^ 
 
B E R K E L E Y ^ 
 
 LIBRARY I 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF / 
 
EVENINGS 
 
 H A D D O N HALL. 
 
'f/ 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
EVENINGS 
 
 AT 
 
 H A D D O N HALL. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 THE BARONESS DE CALABRELLA. 
 
 5!2aitb EUustvntfons, 
 
 DESIGNS BY GEORGE CATTERMOLE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1846. 
 
C 14-1 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 EVENING THE FIRST. 
 
 THE TOURNAMENT 
 
 ANDRIANI 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 13 
 
 57 
 
 EVENING THE SECOND. 
 
 THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY .... I ... ■ 93 
 
 love's LAST TRYST ^54 
 
 EVENING THE THIRD. 
 
 some PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF THE CONQUISTADOR . . . 162 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN lo- 
 
 QUEEN Mary's welcome '^^'^ 
 
 THE ABBEY IN RUINS 204 
 
 EVENING THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE ASTROLOGER 21o 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL -^"^ 
 
 THE NUBIAN SLAVE - ' ' 
 
 719 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 M'BJECT. NAME OF ENOBA\ EH. 
 
 1(). Tm; rAMi'iiiM DoRiA (iAiiDKNs . . — Ruflcliffe 
 
 17. Dismantled Vesski. in a Storm R. liranddrd 
 
 18. ZOE, AT HER UaLCONV C. Rolls . . 
 
 19. The Terrate Garden ,/. Cousen 
 
 •20. TuE Private Chapel F. Englehart 
 
 21. The Cataract J. C. Bentley 
 
 22. The Monk — Highavi . 
 
 23. A Hawking Paktv R. Braiulurd 
 
 24. The Welcd.me J. B. Allen . 
 
 24.0 
 28!) 
 337 
 343 
 377 
 382 
 402 
 411 
 427 
 
 E 11 R .VT U M. 
 Iti ji. 20'!, liuu (> tVoin bottom, yc;/- " couteiuplative," Tead " imagiuative." 
 
EVENINGS 
 
 HADDON HALL. 
 
 In the most singular and romantic, and withal the most 
 beautiful, of the divisions of our all-beautiful England— 
 the district of the Peak— is situated one of the noblest of 
 those architectural relics of the times of Chivalry and 
 Romance, which any country, even England itself, can 
 boast— a relic that is preserved by its owners with as 
 pious care, and made the object of as many pilgrimages of 
 admiring interest, as the shrines of saints are wont to be, 
 in countries where saints were needed to supply the place 
 of those social virtues of which the "merry England" of 
 the olden time was the chosen home. At the period when 
 Haddon Hall was the proud seat of the Vernons, the old 
 English hospitality of our barons and feudal chiefs ren- 
 dered superfluous that less gracious and grateful dispensa- 
 tion which had previously borne the name of Charity— 
 a name that the wiser benevolence of the times we speak 
 of had, in England at least, banished from the voca- 
 bulary used to interpret between man and man. At this 
 period, the princely hospitality of the Lords of Haddon 
 Hall, demanded for its due dispensation the constant ser- 
 
2 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 vices of a retinue of seven score of domestics, and an annual 
 outlay that would have exhausted the treasury of many 
 of the reigning sovereigns of less favoured countries. 
 
 It is within the precincts of this princely abode of the 
 Vernons and the Manners's that those simple revels are to 
 take place in which we would fain interest the imaginations 
 of our readers, with a view to their due appreciation of 
 those exquisite specimens of high art which it is our 
 pleasant office to be the medium of introducing to the 
 world, and which owe their inspiration to the stately times 
 to which those stately relics belong — times when, deprecate 
 them as we may, by our meaningless epithets of " rude," 
 " barbarous," " uncivilized," and the like, gave rise to 
 nobler achievements of human intellect, brighter phases of 
 human character, more beautiful examples of human virtue, 
 and more signal evidences of the heights to which our 
 common nature is capable of attaining, than are even 
 " dreamt of in the philosophy," much less realised in the 
 practice, of our own ultra-civilised day — times, too, to 
 which the highest art and the purest literature of our own 
 day are frequently compelled to resort, in search of those 
 types of excellence, those traits of heroism, and those 
 symbols of intellectual and mural beauty, for which the 
 enamoured seekers look in vain in that more " cultivated" 
 era to which they appeal. 
 
 But let us not, in our desire to be just to the illustrious 
 Dead, do an unjust thing to the illustrious Living — least of 
 all let us do this on the threshold of that spot which, it 
 may be, is destined to be hallowed by the I'cvival of those 
 very institutions to which the " good old times" owed all 
 their goodness, and " merry England" all her extinct 
 merriment. If the social life of England is destined to see 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 3 
 
 the present " winter of her discontent" melt into the genial 
 spring-time of hopeful promise, and happy performance, by 
 a recurrence to those antique usages, the birth of which 
 was coeval with the antique halls to which we are con- 
 ducting our readers, it will be (under Heaven) through 
 the instrumentality of what the wise world is at present 
 pleased to consider as the " dreams" of a scion of that 
 noble house to which those halls belong. If we err not 
 greatly, the name of Manners will, at no distant period, be 
 associated with that noblest and happiest of all revolutions, 
 a recurrence to those wise simplicities of social life which 
 mark the youth of all nations, and which too seldom 
 survive it. 
 
 It is, then, to Haddon Hall, with its noble recollec- 
 tions, its happy associations, and the still happier promises 
 and prophecies of what may belong to its future destiny, — 
 that we desire the reader to accompany us in imagination, 
 while we endeavour to place before him, in a light Avorthy 
 their unequalled beauty, results of the pictorial art which 
 nothing but scenes and social institutions like those of 
 Haddon in the olden time could have inspired, and which, 
 in the presence of more modern localities and associations, 
 would lose half their interest, and all that dignified pro- 
 priety and appropriateness which are the crowning graces 
 of high art. 
 
 Haddon Hall was built before the Conquest; and the 
 extensive and elaborate alterations, and vast additions, 
 made to it at so many different periods, afford a signal 
 proof of the estimation in which this noble baronial mansion 
 was held, both for its internal magnificence, and the beauty 
 of the surrounding scene. To have demolished any portion 
 of this dignified and time-honoured structure, would have 
 
 B 2 
 
4 EVENINGS AT RADDON HALL. 
 
 been held sacrilege by the whole neighbourhood; indeed, 
 there were so many legends and superstitions connected 
 Avith the various parts of it, that it has always been an 
 object of veneration, and sometimes of terror, in the 
 country around. Even to some of its massive trees there 
 were tales attached, which were handed traditionally from 
 generation to generation, but never whispered beyond the 
 precincts of the domain. Some of these are now about to 
 be disclosed for the amusement of our readers. In the mean- 
 time, we must be allowed to complete our descriptive sketch 
 of the spot at that particular period of its existence (we will 
 not specify precisely how many or how few years ago) at 
 which we have chosen to make it the scene of our revels. 
 
 The mansion was approached by a massive portal be- 
 tween two towers, near the angle of the lower ward ; at the 
 upper side of which, Avas the principal entrance to the body 
 of the mansion, many of the earliest features of which have 
 been studiously preserved. The great banquetting hall in 
 particular remained nearly in its primeval state, and 
 contained many antlers, casques, and bucklers of various 
 ages, from its foundation. This hall opened, at the lower 
 extremity, immediately into the kitchen, from one part, 
 and from another into the buttery, whence the sub- 
 stantial viands were formerly served. Near the door of 
 the latter, there still remained (and remains) a curious 
 instrument attached to its post, resembling a handcuff, — 
 in which, it is supposed, the wrist of any recreant who 
 refused to quaff the generous goblet presented to him, Avas 
 confined in a position raised above his head, so that the 
 contents of the goblet which he had rejected might be poured 
 down his sleeve; for, in those simple times, it was deemed as 
 much a Juty to do honour to hospitality as it was to dispense 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 it; you might stay away from the generous revels; but if 
 you chose to be present at them, you were expected to 
 yield to those influences which, for the time, made all equal. 
 In this hall, in former ages, the lord of the soil sat at the 
 high table, surrounded by his family; while his vassals and 
 retainers occupied two long tables flanking the walls. 
 
 On the occasion we are about to signalise— which was 
 in celebration of the birthday of his only child, a beau- 
 tiful girl of fifteen years of age,— the then lord of this 
 princely domain occupied the same seat, and the customs 
 and ceremonies of the antique time were preserved, as far 
 as they could be rendered consistent with modern luxuries 
 and refinements; as, for instance, the rushes, which had 
 formerly strewed the floor, were now replaced by magni- 
 ficent carpets from the Turkish looms; the bare oaken 
 forms by cushioned, high-backed, and richly-carved chairs; 
 the pewter or wooden trenchers, by massive services of 
 plate. Many ancient goblets had been preserved, and 
 were held in far greater veneration than any of the 
 splendid additions of gold and silver plate which adorned 
 the gorgeous sideboards. The ancient arras had been 
 kept through each generation with great care, and still 
 
 decorated the walls. 
 
 The upper end of this hall communicated with the 
 guard-room, leading to a spacious staircase of old black 
 oak, in the walls of which were many niches containing 
 suit's of armour and military trophies. The ceiling was of 
 massive oak, panelled, and decorated with gold and bril- 
 liant colours, and emblazoned with the numerous armorial 
 bearings of the noble ancestors of the family. The large 
 bay window, by which the staircase was lighted, projected 
 from the centre of the broad landing, and contained rare 
 
6 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 specimens of ancient painted glass. At each end of this 
 landing were doors, communicating, the one on the right to 
 the state apartments, and the othei", on the left, to the 
 private apartments. These continued in opposite direc- 
 tions round the great quadrangle, meeting on the opposite 
 side in the chapel. 
 
 The first apartment on the right was an ante-chamber ; the 
 second, a spacious and lofty room, or audience chamber, 
 opening directly into the great gallery, — the proportions of 
 which might, at first sight, appear somewhat too narrow, but 
 this apparent defect was amply compensated for by three 
 deep and spacious recesses, the farther end of which was 
 composed of alternate casements and mullions of stone. 
 The upper compartments of these casements were nearly 
 filled with the finest old stained glass, while the lower 
 portions were left clear, with the evident object of gaining 
 an uninterrupted view into the tilt-yard; in the wide 
 arena of which many a tournament had been held, in 
 those days when every word and action of a true and 
 loyal knight had some reference to their lady-love ; when 
 they styled themselves servants, or slaves of love — " ser- 
 viteurSy ou servants d'amour;'^ — and in this adopted 
 character of slaves, they often suffered themselves to be led 
 to the place of combat by their fair mistresses, by small 
 chains, or rich ribbons, fastened to the head-pieces of their 
 horses. In the same quality, tlie knights wore the colour 
 and livery of their ladies, and certain devices, which were 
 only understood by each other ; and these " devices 
 Mainour'" are the principal origin (according to Saint 
 Palaye) of the unintelligible words to be found in the 
 arms of many noble houses. 
 
 The gallery, of which we have spoken, had been tlic 
 
EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. 
 
 favourite resort of the family of each possessor ; and whether 
 occupied by a large or small party, had always a cheerful 
 and commodious aspect. Many a game of blindman's buff 
 had been played at one end of it, by the young and buoyant 
 of spirit, without disturbing the gravity of some political 
 discussion that was being carried on by the diplomatists of 
 the day in one of the recesses, or deranging the whist 
 party of some dowager intent on the odd trick. 
 
 From time to time, Haddon HaU had been honoured by 
 many royal visits; and the descriptions, preserved in the 
 record-tower, of these entertainments, prove that they must 
 have been of the most sumptuous character. 
 
 In latter years, the banquetting hall had been used only 
 upon great occasions ; and the party lately assembled to 
 celebrate the birthday of the young heiress, having been 
 reduced to a comparatively small circle of relations and 
 intimates, the grand apartments were abandoned, and the 
 well-stored library became the resort of the remaining 
 guests, among whom might be found that happy mixture 
 of society nowhere to be met with in such perfection as 
 in an English country-house. There were persons of 
 various nations, holding eminent positions-ministers and 
 diplomatists-distinguished members of the church, the 
 bar, and the senate— learned orators and statesmen— men 
 of high literary and scientific accomplishments— members 
 of the army and navy-some students from the univer- 
 sities; and, as might be expected, in company with such 
 an assemblage of high-bred gentlemen, a goodly knot of 
 fair, accomplished, and amiable women were also present. 
 
 The season had advanced to the middle of March. The 
 weather was unusually severe; snow was lying deep on 
 the ground, forbidding egress from the mansion. This 
 
8 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 circumstance, which at first tlireatened to throw a gloom 
 on tlie party, became unexpectedly the source of much 
 interest and amusement. Eimui had begun to make itself 
 felt, and the question of — What shall we do to pass the 
 time? had been whisjiered confidentially from one to an- 
 other, till everybody seemed to have learned it by heart ; — 
 wlien, at last, the lovely daughter of the house, the Lady 
 Eva, who was turning over a portfolio of " rich and rare" 
 gems of art by George Cattermole, suddenly exclaimed — 
 
 " Will some one come and explain what these beautiful 
 pictures mean ?" 
 
 The question, simple as it might seem, involved a point 
 of critical difficulty, felt by most of those to whom the 
 inquiry was addressed, but not readily to be solved by any 
 one of them, without more thought than they seemed 
 disposed to give to the subject. All present, not excepting 
 the Lady Eva herself, appreciated the extraordinary beauty 
 of the designs which lay before them; but all, and she 
 in particular, were evidently perplexed, and some were 
 even annoyed, by the vague and unsatisfiictory feeling 
 which always attends the inspection of a design, of the 
 precise subject of which we are ignorant. All felt that 
 the designs, which were by this time eagerly spread out 
 upon the library table by the Lady Eva, were exquisite 
 Avorks of art; and all, like her, the more they examined 
 tliem, became the more anxious to learn the particular 
 subject of whicli each picture was an illustration. 
 
 The artist himself not being present to reply to the 
 repeated (mental) cry, on all liands, of" Explain ! Explain !" 
 the case seemed a hopeless one, when a huly — (there is 
 nothing like female wit for solving a knotty point, for if no 
 other course is left, she will cut the knot, and solve it that 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. V 
 
 way) — a lady exclaimed — " It would be easier, I suspect, 
 to invent an illustration of each of these beautiful designs, 
 than obtain, even from the artist himself, an intelligible 
 account of the incidents of which t/iet/ are illustrations." 
 
 The vivacious fancy of the lovely Lady Eva seized the 
 idea almost before it was fairly expressed, and she eagerly 
 exclaimed — "Oh, do invent some stories! How de- 
 lightful it will be ! Who will begin ?" 
 
 At first, the eagerness of the fiiir girl did but rouse 
 the attention of all present to the object of her anxious 
 interest. But to look upon works of art like those in 
 question, and not to feel the interest and curiosity 
 they excite " grow by what 'tis fed on," is impossible. 
 Every one was presently absorbed in the careful exami- 
 nation of the several designs, with a sort of half uncon- 
 scious desire to arrange his or her thoughts or feelings 
 respecting each of them, into some tangible and intelli- 
 gible narrative form; and before the Lady Eva, in her 
 anxious culling of the designs, with a view to the com- 
 mencement of the pleasant project, had found time to 
 repeat her question, of "Who will invent some stories?" 
 several of the members of that accomplished company had 
 made up their minds that the project should not fail for 
 want of thei7' assistance. 
 
 Just at this point, the first dinner-bell rung, to the no 
 slight chagrin of the eager and excitable Eva ; 
 
 " And when a dinner's in the case, 
 All other things, you know, give place." 
 
 At least, it is so in that true home and temple of 
 Hospitality, an English country-house. But they often give 
 place, only to be entertained with double zest for the delay. 
 
10 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 At all events, in the case we are treating of, the apparent 
 interruption to the project did but forward, ratlier than 
 retard it, and even before the lady guests had (juitted 
 the board, it had been fully determined, on all hands, by a 
 sort of tacit compact, felt rather than expressed, that the 
 Birthday Revels of the lovely daughter of their host 
 should be signalized by something more likely to be 
 remembered pleasantly and profitably in her after years, 
 than the inanities of a quadrille, the twirlings of a waltz, 
 the tramplings of a polka, or the small-talk proper to the 
 intervals occurring between such frivolities. 
 
 Accordingly, by the time our party had re-assembled in the 
 library that same evening, a desultory conversation between 
 the most gifted members of it, especially those among them 
 who had some practical knowledge of the use of the pen, 
 had arranged the general features of the simple plan on 
 which to carry out the fortuitous suggestion of the young 
 Queen of the Eevels of Haddon Hall; leaving the minor 
 details of the plan to the momentary suggestions of its 
 originator, and thus affording her the double delight of 
 feeling that she was in some sort the architect of that 
 monument which was destined, in after years, to mark 
 her happy advent to that loveliest of all the phases of 
 female life, the debateable point which intervenes between 
 the fresh dawn of roseate girlhood, and the bright sunrise 
 of incipient womanhood. 
 
 It only remains for the recorder of these " Evenings 
 at Haddon Hall" to relate, in the fewest possible words, 
 the simple steps by which the Lady Eva was led, almost 
 unconsciously on her own part, to work out the inarti- 
 ficial plan which her eager and excited imagination had 
 originated. And first, of the first Evening. 
 
EVENING THE FIRST. 
 
 It must be noted that the Lady Eva, who was, perhaps, 
 even better acquainted with the' history of her father's 
 noble place than any one else present, had, while waiting 
 somewhat impatiently in the library for the advent of 
 the last lagging guests from the dinner-table, in her 
 nervous restlessness, several times passed to the moon-lit 
 windows of the fine old room, and looked forth vaguely 
 on the great court below, tracing the massive shadow of one 
 of the old towers, as it lay in heavy blackness on the other- 
 wise bright space. But on the last occasion of her looking 
 forth, a thought seemed to flash like a sudden light upon 
 her eager fancy — she started from the window — clapped 
 her fair hands, as if in an ecstasy of mingled pleasure and 
 excitement, and exclaimed aloud — 
 
 " A Tournament ! The very thing ! How delightful ! 
 That shall be the subject of our first story." 
 
 While speaking, she betook herself to the table where 
 the beautiful drawings, on which her mind was so intent, 
 were spread in bright confusion, and selected from among 
 them five, which evidently owed their origin to the times 
 
12 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 when noble feats of arras held the place of those ignoble 
 sports — (our male readers will forgive us the phrase, bear- 
 ing in mind the sex, and, it may be, pitying the simple 
 tastes of tlie recorder of these simple Revels) — which have 
 mainly helped to banish chivalry from the land. 
 
 " There !" continued the lovely child, worthy herself to 
 stand for an effigy of one of those " ladyes-fayre" who 
 figured in the times which now filled her eager thoughts ; 
 " There!" somebody shall make a story about those five 
 beautiful designs, and call it " The Tournament." 
 
 " Mark you her absolute shall f' It was final, on the 
 present occasion, as the " shall " of beauty is, and (some- 
 times) ought to be. Turning with the quick tact of 
 youth to the individual of all that company best fitted, by 
 his studies and tastes, to carry her happy thought into 
 efiect, the Lady Eva went up to him, and, holding out the 
 designs, exclaimed — raising her beseeching eyes to his face 
 with one of those radiant smiles which are so resistless in 
 the early bloom of girlish beauty — 
 
 " There ! you shall be my knight errant of the evening, 
 and lead the Revels. You know what a number of pretty 
 things you have told me of the brave knights and beautiful 
 ladies who used — I don't know how many hundred years 
 ago — to grace our old court-yard below, and turn its 
 present dreary and dreamy silence into a scene of noisy 
 revelry. Nay, it was only yesterday you were telling me 
 anecdotes of some of the wearers of those very helmets, and 
 the wielders of those very swords and lances, tliat hang 
 uselessly on the walls of our old banquetting hall. If you 
 could make, or remember, all those delightful little stories 
 and anecdotes from merely looking on a few battered 
 casques and rusty weapons, surely these beautiful drawings 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 13 
 
 must inspire you with whole volumes. Come — take them ! 
 Look at them for five minutes, and then improvisez me a 
 Tale of Chivalry that shall make them all as intelligible as 
 if they were executed for it^ not it for them." 
 
 The appeal was not to be resisted, — at all events, not 
 by the young and enthusiastic student and admirer of that 
 age and its attributes, to which the appeal applied. He 
 took the drawings that the Lady Eva held out to him ; 
 examined them one by one, carefully and intently, for a 
 few minutes ; and then, the company having hushed itself 
 to silence for the expected result, he proceeded to relate 
 
 THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 The ravages of war seldom leave enduring traces on the 
 earth. Often a field of battle, with all its agonies and 
 terrors, is known only by the richer harvest that waves 
 on its breast. Nature, which banishes so soon from a 
 nation's mind and heart the memory of great calamities, 
 is careful, at the same time, to efface all material vestiges 
 of them. Even walls, that have been carried by storm 
 and blackened by fire, soon cease to exhibit distinct signs 
 of strife. Luxuriant vegetation covers the stains of blood 
 and smoke; creeping plants and shrubs insinuate their 
 roots in crevices made by the shock of artillery, and grace- 
 fully crown the battlements and towers that have been 
 partially overthrown by the repeated assaults of an armed 
 host. When this transformation is complete, hardly, to 
 an unpractised eye, can the slow and peaceful ravages of 
 
14 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 time be distinguished from the work of destruction accom- 
 plished by man. A generation does not elapse before the 
 castle that has been overthrown by an enemy, and that pre- 
 sented at first frightful images of war, shows the same 
 aspect as one that has been suffered to go to decay from 
 the protection of its walls being no longer needed, and 
 that stands, even in ruin, a monument of peace. 
 
 Many dismantled castles of the character thus indicated 
 were to be seen in England in the reign of the fourth 
 Edward, after the long and disastrous civil wars. In the 
 county of Derby, there was one calculated to strike the eye, 
 from its magnitude and the peculiarity of its site. It was 
 built on a natural elevation, which, from having been 
 gradual, had by art been rendered rugged and abrupt, — 
 the steep pathway, by which access alone could be gained, 
 having been jealously guarded from the possibility of suc- 
 cessful attack; but overthrown defences alone now marked 
 the care that had been taken to render the fortress 
 impregnable. 
 
 From the height there was a noble view, over woodland, 
 meadow, and river, till the prospect was bounded by a 
 chain of irregular hills, which, in all aspects of light and 
 shade, mingled so naturally with the hue of heaven, that 
 it was difficult to tell where earth ended and sky began. 
 To the cast, these hills were softened down into a series 
 of gentle undulations ; and here, at the extreme range of 
 vision, rose the walls and turrets of a castle, belonging to 
 the house of Lenorde. Between this powerful family and 
 that of the Fauconvilles there had long been bitter and 
 deadly enmity. The clear stream that separated the two 
 domains, and served as their frontier, suggesting, with its 
 pellucid waters and riclily fi-iiiged banks, only images of 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 15 
 
 peace, had often ran red with the blood of the retainers 
 of the two great rivals. There was perpetual, and, as it 
 seemed, inextinguishable strife between them, and each 
 lord could refer to a long list of injuries treasured up 
 with as much care as the noble deeds of his ancestors, to 
 justify the continuance of the feud, and the call for retalia- 
 tion. It was remarked that, in all disputes of the state, 
 these houses invariably took opposite sides. Tradition 
 traced their hatred (so long will hatred survive its first 
 occasion) to a quarrel that had taken place on a point of 
 precedent, when the Conqueror was preparing in Nor- 
 mandy his invasion of the English shores. From this 
 insignificant source had descended the broad tide of 
 quarrel that had caused so many calamities, and that 
 seemed widening and augmenting as it pursued its course 
 unchanged through all the mutations of time. At no 
 period within memory had the two families been at peace. 
 As the fortunes of one sank, those of the other commonly 
 rose; but never had either possessed sufficient power to 
 wholly crush his opponent. An ancient prophecy, suggested, 
 doubtless, to some bard by the hope of gaining his lord's 
 favour, or of pleasing the popular prejudices of those 
 with whom he lived, ran, that friendship between the two 
 houses should be fatal to both. The superstition was 
 cherished on each side, and guarded in remembrance with 
 as much care as an article of faith : it well answered its 
 end ; and caused the prospect of even a temporary arrange- 
 ment, or the slightest approach to conciliation, to be re- 
 garded with horror, as an omen of evil. 
 
 In the long wars of the Roses, the two chiefs then at 
 the head of their respective houses, found ample oppor- 
 tunities of gratifying their animosity. Deadly injuries 
 
16 EVENINGS AT ITADDON HALL. 
 
 were mutually given and received. In the conflict, both 
 champions were weakened, and shared in the fluctuations 
 of the sides tliey embraced, but years elapsed before 
 one could boast of a superiority over the other. When, at 
 last, fortune determined the victory, she did so decisively. 
 Sir Richard de Lenorde and the Baron of Fauconville 
 were in the prime of life when the war fu'st broke out. 
 Sir Richard, more renowned for policy than deeds in arms, 
 espoused the cause of York, destined in the end to be 
 victorious. His rival, of more chivalrous character, and 
 one of the best kniglits of his age, remained steady in his 
 allegiance to Henry the Sixth. When, at length, the White 
 Rose was in the ascendant, Sir Richard, whose influence 
 was strong with his great leader, the Duke of York, per- 
 suaded him to bend for a time all his strength to the 
 subjugation of one of his bravest and most dangerous 
 opponents. An army, rapidly collected, advanced, without 
 notice of its approach, and surrounded Lord Fauconville's 
 castle. The brave chief, without hope of relief, saw him- 
 self doomed to inevitable ruin. Throughout the land 
 there ran a rumour, that a terrible example would be 
 made of the powerful and malignant Lancastrian. His 
 defence was worthy of his fame. Disdaining a submission, 
 which he knew would be fruitless, he boldly defied his 
 enemies, and knowing who had brought this overwhelming 
 force against him, sent a formal challenge to his foe. Sir 
 Richard de Lenorde, demanding that the fate of the siege 
 should be decided by a mortal combat between them, in 
 view of the besieging army and the defenders of the castle. 
 The days were past when such a chivalrous defiance 
 would be accei)ted, and the answer returned was stern and 
 contemptuous : — " We have met as equals, often enough," 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 17 
 
 it said; " when we face each other next, it shall be for the 
 moment that elapses before the headsman strikes his blow. 
 It is not for a rebel to prescribe terms to his conquerors." 
 Braver knight never mounted steed or guarded fortress 
 than the good Baron of Fauconville. But unavailing are 
 the efforts of the highest will against the might that over- 
 masters it. In vain does the captive, with stout heart 
 and strong hand, strive to rend the massive walls that 
 enclose him ; in vain does the pilot oppose skill and 
 resolve to the strength of wind and wave. The lord of the 
 beleaguered castle disputed every inch of ground with his 
 foes, but they were numerous, active, and determined. 
 Slowly they gained the outward defences, and advanced 
 to the very walls: force did much; famine more. The 
 whole garrison became exhausted or disabled, and on the 
 morning when the grand assault was made, not a hundred 
 men were on the walls to meet it. There was a bloody 
 and desperate struggle, hand to hand, upon the ramparts. 
 Fighting to the last, though wounded and faint, the Baron 
 was surrounded by a host of foemen, and struck to the 
 ground. Then all was lost, and the castle given to rapine. 
 Utterly helpless, but with a spirit still unconquered, the 
 Lord of Fauconville was led into the presence of his here- 
 ditary foe. An order for his execution had been obtained 
 from York, who was enraged by the length of the siege, 
 and the loss of his troops. In the sight of weeping cap- 
 tives and the triumphant host stood the fatal block, with 
 the executioner wielding his keen axe beside it. Disdain- 
 ing to ask for mercy, the brave lord advanced with firm 
 and steady pace to his death, haughtily returning the exult- 
 ing glances of his pitiless foe. Once only his frame shook 
 with a strong convulsion, and his features lost their com- 
 
 c 
 
18 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 posure. It was when Sir Richard de Lenorde rudely seized 
 from a matron's arms the infant son of Fauconville, the 
 sole hope of his house, and triumphantly held him in view 
 of his captive father. For an instant, the chief hesitated ; 
 nature was strong within his breast ; and he almost decided 
 to dash through his guards, snatch his son from the pol- 
 luting grasp that held him, and die with him in his arms; 
 but his pride forbade him to give this last triumph to 
 his enemy. AVitli a strong eifort, he mastered his emotion, 
 and commended his child to God. As he reached the 
 elevation where the apparatus of death was displayed, he 
 gazed round on the lovely view, every object of which was 
 endeared to him by some early recollection. Then, raising 
 his noble form to its full dignity, and casting back the 
 masses of hair from his pale but high and haughty features, 
 he exclaimed, in tones that were heard widely round, and 
 fell distinctly on the listening ear of his inveterate rival — 
 " Sir Richard de Lenorde, had I fallen by thy hand in the 
 fair and open combat of man to man, I Avould have forgiven 
 thee with my dying breath, and have prayed that the 
 quarrel between our houses might cease. Thou hast taken 
 a mean advantage of me; this is butchery, not conquest; 
 my blood be on the head of tliee and of thy children." 
 
 The whole assembly, awe-struck, heard the curse, which, 
 spoken by dying lips, seemed to breathe the spirit of 
 prophecy. Then, calmly placing his head on the block, 
 the baron held his hand aloft, a sign for the headsman to 
 strike. As the axe flashed in the air, and descended, a 
 scream of grief and agony burst forth iVom a thousand 
 faithful hearts. It was the death-wail of the greatest and 
 ])rav('st warrior of an illustrious line. 
 
