acquaintance. When the at. 
 tendants had withdrawn, and the lamb's vrool, Avhich 
 in heavy pewter flagons graced the board, had begun 
 its work of mischief upon heads ill-accustomed to such 
 heavy potations, he added to the strictures of his un- 
 known visiters upon the follies of the court, many bit- 
 ter personalities upon its inmates. 
 
 " Aye, gentleman," said the old man v/armly, " I 
 have, perchance, better reason than ye wot of to curse 
 these new-fangled fopperies. To gild the waste of yon- 
 der prodigal, many a fair rood of the woodlands of \Vil- 
 dinghurst hath been turned into a waste. The proud- 
 est oaks of Kent once stretched their lusty branches 
 over the plains whereon ye gallopped this afternoon 
 without finding a twig on which to perch a chaffinch I 
 And why, forsooth, do I dishonor my board with this 
 yeoman's fare, but that old Mark Willoughby scorns 
 to dole out Bourdcaux and Rhenish like a village sut- 
 tler ; — and that, were he to let them flow as they were 
 wont in his father's hall, he might v/histle to the waves 
 of the Medway to come and fill his empty cellars I 
 When the exiled Prince, or his parasites, lacked a bag 
 of pistoles, who so ready as the doting dunderhead of 
 Wildinghurst, to mortgage acre after acre — to fell 
 coppice after coppice — in order to teach them that 
 there still beat one loyal heart in Old England ? Who 
 more forward to spill his blood in the cause of the 
 Stuarts ? — I left a limb, Sirs, upon Worcester plain ; 
 and after being haunted like a beast during the Com- 
 monwealth, I dwelt here in solitude, to pinch and spare 
 for the good cause, — and so far I lacked not discretion. 
 But I was fool enough to dream that old claims might 
 avail me something in a new Court, and to fancy that
 
 TTIK COURT AT TUNERICCE. 321 
 
 a veteran cavalier mig-ht find gvaec in a royal saloon !" 
 
 " But r;urely, Sir," interrupted ihe elder Hemswortli, 
 his eyes glistening and his cheeks flushed, " Surely, 
 Sir, Charles can know nothing of those claims, of these 
 unrequited services ?" 
 
 " Hovy" should he choose hut know," shouted Sir 
 Mark. " When the warm feelings of ray clownish 
 heart urged me to rush, something roughly perhaps, 
 into the presence chamber, that 1 might gladden my old 
 eyes with the sight of the restored sovereign, whom I 
 loved with the same fondness I bear my ov/n lady.bird 
 — my daughter Grace — I was put back, like a forward 
 child, by a tawdry princox of an usher, who bade rne re- 
 member — God knows what ! I should have smitten the 
 hireling varlet to the earth, but that at the moment I 
 heard young Rochester noting to one of his saucy 
 mates 'the boorish breeding of Corporal Stump.' My 
 anger fell on prouder shoulders than those of a lacky ; 
 and I rushed, cap in hand, to the king, and spoke my 
 indignation in such downright terms, that I was speed- 
 ily placed in arrest, and in consideration only of my 
 former services — my services ! — I was perimitted to re- 
 tire to my country-seat, to mend my manners ; in or- 
 der that the minions of Charles Stuart might undergo 
 no further insult." 
 
 " You spoke of your daughter. Sir," said Hensworth, 
 after a long pause, in which he appeared striving to 
 subdue some painful emotion. " Does yonder lovely 
 portrait represent the Lady Grace !" 
 
 " It is her mother's picture," replied Sir Mark, in a 
 milder tone; "and although a rnaster-piece of Van- 
 dyke himself, and imaging as fair a creature as ever 
 trod the earth, yet doth it not set forth one half the 
 loveliness — the heavenly -mindedness of her child ! In 
 m}' days of prosperity, Sir, I admired only in my 
 (^Jrace, the proud beauty, — the accomplished heiress of 
 Wildinghurst ; but what is she now, what hath she not 
 been, since poverty laid his iron hand upon my house- 
 27
 