 Motives of policy, mingled, porliaps, with some touch 
 
THE TOUKNAMENT. 19 
 
 of pity for the orphan's helplessness, prompted Sir Eichard 
 to spare the child. Were he removed, the house of Faucon- 
 ville would not long remain without an enterprising leader, 
 who might renew the strife. From this danger the knight 
 felt secure, so long as he kept the true heir in his custody. 
 The result showed his prudence. In his hands, the 
 young lord became a hostage of peace, and the wide 
 domain, that had so long been the heritage of the Faucon- 
 villes, was quietly submitted to Sir Richard's authority. 
 
 Years went by, and the curse of the dying lord bore no 
 fruit. In the increasing prosperity of the house of De 
 Lenorde, it faded away from the memory of all but a few 
 of the most devoted adherents of the murdered baron. Sir 
 Richard helped to place the crown on Edward's brows, 
 and to give the last fatal blow to the Lancastrian cause 
 at Barnet. His son, a noble youth, was one of the 
 favoured attendants of Edward's court, and the old knight 
 lived full of years and honour. As the defeated party 
 gathered round the new monarchy, they began to acquire 
 influence, and the connexions of the Fauconville house 
 threatened to call De Lenorde to account. But he had 
 anticipated their clamours. A grant from the crown — 
 how procured little mattered — gave him title to the Faucon- 
 ville lands, with the exception of some few acres reserved 
 round the castle; and another royal order constituted 
 him the guardian of the young lord. To all appearance, 
 he performed his part fairly; the castle was partially 
 restored, though its defences were carefully left unre- 
 paired, and the remaining portion of the child's inherit- 
 ance was ostentatiously placed under careful stewardship. 
 The policy of Sir Richard was to give no pretence for 
 clamour, and he succeeded. 
 
 c 2 
 
20 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 Had the character of the young lord been other than it 
 was, the old knight might have played a bolder and more 
 daring game. But as the youth advanced to manhood, 
 there seemed nothing to fear from him. Gentle, almost 
 timid in disposition, he took little delight in warlike 
 exercises, preferring more peaceful pastimes, with hawk 
 and hound. 
 
 Educated in a religious house, he had caught some- 
 thing of the monkish taste for learning, which his politic 
 guardian took care to encourage. He gave the boy's dreamy 
 tastes free indulgence, and let him wander as he willed 
 amid rural solitudes. With a pleased eye, he saw that 
 one of his girls was the chosen companion of the youth's 
 excursions. To the knight's thought, there was nothing 
 unnatural in an union between the two houses. Such 
 alliances were of common occurrence, since the wars had 
 finally ceased ; and were Edmund Fauconville wedded 
 to the Lady Alice de Lenorde, the last fear would be 
 removed from his mind of being called to account for the 
 blood he had shed, and the lands he had usurped. He watched 
 over their growing passion, laughing, as he fancied that the 
 youth was more girlisli in his heart than his companion. 
 Fate denied him the full accomplishment of his wishes. 
 He sickened; and, warned that his end approached, sum- 
 moned his family around him. He placed first the hand 
 of the timid Edmund in that of his own bold, spirited son, 
 Sir Raoul, though both youths shrank from the contact, 
 and then motioned the young lord to embrace the sorrowing 
 Alice, who knelt by the bed-side. Tlie youth complied ; 
 but it seemed wlien he again rose, and shook back his dark 
 waving hair from liis thoughtful features, that the dying 
 knight's si)irit was mightily disturbed, as his eye caught 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 21 
 
 the earnest and fixed regard of the youthful baron. He 
 gave a deep groan, as if his soul was troubled by some 
 grievous remembrance. The priest, who hung above 
 him to catch his last accents, heard him murmur—" How 
 few years have made us even! May the curse lie with 
 me in my grave!" With these words, he sank back and 
 expired. 
 
 II. 
 
 It is beautiful to see young and loving hearts happy in 
 the present, and confident in the future, dreaming neither 
 of gloom nor cloud, having no foreshadowing of coming ill, 
 fancying that the clear blue sky of a summer's night, 
 with its myriad stars, is an image of life and its pleasures. 
 Then only does hope exist without fear, and indulge its 
 happy illusions without dread of their fading. 
 
 Two beings in the very brightness and dawn of youthful 
 maturity wandered together through the sweet scenes of 
 nature that surrounded their castle homes. The chequered 
 shade of forest trees, shielded them from the ardent sun, and a 
 stream, now deep and silent, which they compared to their 
 love-now shallow and babbling, which they likened to joys 
 less pure than theirs, filled the air with a delicious mur- 
 muring, and gave the promise, if not the reality, of re- 
 freshing coolness. The youth and maiden spoke of their 
 prospects and plans without reserve. After their marriage, 
 they would reside together in the abode of his fathers. It 
 was less splendid, less luxurious, than the dwelling she had 
 been accustomed to, but it had the remains of former 
 grandeur, and they could make of it what they pleased. As 
 
22 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 the day declined, he led her willing steps up a steep 
 pathway, conducting to the height, where the castle 
 walls, though the battlements were overthrown, and the 
 defences gone, threw bold masses of shadow down the 
 eastern slopes. The girl marked the ruins with a smile. 
 
 " Ah, how Ijeautiful," she said, " are these large masses 
 of stone, covered with fresh moss, and blooming with wild 
 thyme and oxslip !" 
 
 The youth's cheek was flushed, but he did not answer, 
 and the girl went on — 
 
 " We have lost nothing by nature's gain. These walls, 
 they tell me, did but provoke war, without contributing 
 to the happiness of those who dwelt within them. Look, 
 here is the home entire." 
 
 It was so ; whatever damage had been done by rude 
 assault to the domestic apartments of the castle, had been 
 repaired. Little was wanting to the noble mansion, save 
 in the interior the restoration of the rich furniture and 
 decorations which had once adorned it. 
 
 He guided her through the large and lofty halls, mag- 
 nificent even in their desolation, and led to rooms which 
 had been partially refitted, enjoying her exclamations of 
 surprise that so much had been done since her last visit ; 
 and thence to the chapel, where, in fair order, were ranged 
 the tombs of his ancestors. Not one was wanting. The 
 young lord knelt for a moment before the sculptured effigy 
 and graven words which told of the valiant deeds and 
 virtues of his sire. He died, said the tablet, in defending 
 his castle from an assault led on by the great Duke, father 
 of King Edward, 
 
 " A noble death, Alice! He was a knight of high renown, 
 and won his spurs in France, fighting by the side of the 
 
THE TOURNAMENT, 
 
 23 
 
 renowned King Henry. But, come; I have yet a greater 
 surprise for you !" 
 
 They traversed a long and wide gallery, at the end of 
 which a massive door admitted them into a noble hall. 
 The effect was singular. Through a richly-stained western 
 window, the setting sun cast a flood of brilliancy upon the 
 floor, reflecting the arms of the Fauconvilles, and the pic- 
 tured representation of their most famous deeds. Around 
 the walls were many suits of polished armour, looking— so 
 cunningly were the plates of mail arranged — like stalwart 
 knights, ready to grasp the spears which stood beside 
 them. In the centre, an aged man, with white hair, yet 
 with grim and stern aspect, sat before what seemed a huge 
 oaken frame- work, which served him as a board on which to 
 pursue his labour. Arms of all kinds, in good order and well 
 polished, were disposed in fantastical devices on the panels 
 of the hall. A portrait, representing a head full of dignity 
 and command, rested against a carved cabinet. The like- 
 ness to the youth, who gazed on it with melancholy aspect, 
 was striking. Beside it was a shield, with the stain and 
 dent of many a combat marked upon its disc. 
 
 The girl rallied her lover on his warlike tastes. She 
 expected to have seen a library, rather than so fine a col- 
 lection of arms. Was he thinking of arming his vassals, 
 and going to the approaching tournament? There was 
 something in the tone of raillery in which she spoke that 
 displeased the old man. 
 
 " And why," he said, " should the Lord of Fauconville 
 not be at the tournament as well as Sir Raoul de Lenorde? 
 When were his fathers found at home, when honour was to 
 be gained abroad? But I forget," he added, with a grim 
 smile ; " these tournaments are mere holiday shows now, 
 
24 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 where men tilt witli headless spears, and lay on blows 
 with blunted swords. Had knights done so in my young 
 days, 'twould have been long before we won Agincourt !" 
 
 " This old man, Alice," said the young lord, bending 
 over the chair in which she sat, " was my father's most 
 trusted follower. All that you see here is his work, not 
 mine. Here he exercises me in arms, and cases me in a 
 coat of mail; then from this window looks into the court- 
 yard below, to see how lightly, with my suit of steel, I can 
 leap upon a steed or bear a lance. We must not thwart 
 him, though sometimes he extends too widely the privilege 
 of age." 
 
 The old armourer's ears caught the last words; they 
 heightened the displeasure which clouded his face, from the 
 instant he saw who accompanied his lord. 
 
 " The privilege of age !" he said, with something of 
 sarcasm. " Ay, there is reason to complain of it, when 
 we see nothing of the privilege of youth. In my days of 
 manhood, those who bore noble names thought it a pri- 
 vilege to do feats of arms, to avenge the wrongs of their 
 house — to mount the war steed when a challenge was sent 
 abroad — to wear coats of mail like those, not silken gar- 
 ments — to ride with their followers at their back, not 
 stroll for ever through chambers that idleness keeps 
 empty of trophies." 
 
 The youth's brow had darkened, though he retained his 
 temper. 
 
 " lie rails at me often thus, Alice, though scarcely 
 so sharply; yet he knows that I can wield both spear and 
 brand. How now, Stephen!" he exclaimed, in a louder 
 voice, " is this fitting speech for thy lord's son?" 
 
 'J'here was deeper sarcasm in the old man's tones than 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 25 
 
 he had yet ventured on, as he answered the question with 
 another — " For my lord's son ?'' 
 
 " Ay, for your lord's son ; I understand your meaning, 
 old man. Would you have me prove my title to my 
 name by always railing and quarrelling. Is it not enough 
 that I am prepared to defend my right, if need be ? You 
 have ceased this reproach since last my rapier struck yours 
 from your hand." 
 
 " Ah!" said the armourer, "it is a pity you can be 
 brave to no one but your father's old servants." 
 
 This was too much even for Lord Edmund's gentle 
 temper, and he was about to make an angry reply, when 
 the Lady Alice interposed. She spoke gently and sooth- 
 ingly to the old man. 
 
 " You have seen much of brave service, good Stephen, 
 and have been witness to many noble deeds — can you 
 recal the memory of none of them now? — or do you think 
 us unworthy to hear them? Tell us of a tournament in 
 your time, as you think ours so foolish." 
 
 The armourer seemed little appeased by the lovely girl's 
 gentleness. He neither looked at nor spoke to her, but 
 turning to the young baron, who had then taken a blade 
 from his board, said — 
 
 " One noble tilting I have in memory, if my lord would 
 desire to hear it, though it may be thought a reproach to 
 these prudent times. Ah, St. George ! men thought little 
 of broken bones in those days. Those who were present 
 at that field will not soon forget it." 
 
 " Well, let us hear your story. Alice, there is an hour 
 of sunshine yet ; the evening will be sweet and cool ; some 
 May yet lingers on the bushes ; the mavis and the night- 
 ingale will give you their song as we return. I have a 
 
26 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 palfrey for you here. Do you mind, dear love, a half- 
 hour's ride after sunset ?" 
 
 A blush and a sweet smile were the answer. 
 
 The old man commenced his tale. 
 
 " It was after the return of our brave King Harry from 
 France — oh ! that the son of so great a king should have been 
 such a weakling ! I mind the time well ; for throughout the 
 land there was nothing but joyance and idleness. I say, it 
 was when brave King Harry — whom the saints keep ! — was 
 newly returned from France, that the court, for very wanton- 
 ness, began to quarrel. Some knights there were, proud of 
 their looks and glittering dresses, and their fame, who 
 would, if they could, have behaved over pertly to the ladies 
 of Queen Katherine's state. They were checked soon 
 enough. I warrant they repented quickly of their forward- 
 ness, when they saw how it was resented. The rumour ran 
 that one young malapert had his ears boxed by a noble lady, 
 to whom he was too free of speech. 
 
 " These young coxcombs were mightily incensed when 
 they saAV the laugh turned against them. In revenge, 
 they spread abroad rumours unfavourable to the reputation 
 of the court ladies — ay, and in gross terms too — declaring 
 that the maids of honour were not worthy of their titles, 
 and that the dames who surrounded the throne were neither 
 so fair nor so virtuous as they might be. You may be 
 sure these springalds were soon called to account. But, to 
 do them justice, there was no lack of spirit among them; 
 and, banded together, eight-and-forty knights, of good 
 repute in arms, who had won honour in Frjince, and seen 
 
THE TOURNAMENT 27 
 
 the princes and chivalry of that land fly before them, de- 
 clared they would maintain their avouch with lance and 
 sword, on foot or on horseback, in silken doublet or coat 
 of mail, against the like number of gentlemen of birth, 
 who would come against them. Ha ! ha ! they might want 
 prudence, they might be too quick in quarrel, but braver 
 men never bore shield. Their blades were ever ready to 
 their hands, and their seat in their saddle as firm as the 
 roots of an oak in the ground. And that was known 
 all over merry England ; so that their hardihood was ap- 
 plauded, and none cared to take up the glove they had 
 thrown down. 
 
 " When the ladies saw that knights were wanting to 
 champion their cause, — for the graver sort would have 
 nothing to do with this mad-cap quarrel — they wept for very 
 shame and vexation, and vowed, that if the defiance were 
 not met, they could show their faces round the throne no 
 more. Some gallant youths declared they would do battle 
 for the ladies' fair fame against all comers ; but the chal- 
 lengers stuck to their terms, and said, an equal number 
 must meet them in the field — eight-and -forty against 
 eight-and-forty ; and that until their number was com- 
 pleted, they held their challenge unaccepted, and the ladies 
 disgraced. 
 
 " Oh ! honour and virtue were dearly prized in those 
 days ! No son forgot his father's fame — no daughter, her 
 mother's purity. These ladies then put on weeds, de- 
 claring their fair repute was dead, and that they would 
 weep for it, as loving wives weep for a well-loved spouse. 
 The joy of the court was gone; no more silken bravery — 
 no more laughing looks — no more merry, quick-glancing 
 eyes — no more mirth and pageantry. Those who came to 
 
28 EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 Westminster then thought the nation was in mourning. 
 There were old men living who said, nothing so sorrowful 
 had been seen since the great plague of 1349. Wherever 
 these noble and beauteous ladies went, there were the 
 sounds and sights of woe; and, to make the matter worse 
 for them, the king swore by St. Denis he would not in- 
 terfere, but leave the gallants of his realm to fight out the 
 quarrel as they pleased. 
 
 " There was one young lord who took up the ladies' 
 cause in a manner that won for him the good-will of all 
 the women in the land. He dared the leader of the chal- 
 lengers to combat with what weapons, and in what guise 
 he pleased ; and when he was refused, swore by the Holy 
 Virgin — and the brave youth kept his oath — that he would 
 never quit his coat of mail till he had formed a band to 
 meet the boasters, and had fairly broken a lance with 
 their leader. Beauty and glory were his cry. Ah ! that 
 was a time when such a cry would be carried over the 
 world. 
 
 " It is likely you may not recollect that the Princess Phi- 
 lippa, daughter of great John of Gaunt, was wedded to the 
 brave and good king of Portugal, Don John, as they called 
 him. I saw her, when a boy, as she went in a stately litter 
 to Dover. We gave her a true English cheer ; she waved her 
 delicate hand to thank us, and then drew aside the silken cur- 
 tains of her carriage — I mind them well, worked with cloth of 
 gold — and let us catch the last sight of her lovely face. Her 
 hair, the colour of the silk the worm weaves, hung in glossy 
 ringlets about her face and fair shoulders, and her eyes 
 were as blue as the skies above, or as mariners wlio have 
 ventni-ed far to sea say the ocean is beyond sight of land. 
 TJiis princess thanked us with gentle courtesy. Oh, the 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 29 
 
 noblest in the land could then sometimes spare a smile for 
 the lowest ! 
 
 " A noble queen did this gentle princess make; and the 
 youth of her adopted land loved her as though she had 
 been born of their own soil. When she heard what was 
 passing in England, she sorrowed too — for she never forgot 
 dear England, that had such pride in her; and then she 
 dressed herself in weeds, and said she must needs mourn 
 for the disgrace that had fallen on the daughters of her 
 own native country. 
 
 " When the queen's grief was told, all the hot blood of 
 that southern land was on fire. More knights crowded 
 to court than when an expedition was threatened against 
 the Moors. They swore, by all the saints of their land, 
 that they would die or change the mourning garments of 
 their queen into the gayest colours that the loom could 
 fashion. The king would let no more than forty knights 
 depart, and those were chosen by lot from the very chi- 
 valry of the land. 
 
 " Eight English knights, on the ladies' part, went to meet 
 them, and at their head the brave young lord, who, over 
 his polished mail with its gold studs, wore a scarf of crape, 
 to signify that he mourned, too, till the fair fame of the 
 court dames was established. As the goodly procession 
 moved to London, there poured forth, from town and 
 hamlet, thousands to welcome it. The knights passed 
 beneath arches of welcome, and not a lady in all the land 
 was there who thought herself too noble or tender to walk 
 before them, and cast flowers for their horses' hoofs to 
 trample. I warrant, in those times, no brave man ever 
 wanted encouragement from ladies' eyes. 
 
 " The king himself received them at Westminster, and 
 
30 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 lodged tliem in his palace. Who will forget that he slept 
 himself in a tent, and waited on these knights as thongh 
 he were a humble squire? Night and day, the ladies 
 worked for them banners, favours, and scarfs. I saw my- 
 self, Sir John Maxwell, Lord Mayor of London, ride in his 
 scarlet cloak, with all his officers and aldermen about him, 
 the golden mace, and the weighty sword of the city, such 
 as a stalwart man could scarcely wield, — I saw them all go 
 to Westminster, to pray the king that the tournament 
 might take place within the city walls. The king was 
 proud it should be so, and the lord mayor charged himself 
 with the whole expense of fitting up Smith field, where so 
 many knightly games had been played in times past. 
 
 " Where ^vould you find such a goodly company now as 
 assembled then ? That was before Englishmen had taken 
 to cut each other's throats. The flower of all the kingdom 
 assembled that day, for it was bruited far and wide that 
 such a tournament had never been seen in England be- 
 fore. The people lined the road-side by thousands, the 
 hedge-rows were trampled down, and every tree swarmed 
 Avith life. As you came to houses, you saw balconies deco- 
 rated with cloth of gold and gems, and ladies ready to 
 shower the most precious things they had in the warriors' 
 path. No one knew how rich was London till that day. 
 You could not see the colour of the houses for the tapestry 
 that hung adown them. 
 
 " Had you seen the procession, you would have thought 
 our brave king was just going to take possession of the 
 France he liad won. There were archers and men-at-arms 
 to clear the way ; but as they went by, the city youth broke 
 into the road again, that tlicy might mingle in the proces- 
 sion, and swear, in after tijnes, they had taken part in it. 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 31 
 
 Then, there were trumpeters and heralds stiff with their 
 gold embroidery, and the king-at-arms, looking more mag- 
 nificent than any monarch ever seen— a body of knights 
 in glittering steel came next, and after them the judges of 
 the field— more archers to clear the way for the challengers 
 — eight-and-forty of the bravest knights in the land, armed 
 cap-a-pie, with their steeds dancing for delight as the 
 trumpets sounded and the shouts of the people shook the 
 air. The ladies in the balconies and windows cast down 
 their eyes ; but many an admiring glance did those knights 
 gain that day, I'll engage ; for where could there be collected 
 a band of fairer and braver youths ? 
 
 " ' Room, there— room !' Ah, then came the glory of 
 the pageant. The king himself— the darling of the land- 
 shame to it that it forsook his son !— the king came, in the 
 midst of his brilliant court, armed in mail from head to 
 foot— I lie, his noble head was bare; a page bore his 
 plumed helmet before him, and bent beneath its weight. 
 Not a man who looked on the king that day but would 
 have died for him, so loyal in those good days were the 
 people. Those who shouted before, now wept ; those who 
 danced, knelt down ; those who tossed their caps into the 
 air, now raised their hands to ieaven, to implore God's 
 blessing on his royal majesty. 
 
 " The Knights of Portugal rode next the king. Well do 
 I mind their order — five a-breast, each with an English 
 leader, and the gallant young lord, who had worn mail 
 night and day for three months past, at the head of all. 
 As they came on, the ladies all welcomed them as their 
 champions; benisons were showered on their heads by 
 gentle lips, and look where they would, they saw only loving 
 glances and sweet smiles. Flowers and favours were rained 
 
32 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 thick upon them ; hands were clapped, and scarfs waved in 
 ecstasy. Every one said those knights must triumph. 
 
 " Then, hist, in their mourning weeds, came Queen 
 Katharine, and her maids and matrons, looking more 
 lovely for their show of grief, more fair for their sombre 
 garments. 
 
 " The day would close before I could tell you all the gallant 
 actions of the field. The challengers Avell maintained their 
 fame, yet still they were always worsted. The combat of 
 the two leaders was most expected, for their fathers were 
 rivals before them. When they met, at last, and rode 
 proudly round the lists, the very sound of applause was 
 hushed in anxiety, and spectators hardly dared to draw 
 their breath. The young lord who championed the ladies' 
 cause was such a stripling as thou art now ; thy years were 
 his; yet he had then won honour which, had he died that 
 hour, would have rendered his name famous for ever. As he 
 looked round, before closing his vizor, there was many a lady 
 there who vowed she would mourn for that handsome youth 
 till her death, should he perish in the combat; and the 
 Virgin had endless gifts promised her shrine to bear him 
 harmless. 
 
 " The chargers they rode seemed to know the sound of 
 the trumpet, and to be eager for the strife as their lords. 
 They met in the middle of the field, with a shock tliat well 
 nigh appalled the stoutest heart there. Not for an instant 
 was the conflict doubtful. The challenger, man and horse, 
 rolled over and over on the plain ; but the ladies' champion 
 remained erect in his seat, his feet in the stirrups, his crest 
 untouched, and the point of his opponent's lance borne 
 harmlessly in his shield, lie rode round the ring as gaily 
 as before the encounter. For one instant surprise kept 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 33 
 
 the spectators mute; no one had ever seen a victory 
 more complete. Then rose a shout, which was heard 
 that noon at Westminster. The queen crowned her 
 champion, and the king threw round his neck a chain of 
 gold and gems. 
 
 " Fifty years are passed since then, but I can live on the 
 memory of that hour. I shared in the triumph of my 
 lord — my hands removed that armour from his honoured 
 frame, never to be stained in conflict more — my — " 
 
 " Thy lord! — thy hands!" impatiently exclaimed the 
 youth, interrupting the armourer ; "what is this? — what 
 mean the tears that are flowing down thy cheeks? Old 
 man, you torture me. Speak, — this instant — speak, I 
 command you !" 
 
 "I have said it," said the armourer, solemnly; "the 
 victor was thy father." 
 
 " And the vanquished knight?" breathlessly asked Alice. 
 
 " Lady, he was Sir Richard de Lenorde. Hear me yet. 
 Now or never must I speak — now that a great truth, too 
 long concealed, is struggling for utterance within me. 
 Young lord, let go that hand. Her sire never forgave 
 thine the issue of that day. He shunned him in open con- 
 flict, but he plotted his destruction. My lord died not 
 with his sword in his hand, but with his head on the block. 
 Sir Richard de Lenorde gave the order for his execution, 
 and stood by to see him die. The curse thy noble father 
 left upon the head of him and his — the ciu'se that still 
 rings in my ears — has yet to be fulfilled." 
 
 With these words, the old man rose, and abruptly left 
 the hall. 
 
 The Lady Alice, almost fainting, laid her hand upon the 
 young lord's shoulder for support. He clasped her to his 
 
 D 
 
34 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 breast — all the tumult of his feelings giving way to love 
 and pity. In the gloom of night that had gathered round 
 them, he vowed again that no power should part them, and 
 that he would be true to her even in death. He knew not 
 yet the power of the malignant star that ruled \i is destiny. 
 
 III. 
 
 No change could be noted in the grim features of the old 
 man, when in the fresh air of morning he resumed his well- 
 loved toil. He polished, filed, and rivetted as before, and 
 seemed to have no other thought than for the careful 
 execution of his labours. 
 
 A light but firm hand laid on his shoulder caused him to 
 start. He looked up, and saw fixed on him the pale and 
 eager gaze of his young lord. 
 
 " Stephen, your tale was harshly told. It should have 
 been given to my ear alone. But you are faithful. Is there 
 yet more to be disclosed?" 
 
 " "What more do you think I have to tell?" 
 
 " Nay, I know not. Old man, you have maddened me, 
 and I will be content with no half confidence. Let me 
 know all your thought." 
 
 The rigid features of the armourer relaxed, and he changed 
 at once from the stern monitor of vengeance, to the old and 
 devoted adherent. 
 
 " Dear lord, the living likeness of him I loved more than 
 words can tell, I see in thee the only prop of this great house. 
 Why should you stay here, when fame and renown are 
 to be won abroad? ^\'hy be an outcast from the court, 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 35 
 
 where friends are gathering to serve you ? Why not 
 appear before Edward's throne — men name him generous — 
 re-assert your rights, and rescue from disgrace and ob- 
 scurity an honoured name?" 
 
 A single night had aroused in the youth's breast all the 
 warlike ardour of his race. He mused for an instant, and 
 then said — 
 
 " Well, Stephen, say on." 
 
 " The rumour runs that the king is quick to be caught 
 by address in warlike exercises. Who can have better 
 claim to excel in them than you? If this hand, that 
 taught you, be weak, it has the skill and cunning of sixty 
 years' practice." 
 
 " You would have me, Stephen, take part in this tourna- 
 ment — this gaudy reflection of the past ? Well, what more ?" 
 
 " My honoured master, have I not proved to you my 
 devotion and love ? Let me implore you, as you regard the 
 memory of your dead father, as you prize your own safety — 
 no, no, I know you regard not that — as you would preserve 
 the noble name that has descended to you, separate your- 
 self from the enemies of your house, bid them defiance — a 
 marriage with the De Lenorde " 
 
 " Peace, old man ! that matter is beyond you. I will go 
 and demand justice from King Edward on his throne — 
 demand the lands of which our house has been despoiled. 
 Answer me not. See what arms you have ready for my use." 
 
 The armourer, with trembling hand, swept from the 
 oaken board on which he worked the implements of his 
 trade. Touching a hinge in front, a piece of planking was 
 removed, and a lock exposed to view. Taking from his 
 dress a large and curious key, he presented it, kneeling, to 
 his lord. 
 
 d2 
 
36 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 The young baron seized and applied it to the lock; it 
 turned, but the huge chest refused to open and disclose its 
 secret. The old man took a ponderous hammer, and 
 pointed to the head of a spring in the lid, which seemed 
 merely one of the studs intended to give solidity to the 
 structure. Lord Edmund grasped the hammer, swung 
 it above his head, and let it fall with a tremendous 
 stroke on the bolt-head. Loud was the clang ; and as it 
 died away, almost with the sound of a solemn and deep- 
 toned note of music, the lid rose, and discovered the con- 
 tents of the chest to the gaze of the startled lord. 
 
 Within, extended at full length, was a suit of gorgeous 
 armour, disposed in the attitude of the sculptured effigy on 
 the tomb of the last Baron of Fauconville. The gauntleted 
 hands Avere raised as in prayer, and the vizor was down. 
 The casque was surmounted by a noble plume ; the cross- 
 handled sword lay by the figure's side, and a shield hung at 
 its feet. 
 
 The armourer was the first to break the silence. 
 
 " Such a figure. Lord Edmund, was thy father on that 
 day when he overthrew Sir Richard de Lenorde. That 
 armour was treasured for the heir of his house. See, I 
 have kept it faithfully ; there is on it no spot. In the sack 
 and ruin of the castle, I saved this from the spoiler's 
 hands." 
 
 As if under the influence of a magic spell, or as if he 
 expected to view his father's form beneath the mail, the 
 young lord, with a tender but eager hand, raised the polished 
 breast-plate. A scroll of silver only lay in the liolluw. 
 It bore this inscription — 
 
 *2ri£( tl)c Inningr of t\)ii mailc 
 d)at mu^t niahc itiJ migljtr nbailf. 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 37 
 
 " The lining!" cried the youth, as the meaning of tlie 
 couplet flashed on his mind ; " yes, the heart it covers, 
 not the steel itself,— the hand that grasps this sword, not 
 the inanimate blade, must win the victory. I am ready 
 to fulfil my part. Stephen, do thine. Come, encase my 
 body in this mail." 
 
 " Nay, my good lord, there is time yet. These games 
 are some days distant." 
 
 " As did my noble father, so will I. By the cross, I 
 swear, this armour shall not leave my limbs till it is taken 
 from my corse, or I have restored the fortunes of my 
 house!" 
 
 As the young lord spoke, his resolve inspired his fea- 
 tures, lent fire to his eye, and thrilling in his breast, ex- 
 panded his whole frame with energy. The armourer saw 
 that was no time for remonstrance or advice. Piece by 
 piece, he encased his young lord's graceful and noble figure 
 in the brilliant steel, light, yet brought to the finest temper, 
 and polished as the purest mirror. Hammer and pincers 
 closed the rivets fast. The transformation seemed hardly 
 less wonderful than those recorded in the fables of 
 old; the peaceful dress gave place to the guise of full- 
 armed war. Completely locked up in the suit of steel, 
 Lord Edmund moved with dignity and ease, and raised the 
 cross-handled sword to his lips to seal his oath. The 
 kneeling armourer would have placed the gold spurs of 
 his father to the youth's heels — 
 
 " Not yet — not yet, good Stephen, I have to win them 
 first. By the grace of God and the Virgin, they shall not 
 long be wanting. Prepare for my journey. See that I go 
 Avith the state befitting the Baron of Fauconville. Let 
 these old walls see me ride forth in pride, as did my ances- 
 
38 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 tors. If my train be scanty, there is more need for me to 
 enlarge it. Let those beware who would stand between me 
 and my birthright. On the second morning from this 
 day, Stephen, I depart." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Again it was evening Avhen the lovers met. But the 
 sun shone no longer for them as formerly. Shades of fear 
 and mistrust had gathered around their future. Lord 
 Edmund was cased in steel, and felt not the gentle pres- 
 sure of the hand of his betrothed. He answered her 
 earnest entreaties — 
 
 " Dearly as I love you, Alice, all your persuasions are in 
 vain. I have had visions of this hour before, but they 
 were visions only of brightness. I dreamt of glory to be 
 won without pain. Now I feel that the path I have to 
 tread is a harsh one, but I will not shrink from it; the 
 honour of my name must be vindicated; it is better I 
 should die, than that its lustre should be tarnished." 
 
 " Why should you expose yourself to needless peril by 
 going to the court, where the enemies of your house are so 
 powerful ? Eemain here till the king requires your service 
 in a foreign land; the delay cannot subject you to re- 
 proach," 
 
 "You are mistaken, Alice; there is not a vassal of my 
 father's house, whose silence does not cast bitter scorn on 
 my inaction. I understand their moody manner now. 
 Why was there no friend to iiinnin me earlier of this cruel 
 truth." 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 39 
 
 "For what good end could you have known it, Ed- 
 mund. Other families have suffered as greatly, — ay, 
 much more than thine. Your face is darkened ; yet recol- 
 lect, in those pitiless wars how readily men devoted each 
 other to death — how little of mercy was shown on either 
 side." 
 
 " Peace, Alice, peace, for mercy's sake ; your accents, 
 sweet and gentle as they are, put me to torture. I know 
 what you would say. Your father sheltered my child- 
 hood. Well, hut he repaid himself by my inheritance. 
 He protected my youth. True, but he believed he had 
 nothing to fear from me. He let us love, Alice, caring 
 nothing for the bitterness of this hour." 
 
 "You repent your love. You would have me absolve 
 you from your vow. So be it ! I have strength as well 
 as you, Edmund." 
 
 " No, Alice, no, as Heaven is my judge ! I love you 
 dearer, purer, truer than ever. But a blighted name you 
 shall never share. There are friends of my house around 
 Edward's throne. They believe me a fool or a coward ; for 
 rumour has been busy in throwing shame upon me. When 
 I appear in arms, that shame shall be dispelled ; my sword 
 shall hurl the slander down the throats of those who dare 
 to breathe it." 
 
 " Most of all, do I fear a quarrel between you and my 
 brother. He is hot in temper, and stands high in Edward's 
 favour." 
 
 " That is well. He will assist me, then, to recover my 
 heritage." 
 
 "Let the king decide that. But, Edmund, you will 
 shim Kaoul? Promise me only that, and I will see you 
 depart with less pain." 
 
40 EVENINGS AT llADDON UALL. 
 
 On the part of the young lord there was a momentary 
 hesitation, and it was easy to see, from the heightened 
 colour of his brow, that strong passions were working 
 Avithin liis breast. At Last he answered, — 
 
 " I will neither shun nor seek him, Alice. For your 
 dear sake, I will give him no occasion of quarrel. And 
 should we meet in the lists, what then? You hear how 
 old Stephen despises the bloodless contests of these days. 
 Calm your fears, love. Dark and terrible is the cloud that 
 has come upon us ; but who knows how soon it may break, 
 and reveal again the pure sky. I hold you to your pro- 
 mise. To-morrow you will see me depart." 
 
 With that they separated. 
 
 Forth went the rumour round the country that on the 
 Baptist's morning the Baron of Fauconville would ride 
 from his castle in state to King Edward's tournament. 
 Various were the emotions this intelligence excited. The 
 adherents of the house of De Lenorde heard it with incredu- 
 lity and ridicule, not unmingled with a feeling of fear. The 
 old vassals of Fauconville were clamorous in their expres- 
 sions of joy and triumph, and scrupled not to avow their 
 belief that the time was come for the restitution of their 
 house to its ancient splendour. Anxiety and expectation 
 brought to the castle-yard a large assembly, who beheld 
 with some surprise an image of the former fame and power 
 of the barony in the preparations made. Some dozen of 
 well-appointed men-at-arms stood ranged around the ground, 
 ready to mount horse at their lord's command. A 
 herald, with the arms of the Fauconvilles richly blazoned 
 on his coat, and mounted on a gay steed, was giving 
 orders for the departure, and a crowd of old retainers were 
 preparing to welcome with applause tlie approach of tlieir 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 41 
 
 lord. If there was nothing grand in these arrangements, 
 they were yet more imposing than had been looked for. 
 Whatever was done, was in excellent order, and no more 
 had been attempted than could be properly effected. 
 
 From the domestic apartments of the castle a door led to 
 a balcony, which had formerly been distinguished for its 
 rich gothic tracery : much of its ornament still remained, 
 and it had been newly fitted with crimson cloth. Those 
 most experienced in the past history of the house, pointed 
 out this balcony to their younger auditors, and told how in 
 old times the lady of the castle had there stood to take 
 leave of her lord, and to watch his departure through the 
 castle postern, till he was lost to view in the woodland of 
 
 the plains. 
 
 The faithful Stephen, with joints too stiff for active 
 motion, remained beside this balcony, watching with keen 
 eye that nothing was wanting in this hour, which he knew 
 would be so eventful in the life of his lord. His grandson, 
 a fair boy, partly supported the aged man, whose pride 
 helped to keep him erect and stern. His two sons were in 
 the young baron's train. 
 
 The hour of departure had arrived, and the herald 
 sounded a cheerful blast on his trumpet, which, waking 
 echoes so long undisturbed in the neighbourhood of those 
 walls, filled the heart of every Fauconville with triumphant 
 expectation. At the instant. Lord Edmund, mounted on 
 a noble and completely appointed war-horse, rode into the 
 yard. Two pages were at his side, one with a goblet of 
 gold, the other bearing a light steel cap, rapier, and gloves 
 for use in his journey. To the affright of some, and the 
 amazement of all, the Lady Alice entered the balcony, to 
 bid her knight " God speed." With graceful courtesy 
 
42 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 the young warrior urged his steed to the place where she 
 stood. There was a momentary parting, and some words 
 said of sweet delight, which brought the red blood brightly 
 to the lady's face. In her aspect, hope seemed to have part, 
 though her eyes were downcast and her hands clasped. 
 The page presented his lord with the cap, gauntlets, and 
 rapier he bore. The young baron cast them to the ground. 
 " Thus," he said, " will I travel, — in this guise Avill I re- 
 main, till my fame as a knight will allow me to lay aside 
 my father's helm and sword." He stooped to raise the 
 goblet presented him on a salver, touched it with his lips, 
 then waving for the last time his hand to his betrothed, he 
 set forth with high and gallant bearing on his dangerous 
 mission. 
 
 V. 
 
 Never had the English court been more gay than in the 
 period immediately preceding King Edward's projected in- 
 vasion of France. The horrors of civil strife were over, 
 and the whole kingdom rejoiced in its return to peace and 
 security. The beauty of ladies, the valour and grace of 
 knights, again became the theme of troubadours. Banquets 
 and revels succeeded to strife and intrigue. The halls of 
 royalty, brilliantly illuminated, echoed to the ring of joyous 
 laughs, the tread of light leet, the strains of sweet music, 
 the whispers of devoted love. Again quaint masques and 
 gorgeous pageants enlivened the night, and tourneys, 
 jousts, and other martial exercises gave entertainment to 
 the day. All appearance of mourning was banished; the 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 43 
 
 dresses found most favour that were most rich and fantas- 
 tical. In hall and bower, there fluttered the rarest mate- 
 rials, the gayest colours. Men said that the age of gold 
 had at once succeeded to the age of iron, so gay, splendid, 
 and luxurious was the monarch's reign. Whoever was 
 distinguished for courtly accomplishments and grace of 
 person, found ready favour in the king's eyes. Full of his 
 projected invasion of France, he sought to collect round 
 him the most ardent and bravest spirits of the realm. The 
 adherents of Lancaster ceased to be objects of suspicion ; 
 their cause was utterly lost ; its princes cut off, its chiefs 
 slain, its hopes and resources alike gone. The victorious 
 Edward reigned without fear, and was inclined to show 
 himself the king of the nation rather than of a party. 
 
 Accomplished in all knightly exercises, beautiful in per- 
 son, gay, young, and graceful, the monarch delighted in all 
 the pomp and pageantry of the tournament. He had 
 ordered one to take place with unusual magnificence at 
 Westminster, and had invited all persons of gentle blood to 
 take part in it without distinction. Kegulations were 
 issued to protect the combatants from unnecessary dan- 
 ger, as the king wished the pageant to be distinguished by 
 superior address and agility, rather than by the number of 
 combatants slain and maimed. The gallant youth of 
 the kingdom looked forward to the martial show without 
 the slightest apprehension for the result, and fair ladies 
 anticipated the display of their lovers' heroism and splen- 
 dour, without dread that they would be thrown lifeless to 
 the plain before their eyes. 
 
 The pageant was graced by the presence of King Edward 
 himself, who, with his beautiful queen, Elizabeth, sat pre- 
 pared to award favour to the successful knights. The 
 
44 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 spacious amphitlieatre of seats which had been prepared 
 Avas crowded with fair and noble spectators, who manifested 
 their interest in the exercises by the bursts of applause 
 with Avhich they rewarded unusual dexterity. The better 
 to prevent accidents, barriers were placed in the arena, on 
 each side of which the combatants were to run, that they 
 mii^ht avoid those fierce shocks of horse to horse and man 
 to man, which, in former times, had so often been attended 
 with fatal consequences. 
 
 The tournament was to last three days. To accommo- 
 date the crowd who desired to take part in it, the king 
 ordered that no knight should combat on more than one 
 day, and that each day should have its victor. The three 
 conquerors were allowed to demand boons of the king, such 
 as a great monarch might grant ; and as it was known that 
 on such occasions Edward was profuse in his liberality, 
 the fortunate knights might well hope to gain the highest 
 prizes in the gift of the crown to bestow. 
 
 Near the person of the king there sat one lady, Avhose 
 bold and brilliant beauty attracted universal homage. 
 Her countenance bore the aspect of that high command 
 acquired by distinguished birth and early indulgence. 
 Her eyes were dark, lustrous, quick, glancing, and full 
 of passionate fire. Her voluptuous mouth and ripe lips, 
 and her cheeks suffused with lively colour, gave to the 
 haughty fair one an appearance of almost masculine beauty, 
 but that her bust was so full and swelling, and that her 
 raven hair fell in the richest profusion of waves about her 
 neck. One seat lower, at her feet, was a gentleman in the 
 prime of manhood, dressed in the richest style of that ex- 
 travagant period, but whose natural nobility of look and 
 goodly form carried off tlie bravery tluit might have made 
 
TUE TOURNAMENT. 45 
 
 another appear ostentatious. He was in conversation witli 
 the proud lady, his face turned admiringly to hers. 
 
 " Do you tilt to-day, Sir Raoul?" she asked. 
 
 " Good troth, I know not whether any knight Avill 
 appear worthy my lance." 
 
 " What, do you esteem your skill so highly?" 
 
 " Nay, I rate not myself. Do you name one who has 
 gained an advantage over me, and I will abandon to him 
 the right of basking in your smiles." 
 
 " Well, Sir Raoul, I shall remember your words; and 
 when I see a champion worthy your might, then will I 
 summon you to horse." 
 
 " And then will I prove myself worthy your favour." 
 
 " You will obey my command, to tilt or to refrain?" 
 
 " Most faithfully : the Lady Elgarva shall be mistress 
 of my actions, as she is of my heart." 
 
 The haughty beauty exercised her privilege capriciously. 
 Many spears were fairly shivered that day, many an adven- 
 turous youth was hurled from his saddle into the dust 
 of the arena ; yet, though continually fresh knights crowded 
 forward, she kept Sir Raoul at her feet till a stout knight. 
 Lord William Audley, was proclaimed the victor. 
 
 Those who chose to conceal their titles were at 
 liberty to do so ; yet, though the practice was generally 
 adopted of choosing some motto or characteristic denomi- 
 nation, the combatants seldom failed to be recognised by 
 their arms or manner; for those who were accustomed to 
 such exhibitions could as readily detect a knight by his 
 horsemanship or bearing, as in these days an author is re- 
 cognised by his style, or an actor by his voice, whatever 
 masquerade he may assume. But on the second day, a 
 young warrior appeared in the lists, with a plain shield, 
 
46 EVENINGS AT II ADDON II ALL. 
 
 terming himself " L'Inconnn," wlio baffled tlie speculations 
 of those who boasted a knowledge of every good lance in 
 the kingdom. This young unknown, slight in figure, but 
 of most graceful bearing, and gorgeously armed, obtained 
 a decisive advantage over the knight who, up to the 
 period of his arrival, had maintained his good fortune 
 against all comers. There were some stout and practised 
 warriors who generously declined to combat with so 
 youthful a champion ; yet he shewed that their forbearance 
 was little needed. In three several encounters with 
 soldiers of high repute, he worsted them all, hurling the 
 last, Sir Thomas Aspinall, who boasted much of his might, 
 with force to the ground. The king loudly applauded the 
 feat, and smiled on the young victor as he rode round the 
 barriers. 
 
 "VYhat prompted the graceful unknown, after each suc- 
 cess, to single out the Lady Elgarva for his homage ? Was 
 it her brilliant beauty, or was it that Sir Raoul de Lenorde 
 was at her feet ? Had he forgotten so soon his vows to the 
 lady of his love, the promise he had given her, the scroll 
 that indicated it was the heart and cause of the warrior that 
 won his triumph more than lance and shield ? It was even 
 so. In his hour of pride and victory, he saw only the 
 enemy of his line; revenge dictated his homage to the 
 haughty beauty; every tribute of admiration he offered 
 her was a challenge to the knight who looked admiringly 
 into her eyes. Still the Lady Elgarva kept Sir Raoul 
 inactive, though he fumed to contend with the audacious 
 champion. The young victor bowed with grave dignity 
 to the acclamations of the crowd, after his last and most 
 signal triumph, and bent low as the crest of his steed to 
 the king's mark of admiration ; then he looked up to the 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 47 
 
 gallery where the Lady Elgarva was seated, and respect- 
 fully lowered to her the point of his lance. The proud 
 beauty's cheek was flushed, as the eyes of the whole 
 assembly were bent towards her ; but her love of distinc- 
 tion was not yet satisfied. She spoke hastily to her lover 
 at her feet, — 
 
 " Now, quick, arm ! Meet this champion. He will try 
 
 thy prowess !" 
 
 Sir Raoul sprang to his feet; his arms and charger were 
 at hand; but before he was prepared, the king, wishing to 
 spare L'Inconnu too severe a trial of his force, gave the 
 signal for the day's proceedings to end. Sir Raoul arrived 
 only in time to see the successful unknown again lower his 
 lance to the Lady Elgarva, while he was proclaimed by 
 the heralds the victor of the day. 
 
 The contests of the third and last day were more 
 numerous than on either of the preceding ones. Sir Raoul, 
 fired by his disappointment and the consciousness that 
 Lady Elgarva's eyes were on him, early gained a supe- 
 riority, and maintained it until the close of the contest. 
 Those most experienced in martial exercises, and among 
 them Edward himself, declared him to be one of the most 
 accomplished soldiers in the realm. 
 
 A magnificent banquet was prepared for the evening ; 
 but in the meantime the king prepared to redeem his 
 promise. The three victors were summoned before his 
 throne, that the whole assembly might be witness with what 
 readiness the king would grant whatever was demanded 
 of him. 
 
 " What boon hast thou. Sir Raoul de Lenorde, faithful 
 son of a faithful father, to ask of thy king, he will not 
 freely grant? Speak thou, and speak all freely." 
 
48 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " My liege, I beg of your grace's favour the hand of the 
 Lady Elgarva Montacute." 
 
 " Ah ! St. George ! thou hast spoken well. The richest 
 heiress in our gift ; whose lands, too, lie not far from thine 
 own, and a queen for beauty. Richer gift never sovereign 
 accorded to a subject. ])e Lenorde, she is thine ! Now, 
 Lord William Audley, speak thou. I need not tell thee to 
 ask fearlessly. Thy modesty, man, I know, will not be 
 a barrier to thy preferment." 
 
 " Faith, your majesty, I have so great love for your 
 royal person, that I would fain be with you always. And 
 as your grace's master of the horse " 
 
 " Ho, enough. I would I had entered the lists my- 
 self, rather than allowed thee to remain conqueror. Sir 
 Edward Ashley, here. Make out the patent ; Lord William 
 Audley, my new master of the horse. This good soldier's 
 bluntness has saved me a world of trouble in choosing from 
 a crowd of applicants." 
 
 " Indeed, your grace," answered the staid minister of 
 the king, " I think there be never a place vacant but there 
 are a hundred seeking to fill it." 
 
 " And now, Sir L'Inconnu, since that is thy title, raise 
 thy vizor; show thy- face to thy king, and ask, if it be thy 
 will, a richer boon yet. What, so young and fair ! By 
 the rood, if thou followest me to France, and wield thy 
 lance there so well, thou shalt have a duchy of our 
 new kingdom. Thy eye is as keen as a hawk's, and thy 
 hand as true to thy aim as his stoop on the quarry. AVhat, 
 noble boy — for noble Fll SAvear thou art — is thy petition ?" 
 
 " First, the honour of knighthood from your majesty's 
 hand." 
 
 Lord Edmund could hardly have presented a request 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 49 
 
 which the king would have received with more pleasure. 
 The monarch expressed surprise that he had not already 
 received the accolade from a more renowned sword than 
 his. Then, as the youth knelt, the king questioned him of 
 his name, heard it rather with satisfaction than displeasure, 
 and bade him rise, Sir Edmund, Baron of Fauconville. 
 
 " Now, ask again. I owe thy house no ill-will. Thy 
 father died cruelly enough, as I have heard, before I drew 
 sword. Thou art welcome to our presence. Say, what 
 seal shall I put to thy allegiance? What hast thou to ask 
 from thy king?" 
 
 The youth again fell on his knee. 
 
 " Justice, ray gracious liege !" 
 
 " Ah how? Your words are wide." 
 
 " The restoration of my house's lands." 
 
 The king bit his lip angrily. These demands, which 
 were becoming more frequent, perplexed him extremely, and 
 for an instant he hesitated to reply. His petitioner 
 eagerly wat-ihed the changes of the king's face, and seeing 
 him still pause, poured forth a passionate appeal in behalf 
 
 of his suit. 
 
 " Good, my liege, pardon my too great boldness ! Hear 
 me for an instant. My father fought for the king he 
 served, as I would combat for your majesty's right this 
 hour. He met his foes fairly in the field; he gave quarter 
 where it was asked; he slew no prisoners; he struck no 
 defenceless man ; when the battle was over, he gave his 
 hand to his foe ; he fought with the chivalry your high- 
 ness loves. The ancient foe of his house came against him 
 treacherously and basely. To avenge a private quarrel, to 
 wipe away a disgraceful defeat, he engaged your royal 
 father's arms against my sire. What wonder that he fell ! 
 
 E 
 
50 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. 
 
 He was murdered in cold blood ; his lands were usurped by 
 his enemy. Pretending to be my guardian, he stripped me 
 of my heritage, and left me only a ruined castle, and as 
 many roods of land as might support a yeoman. Your high- 
 ness knows what part the house of Fauconville has played 
 in this kingdom's history. The name must perish, with- 
 out your gracious aid ; I will not transmit it impoverished 
 and disgraced. My dread lord, I am careless of myself; I 
 desire only my house's honour. Grant me this boon. Make 
 men respect your justice as they fear your might, and de- 
 clare that the reign of vengeance is at an end." 
 
 The king was moved by the earnest words of his 
 petitioner. 
 
 " Sir Raoul de Lenorde," he said, " I have heard of 
 this before. Restore to this young lord his lands, and I 
 pawn thee a king's word, thou shalt lose nothing by thy act." 
 
 " My liege," answered Sir Raoul, boldly, " his father 
 dared to brand thy father as a traitor, and justly died. He 
 should be thankful for the clemency that has spared him." 
 
 The young lord's eye flashed with indignant fii'e, as he 
 said — 
 
 " Dost thou, the son of the spoiler, justify the robbery ? 
 Shame on thy false lieart ! AVas it for this I took thy hand ?" 
 
 " Had I not, boy," contemptuously replied Sir Raoul, 
 " been some moments too late for the combat yesterday, 1 
 would have quelled thy braggart spirit, and sent thee to beg 
 cure of a leech, instead of lost lands from his highness." 
 
 " Be silent, on your lives, I charge ye," commanded the 
 king, as he rose. " Sir Raoul de Lenorde, see thou that 
 our bidding is fulfilled." 
 
 As the king turned to depart. Sir Raoul said, scornfully 
 and aloud — 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 51 
 
 " A beo;a;ar is a traitor's fit descendant !" 
 
 " And this," exclaimed the young lord, quickly drawing 
 his mailed gauntlet from his hand, " the fit answer to such 
 a taunt." 
 
 He struck his rival with his steel glove as he spoke, 
 fiercely across the mouth ; a stream of blood followed the 
 blow. Swords were drawn; but, at the king's command, 
 his guards promptly interfered, and the fiery youths were 
 removed in custody to await the king's pleasure. 
 
 Edward retired, enraged at the insult offered to his 
 presence. For a short space he remained alone in moody 
 displeasure; then he summoned to him some of his chief 
 nobles, and announced his decision. As the rivals desired 
 nothing so much as a personal encounter, he commanded 
 that, on the morrow, they should engage in mortal combat, 
 in the arena that had witnessed their triumph and their 
 quarrel. If the vanquished escaped with life, the king's 
 decree was, that he should die by the hands of the execu- 
 tioner. His estate was to be forfeited to the crown, and 
 his title declared to be extinct. The friends of the two 
 disputants heard this decision with awe ; yet as it appeared 
 just to both, and moreover would gratify the monarch's 
 love of show, no one dared dispute it. 
 
 Heralds published abroad the king's pleasure, and 
 announced the approaching combat. Then was it seen 
 how slight was the interest felt in a mere pageant com- 
 pared with that entertained for the game in which life was 
 to the victor, and death to the vanquished. The old taste 
 of London for bloody encounters seemed at once to revive, 
 as the news ran through the city tliat a mortal duel would 
 be fairly fought before the king. The merits of the com- 
 batants were keenly discussed, and places eagerly demanded. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 The hearts of court ladies beat with anxious thrill for 
 the event of the morrow ; each had her favourite, and such 
 wagers as ladies lay were freely sported on the result. 
 The barriers were to be dispensed with, the weapons were 
 to be keen and sharp. All knew that one of the combat- 
 ants must die. 
 
 Never had lists been graced with a goodlier show of spec- 
 tators. There was something superior even to novelty in 
 the excitement of this combat. As nobles sat together in 
 the balconies, as groups crowded in the space below, they 
 ceased not averring to each other that one of the combatants 
 must die. 
 
 As it was told how gallantly they handled their weapons — 
 how nobly they rode — how fairly they had overthrown all 
 opponents — how equally they were matched in skill and 
 dexterity, it was still repeated that — one must die. 
 
 When the enmity of their line was spoken of, and the 
 calamities that flowed from it were numbered, — when it 
 was related that these knights were the last of their race, 
 — it was answered, the feud must now cease for ever, for 
 that — one must die. 
 
 The monks who attended to shrive the warriors and pre- 
 pare them for the combat, exhorted them to leave no sin 
 upon their souls, as on that morning — one must die. 
 
 King Edward himself, as he sat in his chair of state that 
 day, knew that the affront to his presence would be dearly 
 expiated, for that of the offenders — one must die. 
 
 The Lady Elgarva sat by the queen's side, her white 
 bosom heaving witli strange excitement, and her eyes 
 darting keener lustre, as she whispered in the ear of her 
 royal lady, that — one must die. 
 
 Now, indeed, was the strife of four hundred years to 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 53 
 
 terminate. Now, for the first time, the two sole repre- 
 sentatives of their houses were to meet face to face, with 
 the knowledge that the feud must end that day, and that 
 of them — one must die. 
 
 In the spacious galleries not one place was vacant, when 
 the monarch and his train appeared. The arena was 
 cleared, and all was announced to be in readiness. The 
 king raised his hand, the marshal of the lists shook aloft 
 his truncheon, the heralds sounded a charge, and amid the 
 silence of death, the champions appeared from opposite 
 sides of the barriers. 
 
 The titles of the knights were read, and answered to with 
 firm and steady voice. Each had his vizor up, and gazed 
 steadily upon his opponent. They crossed from side to 
 side, passing each other in the centre of the ring. Then it 
 was seen how much more powerful in frame was De Lenorde, 
 and how faint was the chance that his youthful antagonist 
 could successfully meet his assault. As they almost 
 touched, they gave one to the other a grave and courteous 
 salute, while their noble chargers, as if this were a day of 
 festive pride, shook the ground with their hoofs as they 
 pawed it, and champed the bit and tossed the head till the 
 white foam flew over their steel frontlets. 
 
 The marshal, with his assistants, placed the knights in line 
 directly face to face, and the steeds, when their positions 
 were assigned, seemed changed to marble, so still and 
 motionless did they stand. Their riders took their spears 
 from the hands of their squires. Lightly poised in their 
 hand for a moment, and held aloof, they were then fixed in 
 rest; the vizors were drawn down; the moment of con- 
 flict approached. 
 
 The spectators drew their breath thickly ; some maidens 
 
54- EVExVINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 turned pale, sickened, and slowly fell from their seats. 
 There were none to heed or help them. Every eye was 
 fixed on the arena, and on those motionless figures of man 
 and horse. 
 
 The marshal caught the king's eye ; it signified impa- 
 tience. The truncheon was raised; the heralds sounded, 
 once, twice — still there was no motion, — thrice — and as if 
 liirhtninir had descended from heaven, and animated those 
 erect and splendid forms, they sprang at once into 
 vigorous and rejoicing life ; the chargers bounded impe- 
 tuously forward ; the earth trembled with the shock ; they 
 met in mid-Avay. 
 
 There are sights of an instant — of a point of time too 
 minute to have a name — that are impressed for ever on 
 the brain. Such a sight was the meeting of those noble 
 youths. 
 
 Each aimed at the crest of his adversary, and each aim 
 was true. Frightful was that crash of bounding life. The 
 stout spears were shivered, but not before they had done 
 their office. The helmets of the champions rolled far away, 
 as the gallant steeds were thrown back on their haunches 
 by the shock. Through the head and brain of the Knight 
 of Lenorde went the well-directed spear-head, and borne 
 back, he fell from his steed heavily, with his face to the 
 dust. Firm in his saddle remained Lord Edmund, though 
 not unscathed. The lance of his opponent, in carrying 
 away his casque, had deeply gashed his throat, and his 
 charger, freed from all control, carried him wildly round 
 the ])arriers. 
 
 They raised the dying man, and took the fainting victor 
 from his saddle. Then there was a buzz and movement, 
 and the king rose, disturbed by a tumult at liis back. 
 
THE TOURNAMENT. 55 
 
 Frantic with haste and eagerness, the Lady Alice De 
 Lenorde fell at his feet. She had come too late. The 
 Lady Elgarva caught up her magnificent train, and 
 proudly swept past the hapless girl, as she fell senseless to 
 the ground. 
 
 V. 
 
 They bore the wounded lord to his paternal home, for 
 there he was resolved to die. They laid him in that hall 
 where he had first listened to the armourer's tale, when his 
 heart was full of love and hope. He chose that chest for 
 his bier, and his casque for his pillow. When told his 
 wound was mortal, he refused to part with his coat of 
 mail : in his harness would he die. He commanded that 
 thus he might be laid beside his father. 
 
 Priests brought him the sacramental cup and the sign of 
 redemption, and monks sang chants for his departing soul. 
 The few faithful servants of his house were there, clamorous 
 in grief, and some who claimed a dearer interest in him 
 by birth, stood around him, and wept for the loss of so brave 
 and true a knight. But the dying lord had voice and eye 
 for one alone, — for that fair girl, the playmate of his child- 
 hood, the love of his youth, who hung entranced above him, 
 answering only with the sobs of a bursting heart his prayer 
 for her forgiveness. One last, last kiss was their parting 
 pledge of love, ere the priest bade the knight fix his failing 
 sight on the emblem of salvation. He turned his head ; 
 but when he no longer saw his beloved, darkness settled 
 round him, and the monk who held the ready cup, raised 
 
56 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 his eyes, and said — " Peace be to his soul— he is 
 dead." 
 
 With a broken spirit, the Lady Alice retired to a con- 
 vent. She lived only long enough to see the heritage of 
 her father and her lover shared by strangers ; but the Lady 
 Elgarva flourished for years in splendour and pride, the 
 ornament of the court, and told, in after times, what noble 
 rivals had contended for the light of her smile. 
 
 " Well!" exclaimed the Lady Eva, looking round, exult- 
 ingly, at the conclusion of the foregoing story — " well, was 
 I not right ? Are not those beautiful pictures tenfold more 
 beautiful, now that we know what they mean ? For we do 
 know what they mean, through that story, better than all 
 the explanations in the world could have taught us. 
 
 " Come !" exclaimed she, after a pause, seeing that no- 
 body volunteered to proceed with her project — " come ! you 
 shall be the next on my list of story-tellers," — turning, as 
 she spoke, to the lady of a distinguished diplomatist, who 
 sat near her. " We know that you can make pleasant 
 stories, even out of painful subjects. Look at this poor 
 prisoner ; he reminds me of yoiir prisoner in Maurice of 
 Saxony. Do tell us a pitiful story about him !" And 
 her soft eyes seemed to be suftuscd with tears as she 
 looked at the picture. 
 