 322 THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE. 
 
 hold ! The soothing comforter of my peevish age ; 
 my cheerful, active companion I To serve me with 
 sweet and patient duty, she hath forgotten the sports 
 of her age, — she hath renounced, one by one, the 
 adornments of her lonely existence I She who was 
 born and nurtured in affluence, hath given up state 
 and grace to increase the stock of the old soldier's 
 comforts. Page and bower-maiden, — the palfrey that 
 came neighing to her call, — the jewels that were her 
 mother's bequest — one by one, have all been sacrificed. 
 Those delicate hands that had scarcely moved, save 
 over the strings of her gittern, have labored for me 
 with the activity of a yeoman's housedarae ; and more 
 than all — more than all," continued the old man, in a 
 broken voice, " she hath done this, she hath done more 
 than I can find breath to tell, with a heart that shrunk 
 not from the sacrifice of its own fondest feelings. 
 There is a fair lad among the crew of laced block- 
 heads ye saw this morning, who would fain take her 
 from her old father's heart, and place her in a station 
 that becomes her ; but seeing that my prayers cannot 
 induce him to forsake the king's household, she hath 
 given up the tender affection with which she repays 
 his long attachnicnt, at my bidding. No ! although 
 the subdued glance of those bright eyes, the languor 
 of that once light step betray at every moment the suf- 
 ferings she labors to conceal, Harry Brooke Avill never 
 bribe any girl to leave the side of her poor, decrepid, 
 doating father I" 
 
 " But may not the health of the Lady Grace suffer 
 imdcr the influence of such feelings ?" 
 
 " I sometimes fear it," replied Willoughby, deject- 
 edly ; " and I even long to call the boy back again, 
 and make them happy before I am too blind to witness 
 their union." 
 
 " Nay, then," exclaimed Hemsworth ; — but what he 
 said, and what Sir Mark replied, and how the visit
 
 THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE. 323 
 
 terminated, the curious reader must guess by the se- 
 quel. — 
 
 " What new frolic is astir tins morning," said Sir 
 Harry Brooke to Hamilton, who had entered the apart- 
 ment of liis friend at day -break, and was busily select, 
 ing for his toilet the newest of his gala suits. 
 
 " Nay ! I know not ; but we had orders yesternight 
 to be in readiness for some especial ceremony by noon- 
 tide. Some ambassador, perhaps, to deliver his cre- 
 dentials." 
 
 " Impossible, — the Spanish envoy's reception hath 
 been remitted until the return of the court to White- 
 hall. For many days past there hath been a rumor of 
 strangers expected, and of apartments to be prepared 
 in the Queen's own lodging. For whom, in the name 
 of mystery ? Nay, — Miss Jennings bewildered me but 
 last night by her description of a Vv-ardrobe of exquisite 
 fashion and richness, that hath been secretly collect- 
 ing by her Majesty's orders, for a lady of her own per- 
 son and stature. Read me the middle, Hamilton — 
 what plot is here ?" 
 
 "Time will resolve us, Harry. But now that thine 
 outward man hath put on a more goodly seeming, let us 
 to the presence. Stay ! thy breast-piece is, even now, 
 a thought too high, and the wave of yonder curl be- 
 comes thee not. Cheer thee man ! and put on a 
 brighter countenance, for I predict a day of joy and 
 merriment." 
 
 At noon, according to his announcement, Charles 
 entered the circle. A stranger was, indeed, leaning 
 upon his arm — a stranger to all, save Hamilton and 
 Brooke. 
 
 " Let me present ye, gentlemen," said the King, 
 looking with dignity around his astonished court, "my 
 friend and faithful adherent, Sir Mark Willougliby ; 
 to whom I am anxious to pay a long and reproachful 
 arrear of gratitude and affection. I wish it were more
 
 324 THE COTJRT AT TUNERTDGE. 
 
 frequently in my powex*- lo make so worthy an addition 
 to your niiTiiber." 
 
 '• I shall f hortlj^ however," continued Charles, smil- 
 ing, " still further deserve your acknowledgments, by 
 introducing to your courtesies a fair stranger, whom I 
 would name to you as the lovely, the excellent Grace 
 Willoughby, but that I shall shortly requke your com- 
 pliments to be addressed to her as — the Lady Brooke." 
 
 Sir Harry, casting a single glance tovv^ards the suite 
 of the Queen, v.ho at this moment entered the cham- 
 ber, could no longer repress his emotions. Hastily ad- 
 vancing, he knelt to kiss the hand of his benefactor ; 
 and before he rose from his kr.ee, the King had led for. 
 ward a gentle, trembling girl, to whom. Katharine was 
 breathing the kindest words of encouragement ; and 
 having placed her hand in that of his page, he bade 
 them be happy together, rather with the warmth of a 
 brother, than with the dignity of a monarch. 
 
 They vv-ere married on that very day ; and as the 
 bridegroom left the chapel, King Charles whispered 
 audibly to George Hamilton, " those who are inclined 
 to blame Rowley and the rattlepate as pryers and lis- 
 teners at Somerhill, must acknowledge that Master 
 Hemsworth of Manor-field, repaired their error. Trust 
 me he will never forget those v.'ho, despite his whim, 
 sies and vagaries, still love old Rowley ."^
 
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