 " But why, my pretty Eva," replied the lady so ad- 
 
# 
 
ANDRIANI. 57 
 
 dressed, " why desire to hear more on a theme, the mere 
 mention of whicli has cast a melancholy hue on your late 
 happy face? Let us pass by the prisoner, and go to some 
 more pleasant subject." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no !" cried the enthusiastic girl ; " I like to 
 be unhappy sometimes — I mean, in stories and books; it 
 makes me so much happier afterwards. You must tell us 
 a story of this poor captive." 
 
 There was no reply to this earnest appeal from the 
 lovely Mistress of the Revels; and the lady to whom it 
 was addressed, proceeded, after a brief but thoughtful 
 pause, to relate the story of 
 
 ANDRIANI. 
 
 The numerous islands which lie scattered on the bosom 
 of the beautiful Lago di Garda, were reposing under the 
 cool shadows of a gloomy evening early in the September of 
 1259, while a soft breeze drifted at intervals dark and 
 vapoury clouds athwart the moon, confounding in occa- 
 sional and partial obscurity the cottages and buildings 
 which were dotted along the shore, with the fruitful 
 orange, olive, and the luxuriant vine, whose tender stems, 
 bending under the burthen of their rich clusters, twined 
 and interlaced themselves in graceful garlands and festoons 
 from branch to branch of the mulberry groves, which were 
 grouped around these lovely retreats. A small and lowly 
 islet, situated apart from its more congregated neighbours, 
 presented no other habitation — and, indeed, its circum- 
 scribed limits admitted none of greater pretension — than a 
 
58 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 rude shed, canopied by a clump of pines, from tlie rough 
 hewn logs of whose paternal arms it had been fashioned, 
 apparently without the aid of any other implement than 
 the woodman's axe. This cabin not unfrequently afforded 
 temporary shelter to the fisherman, while perseveringly 
 watching his carefully-laid nets and baited lines, till the 
 dawn should decide his success, and probable gain for the 
 coming day, by the fortunate capture of the delicious 
 carpione. The south wind moaned capriciously and by 
 soft gusts, like the sobbing of wayward infancy, among the 
 tall flags and rushes which girded this islet, bending their 
 pliant spear-like forms till their taper tips, in their rustling 
 obedience to the breeze, kissed and rippled their dark and 
 watery bed, scaring from sedgy nooks and mossy banks 
 the wild water-fowl, which, startled as the waving 
 reeds grated above them or swept their drowsy pinions, 
 dived and darted from their osiery lairs in search of a 
 haven more secure from the molesting sounds which in- 
 vaded them. Moving lights from the villas were dancing, 
 like wandering meteors, upon the ruffled waters, when 
 a man issued from the hut, and with crossed arms planted 
 himself against the trunk of an ilex, which the lightning of 
 the summer's storm had not spared, and patiently mused, 
 till one glimmering beacon from the mainland alone 
 outlived its fitful companions. Disburthening himself 
 from his cloak, he cast it over his arm, and descending the 
 grassy slope to the narrow landing-place, threw it into a 
 small skiff which lay moored to the bank ; casting a rapid 
 glance over the wide waters, he lightly bounded into the 
 bark, and pushing it from the shore, rowed swiftly in the 
 direction of the signal, for the appearance of which he had 
 been so anxiously watching. Befoic he had passed more 
 
ANDRIANI. 59 
 
 than two-thirds across the lake, the beacon light wavered, 
 and was scarcely perceptible. Resting upon his oars, he 
 surveyed the distance he had yet to make, then untied a 
 handkerchief from his neck, which he tore in half, and 
 muffling the filling of his sculls, pursued his course. The 
 cottage which it was his object to attain lay about two 
 hundred yards from the margin of the lake, and some three 
 or four miles above the castle of II Garda. Humble as it 
 was, and poor as its appearance bespoke its inmates, con- 
 cealment seemed to be their main care, for, with the aid of 
 evergreen shrubs and climbing plants, it was nearly 
 hidden from observation. To judge by the countenances 
 and movements of those inhabiting this isolated dwelling, 
 poverty was around them, but peace of mind did not 
 lighten the evil ; for penury, apparently, was the least of 
 their anxieties for the future. A hale, though elderly man, 
 whose garb denoted him to be a fisherman, was measuring 
 a small chamber with impatient strides ; the net which 
 he had commenced repairing was thrown aside, for his 
 uneasy thoughts evidently did not admit of any continuous 
 occupation. Every now and then, he stopped short, and 
 placing his hands at each side of his face to shade his eyes 
 from the bright-burning lamp within, looked forth from 
 the casement which commanded a view of the waters. A 
 maiden was seated somewhat apart from him ; her face was 
 buried in her outspread hands ; their whiteness, with the 
 delicacy of her form, proclaimed her peasant's dress to be 
 rather a disguise than the accompaniment of her station. 
 Although her face was concealed, and for many minutes she 
 did not vary her posture, her ready ear was evidently 
 watchful of, and took in every sound. When her companion 
 closed the casement with an exclamation of impatience, a 
 
60 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 heavy sigh told of intense disappointment; that sigh was 
 responded to hy a female, Avho arose from her spinning- 
 wheel, and laying aside her distaff, approached her husband ; 
 for such he was. Gently touching his arm, she whispered, 
 "You are a poor comforter, my Giovanni; doubtless, he 
 waits and watches until others are at rest." Then, 
 herself advancing to the window, she again drew him 
 towards it, and pointed to a dark object which was gliding 
 close in shore. Answering to her quiet intimation, he 
 replied, " It is not he;" then hurriedly lifting his cap from 
 the table, and removing the light further from the window, 
 unbarred the door. 
 
 " Oh, do not leave us, good Giovanni !" cried the maiden, 
 starting to her feet, while her dark eyes were earnest with 
 fear and entreaty. " If the doom with which I am me- 
 naced were death only, I would say, Fly, and leave me to 
 my fate; but you well know it will be worse — oh, ten 
 thousand times worse than death, Giovanni !" 
 
 Here terror usurped her power of further speech, and 
 contracted her brow with agony. She clung wildly to him. 
 Respectfully he raised the distracted suppliant from his 
 shoulder, and, in a tone of mingled tenderness and reproach, 
 said, " Leave you, signora! — have I deserved such a sus- 
 picion?" 
 
 " Oh, I mean not thus," she replied, energetically and 
 hurriedly; " for well I know that to succour me you are 
 ever lieedless of your own safety: already to protect me 
 you have left all, and by youi* unshaken fidelity to the 
 survivors of our crushed house, you have lost all. l\e- 
 proach ! Oh ! no, no !" 
 
 " Speak not thus, signora! I have done my duty; I 
 have fulfilled my promise. But no more of this, dear lady ; 
 
ANDRIANI. 
 
 61 
 
 suffer me to quit you for a few moments only. Our beacon- 
 light may have induced the brave Andriani to believe that 
 he could join us with safety, and I much doubt if there are 
 not watchers at this moment to intercept him." 
 
 An impatient tap at the window further alarmed the 
 group, and the trembling girl was almost sinking to the 
 floor with affright. Giovanni paused, and bent forward in 
 a listening attitude. " Open for Andriani!" were the 
 welcome sounds which reached his ear. He lost no time 
 in admitting the visitor ; but a stranger presented himself, 
 and dread again pervaded the party, who feared to ques- 
 tion the intruder. The open and anxious expression, how- 
 ever, of his fine features assured Giovanni, that, unac- 
 countable as his appearance among them at such a moment 
 might be, he did not come unwarranted, or with any 
 hostile purpose. 
 
 Albina, who was still clinging to Giovanni's arm, raised 
 her eyes to him, and demanded, in tremulous accents, 
 " Are you come to aid ?" 
 
 " I am indeed, fair lady; but there is little time for 
 explanation. By Andriani's desire I have closely watched, 
 in Verona, the movements of him who there holds sway. 
 His secret purposes are well known to me. Thus, being 
 apprised of your peril, I prevailed with the boatman to 
 allow me to steer the bark which now lies moored to the 
 willow by the shore, and which is destined, when Eccelino 
 and his followers have secured you, to carry you down the 
 lake. He has chosen this method for your transportation 
 in order to screen, from his wife and from the public eye, 
 an act of lawless violence, which might lead to further con- 
 spiracies against his power and life." 
 
 Giovanni struck his forehead, and looked upon Albina 
 
62 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 in despair, at a loss how to evade the immediate danger 
 which seemed to menace them. 
 
 " Thus," answered the young stranger, responding to 
 his thoughts; " we must secure the boatman, and make 
 good speed up the lake. At the foot of the mountains we 
 shall find the assistance which Andriani, whom I have for- 
 warned, has doubtless provided for this emergency." 
 
 " Ready !" replied Giovanni, with energy, at the same 
 time thrusting a stiletto into his belt, and taking down a 
 broad-sword, which hung from the wall, concealed behind 
 his cloak. 
 
 " Oh, take me with you !" cried Albina, again appealing 
 to her protector, and looking imploringly in his face. 
 
 " Are you prepared," he asked, " to witness strife, per- 
 haps bloodshed, signora? — But hark!" A hasty step, and 
 the watchword, " Andriani," scarcely preceded the entrance 
 of our islet boatman. 
 
 " Thanks — thanks!" he said, pressing the stranger's 
 hand. " Albina, we must fly!" The appeal was an- 
 swered by her throwing herself into his arms. The pre- 
 vious intention of the party was briefly explained to him. 
 
 " Hold!" he exclaimed, as they were leaving the cot- 
 tage; " we need not this delay. Your weary and slumber- 
 ing companion, my friend, is bound hand and foot in his 
 bark, and both arc by this time far adrift upon the lake, 
 his sculls broken, and scattered on the waters. Farewell, 
 Giovanni; we must trust to your adroitness to delay and 
 mislead the tyrant." 
 
 While he said this, Giovanni took up the cloak which he 
 had thrown aside, and with the aid of his wife carefully 
 folded it round their charge, who was quickly embai'kod, 
 and the boat vigorously and rapidly plied up the lake. 
 
ANDRIANI. 63 
 
 They had scarcely departed, when the tramp of horses 
 drew forth an exclamation from Giovanni : " The Virgin 
 be praised — they will miss their aim !" 
 
 He had time only hastily to resume his net, and Benita 
 her distaff, when Eccelino and his followers burst into the 
 cottage, filled the small apartment, and Eccelino, advancing, 
 cried, " Arise, old man !" 
 
 Giovanni did as he was bid, at the same time feigning 
 surprise at the unwelcome intrusion. He carefully gathered 
 up his net, and hung it over the wooden bench on which 
 Benita was sitting, then coolly eyeing his unbidden visitors, 
 bowed to their leader. 
 
 " What is the signer's pleasure?" he demanded. "If 
 he comes in quest of fish from our lake, I am sorry to say 
 that I can neither supply a carpione for his supper, nor 
 earn my own breakfast for the morrow," pointing to the 
 rent net. 
 
 "You know better, fellow; men come not armed to 
 barter for fish. Where is the maiden who abides here — the 
 famed bandit's sister? It is her we seek." 
 
 " No maiden harbours here," he replied, with a look of 
 astonishment ; " the signor is mistaken." 
 
 "It is false, knave! You shall pay for this." And 
 seizing Giovanni by the collar, he shook him rudely, and 
 bade him precede him in his search through the premises, 
 while he sent two of his men to the shore. 
 
 " You see, signor, I spoke truly ; the maiden whom you 
 seek is not under this roof." 
 
 " Then thou knowest, knave, of her hiding or escape, 
 either, doubtless, of thy contriving." 
 
 " You wrong me, signor," he answered, respectfully. 
 " My faithful Benita and my net are all I possess." 
 
64 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " He speaks falsely !" cried one of the tyrant's myrmi- 
 dons. " The boat sent under Matteo's care rides over 
 the waters at the will of the waves." 
 
 " Old man, you shall speedily answer for this falsehood ! 
 Bind him, fellows!" cried Eccelino; "let him be food for 
 the fishes." 
 
 " As I hope for the Holy Virgin's protection," cried the 
 now terrified Giovanni, " I have not left my cottage since 
 noon to-day ; busy in repairing the fractures of my net — 
 the only means of my subsistence, — I have neither found 
 leisure to launch a boat nor handle an oar. Spare me, I 
 beseech you !" 
 
 Giovanni did not expect the mercy which he craved 
 from a man who notoriously never showed any. He cast a sig- 
 nificant glance from the net to his wife, who, alert to his 
 purpose, lifted it from the bench and placed it over his 
 arm. A whispered communication, as she did this, passed 
 between them, and she fled from the cottage. The old 
 man now stood more resolute and erect, while a smile, 
 almost amounting to defiance, curled his lip. 
 
 " As I left the shore," chimed in again the former speaker, 
 " two men were manfully rowing a skifi" up the lake, but 
 were then scarcely a mile from the land." 
 
 " Doubtless," observed Giovanni, calmly, " they were 
 fishermen, anxious to cast their net before the 
 troubled waters shall render their labour useless. We 
 poor fishermen," he added, " are obliged early and late to 
 pursue our calling ; for ours is a precarious subsistence, 
 hanging upon the chances of wind and weather." 
 
 "Ha! ha! you are plausible, old man; but it will not 
 avail you. Speak out, 'tis the only hope I give you for 
 your life." 
 
ANDRIANI. 65 
 
 " Signor," he replied, " I trust not so, for how could I 
 foretel your purpose or your coming ? Bear me blameless, 
 I beseech you, and seek her for whom you inquire, else- 
 where.'' 
 
 Eccelino, whose dark features were working with wrath, 
 deigned no reply to this appeal ; but, turning to his men, 
 who were grouped around him, pointed to Giovanni and 
 repeated his command. 
 
 " As he will not speak, do my bidding, fellows ; and then 
 to horse." While he was uttering this sentence, Giovanni 
 had been imperceptibly gathering his net in his right hand, 
 his eye continuing steadily fixed upon the speaker, from 
 the hard lines of whose countenance, which grew sterner 
 and sterner, he saw that further parley or remonstrance 
 Avould be instant death. As the men advanced to obey and 
 seize him, he sprang suddenly upon the table, and casting 
 the net dexterously over the bystanders, at the same time 
 kicked the lamp to the other side of the room, and without 
 a pause, darted through the casement. 
 
 The rowers exerted their utmost efforts ; the wind was 
 risinsr each moment, the waters became more and more 
 disturbed, and threatened to swamp their light bark. Few 
 words were spoken. Albina, reclining at the bottom of the 
 boat, and drenched with the spray which continually broke 
 over them, endeavoured, with straining eyes, to penetrate 
 the gloom which was increasing on all sides, and assure 
 herself that they were not pursued. At lengthened inter- 
 vals the pale-faced moon, for a few brief moments, shone 
 forth, as if, by her transitory light, she would display 
 to them the rising surges around them, and their con- 
 sequent danger ; then merging herself again behind piled 
 mountains of dense and purple clouds, left them to combat 
 
 F 
 
66 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 with their peril, without a beam by which to steer their 
 course. 
 
 The dreary prospect thus momentarily presented to their 
 view, served the more to stimulate the energies of the un- 
 flinching boatmen to continued and increased exertion. They 
 well knew that as yet the troubled waters were only lashing 
 themselves into the utmost terror of their fury, and that 
 when the acme of their foaming rage should overtake their 
 light bark, which for some time they had with difficulty 
 steered across the agitated waves, it must fill and sink in 
 the storm. 
 
 On the morrow, perhaps the blue waters would array 
 themselves in sunny smiles, and calmly ripple over the 
 victims of their wanton anger, as if in mockery of human 
 weakness when contrasted with their now overwhelming 
 power ; then, in playful gambols, cast their lifeless prey from 
 their cold embrace, and convince the ruthless tyrant, who 
 would capture to destroy, that his passions were baulked, 
 and his cruelty forestalled. 
 
 Kapidly-following flashes of lightning were succeeded by, 
 and left them in, total darkness ; the distant thunder rolled 
 and echoed among the rocky mountains ; the boatmen, in 
 tenderness to tlieir helpless charge, were silent, nor did 
 Albina impede their strenuous exertions by expressed 
 terror or useless complaints. One involuntary exclamation 
 alone escaped her, as a flash of forked lightning, which 
 swept along the whole range of the horizon, and rendered 
 every object for a moment perfectly visible, blinded her. 
 
 " Thank Heaven !" exclaimed Andriani, as the transient 
 illumination left them, " Ave are under the lee of the moun- 
 tains." They had, indeed, nearly gained the head of the 
 lake, and were entering into smoother water. By the re- 
 
ANDRIANI. 67 
 
 peated and vivid flashes which danced and played on every 
 object around, they descried figures moving on the shore. 
 To this point they steered. 
 
 " Hold ! they see us," cried Leonisio, laying his hand on 
 the arm of Andriani, who was preparing to give the signal 
 of their approach. While they were yet some yards distant 
 from the intended spot of their disembarkation, two troopers, 
 with led horses, dashed into the water, breasted its violence, 
 and gained the boat. 
 
 " Either this is a frantic freak, Antonio," said Andriani 
 to the foremost man, "or immediate danger has prompted it." 
 
 " The latter," quickly replied Antonio. " Mount, and 
 haste away. Our scout reports that they will soon be upon 
 us. I have posted our party in advance, to parry their 
 first attack ; they greatly outnumber us already, and doubt- 
 less their leader is not far behind." 
 
 Andriani made no reply ; but, as Leonisio steadied the 
 boat, lifted Albina on one of the led horses. " Now you, 
 Count, to the saddle, and follow ; to your protection I trust 
 Albina; I will keep the jackals at bay, and head my faith- 
 ful followers, who are prodigal of life and limb in my 
 service." 
 
 Leonisio hesitated. " My friend, it must be so," added 
 Andriani; " here you can do me little service. In accom- 
 panying and guarding her, much ; Antonio will be your 
 guide." 
 
 Leonisio paused no longer, but springing on the animal 
 held for him, gained the landing-place with his precious 
 charge. A few strokes brought Andriani's bark to the 
 shore, and as few moments saw him armed, mounted, and 
 in full career to join his band, repel the attack of his 
 enemy, and cover the retreat of the fugitives. 
 
 f2 
 
68 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 With desperate haste they urged on tlieir flight ; heavy 
 sighs were the only responses Albina was able to give in 
 reply to Leonisio's encouraging words. What torture of 
 heart did the reflection bring, that the brave Andriani was 
 left to stem the fury of that powerful and unrelenting foe, 
 the scourging-rod destined for a time to lash Brescia, 
 Padua, and Verona, and track his way with cruelty and 
 bloodshed. Her companion answered to her tears and 
 sighs, (for hers was the mute eloquence of grief,) by 
 assuring her that Eccelino could not yet have joined the 
 party he had sent forward early in the day, possibly to 
 watch Andriani's movements, even if he intended to do so, 
 which he doubted. His speech and tone were gentle and 
 persuasive ; he Avarmed into enthusiasm when he spoke of 
 Andriani's courage, forethought, and intelligence; he 
 further urged his presence of mind and aptitude at 
 stratagem, qualities which had served him in many hair- 
 breadth escapes and encounters, and would, he trusted, 
 avail him now as they had done. Such arguments were 
 judiciously brought forward by snatches only, when he 
 found that Albina's grief and terror were enfeebling her 
 frame. 
 
 Day dawned as they reached the intricacies of the moun- 
 tains, and they were obliged to slacken their pace; for 
 here a torrent, hissing, roaring, and tumbling through a 
 deep ravine, was to be forded, there a perilous cleft, be- 
 tween two perpendicular rocks, to be crossed. The inti- 
 mate knowledge which their guide possessed of such passes 
 alone ensured their safety : one false turn would have pre- 
 cipitated them headlong to destruction. The storm during 
 their progress had passed away, and the moon once more 
 rode unclouded in the heavens. A stony steep at last 
 
ANDRIANI. 69 
 
 brought them to the face of an overhanging rock, which 
 rose like a wall before them ; a sharp turn inwards round 
 its angle, led them to a passage which did not admit two 
 abreast. At its termination, there was just sufficient room 
 to turn their horses, and to pursue a still longer and nar- 
 rower path which fronted them, and which after ascending 
 and descending, introduced them, when the watchword had 
 been given, into a wide and open space, resembling a rude 
 but roofless cavern ; for slanting rocks were still piled top- 
 pling a hundred feet above them. A mountain spring came 
 leaping down the craggy heights; then overflowing a 
 natural basin, crept away among the numerous fissures, to 
 fill some cavern pool, or feed a never-failing stream. The 
 day was breaking, as Albina was lifted exhausted from her 
 horse, and consigned to the care of two females, who, like 
 others, had fled with their husbands from Eccelino's barba- 
 rity, to join Andriani's band in the mountains. One of 
 the troopers had been sent back, when the fugitives had 
 gained the narrower defiles, to seek his leader, and carry a 
 report of their progress ; but when he reached the scene of 
 the night skirmish, neither friend nor foe in life was there. 
 Filippo found two of his comrades in the sleep of death; 
 one had expired clutching the throat of an enemy with 
 whom apparently he had been in contention when he re- 
 ceived his own death-wound. He turned and wept, for it 
 was his brother. A wretched peasant, who had come to 
 glean a harvest from the dead, assisted him to bear the 
 corpse to the bark which Andriani had left upon the shore ; 
 they sank the body in the deep water, cased in its heavy 
 accoutrements, without a funeral rite, and then accorded 
 to its gory companion and foe the same watery grave. The 
 peasant could tell him nothing, for he had issued from his 
 
70 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 hiding-place after tlie fight was done. These melancholy 
 obsequies performed, Filippo retraced his steps; as he 
 gained the mountains, his companions gradually joined 
 him; where was their leader? Their downcast looks 
 answered, " a prisoner." 
 
 When Leonisio had arisen, he satisfied himself that 
 another outlet from their fastness existed, but too dangerous 
 to be attempted, save in a case of utmost need. Seeing 
 the band enter one by one, he anxiously waited to greet 
 his friend ; but the despairing looks he encountered were 
 heralds to the sad news they brought. Could they tell 
 aught of him ? Only this, that, too eager to lead on his 
 men, he had rushed ahead of them, was surrounded, and 
 made prisoner. In this strait, he called to them to save 
 themselves, and report to Leonisio his condition. Had 
 Eccelino come up with them? No; but it was their belief 
 that II Garda would be Andriani's prison. Leonisio 
 turned mournfully away, and placing his foot on a project- 
 ing stone, for a few moments gave himself up to thought. 
 His reflections were soon matured; he changed his position, 
 and gazed upwards at the sun, which was shining brightly 
 upon their retreat, then called the men around him. 
 
 " A good omen," he said, cheerfully, pointing to the 
 heavens; " refresh yourselves, my men; at niglitfall, dis- 
 perse near the passes, and wait until a signal shall call you 
 together; I must enlist two of you to accompany me ; An- 
 tonio, you must remain with six others to guard our charge." 
 
 All who were not disabled volunteered their services, 
 but lots were drawn. While Leonisio hastily broke his 
 fast, a fresh horse was brought from one of the caves which 
 opened upon this arena; and with a heavy heart he again 
 descended the mountain. 
 
ANDRIANI. 71 
 
 II. 
 
 Exhausted by fatigue, wounded and shackled, the unhappy 
 Andriani lay stretched on his stone pallet, in a dungeon of 
 the castle of II Garda. The fates had torn out the bright page 
 of hope from the tablets of his future fortune, and the pro- 
 spect of a scaifold was before him. The licentious tyrant- 
 he who in the plenitude of his abused power had ordered the 
 execution of Count Bonifazio di Panego, his brave father, — 
 the execrable Eccelino, the spoiler of his house and lands, 
 would perpetrate the last act of the tragedy, and in his 
 person extirpate his house and name. Hoav impotent was 
 he now to redress these wrongs, how subdued, how crushed 
 and sunk were those high aspirations which had goaded and 
 sustained him to seek for restitution, retribution, or revenge ! 
 The cold dew gathered on his brow like the unwholesome 
 damps which exuded and were dripping from his prison 
 walls. He clenched his hands in agony across his forehead, 
 as he recalled the scenes of misery and bloodshed his young 
 and innocent years had witnessed, and the narrow escape 
 of his loved Albina from dishonour ; but he had saved her, 
 nor did he doubt the devotion and fidelity of his followers 
 the friendship of Leonisio, or their united valour and 
 endeavours to secure her preservation in those secret haunts 
 and fastnesses which had so long sheltered him ; then other 
 thoughts as tender, but more selfish, stole over his weary 
 senses : the vision of his Fiorenza rose in her beauty before 
 him; her beaming eyes seemed to gaze in sorrow upon him, 
 her parted lips to pour forth words of constancy and con- 
 solation to him. In airy dreams again he trod with her the 
 tranquil groves which had often witnessed their youthful 
 
72 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 sports ; again he wearied his young voice in rivalry of song 
 with hers ; then hanging their lute upon a branch of the 
 sober cypress, which, clothed with dark, impervious foliage, 
 spread widely its evergreen arms of fan-like form, whiled 
 away the hours of noontide heat in listless indolence under 
 its friendly shelter ; or wandering among the brakes and 
 dells, sportively caught in their tiny palms the liquid gems 
 which parted from the cascade above, broke upon the lower 
 rocks, and dashed far and wide among the lichens, ferns 
 and creeping plants which trailed or waved their bright 
 green leaves in contrast to their gray and stony cradles. 
 Then sterner visions invaded these peaceful fancies of child- 
 hood's happy and thoughtless spring-time days ; blood and 
 deadly strife were mixed with fantastic scenes of splendour ; 
 while gnawing reptiles fixed upon his heart, grotesque and 
 horrid masks chased him round lordly courts and halls, 
 through devious paths and mountain steeps to the brink of 
 a precipice ; he groaned and awoke. A muffled figure 
 with folded arms was standing beside his pallet, and watch- 
 ing his countenance as each unreal and wayward fancy 
 passed over it. His name pronounced aroused him; he 
 raised himself upon his elbow, and endeavoured to recognise 
 the person before him, for surely it was a voice which had 
 once been familiar to his ear — a voice whose friendly tones 
 had relaxed into discord since the harmony of liis own 
 fortunes had been broken. 
 
 " Andriani," repeated his visitor, " chance brought me to 
 11 Garda, as you were led a captive through its gates ; I 
 have come to save you, if you will." 
 
 " If you have the power to release me from the tyrant's 
 clutclies, Count Bonifazio, it must be done at your will, 
 not mine;" and he fixed liis bright, keen eye upon him. 
 
ANDRIANI. 73 
 
 " I will it, Andriani, if, without delay, you accede to 
 my conditions ; Eccelino knows not yet of your capture." 
 
 " Name them, Count," he replied; " I am not indif- 
 ferent to life, and will purchase it on honourable terms." 
 
 " Renounce, then, your contract with Fiorenza," said 
 the Count, sternly. " Count Bonifazio's daughter shall 
 never be the bride of an outlaw." 
 
 " Does Fiorenza demand this of me? Does she, too, 
 abandon the oppressed and deserted Andriani?" 
 
 " She does, Andriani, for your life's sake — to spare the 
 Count Panego's son from an ignominious death." 
 
 Andriani rose, his eyes flashed with the fiery resentment 
 of his heart. " Did Panego's son, Count Bonifazio," he 
 demanded, energetically, " deserve an ignominious death, 
 when, foremost among your followers, he fought by your 
 side, — when, with your son, the brave Leonisio, more than 
 once he defended your castle walls? Did he deserve an 
 ignominious death, when he cleft in twain the soldier whose 
 sword was at your breast, and when anew you swore to 
 keep inviolate his contract with Fiorenza? Was he an 
 outlaw until you made peace with that tyrant, who, amidst 
 the tears and lamentations of all Padua, sent the noble 
 Panego to the scaffold? who drove the persecuted and for- 
 saken Andriani to the mountains, to seek a precarious sub- 
 sistence for himself and those true, though humble few who 
 still faithfully adhered to him? Has Andriani's arm slain 
 the impotent and helpless? Has Andriani's tongue given 
 forth the barbarous fiats of torture, mutilation, and after 
 death to the weak and defenceless? Hath he constructed 
 in his mountain holds horrible prisons and infernal machines 
 for human suffering, and torn the lacerated and quivering 
 limbs from his innocent victims ? Hath he saturated each 
 
74 EVENINGS AT HADDON UALL. 
 
 impress of his foot with blood, and made his name an 
 accursed watchword for barbarity? It is not the outlaw, 
 Count, whose alliance you now scorn, but the beggar ! A 
 beggar, beggared by that scourge and monster of mankind, 
 your kinsman, Eccelino !" He paused, then in a hoarse tone 
 added, " If Fiorenza renounces me for such heinous crimes, 
 let her declare to Andriani that Andriani is unworthy of 
 her pure love — let her denounce the proclaimed outlaw, 
 and forswear her often-plighted faith; if she refuse this, 
 there is truly but one remedy." 
 
 " Name it," cried Bonifazio, with eagerness. 
 Andriani approached him, and bending forward, whis- 
 pered, " Send the son of your bosom friend to the igno- 
 minious death with which you threaten him ; his constancy 
 and hers will well deserve such a punishment." 
 
 The Count was staggered, and could find no reply. He 
 knew that he had a noble heart and a lion spirit to deal 
 with ; he could find no ready arguments to contravert the 
 painful and upbraiding truths which had been spoken ; he 
 tui-ned away, and motioned as if to depart. Andriani 
 watched his receding figure. " Hold, Count, yet one word ; 
 you shall now hear iny conditions." 
 
 The Count Eicciardo returned. " The love of life," he 
 thought, " will yet subdue Andriani's haughty mind." 
 
 They gazed for a few moments in silence at each otlier; 
 the trace of passion and the flush of anger had passed from 
 tlic prisoner's countenance ; he stood pale, but proud and 
 erect, before the Count, wlio waited with impatience for 
 his proposition. " Speak quickly, young man, for time 
 wears ; by special favour from the governor, I have obtained 
 access to you ; 1 may not tarry." 
 
 " Release me, Count," said Andriani, calmly. " Leouisio, 
 
ANDRIANI. 75 
 
 mark me, has sworn to revenge my death; release me, 
 Count, for that time may come, when Andriani's arm, and 
 Andriani's mountain horde, may serve you and his country 
 well. I will not abandon my contract with Fiorenza, nor 
 Fiorenza's love; neither, till better fortune — if Hive — shall 
 again invest me with Panego's honours, and Panego's lands, 
 will I claim Fiorenza for my bride. I would live, but live 
 with honour; I fear not death." 
 
 " You trifle," returned Count Bonifazio. " You forget," 
 he added, with emphasis, " that death dissolves all contracts." 
 
 "So it would appear, noble sir, for even your sworn 
 friendship and brotherhood were buried in Count Panego's 
 grave." 
 
 The Count winced ; the reproach stung him, and came 
 home to his heart ; nor could he stifle the full remembrance 
 of the oaths by which he had bound himself to protect the 
 unfortunate prisoner before him, the son of his murdered 
 friend. He would fain save him, but upon his own terms. 
 
 " You are mad !" he at last exclaimed. " When, like a 
 wild bird, you chose the mountains for your haunts, why 
 did you daringly quit tlieir heights to invade our peaceful 
 vallies in search of prey ?" 
 
 "Ha! ha! peaceful vallies, say you. Count? — peaceful 
 vallies ? Know ye that the putrid atmosphere from your 
 blood-stained lowlands, rises like a noxious vapour to taint 
 and infect the pure ether of our cloudless skies ? You ask 
 why did I leave my mountain-heights for your pestiferous 
 vallies? I will tell you, Count Ricciardo di Bonifazio," and 
 he powerfully grasped the Count's arm. " I left them to save 
 Count Panego's daughter from the wanton pursuit of Ve- 
 rona's ruler ; to save her, that tongue should not report — 
 that eye should not see — Albina di Panego the leman of her 
 
76 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 fVither's murderer. Yes, the eagle left his eyrie to snatch 
 the innocent lamb from the vulture." As the last sentence 
 left his lips, his nervous grasp on the Count's arm relaxed, 
 his countenance assumed the hue of death, and he sank 
 back on his pallet senseless. 
 
 When Andriani awoke from his stupor, and feebly raised 
 his head, the lamp was newly trimmed, food was placed by 
 his pallet, and his manacles removed. 
 
 Before Bonifazio had entered his dungeon, the pangs of 
 hunger for some hours had gnawed him, and further spent by 
 emotion, even his hardy frame could endure no more, but 
 sank, completely subdued. He stretched his hand to the 
 pitcher of water, slaked his burning thirst, and eagerly 
 devoured the provision at his side. The day was waning 
 into night, but he had no guide to passing hours. He 
 had slumbered, and ere the Count's departure, had been 
 deprived of sense, but how long he had thus remained he 
 knew not; possibly, some kindly feeling had prompted 
 Ricciardo to wait till he showed symptoms of recovery from 
 his deadly swoon ; perhaps he tarried with the hope that 
 he might never wake again ; for unless he would consent to 
 abandon what was dearer to him than life, Fiorenza's love, 
 the Count's interest did not tally with his preservation, and 
 then he thought how scenes of strife change men's minds- 
 ambition unrestrained, their kindlier natures — how does it 
 warp their iirst and better purposes ! 
 
 He rose, and ascended the steps which led to the strongly- 
 secured door, but no human effort could move it. He sat 
 himself down upon the upper stair, his head bowed upon his 
 bosom. The Count, doubtless, had left him to his fate, but 
 would not Leonisio, when his men brought in news of his 
 capture, seek him? Tcrhapsthe knowledge of his captivity 
 
ANDRIANI. 7 7 
 
 would only reach him when too lute. But how useless 
 were these reflections of mingled doubt, hope, and despair, 
 to amend his condition ! 
 
 With a heavy sigh he once more returned to his wretched 
 pallet, and, taking up his lamp, determined to examine the 
 extent of his prison. As he did so, its light gleamed on 
 the polished blade of a dagger, which protruded from his 
 resting-place of stone and straw. A ray of hope again 
 crossed his mind ; he tried its edge, and minutely inspected 
 it. The word " Hope" was barely discernible upon its 
 bright surface. He placed it in his bosom, and a thousand 
 wild conjectures rapidly succeeded each other in his 
 thoughts. Was this weapon conveyed to him to provoke his 
 despair to suicide, or as a protection against secret assassi- 
 nation? He would not believe that the Count, however 
 anxious he might be to rid himself of his claims upon him, 
 or however unwilling that the afiianced husband of his 
 daughter should be led to public execution, would instigate 
 the one, or sanction the other atrocious measure. He was 
 bade to hope. In what anticipation could he indulge, if the 
 news of his capture should reach Eccelino, for how would that 
 tyrant exult if he could satisfy and satiate his own hatred 
 and revenge upon the plea and show of justice? In those 
 deep vaults no sound could reach him ; there all was solitude 
 and silence, nor did his lamp illuminate one third of his 
 unexplored and spacious, but dreary prison. It was pos- 
 sible there might be some other available outlet, and he 
 now proceeded to put into execution his intention, and 
 ascertain its limits. He passed through numerous inter- 
 sected arches, springing from short and heavy columns, 
 doubtless, in part, supporting the castle towers above, until 
 he arrived at the massy wall which enclosed him. With 
 
78 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 patient scrutiny, he held his lamp in every direction ; his 
 foot stumbled, the ground was no longer level ; it was a 
 newly-made grave that had endangered his falling, and the 
 consequent extinction of his lamp. He shuddered, and 
 imagined himself a partner in the same lone prisoner's grave, 
 or one beside it. It had been made and closed, apparently, 
 in haste, for a pick-axe was lying close by, as if hurriedly cast 
 aside. A small iron grating, immediately but high above 
 this dungeon sepulchre, imparted new hope to our prisoner. 
 With the implement so happily ofi'ered to his hand, he con- 
 trived to excavate a footing and assiduously bent all his 
 force to remove the bars from their sockets. The work 
 was nearly completed, one bar only remaining before a free 
 passage would crown his efforts, when advancing footsteps 
 told him how useless his labour had been. There was no 
 time to quit his position, for two persons stood directly 
 beneath him. The ponderous instrument was in his hand; 
 should he hurl it at them? The aim was sure, and one thus 
 disposed of, the other would soon succumb to his strength 
 and prowess. He raised his arm, but before the fatal 
 stroke was given, the lamp, which his supposed assailants 
 had lifted from the grave, shone upon the upturned features 
 of Leonisio ! With one bound Andriani was at the side 
 of his friend — one sentence alone was exchanged — Albina 
 was safe. Leonisio's companion, meanwhile, was examining 
 the work which the prisoner had commenced. " Since 
 the signer," he observed, " has opened this barrier, it 
 may be a better and a safer way for us, and may here- 
 after save my neck, if I should fall into the governor's 
 hands, by drawing suspicion from me as having aided in 
 his escape." 
 
 They lent their united edbrts, the remaining bar was 
 
ANDRIANI. 79 
 
 soon removed, and the party found themselves in a vault 
 nearly resembling the one they had quitted. 
 
 " Have you the key?" demanded Leonisio, as he advanced 
 to the door. His attendant looked blank, 
 
 " And if I had," he answered, " there are strong bolts on 
 the other side." 
 
 " Then we must hew a passage through the walls," cried 
 Andriani; and with both hands he raised the pick-axe, 
 which he still retained, above his head. 
 
 The other arrested his arm. " Hist, Signer ! this prison 
 has not of late been used, I bethink me the door may not 
 be closed ;" at the same time he advanced before Andriani, 
 and pulled at a strong iron ring, which was inserted near 
 the lock. The door yielded, and they entered a passage 
 hewn in the solid rock. Singly and in silence they pursued 
 its tortuous windings, which were at last terminated by a 
 grated portal. Here a justly-fitted key, produced by their 
 conductor, gave them exit upon a narrow and low platform, 
 where a sentinel was making his solitary turns. Before 
 the soldier had time to give the alarm, Andriani rushed 
 upon him ; assisted by his companions, he disarmed, and 
 thrust him within the passage, then closed and locked the 
 grated door upon him. It was still dark when they 
 descended the slimy steps which led to the water. Leonisio 
 struck his sword sharply against the wall, upon the 
 repetition of the stroke, two boatmen appeared from 
 behind the lee of a buttress, and quickly steered their 
 bark alongside the rocky stairs. As the released An- 
 driani turned his eyes to look back upon the frowning 
 aspect of the stronghold from which he had escaped, he 
 breathed more freely : they gained the shore as the dawn 
 began to break, and ere the sun had shed his full influence 
 
80 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 on the tops of the mountains, Albina was in Andriani's 
 arms. 
 
 Their escape had been too rapid to allow of observation, 
 question, or rejoinder. As they passed onwards, according 
 to the preconcerted signal decided upon by Leonisio, the 
 band by degrees left their hidden lairs, and congregated 
 round their leader. Albina looked inquiringly in her 
 brother's foce; his exhausted condition and disordered 
 appearance told plainly of some bygone fearful struggle, 
 and her speaking eyes demanded an explanation which she 
 dared not trust her voice to ask. 
 
 " He has saved me, Albina," pointing to Leonisio ; " how, 
 you must demand of him, my sister." 
 
 " I would ask him," she replied, " I would thank him, 
 but my gratitude overmasters my power to do so." Her 
 thick voice and falling tears confirmed the simple assertion. 
 Leonisio looked upon her ; he now saw her in all the 
 freshness of her beauty, heightened by feeling and 
 tenderness, drawn from the pure sources of affection, 
 sisterly love, and gratitude, and he rejoiced as he contem- 
 plated this lovely work of nature, that the service which in 
 friendship he had rendered, might allow him some claim 
 for a return of that love which was springing in his bosom. 
 
 It was now Albina's turn to assist in administering to 
 their Avants, for in truth, the whole party needed refresh- 
 ment and rest. While they partook of the former, Andriani 
 related his capture and escape, but, in consideration of 
 Leonisio's feelings, touched lightly upon his interview with 
 the count in his prison; "And now, my friend," he said, 
 as he concluded, " you must take up the tale, for by what 
 means or agency you effected my deliverance, T have yet 
 to learn." 
 
ANDRIANI. 81 
 
 " Willingly," replied Leonisio. " When I quitted this 
 airy castle of yours, I had hardly shaped my plans, save 
 that on your rescue I was determined ; I hoped, as in fact I 
 did, to meet my father at II Garda, on his way to Verona. 
 I desired to be immediately conducted to his presence, but 
 I did not find him in the quarter assigned to him. While 
 searching for him I encountered Niccolo, who is my foster- 
 brother, and bound to me by the strongest ties. From 
 him I learned that for some months he had been entrusted 
 with the charge of the state prisoners, that Eccelino had 
 arrived at the fortress during the night, sought some hasty 
 refreshment, and then returned immediately to Verona; 
 that you had been brought in soon after dawn, a captive, 
 and just at the moment of my father's arrival ; and that he, 
 Niccolo, was then waiting his return from your prison, 
 whither he had conducted him, to carry your supply of food. 
 I knew Niccolo could not and would not refuse me any 
 service I might demand from him ; hastily, I scratched the 
 word "Hope" upon my dagger, and enjoined him to place it 
 where you would find it, and then appointed him, these 
 duties performed, to meet me at midnight at the same spot. 
 I again went to seek my father ; when he entered his apart- 
 ment, where I had been waiting for some time with restless 
 impatience, I strongly urged your claims upon us, and from 
 him heard the full detail of your stormy interview. I found 
 that he was ill at ease with himself: pride had veiled his 
 better feelings, but had not smothered them. Your 
 reproaches, while they angered, had also shamed and 
 grieved him ; and Eccelino's infamous attempt to carry off 
 your sister had disgusted him; while it justified your 
 descent from the mountains, and your encounter with his 
 troops in her defence. He confessed that the shade of your 
 
 G 
 
82 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 murdered father seemed to hover between yourself and him 
 in your lonely dungeon, and that on leaving you in that 
 exhausted state, he had commanded Niccolo to remove your 
 chains, and supply you with suflQcient and proper food. 
 Fiorenza's positive refusal to break her plighted faith 
 with you, unless at your demand, as the last sacrifice 
 which she could make to save your life: had maddened 
 him. He left her at San Bonifazio, with the determination 
 to seek and force you into compliance, if possible. AMien 
 thus fortune assisted his measures, and placed you in his 
 power, he procured permission to visit you. Fortunately, 
 the soldiers who brought you to II Garda, had not yet 
 departed from that fortress. From this conversation, I 
 gathered, that although he would bend you to his purpose, 
 he was loth to denounce you to his kinsman, with whom, 
 as you know, he is frequently at warfare. I left him, with 
 the assurance on my part, that I would keep inviolate 
 my faith, and hold sacred my bond of friendship with you 
 in flood and field. I ordered the two men who accompanied 
 me, members of your own band, to station their boat at any 
 point which Niccolo should indicate. He agreed to accom- 
 pany me to your dungeon ; the rest you have already 
 told." 
 
 While Leonisio thus simply and briefly narrated the 
 means he had taken for Andriani's escape, Albina's eyes 
 were bent upon his glowing countenance; to the gratitude 
 which was thrilling in her bosom, she dared not give ex- 
 pression, lest other feelings, more tender, should form them- 
 selves into words, and give too strong an essence to her 
 speech. She was hardly conscious herself, of the struggle 
 whicli was passing within, but Nature loves not control; 
 the blushing cheek was the tell-tale of the guileless heart. 
 
ANDRIANI. 
 
 83 
 
 On his return, Andriani had ordered a dozen men, under 
 the command of Antonio, to keep watch in the mountain 
 passes, to act as scouts, and to collect forage. The pea- 
 santry were willing enough to supply those who protected, 
 but did not molest them. 
 
 The gray of evening was now throwing its shadows on 
 every recess and cavern opening, while the projecting rocks 
 caught the golden tints which departing day had yet to 
 give, when our trio were once more assembled in their 
 roofless hall. The laugh and jest, with recollections of 
 early days, for a time kept them in conversation, but, by 
 degrees, their spirits and thoughts partook of the fading 
 tints around them. Andriani's were far away, with his 
 peerless Fiorenza ; Leonisio dwelt with concern upon his 
 separation from Albina on the morrow; and Albina was 
 occupied with similar regrets, and mingled fears for the 
 fate of the faithful Giovanni and Benita; thus, by degrees, 
 they sank into silence. A sudden movement among the 
 men at the entrance of the passage, where they were^ on 
 guard, and where others were also grouped, roused Andriani 
 from his reclining position. Antonio entering, followed by 
 four of his companions, and leading three persons captive, 
 sent the angry blood into Andriani's cheek. 
 
 " Leonisio," he cried, turning to his friend, who had also 
 quitted his seat by Albina, " this is not our usual mode of 
 warfare! What means this, Antonio; and by whose 
 authority do you make war on women?" 
 
 " Abate your displeasure, I pray. Count," replied Antonio, 
 respectfully, at the same time advancing, somewhat alarmed 
 at the wrath which was quivering on his commander's lips 
 and darting from his eye. "We found these persons 
 wandering among the mountains: they stated that their 
 
 g2 
 
84 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 feeble escort had been dispersed, and their baggage 
 plundered, by some loose and disorderly stragglers from 
 Eccelino's troops. While these marauders were intent 
 upon rifling the booty, with the assistance of the brave old 
 man who was part of their convoy, they fled, and reached 
 the shelter of the mountains. He gave me reason to 
 believe, by the extravagant marks of joy which he exhibited, 
 when, in answer to his questions, he found you were rescued, 
 and by his acquaintance with our password, that he was 
 one whom you would gladly see ; his only desire, he said, 
 was to join you ; he implored me also to protect those with 
 him. I consented so to do, if they would not hesitate at 
 the perils of our way, and permit themselves to be blind- 
 folded. Thus, carefully guiding them, I have brought 
 them hither." 
 
 While he was yet speaking, Andriani motioned for his 
 unexpected visitors to be brought forward. 
 
 " You have done wisely, Antonio, although not exactly 
 the booty I expected you to bring." 
 
 " Not less welcome, I will vouch," cried Giovanni, 
 stepping forward. 
 
 " Far, ah, far more welcome, my faithful friend !" cried 
 Andriani, greeting him most cordially, " for in truth, 
 Albina and myself have had many misgivings on your 
 account." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, we have, my good Giovanni!" cried 
 Albina, while the warm and grateful tear dropped upon the 
 old man's hand, which she fervently pressed. Giovanni's 
 features lighted up witli a beam of satisfaction, and an 
 arch smile played round the corners of his mouth, as he 
 turned his head over his shoulder, l)ut a painful tlirob sent 
 the colour from Albina's cheek, as she saw one of Antonio's 
 
ANDRIANI. 85 
 
 female captives locked in Leonisio's arms, and leaning on 
 his shoulder. He was tenderly bearing his burthen towards 
 them, but she had not the power to quit the spot, and give 
 the fugitives the greeting their situation demanded. 
 Andriani caught but one glimpse of that fair form, when, 
 with a bound, he was at her feet, " Fiorenza ! my beloved 
 Fiorenza !" 
 
 The rocks around echoed the passionate exclamation, 
 " Beloved Fiorenza." The icy chain, which, for a few 
 moments, had riveted Albina, was broken, and, with 
 unfeigned joy, she pressed Fiorenza to her bosom. Leonisio 
 resigned her to Albina's care, and took Giovanni aside, for 
 an explanation of this unexpected meeting. Andriani 
 cared only that she was there, and all he loved around 
 him. 
 
 At this blissful moment, years of adverse fortune, sorrow, 
 strife, and struggle, seemed to be repaid, and blotted from 
 his memory. Giovanni related his escape from Eccelino : 
 he had concealed himself till the tramp of horses assured him 
 that the tyrant had taken the road back to Verona ; he then 
 returned to his cottage, provided himself with some neces- 
 saries and provision, and having sought Benita at the house 
 where she had taken refuge, obtained a horse, and went in 
 quest of Andriani. On his way, he heard of his disaster, 
 then changing his course, he did not pause until he reached 
 San Bonifazio, hoping that the Count would exert himself 
 to save the son of his lost friend, but he was gone ; he then 
 entreated to be admitted to the presence of the Lady 
 Fiorenza, who was nearly distracted by the intelligence 
 which he brought of Andriani's danger. She knew that it 
 was her father's intention to visit II Garda; she insisted, 
 therefore, upon setting off immediately to seek him ; and to 
 
86 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 urge her entreaties in favour of the prisoner, reckless of 
 the danger, inconvenience, or even the displeasure of her 
 father, which so prompt and bold a measure might bring 
 upon her ; indeed, there was no time to dwell upon evil con- 
 sequences, as little for preparation ; she dared not weaken 
 the force left to guard the castle. Attended, therefore, by- 
 one female, by Giovanni and three varlets, with two horses 
 for baggage, she commenced her journey. 
 
 They had halted to take some refreshment, and were 
 again pursuing their route, with unabated haste and dili- 
 gence, when Giovanni slackened rein, and in alarm pointed 
 out the advance of a party coming upon them, and which, 
 he well knew, would treat friend or foe alike, lie coun- 
 selled Fiorenza to fly, before the distance between them 
 should be lessened, and abandon their light baggage to the 
 plunderers. To this, without hesitation, she consented. 
 The attendants were to remain till the marauders gained 
 sight of the booty, and then disperse themselves. They 
 hoped the bait thus placed in their view would, for a few 
 minutes at least, arrest their greedy attention. Mean- 
 while, they sought the mountains, where they wandered 
 until they fell in with Antonio. Scouts were still out, and 
 others were immediately dispatched, some in disguise ; such 
 were to make their way, if possible, to Brescia. During 
 their absence, means and measures were considered for the 
 safe convoy of Fiorenza back to the castle of San Bonifazio, 
 whither it was decided Albina should accompany her. The 
 morning would bring in those now out upon service, and 
 Andriani considered his force suflicient to guarantee their 
 safety against any of Eccelino's straggling parties whom 
 they might encounter. Precious to the lovers were the 
 few hours thus accorded to them ; each tlying moment 
 
ANDItlANI. 
 
 87 
 
 riveted more firmly the links which bound them in strong 
 afi-ection to each other. Andriani, to the last moment of 
 the evening, lingered by Fiorenza's side; and when fatigue 
 constrained Albina and herself to seek rest in the rude 
 lodging which a cavern could afford them, he set about his 
 arrang°ements for the following day; then snatched a short 
 repose, far too anxious for the safety of those who under 
 his guidance were to be lodged in security, to lose in in- 
 dulgence the early hours, which would give him an oppor- 
 tunity of reviewing his preparations. Leonisio and himself 
 were still in discourse, and debating every means which 
 prudence could suggest against accident, when they were 
 joined by those in whom all their thoughts centred. The 
 joy of the preceding day was sobered down almost to melan- 
 choly, for a brief space only intervened ere they must part, 
 and all beyond was uncertainty. The necessity for their 
 separation was not cheered by any brighter prospect to 
 relieve the present and positive evil of its dull truth. 
 Andriani's activity, however, had left him leisure to enjoy 
 the good that yet remained, in the society of Fiorenza. 
 All, finally, was ready, and they only awaited the return of 
 the scouts sent out on the previous evening. 
 
 As the sun began to glance his rays across one side of 
 their craggy abode, Andriani and his friend experienced 
 some uneasiness. None of the men had returned, and until 
 some information was obtained, they could not venture^ to 
 descend the mountain. Meanwhile, time was wearing 
 apace, and Andriani felt that his asylum was ill suited to 
 the propriety and habits of those who, in peril, had sought 
 it as a refuge. .Fiorenza dreaded her father's anger, if he 
 should return and learn from others the imprudent journey 
 she had undertaken; but if she could reach San Bonifazio 
 
88 EVENINGS AT UADDON IIALL. 
 
 before him, Leonisio would seek him, and mollify his dis- 
 pleasure. Leonisio and Albina, whose love, although 
 ardent, was still young and unforbidden, were rather 
 anxious for others than themselves. 
 
 " The signal at last!" cried Andriani. 
 
 The heavy stone which closed the passage was rolled 
 back, and two of the scouts brought in their report, that 
 the mountain passes were clear; nought but fishermen's 
 barks were moving upon the lake, nor was there any 
 evidence of impediment to cause them further delay. This 
 intelligence was confirmed by those who had been sent in 
 other directions, and arrived soon after the first comers. 
 
 " I would fain see them all in before we depart," ob- 
 served Andriani, appealing to Leonisio, " and learn the 
 news from Brescia and Verona." 
 
 He was not kept long in suspense, and the short delay 
 gave further proof of his prudent judgment. The last 
 scout reported that Eccelino had been wounded in the foot 
 at Cassano, and had been carried to Yimercato; Azzo 
 d'Este, Avith the Ferrarese and Mantuans, also the Marchese 
 Oberto Pelavicino and Buoso da Duora, with the Cremonese, 
 were leagued in arms against him, while himself was 
 expected, when his wound was cured, to advance with the 
 Brcscians and meet this formidable coalition. It was 
 believed the Count San Bonifazio was with the Marchese 
 Azzo d'Este ; but to this fact no one could speak posi 
 tively. 
 
 While the men gave these details, a crimson hue flushed 
 Andriani's care-worn features ; he turned his eyes, which 
 were full of hope, brightness, and intelligence, towards 
 Fiorenza, at the same time exclaiming, " Heaven be 
 praised! Andriani's arm shall not be wanting in tlie light." 
 
ANDIUANI. 89 
 
 No obstacle appeared now to offer itself to immediate 
 departure, but as the aspect of affairs was changed, it was 
 necessary to make some alteration in the disposition of his 
 force, and give some fresh directions to those who were to 
 be left in guard over his secret stronghold. Giovanni 
 would not consent to remain behind ; he had shared, as a 
 faithful retainer of their house, their fortunes, and would 
 do so still. As they approached the drawbridge of San 
 Bonifazio, Fiorenza turned to Andriani; the tear stood 
 quivering in her eye ; she pointed to the barrier but a few 
 paces before them. Her voice trembled as she said, 
 " Andriani, here we must part ; you go to quell a tyrant, 
 revenge the death of a father, release your fellow men from 
 horrible oppression, and, reinstated in your honours and 
 your rights, claim the guerdon of my hand ; it must be, nor 
 can I say a word to stay your purpose, which patriotism, 
 duty, and plighted love enjoin. Heaven be with you ! Till 
 your return, my prayers shall unceasingly be offered in 
 your behalf: if," and the words almost choked her — " if you 
 fail, and fall, Andriani, you will leave to the church the 
 legacy of my plighted vows to you, and a willing bride." 
 
 One interchanged long look of love, one pressure of 
 united hands, and Fiorenza, giving a slight jerk to the rein 
 of her horse, with Leonisio passed the bridge. A sobbing 
 adieu from Albina, and Andriani was left alone to watch 
 their receding figures as the portcullis was lowered, and 
 the closing gates shut them from his view. He was still 
 lost in mournful meditation, when the tramp of Leonisio's 
 horse in recrossing the bridge, aroused him. With a heavy 
 sigh, in silence he wheeled round, and the friends proceeded 
 at a brisk pace towards the theatre of war. As they came 
 within sight of the Adda, they found that the hostile 
 
90 EVENINGS AT HADDON UALL. 
 
 parties had already commenced their fierce contest. They 
 rushed forward at the head of tlieir small band to that 
 part of the field where their presence was most needed, 
 and the fight was hottest. Eccelino had already passed 
 the ford ; raging with fury, he was clearing the way before 
 him till his further progress was almost impeded by the 
 dying and the dead which he had heaped around him. 
 Andriani marked him well ; fighting his onward course 
 through a medley of friends and foes, panting and bleeding, 
 he at last attained and faced his deadly enemy. Eaising 
 himself in his stirrups, and throwing up his visor, he cried, 
 in a voice which rang with an echo amid the clash and din 
 of arms, " For Andriani the Avenger !" Then spurring on 
 his charger, he whirled his sword three times in circles above 
 his head without the intermission of a second, and ere the 
 tyrant could raise an arm to parry the deadly assault, the 
 crashing strokes descended in rapid succession upon his 
 helmet. The Brescians, before wavering, now gave way 
 and fled, and Eccelino remained in the hands of his oppo- 
 nents. Shouts and execrations hailed the capture of the 
 wounded monster; crowds flocked in to view him, pursuing 
 him with revilings as he was carried forward to Soncino. 
 It was with difficulty that the enraged populace were kept 
 back ; they clamoured that he should be delivered to their 
 vengeance. They would willingly have anticipated the 
 moment which should rid them of a tyrant, who, by his 
 cruelties had goaded them to madness. This act of retri- 
 bution his captors forbade. The wounds given by Andriani's 
 arm, although mortal, left him a few days' respite for 
 repentance, a brief mercy which he despised. Without one 
 solitary prayer or requiem, he was deposited under the 
 portico of the Palace of Soncino, while all Lombardy feasted 
 
ANDRIANI. 91 
 
 and sent up their voices in rejoicing and thanksgiving that 
 he was taken from the world, and that a country which he 
 had dehi2;ed with crime and blood was freed from his 
 oppression. 
 
 Andriani had fulhlled his compact ; with his sword he 
 had severed the yoke of tyranny. No more a wanderer or 
 an outlaw, but noble among the noblest, wealthy among the 
 wealthiest, and brave beyond the bravest, in all the fresh- 
 ness of his glory, he sought her whose constancy and truth 
 had shone like a hallowed light to cheer the midnight of 
 his adverse fortunes. He claimed the plighted hand of his 
 Fiorenza, which was no longer withheld from him ; neither 
 did Count Eicciardo di Bonifazio frown upon the union of 
 his cherished Leonisio with the richly-dowered sister of 
 Andriani Conte di Panego, the gentle and lovely Albina. 
 
 Giovanni and Benita stood foremost at the sacred altar, 
 round which were grouped those faithful followers who had 
 not deserted the persecuted children of the murdered Conte 
 di Panego. 
 
92 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 EVENING THE SECOND. 
 
 No sooner had the party assembled in the library, on the 
 second evening, than the Lady Eva occupied herself in 
 searching anxiously among the designs that lay before her ; 
 presently she fixed upon two as dissimilar from each other 
 in the associations they were calculated to call up in the 
 mind of the spectator, as terror is from gentleness, or grief 
 from joy : the one representing, with marvellous truth of 
 effect, the burning of a vessel at sea ; the other, the return 
 of a minstrel to his home. 
 
 " There!" exclaimed she, " who will be able to tell one 
 story about two such pictures as those? One of them almost 
 making you weep with pain and terror, — the other with 
 pleasant thoughts !" 
 
 Holding out the two designs, she looked around, and lier 
 glance rested on a lady who had written on various sub- 
 jects. " Ah !" slie exclaimed, as she placed the two de- 
 signs in the hands of that lady, " you, whose imagination 
 is a perfect prisin, you can llnd no dilliculty in por- 
 traying in their true colours even two objects as dissimilar 
 us lijTlit from darkness." 
 
TOE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 93 
 
 It seemed to have already grown into a tacit under- 
 standing that the Lady Eva was to have her way im- 
 plicitly during the six evenings allotted to the lengthened 
 celebration of her birthday ; and the lady to whom she had 
 thus addressed herself, though evidently reluctant to be 
 called so early into the field of emulation with so many 
 accomplished persons as she saw around her, seemed still 
 more reluctant to disappoint the excited expectations of the 
 eager child whose beseeching glance was fixed upon her. 
 She paused for a brief space ; examined the pictures with 
 an attentive care ; and then proceeded to relate 
 
 THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 
 
 In one of the remotest parts of the northern division of 
 Scotland stood the ancient castle of Glengary. To the eyes 
 of a lowlander its situation might appear too insular, too 
 lonely, for the cheering intercourse of society ; but the lairds 
 of Glengary had been used to behold in the girdle of 
 heath-clad mountains and the fall of rushing waters which 
 skirted their domain, features of grandeur and attraction 
 undreamt of by any but their own clan. The hills were 
 to them emblems of the strength and durability of their 
 race. The lofty pine and the dark brown heather were to 
 their eyes more picturesque than the richly wooded vales 
 of England's garden scenery. 
 
 The character of the kilted clan of Glengary seemed 
 to partake of this wilder scenery, and their nerves and 
 sinews to be braced to the hardier exercises and amuse- 
 ments of the clime. The noble chieftain, Sir Norman 
 
9l« EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 Ramsay, had from boyhood lived on the estate, and 
 had from infancy been beloved by all the vassal train. lie 
 had married young. For many years but one child, a son, 
 had been born to him, and tliis son was preparing to enter 
 the army, Avhen the birth of his sister brought desolation on 
 the poor father's heart, by taking from him the cherished 
 wife of his affection. 
 
 Not only was the husband's cup of sorrow full, and his 
 tenderest feelings rent asunder, but the son's support and 
 protection against his own turbulent nature were buried 
 in his mother's grave. From that hour his fierce passions 
 seemed beyond control. Her influence over him had been 
 great ; it was the influence of a calm and gentle mind, 
 leading a proud and wilful spirit by the flowery chain of a 
 tender mother's love ; effecting by a tearful caress what the 
 father's firm reason and unbending principle often failed 
 to accomplish. 
 
 For a few weeks after their mutual bereavement, a 
 gentler intercourse seemed established between parent and 
 child. But at length Allan received orders to join his 
 regiment; and for years they did not again meet. Indeed, 
 till Marian was entering her fourteenth year, her brother 
 was a stranger to her. Her tender age, her girlish beauty, 
 made a favourable impression on him. She listened with 
 deliglited wonder to his description of those warlike scenes 
 in which he had borne a part, and his vanity was flattered 
 by the deference with which she treated him. The dis- 
 parity in their age prevented his naturally jealous and 
 envious temper from taking umbrage, when Marian was 
 folded to their father's heart, and caressed as his best loved 
 one; or, if a pang was felt, it was subdued by finding 
 Marian's arms round Ids own neck, and her young and 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 
 
 95 
 
 glowing cheek pillowed on his shoulder, as soon as released 
 from her father's embrace. 
 
 In their rambles over their native hills, Marian would 
 beseech Allan to talk to her of their mother— the mother 
 she, alas! had never known; and on these occasions, 
 Allan's stern mind would melt to childlike softness while 
 speaking of her virtues, and remembering her endearments. 
 Ere his leave of absence had expired, Allan had gained 
 strong hold on Marian's heart, and many an hour did she 
 weep bitterly after his departure, while she thought of how 
 long they might remain separate. She wondered that her 
 father did not seem to share in these regrets ; for she 
 dreamed not that, while kind and gentle to her, Allan's con- 
 duct had been selfish and overbearing to their parent. 
 
 Nor was Sir Norman the only one on whom her brother's 
 bursts of ill-controlled temper broke forth. Marian had 
 often witnessed that to the poor old and now infirm steward, 
 who had been the firm and attached servant, the faithful 
 and zealous friend, of his father and grandfather, his manner 
 was ungrateful, and oftentimes insolent. To the minstrel, 
 whose service dated from before AUan's birth, and whose 
 loudest strain was poured forth to proclaim it through hill 
 and dale, making the very cairns resound with that event, 
 he was bitter and impertinent ; and to Marian, who loved 
 these faithful followers with a love second only to that she 
 felt for her father, this conduct was painful to behold. It 
 had been one of her privileges to support the steward as he 
 strolled through the house, imagining he was still directing 
 its concerns, though, in reality, he was oftentimes too feeble 
 to direct his own tottering steps. On such occasions, the 
 young girl would spring to his assistance, and, leaning 
 on her arm, he would linger in the different apart- 
 
96 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 ments, whiling away the time with old traditions of her 
 ancestors, whose portraits were dispersed about the house. 
 Age seemed to have made itself manifest in the mortal 
 frame of Angus, while his mind remained unimpaired : his 
 memory had perhaps lost something of its freshness ; it no 
 longer retained passing events with accuracy ; but those 
 long gone by were firmly and faithfully imprinted on it. 
 
 Fergus the minstrel had been brought up and had been 
 taught by Angus to string into poetry the wondrous deeds 
 of the Glengarys, and then wander forth to sing them. 
 Between each ramble he was wont to pass his days with 
 Angus, occasionally tuning his lay in the presence of Sir 
 Norman and the gentle Marian, who would listen to his 
 warlike strain, till the deeds of her ancestors would tinge 
 her cheek with pride, or her eyes would fill with tears at 
 the relation of some pathetic scene in which they had been 
 engaged. 
 
 For neither of these attached followers did Allan feel 
 kindness or sympathy, and in a second hurried visit which 
 he paid them quite unexpectedly, he avowed to Marian 
 his dislike to the steward. " How can my father tolerate 
 that old drone's impertinence!" he exclaimed. " It is to 
 be hoped, ere I come into possession, he will be laid in 
 yonder kirk-yard, or he will have to provide himself witli 
 other lodgings, I can tell him." 
 
 Soon after his son's first visit, Sir Norman received some 
 startling news respecting a law-suit instituted by a perfect 
 stranger, a man wholly unconnected w^ith his family, claim- 
 ing a right to, and seeking to dispossess him of, his personal 
 estate, of which estate he had taken possession at his father's 
 death, not only as next of kin, but under a will found 
 among his father's papers — a document whicli was regarded 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGAUY. 97 
 
 merely as a proof of the extreme care which characterized all 
 the late Sir Archibald's proceedings. It is true that, 
 soon after Allan's birth, he had received some anonymous 
 communications, recommending him to be frugal, and to 
 put aside something for a future day, as the property 
 he considered his own, and his right of succession to it, 
 might be contested, on the arrival of certain parties from 
 abroad. No credit, however, and but little thought, had 
 been given by Sir Norman to these communications at the 
 time they were made ; but now that a suit was actually 
 commenced, they naturally recurred to his mind. Still, 
 as his agents had written him word that this action seemed 
 an act °of insanity, and that he could not possibly be 
 harmed by its prosecution, as not a shadow of a case could 
 be made out, he did not, knowing the overbearing and 
 imperious temper of his son, even mention the matter 
 to him on his second visit. For some months nothing 
 more was heard of it, and Sir Norman supposed the parties 
 must have been imposed upon, and had since discovered the 
 truth ; but suddenly it appeared that some new and conclu- 
 sive evidence had started up, and that it would be prudent 
 to take such precautionary measures as had till then been 
 deemed needless. Among other demands, his agents 
 begged to inspect the title-deeds by which he held his 
 
 estate. 
 
 Sir Norman Ramsay was a man of great precision and 
 exactness in all his arrangements. Everything around 
 him breathed order and regularity, and though ill dis- 
 posed, on the receipt of his solicitor's letter, to trust the 
 deeds demanded into any custody but his own, he deter- 
 mined to inspect them himself, and proceeded to remove 
 them from the strong chest in which he had placed them 
 
 H 
 
98 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 many years before, — when, to his utter dismay, he could not 
 find a single document but some of comparatively recent 
 date, while those he sought were coeval witli the mountains 
 which girded his estate. 
 
 " Who can have done this act," he mentally exclaimed, 
 " and for what purpose? To whom, but to me and mine, 
 can these deeds be of any value?" These were his first 
 questions; but in another moment, the conviction of the 
 important use that might be made by his opponent of his 
 not being able to produce them, threw a different light 
 on the loss, and as he sank heavily into a chair, he said 
 aloud — " I am a ruined man !" 
 
 At this moment, Marian, who had been seeking him, 
 appeared at the door. Calling her to him, he folded her to 
 his heart with even more than his usual fondness; and 
 when he released her, two large drops glistening on her 
 shoulder evidenced a father's grief at the thought of his 
 child's future poverty : — for Sir Norman was so unnerved 
 by the discovery of this act of treachery, that he looked at 
 once to the worst, and already saw his estate Avrested from 
 him, and his childi'en reduced to the mere pittance which 
 his late wife's fortune would ensure them. His gentle 
 daughter had been his fii'st thought ; she was too young, 
 too artless, to understand the loss of fortune, but he could 
 not look on her, all lovely as she was, without a shudder 
 at the change which seemed lowering on her youth. Then 
 he thought of his son, whose haughty bearing, whose un- 
 controlled mind, whose hitherto thoughtless expenditure, 
 rendered him little fit to struggle against so great a 
 reverse. Last of all came the tliought of his poor wife, 
 his cliildren's mother; and for the first time did he seriously 
 thank that Almighty Power wliich had seen fit to call liome 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 99 
 
 her gentle spirit ere such a blow fell on the objects of her 
 tenderest love. 
 
 After the first amazement had in some degree subsided, 
 Sir Norman carefully examined the iron chest in which 
 these deeds had been deposited. Twenty-five years had 
 intervened since he had referred to them ; but on several 
 difierent occasions, when he had placed new documents in 
 the chest, he felt positive of having always seen them 
 lying at the bottom of it. The closest examination 
 could discover no sign of force having been used to gain 
 possession of them ; the iron clasps were as firmly attached 
 as ever, the lock was uninjured, and from the peculiar con- 
 struction of its wards, it could not have been forced with- 
 out some marks of violence; and the key had always been 
 deposited in the bureau from whence Sir Norman had that 
 morning taken it. 
 
 The more he reflected on the circumstance, the more 
 mysterious it became. For some days he was silent to 
 every one on the subject, but on receiving a second and 
 more pressing request from his agents, he determined 
 on revealing his loss to old Angus, ere he proceeded to 
 Edinburgh, to make it known to his men of business. Ac- 
 cordingly, the evening before he was to commence his 
 journey, he summoned Angus to his study, and began 
 relating his fearful discovery, and the use which might be 
 made of the extraordinary abstraction of these deeds. " You 
 must tax your memory, my old friend," said Sir Norman ; 
 "you must try and remember every event which can 
 throw light on this malicious prosecution." 
 
 The old man's face was bent down as he approached his 
 ear, to prevent whatever his master might have to confide 
 to him from being heard by others, and therefore Sir Norman 
 
 H 2 
 
100 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 could not observe the impression caused by his relation of 
 these facts ; but as he ceased speaking, he heard a sort of 
 gurgling in tlie throat, and saw Angus fall forward from his 
 chair, his hands clasped, his eyes rigid as in death. There 
 was a struggle for utterance, but speech was denied ; and 
 ere Sir Norman could summon assistance, he became aware 
 that his poor old servant was dying. 
 
 The steward was conveyed to his bed, and every means 
 used to restore him, but for many hours he remained 
 senseless. Sir Norman watched by him, but hearing that 
 Marian appeared inconsolable, he went to appease her grief, 
 and remained absent some hours. For a short time the 
 dying man seemed to revive ; he made signs to be raised, 
 but fell back. The minstrel, who had been kneeling by 
 his bed, approached his ear, and Angus articulated with 
 difficulty some words, to which the other listened in silence. 
 What these words might be, none but themselves could 
 know, for they were uttered low and indistinctly, and in a 
 foreign tongue. That they Avere of fearful import, the con- 
 vulsed features of the dying man, the pale and terrified 
 looks of the minstrel, afforded evident proof. 
 
 The dawn had broken; the glorious luminary poured 
 one bright ray through the oriel window : it fell on the pale 
 and distorted features of Angus, and revealed to the Glen- 
 gary, who just then opened the door of the apartment, that 
 the spirit of his old servant was no longer of tliis earth. 
 A few wild notes which broke from the harp of the minstrel, 
 sounded his requiem. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 101 
 
 II. 
 
 Sir Norman delayed his journey to the metropolis while 
 his daughter's preparations were made for accompanying 
 him ; for he could not think of leaving her unprotected by 
 his presence. Angus, old and infirm as he had become, 
 would, from his faithful attachment, and his mental 
 vigour, which was always devoted to the good of the 
 family he served, have been considered sufficient safeguard 
 during his absence. Hitherto Sir Norman had not sup- 
 posed that he had an enemy on earth ; but noAv it was too 
 apparent that some one or other stood in that relation 
 towards him. It was impossible for Sir Norman not to 
 connect the awful visitation which, had befallen Angus with 
 the topic on which he was speaking at the instant it 
 occurred, and for a moment, perhaps, a feeling almost 
 amounting to suspicion arose, as he thought of the sudden 
 seizure, and remembered that till he mentioned the dis- 
 covery he had made, old Angus appeared in his usual 
 health. But Sir Norman was too just and too honourable- 
 minded to harbour mistrust of one whose long service and 
 tried honesty for three generations had secured him the 
 respect of laird and peasant, and whose impartial fulfilment 
 of the duties of his situation had earned for him the attach- 
 ment of every one for miles round the estate ; and, with a 
 feeling of self-reproach for having even glanced in thought 
 at such a possibility, the Chieftain banished all mistrust, 
 and attended in person the old man's funeral. 
 
 Sir Norman and his daughter had scarcely arrived in 
 the capital, when, spite of every effort which had been 
 made for the recovery of the lost deeds, the day of trial 
 
102 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 was fixed without any clue to tliem having been gained. 
 True, Alhxn had written to his father and to their man of 
 business, declaring his positive belief that old Angus had been 
 bribed to sell them to the enemy ; and, in the same letter, 
 he had not scrupled to denounce the minstrel as his accom- 
 plice, and to urge that he should be forthwith seized and 
 examined. Sir Norman was indignant at his son's petu- 
 lant interference, and resented his defamation of the old 
 steward's character. Marian was thunderstruck when she 
 heard the charge. " Impossible!" she exclaimed. " Suspect 
 Angus of a fraud upon my father ! as well might Allan 
 or myself be accused of it." And no argument that could be 
 adduced, nothing that could be advanced, shook her faith 
 in the integrity of the old man. 
 
 Meanwhile, the men of business looked at the proba- 
 bilities of the case ; and as they could find nothing more 
 likely, would have given credit to the accusation against 
 Angus, had it not been that, through some underlings 
 connected Avith their own and the adversary's office, they 
 had obtained information which gave them reason to suspect 
 that the missing deeds were not in the possession of Mr. 
 Muir ; and that a deed of sale of the reversion of the estate 
 after his death, executed in proper form by Sir Archibald 
 Kamsay, was all their case rested on. They, however, 
 considered it their duty to secure the minstrel's person, 
 and for that purpose sent to Glengary; but he was no- 
 where to be found ; and this circumstance rather gave 
 colour in their minds to the accusation. 
 
 The suit was now pressed on by the wealthy stranger 
 as rapidly as the forms of law would admit ; and at length 
 the day of trial arrived. In the opening of the case, the 
 late Sir Archibald's will was described as a nefarious act. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 103 
 
 No longer did Sir Norman, who was in court, regard the 
 decision of this suit merely as the question on which his 
 inheritance rested. All thoughts of poverty or wealth, of 
 lands and vassals, were absorbed in an overwhelming desire 
 to clear his father's memory from the stigma cast on it. 
 Home, fortune, position, influence, all became nothing but 
 as they might tend to that one end. Sir Norman resolved 
 that no tongue but his own should defend his father's honour ; 
 and though unfavourable impressions had spread themselves 
 over the minds of their firmest supporters, on his admitting 
 the impossibility in which he found himself to produce the 
 title-deeds of his estate, and a smile of incredulity had 
 been visible on the countenances of some while he related 
 the manner in which he had discovered their loss, still, 
 as he proceeded, his calm and lofty tone, his simple but 
 forcible language, his expressions of outraged honour, 
 so feeling and so emphatic, were carrying conviction to 
 the hearts of his hearers; — when suddenly a stir was 
 heard — a buzz, a press, a general commotion, was per- 
 ceived — and then a man rushed breathless into court, and 
 presented some documents to the prosecutor's counsel, who 
 appeared completely taken by surprise, but in an instant 
 recovered himself sufficiently to declare that, in his hand, 
 he held the title-deeds, so plausibly declared by Sir Norman 
 to have been, till lately, in his iron chest. 
 
 The suit was at an end. There could be no pretence 
 for withholding the verdict from the prosecutor. The deed 
 of sale might have been a forgery, but the possession of 
 the title-deeds of the estate spoke for themselves, and Sir 
 Norman left the court, not only a ruined, but a broken- 
 hearted man. In vain did his daughter speak in those 
 soothing tones from which he had never before turned 
 
104 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 away. Her own senses were so bewildered by what had 
 occurred, tliat she hardly knew what to urge in mitigation 
 of her father's anguish ; but when she prophesied that the 
 villany practised against them must, sooner or later, be 
 brought to light, he would catch her to his heart, and pray 
 God tliat she might live to see her grandfather's name 
 avenged. 
 
 As soon as they could remove from the capital, the 
 unhappy father and daughter retired to a small cottage, 
 situated in a glen near to their ancient home. A very 
 small income — being a life interest in his late wife's for- 
 tune — was all Sir Norman could now call his own. 
 
 Mr. Muir, perhaps, felt how little his presence would 
 be tolerated at Glengary; for there appeared no sign of 
 his coming to take possession. The house remained closed, 
 the park neglected, and silence reigned where many a 
 scene of festive mirth was remembered, and many a 
 banquet had been spread for all who came as guests, and 
 whence, within the memory of living man, never had the 
 poor or wayfaring been turned away without relief or 
 hospitality. 
 
 At first, each week passed in their cottage seemed an 
 age, both to Sir Norman and his daughter ; but week suc- 
 ceeded week, months had nearly swollen into a year, and 
 no change seemed likely to occur. Sir Norman evidently 
 pined, and his state of health gave great alarm to his 
 daughter. A change of scene, a warmer climate, was 
 advised, and Marian proposed to her parent to remove 
 from tlieir humble home. 
 
 Then came the galling pinch of poverty. True, they 
 had no debts to cripple or retard their movements. Their 
 flight might be taken witliout fear of any opposing 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 105 
 
 creditor ; but the means for a long journey were wanting. 
 Marian's heart beat quick, and her eye flashed with some- 
 thing like indignation, as she asked herself — " Shall my 
 father's health, perhaps his life, be sacrificed for want of 
 a small portion of that wealth his hand has so often be- 
 stowed on others?" She knew that the means would be 
 found, were the want made known. Not one of his clan 
 but would have given their last shilling to prove the love 
 they felt for their chieftain. But Marian could not become 
 a supplicant, even for her father, while any other means 
 remained untried. 
 
 While in the capital, Sir Norman had given her the jewel- 
 case of her late mother, and told her to wear any of the more 
 simple ornaments it contained. She had removed from it 
 a locket containing her father and mother's hair, with 
 the date of their marriage engraved on it, which she had 
 since constantly worn, but had never since opened the 
 case. Now she flew to it, and while taking from it each 
 separate ornament, many of them costly ones, she fancied 
 her mother's sweet and gentle spirit was hovering round 
 her. " I must not tell my father," thought she, " that I 
 am about to sell his gift, for he might not permit it ; but, 
 once converted into money, he will not refuse his child 
 the happiness of seeing him restored to health by the ex- 
 change." 
 
 Marian had no friend to whom she could confide her 
 plans, and alone she could not hope to execute them ; so 
 the trinkets remained for the moment unsold. But as Sir 
 Norman became more feeble, and the second summer was 
 rapidly passing away, Marian grew wretched under the 
 sad prospect of her father's being exposed to the rigour of 
 another winter in that northern climate. " Could I but 
 
106 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 persuade him to go to London," said she, " there I might 
 find a purchaser for these diamonds, which, by their daz- 
 zling lustre, seem to reproach me for letting my father 
 lade." 
 
 Marian's pleadings were in vain, so long as she en- 
 treated her father to seek further medical advice for him- 
 self; but when the restless anxiety she felt, began to act 
 on her own health — when her cheek became pale, her tone 
 languid, and her step lost its buoyancy — the fond father 
 saw sufficient cause for a visit to London, and their 
 journey was instantly arranged. 
 
 Ere Marian could leave the neighbourhood, she felt an 
 irresistible desire once more to behold the home of her 
 infancy. She knew that strange stories were afloat — that 
 the old house was said to be haunted — that unearthly sounds 
 were declared to have been heard by those who had ventured 
 within its walls. But Marian, strong in innocence, and 
 firm of purpose, feared no evil results from her intended 
 pilgrimage, save that she might be refused admittance. 
 
 The owner of the neighbouring manse, to whom she con- 
 fided her wish, agreed to conduct her to the village, and 
 aid her in this act of harmless deceit, for she cared not 
 to disturb her father's mind by mentioning it. 
 
 Early one fine autumnal morning, they departed for the 
 village, when, leaving her companion to see that his horse 
 was taken care of while he Avent to visit some sick person, 
 Marian proceeded on foot to the entrance gate. It was 
 open ; she passed quickly into the neglected park, and by 
 a short cut made her way, with some difficulty, towards the 
 house. Its windows were closed, and an air of desolation 
 reigned around. She rang the bell. Its sound seemed to 
 terrify her. How (jften had she listened to that deep- 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 107 
 
 toned bell, when expecting her father or Allan to return 
 from some field sports! Then its peel seemed joyons; 
 now it sounded like a mournful knell, and as it reverberated 
 through the empty halls, each echo proclaimed aloud their 
 fallen fortunes. 
 
 She remained some time within the porch, but no one 
 responded to her call, and with a shudder she turned 
 from the door which was wont to be thrown open to 
 welcome her entrance. Buried in thought, she proceeded 
 at random till she found herself at an angle of the build- 
 ing, near which she remembered there was a small door, 
 that had been used by the old steward, when he wan- 
 dered from his own apartment into the park, without 
 coming through the house. On approaching, she found it 
 ajar, and, well versed in all the windings which to another 
 would have been intricate, she made her way to that part 
 of the dwelling which the family had occupied. 
 
 Arrived in her father's room, Marian paused. How many 
 thoughts and recollections rushed on her mind ! Her heart 
 beat — her head grew giddy. Something like fear took pos- 
 session of her mind, but she tried to shake it off. True, she 
 was alone ; but who had so great a right as herself to be there 
 — there, in the home of her childhood — there, in the halls of 
 her ancestors — there, where the blood of her forefathers 
 had been shed to maintain their right of possession against 
 the lowlander and the Saxon. What then had she to fear 
 within those walls ? Their desolate appearance — their 
 untenanted state — did it not prove that no stranger could 
 find in them a home? Her father had, by treachery, been 
 driven from his habitation, but no other had found in it a 
 shelter. 
 
 More tender thoughts quickly succeeded this burst of 
 
108 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 pride. In one room, some kind word of her father's was 
 remembered; in another, some stirring tale of former 
 years, iu wliich her ancestors had taken part, had been 
 rehated by the poor old steward. She was now in the 
 banqueting hall, and casting her eyes around, she beheld 
 the small gallery in which the minstrel had been wont to 
 sing the deeds of other days. That gallery now vacant — 
 her father an exile from his home — her brother far away — 
 the old steward's memory attainted by foul suspicion — the 
 minstrel supposed to have fled from justice, — her heart 
 sank — her head drooped — the maiden's proud feelings 
 were quenched, as, friendless and forlorn, she stood leaning 
 for support against the large buttress of the projecting 
 chimney. 
 
 The wind was high, and rushed mournfully through 
 the dreary pile ; but at intervals it seemed to bring a 
 sound of music on its wing. Marian listened breathlessly 
 — it came nearer — she threw back her long and silky 
 ringlets to hear more distinctly. Could it be ? she asked 
 herself. Did she dream, or had the recollections of former 
 days bcAvildered her senses? The music became clearer, 
 and Marian no longer doubted but that it was the min- 
 strel's harp, the minstrel's voice. When it ceased, Marian 
 sprung forward, crying, "Fergus, Fergus, it is I! — it is 
 your chieftain's daughter who speaks !" but no answer was 
 given. She ran wildly to the spot whence the sounds liad 
 appeared to come, and then to the part of the building 
 formerly inhabited by the minstrel, but neither sign nor 
 sound of human existence could she discover. 
 
 The morning was far advanced, and feai'ing to alarm lior 
 father by her long absence, she forced herself to quit the 
 liouse by the same door she liad entered, and crossing the 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 109 
 
 park, regained the village, where the curate awaited her. 
 Marian's heart was too full for speech, and silently they 
 returned to the cottage. 
 
 III. 
 
 The following day Sir Norman and his daughter com- 
 menced their journey. They remained in London some 
 weeks, during which time they received several visits from 
 Allan, who came there, he said, to meet them. But he was 
 no longer the same Allan, Marian's childish heart had en- 
 shrined as the bright reality of her glowing imagination. 
 He was changed in appearance, changed in manner, changed 
 in temper ; and the hours he spent with them, instead of 
 giving his sister pleasure, were rather anticipated with 
 dread, and remembered with pain. Once, when he had 
 seemed less reserved, she ventured to tell him of her visit 
 to the castle, but had not proceeded far when his vehe- 
 mence frightened and arrested her relation. She felt, 
 if the mere mention of her visit had such an effect on him, 
 how little he would enter into her feelings— how little 
 would he comprehend the sounds she had heard. 
 
 Marian had often wished to speak of the minstrel's 
 strain; but her father's weakened nerves, his shattered 
 health, rendered her fearful of mentioning it to him. She 
 had looked forward to Allan's being with them as the mo- 
 ment when she might relieve her own bewildered mind, by 
 giving him her confidence, and seeking, through the aid 
 of his stronger reason, a solution of those thoughts which 
 seemed too weighty for her own. But this hope was 
 
110 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 soon dissipated : Allan sedulously avoided all reference to 
 former years, and on more than one occasion gave ]\Iarian 
 to understand that any allusion to the two " old rascals,'' 
 as he called them, who had compassed their ruin, would 
 banish him from her sight. 
 
 Silenced rather than satisfied, Marian came to the painful 
 conviction that her weight of responsibility would neither 
 be lightened nor shared by her selfish brother. There were 
 moments Avhen he would look at her, as she pursued her 
 quiet domestic occupations, with a fixed stare almost like 
 insanity, place his hands before his face, and rush from the 
 house like a maniac. But his whole conduct was so strange 
 and inexplicable, that in her despair of unravelling it, 
 Marian thought but of concealing its existence from her 
 father. Alone she was left to devise for that father's com- 
 forts ; she felt that on earth there was no helping hand, 
 no friendly counsel, to sustain her ; and, firm in the pursuit 
 of her one paramount duty to her invalid parent, she sought, 
 with trust and perfect faith, that support from above which 
 is promised to the lone and the helpless. 
 
 Had Allan performed the fraternal part Marian had so 
 joyfully anticipated, she might not have relaxed in her own 
 personal exertions; but assuredly, she would never have 
 acquired that energy of character which marked her after- 
 life. Trusting to human aid, she would have faltered and 
 trembled under every fresh evil ; but now her mind had 
 sought a higher trust ; she Avas calm and resigned, leaving 
 the event of all in the hands of her heavenly Father, while 
 she fulfilled, with strict and scrupulous devotion, her care 
 and duty to her earthly one. 
 
 Marian requested the physician who attended Sir Nor- 
 man to recommend her to a jeweller of established repute, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. lU 
 
 and Dr. R , surmising that it was rather an errand of sale 
 
 than a desire to purchase, made it a point of conscience to 
 speak of one whose just and liberal dealings were known to 
 him. Early one morning, she set out to find her way into 
 the city, where the address given her pointed out the resi- 
 dence of this merchant. 
 
 It was a dark and gloomy morning ; the atmosphere was 
 dense and yellow with a November fog ; the multitudes 
 she met, the many who hurried by her, all wore the 
 appearance of urgent business; but there was an air of 
 animation and bustle which made Marian contrast her 
 sad and secret errand with what appeared their cheerful 
 pursuit. 
 
 Many hours of the previous night she had sat contem- 
 plating the riches she was about to part with. To her the 
 objects she looked upon were full of sweet and happy 
 recollections; to their next possessors they would have 
 no value beyond their intrinsic worth. 
 
 As she approached the spot which she had set out to 
 seek, she involuntarily found herself slackening her pace, 
 and as she pressed the case, concealed by the ample folds 
 of her cloak, closer to her form, a doubt of her ability to 
 go through her task arose ; but in the next instant she 
 remembered her father's harassing cough, and proceeded 
 at her utmost speed ; till she beheld the name she had been 
 directed by the physician to ask for, in large letters over a 
 low, heavy-looking house. Some articles of massive silver 
 in either window convinced her that she had found the 
 residence she sought. 
 
 On entering the shop, no one approached to speak to her 
 — indeed, she had proceeded to the entrance of an inner 
 room ere even her appearance seemed to be remarked. 
 
112 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Stooping down, she inquired of a man who was employed 
 in piling silver dishes one on the other, if Mr. Needhani 
 was at home. The man looked at her for an instant, and 
 then, without quitting his occupation, said, " You had 
 better go forward and inquire." 
 
 Mechanically she repeated the question to the next 
 person she saw, who answered it by inquiring if she was 
 known to Mr. Needham. 
 
 " No," she replied ; " but I have a note for him from 
 the gentleman who recommended me to come here." 
 
 " Will you let me see the note ?" said the man ; " perhaps 
 I can attend to your business, without disturbing Mr. Need- 
 ham, wlio is particularly engaged." 
 
 Marian paused : the physician had told her to deliver the 
 note herself to Mr. Needham, but it appeared he was en- 
 gaged. As she was hesitating, the door of an adjoining 
 apartment to that in which she stood was opened by a 
 venerable-looking man, who came forth, accompanied by a 
 younger one; on perceiving a stranger, they both paused, 
 and the elder one inquired if she had been attended to. 
 There was something so kind and respectful in the accent 
 of the speaker, that Marian at once regained her self- 
 possession, as she replied — 
 
 " I have a note from Dr. R , which will explain my 
 
 business ; but I hear Mr. Needham is engaged." 
 
 " I am Mr. Needliam," said her companion, " and will 
 attend to you in five minutes. Do me the favour to be 
 seated." 
 
 Marian presented the note, and as Mr. Needliam perused 
 it, she perceived a look of commiseration steal over his 
 countenance. Wlien he closed it, he looked kindly at her, 
 and said — 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 113 
 
 " Pray walk into this room, where there is a fire ; I will 
 not keep you waiting." 
 
 In less than five minutes, Mr. Needham joined her, and 
 drawing a chair to the table, inquired how he could serve 
 
 her, adding, that Dr. R 's note led him to conclude 
 
 that she might wish to change or dispose of some ornament. 
 What a relief to Marian, to have the want, so painful to 
 proclaim, thus considerately anticipated. She unlocked the 
 box, which she had placed on the table, and replied— 
 
 " These were my poor mother's jewels; they were given 
 me by my father, in happier days. Since then, our cir- 
 cumstances have become changed, and I wish to sell them." 
 A pause of some moments ensued. Mr. Needham's eyes 
 remained fixed on the case, when Marian timidly added — 
 " Will you become their purchaser?" 
 " My dear young lady," replied Mr. Needham, as with 
 almost paternal affection he looked at her, " have you well 
 weighed the sacrifice you are making — are you aware of 
 the value of these jewels?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Marian, as she burst into tears, " they 
 were my mother's !" 
 
 Inexpressibly touched by her reply, he continued, " Surely 
 a portion of these would be sufficient for any momentary 
 difficulties?" 
 
 " Alas !" interrupted Marian, " ours are no momentary dif- 
 ficulties. My father's health has been for many months sink- 
 ing under accumulated and unmerited losses ; an expensive 
 journey, a residence in a warmer climate, are necessary for 
 the preservation of his life, and this case contains the only 
 means by which it can be accomplished without injury to 
 others, which my father will never listen to." 
 Mr. Needham looked kindly and encouragingly, as he said, 
 
 I 
 
114 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " May I wait on you to-morrow, or would you prefer 
 returning here? It is a business I should like to reflect 
 on." 
 
 "I will come here," replied Marian; "for my father 
 must not know of my intention; at least, not till it is 
 beyond recal." 
 
 " Be it so, then," returned her auditor. " I must, 
 however, beg of you to reflect well on the act you contem- 
 plate, and I will consider if, and how far, I can assist 
 your views. Meanwhile, will you trust me with this case, 
 that I may examine its contents." 
 
 "Assuredly," replied Marian; and she arose to depart 
 and hurry home, her heart full of thankfulness for the 
 hope held out of her project being crowned with success, 
 and of gratitude to the kind physician who had recom- 
 mended her so feelingly to the jeweller's notice; for she 
 felt convinced it was to his note she stood indebted for 
 the amenity shown her by Mr. Needham. 
 
 In part, her conjecture was right. Dr. R.'s note had 
 interested Mr. Needham in her favour; but it was her 
 own modest demeanour, her own unassuming but exem- 
 plary sacrifice, which rivetted the merchant's good opinion, 
 and disposed him to serve her to an extent and in a 
 manner she little expected. 
 
 On reaching home, ^Marian found that her father had 
 risen late, and been so engaged with her brother, that he 
 had not asked for her. When she entered the sitting-room, 
 she found Allan about to leave it. The livid paleness of 
 his countenance terrified her. As she watched him descend 
 the staircase, he seemed hardly able to support himself. 
 She called to him to stop, but her voice fell unheeded, as 
 he rushed from the house. In her father's manner, no 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGAHY. 115 
 
 agitation was apparent; and, fearful of alarming him, she 
 refrained from speaking of Allan's haggard look. 
 
 The next morning, when she repeated her visit to the 
 city, she found Mr. Needham evidently watching her 
 arrival. He conducted her into the room she had before 
 occupied. The jewel-case was on the table. Mr. Need- 
 ham drew two chairs to the fire; and when seated, he 
 observed, after a moment's hesitation — 
 
 "I am about to speak candidly to you, lady, though, I 
 hope, not so abruptly as to distress or offend you. An 
 ornament in that case has revealed to me your name 
 and family ; and the few facts you yesterday related leave 
 me in no doubt as to your father having been once known 
 to me." 
 
 "You know my father, sir?" interrupted Marian. 
 " Oh, then, I am indeed fortunate in my application; for 
 you must be satisfied that I am only doing my duty in 
 parting with these memorials of former years." 
 
 "Your conduct is noble," said Mr. Needham; "and I 
 reverence the motive, though I cannot permit the act it 
 would impel." 
 
 Marian started, and became pale as death. Her hopes, 
 which had been raised almost to certainty, seemed at once 
 dispelled. Mr. Needham watched the effect of his words, 
 and continued — 
 
 " No, my dear young lady, I cannot, indeed, allow such 
 a sacrifice, the extent of which you do not know; but 
 though 1 cannot become a party to your wishes, I must 
 endeavour to prevail on you to adopt the plan which 
 suggests itself to me. We will place your seal on this 
 case of jewels, which must remain in my custody. I will 
 advance the sum of 500/. for your journey and first year's 
 
 i2 
 
116 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 expenses, and will bind myself for three succeeding years 
 to place 300/. more in the hands of any banker where you 
 may be residing, or as you may by letter direct. If, at the 
 expiration of four years from this time, you cannot repay 
 me the sums advanced, these jewels will become my pro- 
 perty." 
 
 " But I have no prospect," exclaimed Marian. " There 
 is no possibility of my ever repaying the money. Indeed, 
 sir, I cannot accept your generous oifer. You might 
 become a considerable loser, for the jewels may not be 
 worth so much money." 
 
 " Well, well, that is my concern." 
 
 " But all this is so unexpected, so extraordinary," again 
 interposed Marian, " that I dare not concur in it unknown 
 to my father." 
 
 " And yet," replied Mr. Needham, " you would have 
 sold, irrevocably sold, without his knowledge, the very 
 objects I propose to you to leave in my hands as a gua- 
 rantee. Ah, young lady, like many others, you have been 
 deceiving yourself, and have fostered a plan of your own 
 suggestion, till you have ceased to perceive the real act of 
 irretrievable disobedience it necessitated ; though you 
 start from one far less complete, and with a chance of 
 becoming less fatal, when proposed by another. Surely, the 
 mere possibility of being able, at some future day, to 
 regain these jewels, ought to be acceptable, considering 
 them as a sacred treasure to a daughter's heart," 
 
 Marian now burst into tears. Could Mr. Needham, 
 could any one, suppose that she did not feel the sacrifice to 
 be one, only to be thought of as the means to enable her 
 to fulfil a yet more sacred duty? 
 
 The worthy merchant allowed her to weep unrestrainedly 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 117 
 
 for some time, and then taking her hand, he said, " For- 
 give me for having distressed you. I did it for your good. 
 I see so much to praise and admire, that I felt it a duty to 
 point out an equivocation which seemed unworthy of you. 
 Do not let us lose time. I have prepared a receipt, which 
 also contains my written promise not to open or deliver this 
 case to any one within four years, without your order. 
 You must, in exchange, give me your acknowledgment for 
 500/. as the first instalment of a bond which I have ordered 
 my solicitor to prepare, and which I shall also get signed 
 by my son, the young man whom you, perhaps, remarked 
 with me when I so accidentally found you waiting here 
 yesterday ; for as this transaction must be one of a private 
 nature, without any reference to the firm of which I am a 
 member, I wish my son to become aware of its existence, 
 in order that no difficulty or misunderstanding may arise 
 in case of my death within the four years." 
 
 Marian signed the papers Mr. Needham placed before 
 her. She was so deeply penetrated by his conduct, as to 
 be unable to express her thanks. To a less practised 
 observer, or to a mind less prone to indulgence, she might 
 have appeared ungrateful; but Mr. Needham had, in his 
 lifetime, conferred too many benefits not to be an ex- 
 perienced judge of the impressions they produced, and 
 Marian's tearful eyes and trembling frame were surer 
 proofs to him of her gratitude than the most elaborate 
 thanks, or the most eloquent language she could have uttered. 
 When all was concluded, he drew her arm within his, and 
 said he would have the pleasure of conducting her home, 
 as his carriage was at the door. During their drive, he 
 entreated her to lose no time in disclosing to her father 
 the transaction she had completed. It will be freed," he 
 
118 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 observed, " from every unpleasant feeling to both of us as 
 soon as he is our confidant." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Needham," cried Marian, " how can I ever 
 thank you, much less repay you, for such magnanimity?" 
 
 " By giving me your solemn promise that you will not 
 undertake any other afiair of moment without consulting 
 me upon it." 
 
 " I promise solemnly and faithfully," said Marian. She 
 looked up as she said this, as if to ratify her vow in 
 heaven — when, standing close to the door of her home, 
 at which they were just arrived, she beheld, to her ex- 
 treme astonishment, Fergus the minstrel! The carriage 
 stopped. As Marian descended, she cast a hurried glance 
 around, but the minstrel had vanished. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The news of old Angus's sudden death had reached Allan 
 (or, as he was more usually called, Master) of Glengary, 
 while sitting in his room with a man who had for some 
 months been his shadow. Wherever he went, ]\Iajor 
 Jar vis was sure to follow him. He had become his friend, 
 his adviser, almost, it might be said, his master : — it was 
 the knowledge of Allan's haughty spirit which alone pre- 
 vented his appearing to be so; for he feared to rouse a 
 feeling which might snap the link between them before he 
 had drawn it round his victim too tightly for escape. But 
 the assumption of power was all that was wanting — the 
 reality of it was absolute. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Allan, on opening his father's 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 119 
 
 letter — " what a frightful catastrophe ; and may I not have 
 been accessory to it ? Oh, how much better would it have 
 been to have lost all hope of retrieving my difficulties, than 
 that the life of a fellow-creature should have been sacri- 
 ficed!" 
 
 " You talk in enigmas, Allan," said Jarvis ; " what has 
 happened, and what are you reproaching yourself with ?" 
 
 But Allan was in no mood to answer ; for a few moments 
 the better part of his nature was in the ascendant, and his 
 heart really sympathized in his father's distress at his poor old 
 servant's loss ; but, unhappily, too much guilt had already 
 tainted his mind ; he had become too much the slave of 
 evil passion not to turn from this goodly thought. With 
 Allan, virtue was a solitary star, shining but for an in- 
 stant, making the surrounding darkness visible. Jarvis, 
 who had remained contemplating him in silence, now 
 put his hand on his shoulder, saying — 
 
 "Come, cheer up, Allan; whatever has befallen you, I, 
 for one, will stand by you to the last — ay, even through 
 shame and disgrace !" 
 
 He had touched the right chord. Allan started up. 
 "Disgrace! — shame and disgrace! no, no; no chance of 
 that now ; the only tongue that could have dared to accuse 
 me is hushed in death. Jarvis, old Angus is dead !" 
 
 " And you tell it me in that rueful tone?" exclaimed the 
 other. " Why, Master of Glengary, are you a man, and re- 
 joice not at your escape? While that old driveller lived, 
 there was no certainty of your not being suspected ; now, 
 you are indeed free from detection. Shew me the herald of 
 this good news." And without waiting for permission, he 
 took up Sir Norman's letter, and read it through. 
 
 " Dreadful! is it not?" said Allan. 
 
120 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " The man wlio could have any feeling but joy in its 
 perusal, could be no friend of yours, Allan. But you do not 
 seem prepared to take advantage of this, as you assuredly 
 must do." 
 
 " How is that ?" said Allan, who had relapsed into deep 
 thought. 
 
 " Why, you must boldly accuse him of having sold the 
 missing deeds to your father's enemy, and make his death 
 appear a sudden revulsion of his conscience." 
 
 " But did you finish my father's letter? did you see that 
 the minstrel may now know whatever Angus suspected?" 
 asked Allan. 
 
 " True," said Jarvis; "but he must be accused as his 
 accomplice ; his absence at such a time would almost fix the 
 charge on him. Shall I spirit him away?" 
 
 " You are ever ready, Jarvis, and I have had too many 
 proofs of your talents, not to trust implicitly to you to ad- 
 vise me for the best ; but for some time past a thouglit has 
 tormented me — and yet " 
 
 " Out with it, man," cried Jarvis, "unkennel this thought; 
 let us look at it, and see if it cannot be made a scourge for 
 others instead of ourselves." 
 
 " I will tell it you," replied Allan ; " there is a reluctance 
 and a shuffling in the manner of old Isaacs, whenever I 
 refer to those deeds, which alarms me. ' They are vo- 
 luminous,' he says, ' and extracts from them must neces- 
 sarily be long — or this being the vacation time, he has few 
 clerks at home,' or some such excuse, instead of fixing a 
 time for their return." 
 
 " Well, and what is the hurry for their return, except 
 tliat you are kept out of your money? But 1 can help you on 
 a little longer." 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 121 
 
 "Isaacs does not want to keep the money back; he has 
 even given me a part," interrupted Allan. 
 
 Jarvis remained silent, while reflecting on what his 
 friend had said, and endeavouring to find a cause for the 
 Jew's parting with the money before he was obliged to do 
 so. " Why," thought he, " should he care to retain pos- 
 session of the deeds ?" but as he could imagine no cause, he 
 resolved to go and see the Jew next morning, for the pur- 
 pose of interrogating him ; and turning to Allan, he care- 
 lessly inquired if he would accompany him to a party to 
 which they had both been invited ; but Allan declined, pre- 
 ferring, for once, to pass the evening alone, to joining the 
 heartless set in whose society he had lost, not only his 
 money, but that feeling of honour and integrity which can 
 alone command the respect of others, or ensure our own. 
 
 Allan sat musing over a dying fire, the expiring embers 
 of which, gave out fitful and uncertain light. A shade was 
 over the only candle which had been placed by his orders 
 in a distant part of the room, and there was just sufiicient 
 light to distinguish the surrounding objects, to which habit 
 had familiarized the sight but barely enough to recognise 
 any new ones. Many preceding events of his life became 
 present to his imagination. The look of pity and mistrust 
 with which old Angus had appeared to watch his every 
 Avord the last day he was with his family seemed before 
 him. Some sound made him start; footsteps seemed to 
 approach, he fancied that the door was opened softly. An 
 indistinct dread of harm seized on Allan, and rooted him 
 to his seat. He felt that some one was near him — so near, 
 that their very breathing had become audible ; but still he 
 sat spellbound, till from the receding step, and the door 
 being again closed, he imagined himself once more alone. 
 
122 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 On looking round, no form was visible ; but on the table 
 a letter had been placed. Approaching the candle, Allan 
 tore the letter open, and read — 
 
 " Wlien the missing is restored, then only shall Allan of 
 Glengary know peace!" 
 
 Who could have written those words? His secret must 
 be known to some one, whom he did not even suspect. 
 And at this thought, his stern, unbending mind became 
 harroAved by fear. Again he sat down and tried to reflect 
 calmly ; but it could not be — and the night was spent in 
 feverish and restless musings. 
 
 The day broke, and he thought of retiring to bed, but soon 
 after fell asleep in his chair. His servant, surprised at not 
 hearing him, went to his room, and not finding him in his 
 bed, entered the sitting-room. A noise, purposely made, 
 roused the sleeper, who exclaimed — " Go instantly, William, 
 and tell Major Jarvis that I wish to see him ! — Fool, fool 
 that I was," added he, as his servant left the room, " to fall 
 asleep, when these hours of delay may prove fatal !" 
 
 As he paced the room with impatient step, his eye caught 
 sight of himself in the glass. Turning hastily, he stood 
 for some moments contemplating the haggard features it 
 reflected, and then with a shudder sat down, and burying 
 his face in his hands, remained immovable till William's 
 return. " Major Jarvis's compliments, and he will be 
 here in half an hour," was the message he received; to 
 which he merely replied, without altering his position, 
 " Leave me till he comes." 
 
 Somewhat more than an hour intervened, and then 
 Major Jarvis's voice, humming a popular air, was heard. 
 It grated on Allan's ears, and seemed to rouse him to 
 anger, for it was in a liarsh and almost rude tone that he 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 123 
 
 exclaimed — " Jarvis, my patience is almost worn out, 
 waiting for you !" 
 
 Jarvis's quick eye perceived that something more than 
 usual disturbed his host, and changing his gay and cheer- 
 ful tone to one of interest, he replied — 
 
 " I should have been more expeditious, had you sent 
 word that you were impatient for me. But what has 
 happened, my dear fellow ; you look as if you had been up 
 all night?" 
 
 " And so I have," said Allan; " nor did I fall asleep in 
 my chair till after daylight. And yet, during the night, 
 some one entered here — some one stole on my privacy ; 
 and I — fool, dotard that I am — let them escape to accuse 
 and ruin me !" 
 
 " Why, you are still dreaming, Allan ! Some one en- 
 tered here — some one came to do you mischief — and you 
 let them go without interruption? Why, this is the 
 coinage of an overwrought brain." 
 
 " And this letter," cried Allan, as he held it to his 
 friend — " is this, too, madness?" 
 
 Upon reading the few words it contained, Jarvis said 
 
 " Allan, there is something in all this I do not under- 
 stand. Do be calm, and tell me, if you can, if any one 
 entered your apartment, or how this letter was conveyed 
 to you ?" 
 
 Allan then related the sensation he had experienced, his 
 conviction that some one was near him, and the inability 
 he felt to move or speak, and that on rousing himself 
 he had perceived the letter lying on the table. 
 
 " Know you the writing?" asked Jarvis. 
 
 Allan shook his head. 
 
 " Then all rests on conjecture," observed Jarvis ; " and 
 
124 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 the only way to come at the truth will be to consider, first, 
 who can he acquainted with the circumstance that letter 
 alludes to; and, secondly, for what purpose you are in- 
 formed of their knowledge. The hitter will be more 
 puzzling than the former to decide on, for I entertain no 
 doubt that the minstrel must be the person. But what 
 his design may be is not so clear." 
 
 " As I thought," exclaimed Allan; " all is lost!" 
 
 " And I see everything gained," replied Jar vis. 
 
 " The minstrel is aware of what Angus suspected. But 
 dead men's suspicions furnish no proofs. He must be 
 accused as Angus's accomplice, which will appear pro- 
 bable to those who were present at their last interview. 
 But though accused, he must never be brought to justice. 
 Some way must be found to dispose of him ; but the first 
 step is the accusation. Write boldly to your father." 
 
 " My father will never believe harm of either of his 
 servants." 
 
 " He must be made to believe it, or at least to act as if 
 he did. Give him no choice ; but write yourself to the 
 man he has employed to defend the suit, stating your 
 belief that Angus was the thief, and desire them to secure 
 the minstrel as his accomplice." 
 
 Allan mechanically wrote as Jarvis dictated, but once 
 or twice urged the latter to go to Isaacs, and induce him 
 to give certain documents into his possession. 
 
 " We will go together," replied Jarvis, " when your 
 letters are finished." Not that he expected any argument 
 would induce the Jew to grant such a request; but he 
 wished to form his own conclusions as to whether lie liad 
 any hidden motive for detaining them, beyond tlie connuon 
 trick of swelling his bill by making delays in the business. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 125 
 
 On arriving at his house, they were tokl that he was 
 particularly engaged, and could not be spoken with. The 
 same occurred on the next and many following days ; but 
 when, at the end of a month, Allan did get admittance, he 
 found old Isaacs' manner, which had before been cringing 
 to sycophancy, abrupt and insolent. He gave Allan no 
 time to make his request, but poured forth a stream of 
 abuse, calling him a swindler, who had taken advantage 
 of his unsuspecting nature, to rob him of his money 
 under false pretences, which had wellnigh involved him in 
 a suit with an honest and injured man. 
 
 Allan remained for some time silent from astonishment, 
 but at last said, haughtily — 
 
 " You are under some misapprehension, Mr. Isaacs. I 
 have borrowed money from you, but on your own terms, 
 be it remembered ; and I have given you every proof you 
 desired of my future inheritance." 
 
 " Proof, indeed ! Yes — proof that you have no inhe- 
 ritance at all! Oh! just as though you did not know 
 all this ! Do you pretend that you did not know that your 
 father, and your grandfather before him, had been for years 
 past wronging another out of his property ?" 
 
 Allan's blood was in arms. His father, his grand- 
 father, accused of roguery ! their honesty impugned by an 
 extortioner like the man before him ! Foaming with rage, 
 he exclaimed — 
 
 " How dare you, old villain, speak thus of your betters? 
 I tell you" — and he approached him with his fist clenched — 
 " I tell you, it is false; and that if you again dare to 
 assert it, I will tear your tongue from your unhallowed 
 mouth !" 
 
 " Help ! help !" screamed the Jew. 
 
126 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 But no one came, and Allan saw the moment when he 
 might regain all he desired to obtain. 
 
 " Give me the deeds, base villain !" he exclaimed, as he 
 seized him by the throat, " or I will be the death of 
 thee!" 
 
 The Jew's fiendish laugh as he said, " That can I not 
 do, for they are in the hands of their rightful owner," 
 made Allan's hand relax its grasp, while with a heavy 
 groan he fell, like one shot, at the feet of the usurer. 
 
 It was many hours after this scene ere Allan awoke to 
 perfect consciousness; he was then in bed, both his 
 arms bandaged, by which he conjectured that he had been 
 bled. Raising himself, he put back the curtain ; a night- 
 lamp was burning; there was no one in the room but 
 his servant William, who was buried in a sound sleep. 
 Allan's ideas were at first confused, and though aware that 
 some misfortune had befallen, or some sudden illness over- 
 taken him, he could not recollect anything distinctly ; but 
 by degrees the mists which had obscured his reason were 
 withdrawn, and the whole dreadful truth became present. 
 He perceived, that though intentionally innocent of the 
 result, his criminal removal of the deeds, to enable him to 
 raise money, had placed them in the power of his enemy, 
 and that virtually he was guilty of the ruin of his family, 
 and the stigma on his grandfather's reputation. 
 
 Hours passed on ; the servant still slept, Avhile Allan's soul 
 was torn by remorse. " I will go to my father," he said, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 127 
 
 " I will avow all. He can but curse me. And what curse 
 can be more bitter than my own despair?" 
 
 Allan made an effort to rise, but soon found that he was 
 too weak to effect it, and sank back on his pillow again, to 
 reflect on the enormity of his conduct towards a parent 
 who had been only too indulgent and forbearing, under his 
 many acts of aggression. He remembered the solemn pro- 
 mise his father had exacted, that whatever were his crimes 
 (for such the chieftain designated his thoughtless expen- 
 diture) they should always be confided to him — and that 
 when, in the breach of that promise, he had sought those 
 means for self-relief, at Avhich, even in the moment of com- 
 mission, his soul shrunk back appalled — when he was 
 stealthily conveying away, like a thief, those deeds to his room 
 — he had encountered the venerable form of old Angus, — 
 and the shame of that moment became again present. He 
 again saw the stern and searching eye bent upon him ; for 
 though he had assumed a tone of bravado, and even pre- 
 sumed to insult the aged servant, from that hour he had 
 felt himself a degraded being. He foresaw that his mind 
 must be on the rack till he could replace those deeds; 
 but little did he think or imagine the abyss in which 
 honour, reputation, wealth, and peace, were to become en- 
 gulfed by his abstraction of them. Even now it seemed a 
 dream — a dream too horrible to be true. Might not Isaacs 
 have deceived him? 
 
 At that moment the door of his chamber was opened. 
 It was Jarvis who entered. His step awoke the servant, 
 and he started up. Jarvis inquired how his master 
 had been. "He has slept soundly all night," replied 
 William. " When he awakes," continued Jarvis, " do 
 not answer any questions he may ask you. The sur- 
 
128 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 geon says his mind must l)e kept tranquil, or there will 
 be great mischief. If he is sensible when he awakes, 
 you had better send for me :" and with this admonition his 
 friend left the room, without even approaching his bed. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, AVilliam put some coals on the 
 fire, trimmed the lamp, and again settled himself to sleep, 
 leaving Allan to his bitter reflections. It was long after 
 daybreak, when, nearly choked with thirst, he asked for 
 drink, and having swallowed it, again closed his eyes, as 
 if he could, by shutting out the light, lessen the intenseness 
 of his anguish. 
 
 Not for many a past year had Allan prayed with 
 the fervour and faith of that lonely night. The mis- 
 fortune which had befallen him was too great for his 
 stunned senses to comprehend its full extent; but the 
 heartless neglect of his servant, who had lived with him 
 from a boy ; the lukewarm inquiries of the man who called 
 himself his friend, were bitter lessons. His high and noble- 
 minded father, his gentle sister, how different would have 
 been their watch and their care; and yet, if what Isaacs 
 had said were indeed true, never might he hope to behold 
 either of them again. 
 
 " Better to know the worst," exclaimed he, mentally, 
 " than to grow mad on one's own fancies;" and calling 
 to AVilliam, he desired he would tell him how long he had 
 been in bed, and what had befallen him before being 
 placed there. William hesitated, and Allan was proceeding, 
 with something of his habitual impetuosity, to insist on 
 being answered, when Major Jarvis again entered the 
 room. This time he went to the bed, took Allan's hand 
 in his, but at the same time placed his finger on his lip 
 to indicate the necessity for silence; but Allan implored 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 129 
 
 Jarvis to tell him the whole truth. " Have I been mad," 
 said he, " or am I the destroyer of my race?" 
 
 " Neither," said Jarvis ; " but, my dear fellow, you 
 
 must be calm — you must not " 
 
 " Preach calmness to others," cried Allan, as he tore the 
 bandages from his arm, and with all the artificial strength 
 given °by fever, attempted to spring from his bed. " Tell 
 me all— all— or I will find some means of discovering it, 
 though at the risk of life." 
 
 Jarvis, terrified at the vehemence of his manner and the 
 wildness of his eye, promised, if he would but compose 
 himself, to relate all he knew; and Allan, sinking back on 
 his pillow, made signs that he was attentive. 
 
 " Terrified at your long absence," said Jarvis, " I pro- 
 ceeded to old Isaacs, who accused you of having tried to 
 take his life, and confessed that, to preserve it, he had dis- 
 closed a secret which he had sworn to keep unknown." 
 
 "Go on," said Allan; "did he confide to you the 
 nature of that disclosure?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Jarvis ; " he told me, that immediately 
 after you had left his house on the first day he refused to 
 see us, an aged stranger called, and besought him, as 
 he valued his own soul, to declare whether or not he was 
 in possession of the title-deeds of the Glengary estate, 
 and if so, for what sum he would relinquish and place 
 them in his hands. Of course old Isaacs was too subtle 
 to give an answer which could commit himself ; but 
 he endeavoured to extract from his simple-minded 
 visitor on what grounds he supposed such an impro- 
 bability as his being possessed of them, and who it was 
 who would be willing to bid for them, supposing he could 
 furnish a clue to where they might be found. The un- 
 
130 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 wary man, wliom I have since discovered to have been no 
 other than Fergus the minstrel, did not hesitate to confide 
 to old Isaacs the discovery made by your father, of the loss 
 of these title-deeds, and the possible advantage which this 
 loss might give a certain Mr. Muir, an impostor, who 
 had threatened to dispossess his honoured master of his in- 
 heritance. He related, likewise, the steward's sudden 
 seizure, and the charge he had given him, in his dying 
 hour, to depart from the castle, and never to return till he 
 had traced these deeds, and restored them to their rightful 
 owner. A long life passed in faithful service had enabled 
 the old steward, he said, to collect a considerable sum of 
 money, which he had ordered him to expend for the 
 release of these deeds from the custody of whoever might 
 possess them. 
 
 " ' And why,' inquired Isaacs, ' do you think fit to 
 regard me as their jailor?' 
 
 " ' Why that,' replied Fergus, ' is a question I would 
 rather not answer, because my old friend, Avhen he charged 
 me to get back these deeds, also charged me to preserve 
 the honour of the family intact. But I did not apply to 
 you without being pretty sure that I was right, though I 
 don't wish to mention the name of one 1 have seen visit 
 you within tlie liuur.' 
 
 " ' You must leave me your address, my friend, and call 
 again to-morrow,' was Isaacs' reply; and anxious to be 
 alone, to reflect on the best mode of turning this interview 
 to advantage, he dismissed his visitor. 
 
 " Mr. Muir's professional men," continued Jarvis, " were 
 known to Isaacs, and to Edinburgh he instantly repaired, 
 and by degrees discovered from them that their case against 
 Sir Norman rested on a deed of sale from your grandlatlier, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 131 
 
 who, when in great difficulty, sold the reversion of his 
 estate, under a promise that, during his life, the transaction 
 should never be made known. The purchaser's agent was 
 the only being privy to the aifair, for Sir Alexander would 
 not confide it to his own. It was to the present Mr. Muir's 
 father that the sale was made, who soon afterwards became, 
 by the failure of a house in Calcutta, a beggar, and left 
 Europe to make a second fortune. A few years after, he 
 died, and so did his agent. Both these events happened in 
 Sir Alexander Eamsay's lifetime. The present claimant 
 was but a child at the period of his father's death, and 
 only within a very few years, by a search into that 
 father's papers, became cognizant of those rights which 
 he is now determined to prosecute to the utmost stretch of 
 the law. Mr. Muir considers that Sir Norman's conduct 
 has been so offensive, that the suit has become as much a 
 matter of pride as a struggle for property. 
 
 " 'But,'" observed Isaacs, " ' it is a suit which cannot 
 stand. A simple deed of sale without any support, and 
 with every probability against it, will make but little 
 way against old prejudices and established rights. Who 
 will believe that the title-deeds would be left with the 
 Glengary family ?' " 
 
 " We must," said the agent, " force Sir Norman to pro- 
 duce these deeds. Some endorsement may have been made 
 on them, which will establish our case." 
 
 " And should there be nothing of the sort," observed 
 Isaacs, "what then?" 
 
 " Why, then we must rest on the truth of our case, lame 
 as are its premises. Mr. Muir has ample Avealth, and will 
 carry it from court to court till he gets his rights." 
 
 " To get the title-deeds into your possession were a 
 
 k2 
 
132 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 simpler process," said Isaacs, witli apparent calmness. 
 But while he spoke he kept liis eye steadfastly fixed on the 
 man he addressed. 
 
 " Why, it wants no ghost to tell us that !" exclaimed 
 the agent, with a laugh ; " a deed of sale, with the title- 
 deeds in hand, were tantamount to possession." 
 
 " Then why not obtain them? What would you give to 
 any one who could put you on their track ?" 
 
 " Their own terms, were such a thing possible." 
 
 " I will communicate with a friend," replied Isaacs ; 
 and departed satisfied Avith his first essay. 
 
 The following morning brought not only Mr. Muir's 
 agent, but his advocate, to old Isaacs' lodging. 
 
 " It is useless," continued Jarvis, " to repeat all the old 
 usurer advances in extenuation of the act he committed, 
 or his pretended conviction that he was acting for the 
 benefit of the injured in parting with these deeds; for 
 neither you nor I should believe one word of it, while we 
 should feel certain that the 10,000/. he has received was his 
 sole inducement to this treachery. An oath of secrecy 
 was exacted from him, and his breach of it places him in 
 some measure in our power. I have made use of it to 
 insist on his seizing on the minstrel, and conveying him to 
 some place where he may remain concealed, and from 
 whence escape will be impossible." 
 
 "What is the object of this fresh crime?" faintly in- 
 quired Allan. 
 
 " I know not wliat you may term crime," said Jarvis, 
 " nor wliy you should defend an old rascal whose folly has 
 destroyed your family. What matters it whether tlie act 
 spring from guilt or folly, when the results are fatal? 
 Do try to ])ehave like a rational being, Allan, and bless 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 133 
 
 your stars that one such idiot as old Fergus is alive in 
 the world, to save you from all future fear of detection." 
 
 " But what shall hide from my own conscience the awful 
 truth, that it was ray cursed imprudence and base abstrac- 
 tion of my father's papers, which has been the real cause of 
 
 his ruin?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it, Allan; how can you be so weak as 
 not to perceive that this catastrophe must have occurred? 
 The enemy of your house is rolling in wealth. Nothing 
 could have prevented his gaining a verdict, sooner or later. 
 The suit might have been a prolonged one, but what 
 could that have availed your father, except to involve him 
 in a labyrinth of debt. Believe me, Allan, it would be 
 wiser to think of the future, with a view to remedy some 
 of the evils it portends, than to dwell on the past, which is 
 
 irremediable.'' 
 
 " Why talk of the future? To me the future is a blank ; 
 henceforth I am a beggar and a disgraced man! " 
 
 " You certainly bid fair to be both, if you indulge in 
 your present state of mind, and all my exertions cannot 
 prevent it; but I must say it is a hard case, after years of 
 friendship and devotion, to meet with such a return; for I 
 need not tell you that your ruin will be mine. I have had 
 no thought of self-preservation distinct from you ; your 
 good or evil fortune I must share." 
 
 Allan was touched by the calm, dejected tone in which 
 Jarvis spoke. Within the last few hours he had for the first 
 time doubted his friendship; but habit, long dependence on 
 his judgment, and a softness of feeling, induced by his bodily 
 weakness, got the better of the doubts which solitude and 
 reflection had raised. Putting out his hand, he grasped 
 Jarvis's, and soon after, exhausted by conversation and 
 
134 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 argument, sank into a deep slumber, from which he awoke 
 more than ever the slave of him Avhom he called his 
 friend, 
 
 Jarvis made arrangements with old Isaacs to wait two 
 years for the portion of the money he had advanced before 
 the minstrel's visit, for which Allan gave his note of 
 hand and both the young men left town to join their regi- 
 ment. 
 
 It has been stated that Allan's correspondence with his 
 family during their residence in the cottage was not fre- 
 quent. He had once, in a moment of good impulse, 
 entreated Sir Norman no longer to continue his allowance : 
 but his father had persisted in doing so, though its payment 
 swallowed more than half his small income. 
 
 " Remember, Allan," said he, " that the terms debt 
 and disgrace are in my mind synonymous, and that the 
 honour of our family having been attacked by a foul 
 aspersion on the dead, it behoves the living to be doubly 
 vigilant in guarding theirs from suspicion." 
 
 But Allan, alas ! was too deeply involved to be able to 
 extricate himself. The only being aware of his difficulties 
 always made light of them, and often, thougli apparently 
 Avithout design, induced their increase; while his victim, 
 though sensible of the evil, had not courage to act but as 
 he was tutored. His mind had so accustomed itself to this 
 subjection that it at last became powerless in its own cause ; 
 tliought of the future, reflection on the past, were alike 
 painful, and both were resolutely banished. 
 
 At the period of Sir Norman's visit to London, Allan was 
 also forced to be there, for the purpose of negotiating 
 another loan ; but he contrived that, at least to his father, 
 his journey should wear the mask of iilial and brotherly 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 135 
 
 interest. The first sight of Marian converted this pretended 
 feeling into something like reality ; but the stings of con- 
 science, each time he looked at her young and enduring 
 form, each struggle that he witnessed for resignation under 
 her father's deprivations, were too severe, and his visits 
 were as rare as he could make them, without the fear of 
 hearing some remonstrance from both of them. But Sir 
 Norman's mind was too deeply imbued with grief to notice 
 even the shortness and unfrequency of his son's visits, and 
 his sister was too proud to sue for what she had imagined 
 would be joyfully given. 
 
 His agitation on the morning Marian returned from her 
 first visit to the city was caused by his having, while 
 talking to his father, approached the window, and from 
 thence beheld the minstrel. After that day, Allan no more 
 visited his father or sister, and when, prior to their 
 own departure for London, they sent to his lodging, they 
 were told he had been suddenly ordered back to his 
 regiment. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Something less than three years after the period of which 
 we have been speaking, an elderly gentleman was seated at 
 an open window of one of the houses situated on the side of 
 the hill of Cintra. The evening was sultry, and every 
 now and then a flash of lightning played about the shrouds 
 of the various vessels anchored ofi" the bay of Lisbon. A 
 young girl sat at his feet; she had been reading to him; 
 but the night had come on them so quickly, that she had 
 
136 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 been forced suddenly to resign her occupation. The book still 
 rested on her knees, but her eyes were turned upwards to 
 her fatlier's foce. Silently, but not tearlessly, she watched 
 his breathing, which seemed unusually oppressed ; and as the 
 flashes of lightning became more frequent, and illumined 
 the apartment, she fancied that his pale features wore a 
 look of pain and distress. 
 
 " The coming storm oppresses you, my father," said she, 
 as she arose to open the lattice window; but not a breath 
 of air penetrated into the apartment, while the rich per- 
 fumes from the orange trees, and the aromatic odours of 
 the Avild thyme, served to render the overcharged atmo- 
 sphere still more oppressive. 
 
 " Do not leave me, dearest," said the invalid ; and in an 
 instant Marian was at Sir Norman Eamsay's side, with one 
 arm passed round his neck to support him as he leant for- 
 ward, trying to catch a breath of fresher air. Thunder 
 might now be heard in the distance ; and it was evident 
 that one of those awful storms with which Lisbon is often 
 visited, was about to take place. 
 
 An hour passed, and not a drop of rain had yet fallen ; 
 but suddenly, an intense glare illumined the horizon. 
 Marian was not sure if her father perceived it, and there- 
 fore restrained her emotion ; when suddenly alarum bells 
 were heard in every direction, and persons were observed, at 
 each flash of lightning, to be running to and fro, as though 
 conscious of some impending calamity. Marian looked 
 closely at her father, and perceived that he had fallen 
 asleep. Not for worlds would she have disturbed him by 
 withdrawing her arm ; but her suspense almost amounted 
 to agony as she observed the blaze extend and become 
 more lurid. Sir Norman's servant entered, and Marian, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 137 
 
 pointing with her disengaged hand to the light, whispered 
 to him to hasten and inquire the cause. In a few mo- 
 ments he returned, to tell her that a vessel had most pro- 
 bably been struck by lightning, and that it was in flames. 
 Heartstricken at the idea of what her fellow-creatures were 
 enduring, Marian continued to gaze at the terrific sight. 
 The sparks arose in myriads to the clouds, and then 
 descended like a shower of fire. Again the alarum bells 
 sounded louder, and Sir Norman awoke. 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked. " Where are you, my child? 
 Are you safe, or what has happened?" 
 
 "You have been dreaming, dear father," said Marian; 
 " but surely no dream could equal yonder dreadful reality !" 
 and, completely overcome, she sank on her knees, and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Sir Norman's servant now repeated to his master the 
 intelligence he had gained respecting the distant light, 
 and both father and child prayed fervently for the crew of 
 that burning ship. 
 
 At length the light grew less intense, and then became 
 quenched ; but how many lives might have been quenched 
 with it? Neither of those lonely watchers dared ask of 
 each other what might be the thought of either ; neither 
 found courage to articulate ; but in their very silence there 
 was sad foreboding. 
 
 The servant had gone of his own accord to discover 
 what had been done by the boatmen. Many of them had 
 put to sea ; and as the last effort of the flame gave out a 
 brighter light, a raft had been seen floating towards the 
 shore. 
 
 Daybreak found Sir Norman and his daughter still in 
 that same apartment: the storm was over, and the glo- 
 
138 EVENINGS AT UADDON UALL. 
 
 rious orb of day was rising, in all his calm and effulgent 
 beauty, directly in front of that window whence they 
 had a few hours before watched the light so fraught with 
 terror and dismay, the terrific sight of which not all the 
 beauty of that sunrise, not all the serenity of the opening 
 day, could erase from their minds. 
 
 Marian besought her father to retire to rest; but as 
 soon as she had conducted him to his chamber, she 
 returned to the same spot, to weep and to pray. Not a 
 soul, it would seem, had tasted of rest that night, for 
 at every moment she discerned their neighbours returning 
 from the city. But much as she desired to hear all they 
 had learnt — anxious as she felt to discover if any of 
 the boats had reached the raft, and how many had been 
 saved — she felt powerless to move, or to ask these ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Did some mysterious foreboding whisper to Marian's 
 heart that on the safety of that raft her future life might 
 depend? Born in a country where superstition held sway 
 — nurtured among those who were its willing disciples — 
 the scenes of her own early life so mysterious and unfa- 
 thomable — what wonder if Marian dwelt on certain feelings 
 till slie believed them tokens of good, or warnings of 
 coming evil. In the present instance there was a con- 
 fusion in her ideas, whether for good or evil she knew 
 not; but she felt that the foregoing night would hold some 
 sway over her future fate. 
 
 Before Sir Norman was stirring, Marian had become 
 acquainted with the fact that several persons had been 
 saved upon a raft, whence one had been precipitated 
 and lost. The vessel was a Turkish felucca, coming direct 
 from Tri})oli, her crew mostly Turks ; but one of the per- 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 139 
 
 SOUS saved, tlioiigh habited in an Eastern dress, was an 
 Englishman ; the one who had perished was also said to be 
 of the same nation. 
 
 Towards evening, Marian was informed that the Eng- 
 lishman who had been saved requested admission to her 
 presence ; and, anxious to show hospitality to a country- 
 man, she immediately received him. His form was noble, 
 and his features, though somewhat bronzed by an Asiatic 
 sun, bore the stamp of English birth, while his Eastern 
 costume gave an air of chivalrous bearing, which the dress 
 of his own country might not have bestowed on him. His 
 countenance bore the marks of dejection and suffering, 
 and when he spoke, Marian fancied that his features were 
 not wholly unknown to her. 
 
 " What can my father have the pleasure to do for you?" 
 was her first question. " Though unequal to receiving a 
 stranger himself, he bids me offer you whatever hospitality 
 you will accept, or any other assistance you may require." 
 
 " Lady," said the stranger, " I perceive that your recol- 
 lection has not kept pace with mine. The cursory glance 
 I had of you at your first visit to my father, Mr. Need- 
 ham, has never been forgotten." 
 
 " Is it possible !" exclaimed Marian. " Mr. Needham's 
 son must, indeed, be warmly welcomed by my father and 
 myself;" and as she spoke, she held out her hand, on 
 which the stranger pressed his lips, with an air of the 
 deepest respect. " Let me acquaint my father with this 
 unexpected happiness," added Marian ; but Horace Needham 
 arrested her step, and entreated that she would first listen 
 to all he had to relate. 
 
 It was to spare Sir Norman's feelings, he said, that 
 he had been induced to seek this interview with her. 
 
140 EVENINGS AT HADDON IJALL. 
 
 The Slid forebodings which had crept over Marian's mind 
 again became present, and, pale as death, she entreated to 
 be told what fresh sorrow awaited them. 
 
 Horace looked at her agitated countenance till he almost 
 lost his own self-command, and she had again to urge him 
 to tell her the worst, ere he found voice to say, " Many 
 of us left the burning ship ; but all had not strength to 
 reach the shore. The one who perished had been long 
 ill; he was worn out by sorrow and sickness; accident 
 made us acquainted ; his sufferings and his self-upbraidings 
 made me his friend. It Avas at my suggestion that he 
 sought this shore — it was my promise to gain for him a 
 pardon he dared not ask, which induced him to embark 
 in that ill-fated vessel." 
 
 Horace paused to watch the effect of his recital, but 
 Marian neither spoke nor moved, and he continued — " No 
 earthly power could have long prolonged his life — no, not 
 even a father's pity, a sister's love !" Again he paused, 
 but this time it was to receive the death-like form of 
 Marian in his arms. She had felt the truth, and compre- 
 hended that Allan was the lost one. 
 
 Her swoon was long ; and though Horace carried her to 
 an open AvindoAv, and used such means as were at hand 
 to revive her, it was not till he had begun to fancy that 
 she would no more recover, that she slowly opened her 
 eyes. After a few moments, something like warmth re- 
 turned to the fair form Avhich he had been holding in his 
 arms, cold and rigid as in death. She looked at him, and 
 the deep sympathy with which he regarded her was suffi- 
 cient evidence that she had not mistaken the misfortune 
 he wished to acquaint her with. To think of her father, 
 to lose all feeling for self in her anxiety for him, had so 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENOARV. 141 
 
 long been the occupation of Marian's life, that it was at tlie 
 thoughts of his grief that she now wept. 
 
 Horace remained silent: he allowed her tears to flow 
 without an attempt to arrest their course. No words he 
 might utter could, in that heavy hour, he knew, bring 
 consolation ; but when a tear fell on Marian's hands, which 
 were held in his, and she knew that tear flowed not from 
 her own eyes, she felt that the sympathy of at least one 
 heart was with her, and at length she gained courage to 
 inquire and listen, before proceeding to her father, to 
 some of the following particulars. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Horace Needham had said that accident brought him 
 acquainted with Allan of Glengary, but it was an accident 
 which not only riveted their intimacy, but turned Allan 
 from his path of evil, to one of sincere and earnest re- 
 pentance. 
 
 From an early age, travel had been the darling pursuit 
 of Horace Needham, and the Eastern countries his flivourite 
 ground of search and exploit. An only child, he was his 
 father's idol, and his society, whenever he did enjoy it, 
 gave a charm to his existence ; but never had the fond 
 father sought to restrain his son from pursuing the path 
 which seemed necessary to his happiness. When with him, 
 he saw so much in his character to admire and be proud 
 of, that he felt, in whatever clime fancy might lead him, 
 honour and right feeling would be his safeguards. 
 
 On parting from his father, he had promised that this 
 
142 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 should be his last expedition to the East, and that on his 
 return he would tax his father's hospitality for a continued 
 residence at his country seat. On entering Turkey, by the 
 Danube, he had found himself benighted at the town 
 of Scmlin, and though nothing could be less inviting than 
 the fare spread for travellers, or the beds prepared for 
 their repose, Horace felt no repugnance to make trial of 
 both. 
 
 The sleeping apartment to which he was conducted, was 
 not untenanted. On one of its four wretched pallets, a 
 fellow-traveller was stretched, apparently asleep, and Horace 
 soon became convinced that the sharer of his room was in 
 a state of delirium ; his wild ravings were awful ; and sleep 
 being banished from his eyes, Horace listened with pity 
 to the dreadful self-accusations and remorse the wretched 
 man was pouring forth. At length, he moved, and springing 
 from his bed with the look of a maniac, rushed to the 
 window with the intention, as it appeared, of jumping out; 
 but the window, which was in the roof, Avas so constructed 
 with closely-fitting iron bars, (possibly to prevent the en- 
 trance of any one from the neighbouring houses by a terrace 
 extending along them,) that he could not effect his purpose. 
 He then approached a small valise which was placed close 
 to his bed ; Horace distinctly saw a pistol in his hand ; he 
 sat down on his bed, still grasping it. Some words he 
 uttered seemed as though he wished to pray ; but again the 
 delirium returned, and he proceeded witli rapidity in the 
 same strain as before. 
 
 Horace did not withdraw his eye from him for a single 
 instant ; he dared not call for assistance, fearing to render 
 the unhappy man more desperate, and increase the danger he 
 apprehended from the pistol; l)ut he felt that on his calm- 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE CxLENGARY. 143 
 
 ness and presence of mind both his own and another's life 
 might depend. 
 
 The raving ceased — the stranger evidently now prayed 
 — the words of " Father — Marian — forgive me, and pray 
 for my soul !" though almost whispered, were heard by the 
 listener. In another instant he saw the pistol raised to 
 his head. 
 
 There was no time for thought, but impulse guided 
 Horace; with one spring he was by the unhappy man's side 
 — his arm turned the direction of the pistol — which went 
 off, without injury to either. 
 
 The noise of the report roused the household, and 
 Horace, still holding the stranger in his grasp, endea- 
 voured to assuage their fears, by declaring the report of 
 the pistol to have been an accident. As soon as all was 
 again still without the chamber, Horace besought the 
 stranger to go to his bed, endeavour to compose himself, 
 and thank God for having preserved him from the com- 
 mission of the crime he meditated. 
 
 A change had come over the person he addressed ; fever 
 and delirium had passed away, and were succeeded by a 
 state of weakness bordering on inanition. He sighed 
 heavily, but for some hours uttered not a word. At length 
 he fell asleep, and as Horace sat watching him, he felt con- 
 vinced that the heavy sweat which now stood on his brow, 
 though indicative of illness, must preclude any fear of an 
 immediate return of fever. When the sleeper awoke, he 
 cast his eyes around, and, on perceiving Horace, beckoned 
 him to approach his bed; he took his hand, pressed it, 
 and said, in a very low tone — " There are those who may 
 hereafter thank you for having saved me from suicide." 
 Horace sent for a doctor, who pronounced the sick man to 
 
14-1 EVENIX(;S AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 1)6 in a very precarious state, and declared his removal quite 
 impossible without imminent danger. For many days, 
 Horace watched by him with unremitting care. As soon as 
 he became well enough to converse, he entered voluntarily 
 on his position, and confessed to Horace that for several 
 weeks he had been meditating suicide, as the only means 
 of saving himself from disgrace. 
 
 " My life," added he, " can bring but sorrow and shame 
 on all connected with me ; I have sinned heavily against 
 those T most revere; their pardon I may never hope to 
 attain. I am an outcast from society, and have been 
 rendered all this by one whom I called friend." 
 
 Allan, for it w^as he who had been thus mercifully in- 
 terrupted in his intended crime, continued to pour into 
 Horace's ear the relation of his life ; but as its incidents 
 have been already related, up to the period of his father's 
 leaving London, we shall proceed at once to that portion 
 of it which immediately followed on his observing the 
 minstrel standing opposite Sir Norman's lodging. 
 
 It has been said, that he rushed from the house on that 
 occasion, regardless of his sister's voice ; his object was to 
 seek and again secure the minstrel: " But vain," said Allan, 
 " was all search : the greater part of that day, and tlie whole 
 of the following night, did I go from place to place, endea- 
 vouring to discover where he was concealed ; and in despair 
 I left London, hoping that he might not have been aware 
 of my vicinity to him. The same round of dissipation 
 and extravagance stained the following two years of ray 
 life, during which Jarvis appeared to be my friend. I was 
 over head and ears in debt, and wlien the period ap- 
 proached for the payment of old Isaacs, the sale of my 
 commission was my only resource; it was sacrificed, and 1 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 145 
 
 found myself still heavily in debt, and without one shilling 
 to discharge it, or provide for myself. About this time a 
 distant relation of Jarvis's died, which event put him into 
 possession of a good fortune and a baronetcy, and I was weak 
 enough to imagine that the man whom I had called friend, 
 and to whom my purse had been ever open, and at whose 
 instigation I had resorted to measures at which my soul 
 shuddered, to procure large sums of money which he fully 
 shared with me, — I say I was weak enough not to imagine 
 that this man would choose such a moment to desert and 
 revile me. But so it was; and without money or friends, 
 I quitted England, where nothing short of a gaol awaited 
 me, to seek employment in some other land. Sickness 
 overtook me. I have been at death's door, with nought but 
 guilt and dishonour before my eyes. I have loathed myself 
 and all mankind, till it seemed my curse that I did not die. 
 In my lonely wanderings, in my fevered dreams, I have 
 beheld the minstrel's form; I have heard his voice pro- 
 claiming me accursed, till my brain became diseased, and 
 my only object self-destruction." 
 
 Horace, it will be remembered, had been made ac- 
 quainted, by his father, with the relief he had afforded 
 Marian, and the circumstances of the Glengarys; and it 
 seemed something like the hand of Providence which had 
 led him to rescue from crime the son of that house. 
 
 As soon as Allan could travel with safety, Horace insisted 
 on his accompanying him to Constantinople. At this 
 earlier period, the Danube, which now bears on its vast 
 surface steamers and other vessels laden with the pro- 
 ductions of every province in Hungary, was merely tra- 
 versed by the rude, half-finished rafts, navigated by the 
 
 L 
 
146 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. 
 
 inhabitants of the district through which the river finds its 
 way. These vessels, composed merely of huge beams of 
 wood, firmly linked together by iron stanchions, never 
 re-ascended the river, being broken up for fii'e-wood at the 
 place where they discharged their cargo. 
 
 In one of these rude craft, protected from the weather 
 merely by a small cabin raised a little above the after part 
 of the deck, our travellers were glad to engage a passage, 
 Allan's weakness rendering a land journey impracticable. 
 The only sign of human habitation was the occasional 
 mud hut of the Wallachian shepherd, built on tlie low 
 marshy bank of the river. In one of these they were often- 
 times glad to find protection and shelter, and to halt a day 
 or two for Allan to recruit his strength. 
 
 Horace saw plainly that life was not long to be Allan's 
 portion on earth; clearly he perceived that the awful fiat 
 had gone forth, and that ere many weeks had sped, all 
 that remained of Allan of Glengary would be, the remem- 
 brance of his follies, his crimes, and his repentance ; and 
 most earnestly did he seek, by every argument and 
 entreaty, to render this repentance sincere and availing. 
 He would speak to him gently of his past ways, and 
 when Allan would shrink aghast from their contemplation, 
 he would point out to him that He Avho came to save 
 sinners exacted no other tribute from the sinner tlian 
 firm faith and true repentance. 
 
 Allan often expressed a desire that his father should 
 know the fearful act he had been guilty of, and which led 
 to such fatal consequences. " Could I but obtain his 
 forgiveness," he woidd say, " I could better hope for mercy 
 from above." 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 147 
 
 As his bodily strength diminished, his senses became 
 more acute; and the remorse he expressed at having 
 subjected poor old Angus's memory to disgrace, was bitter 
 indeed. 
 
 They were one evening in one of these huts, unable, from 
 Allan's weakness, to proceed. A thin partition divided 
 their apartment from an adjoining one. Carried away by 
 his feelings, Allan had spoken with some of his wonted 
 impetuosity of language ; his voice had perhaps startled 
 some one near them, who was willing to try if his might 
 also be remembered ; a few chords were struck, and then a 
 faint and feeble tone was heard uttering some words in the 
 Gaelic tongue. Allan started from his recumbent posi- 
 tion ; he grasped Horace's arm as he murmured, " Save 
 me, save me — 'tis the minstrel ! " 
 
 " Be composed," returned Horace, " be patient, I 
 entreat you, while I go to seek this man who has so 
 startled you, and prove whether or not he be the person 
 you imagine." 
 
 " Oh, bring him not here to curse me!" cried Allan, as 
 he sank back exhausted. 
 
 Horace gave him some drops of a cordial he always 
 had at hand, and as soon as he could leave him, proceeded 
 in search of the harper. On perceiving a man leaning 
 against the partition which separated the apartment, he 
 went up to him and whispered, " Know you aught of 
 Fergus the minstrel?" 
 
 The start, the agitation, and bewildered look which met 
 his glance, left no doubt that Allan's recollection was 
 correct. 
 
 " Seek you Allan of Glengary?" he continued; " if so, 
 
 L 2 
 
148 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 your errand is finished; I can lead you to him; not," he 
 continued, " to the proud and impetuous youth you re- 
 member by that name, but to one wellnigh worn out by 
 suffering and remorse. Have you no peace to speak to 
 such an one?" 
 
 " Peace !" exclaimed the minstrel; "peace to him who 
 destroyed my only friend, and gave liis memory to shame 
 and obloquy ! peace to the destroyer of his house ! peace 
 to him who " 
 
 A heavy noise, as of some one falling, arrested the old 
 man, while Horace exclaimed, " He has heard all — you 
 have killed him !" 
 
 Horace returned to the room he had quitted, to raise 
 and restore Allan to life, who had, as he conjectured, 
 heard all, and fallen senseless under the torture of the 
 minstrel's words. 
 
 It was impossible for Horace to quit the unhappy 
 suiferer that night, during which he was a prey to deli- 
 rium ; and when, in the morning, he fell into an uneasy 
 dose, no one knew anything of the minstrel. He had come 
 and he had gone, without exciting attention. 
 
 Every day that Horace watched by his friend, he 
 became more convinced that his life was waning fast ; but, 
 at the same time, he felt assured that nothing could render 
 calm the last moments of that erring and unhappy man, or 
 inspire him witli a Christian's hope, but the confession of 
 his crimes, and the forgiveness of his earthly parent. 
 Under this persuasion, he besought Allan to eml)ark with 
 him for Lisbon, where, through Marian's correspondence 
 with liis iatliei-, Horace knew that Sir Norman and his 
 daughter were resident; and, at length, on condition that 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 149 
 
 his arrival should not be mentioned till his father's feelings 
 were made known to Horace, who took the whole mediation 
 on himself, Allan suffered himself to be placed on board the 
 vessel, the destruction of which Marian had seen reflected 
 on the sky with feelings of such awe and such harrowing 
 forebodings. 
 
 It was Horace who bore Allan in his arms to the raft, but 
 who had not strength to retain him in safety there. An 
 unfortunate movement made by the struggling crowd 
 anxious to save themselves, precipitated them both into 
 the ocean, and when Horace rose to the surface, his friend 
 was no longer in his grasp; neither could he regain the 
 raft, but owed his safety to a floating mass which had been 
 detached from the wreck. 
 
 It was judged better, both by Horace and by Marian, 
 that Sir Norman should not be apprised of any part of 
 Allan's unhappy life and degenerate conduct. He was 
 now beyond the reach of pardon from his earthly parent, 
 and why disturb that parent's last years by a knowledge 
 of what could not but render those few years miserable? 
 It had been the will of Heaven that earthly forgiveness 
 should not be awarded to the sinner; but Horace, who 
 spoke of his repentance, and Marian, who listened with 
 deep interest to each proof of its fervour, could but pray 
 that a more enduring mercy was secured to the penitent, 
 by the one great sacrifice of Him whose death was the 
 sinner's ransom. 
 
 Sir Norman bore the intelligence of his son's death with 
 more fortitude than his daughter had anticipated ; for the 
 sad reverses of his own fate had subdued his feelings into 
 a sort of drowsy passiveness. 
 
150 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 Horace Needham had become domesticated at Cintra; 
 his whole world seemed centred in that little spot. He 
 had made himself so necessary to Sir Norman, that the 
 old chieftain forgot, in his presence, that he had no son ; 
 indeed, never had he experienced from his own son the 
 sweet and gentle offices of affection bestowed on him 
 by Horace. There was another individual to whom his 
 society was not less precious; but it was not till a letter 
 Avas received from Mr. Needham, requesting Horace's im- 
 mediate return to England, that any of them were quite 
 sure of all they were to each other. 
 
 " Marian, my beloved, my peerless Marian, how can I 
 leave thee?" murmured Horace, as they stood watching the 
 starry firmament, on the morning before the vessel, in 
 which he iiad taken his passage, was to sail for Falmouth ; 
 and Marian's fast-falling tears evinced that to her the 
 separation was not less painful. " Oh, let me not depart," 
 he continued, " without the assurance of thy love ! Let us 
 here, in the sight of Heaven, plight our troth ! I cannot 
 leave thee but as my affianced bride !" 
 
 " Think, Horace," replied Marian, " of all your father's 
 noble conduct to me and mine. But for his beneficence, we 
 were little removed from paupers ; and is it for the crea- 
 ture of his bounty to aspire to his son's hand?" 
 
 " Talk not of aspiring, thou peerless one ! Say, rather, 
 shall a proud and time-honoured chieftain's daughter think 
 a merchant's son her equal? Ah, Marian, if thou didst but 
 love as I do, thou wouldst know that in the bright and 
 glorious light of that feeling, neither rank nor wealth are 
 discernible ! Love is omnipotent, or it is but a mockery 
 of the word." 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE GLENGARY. 151 
 
 " Horace," replied Marian, " the secret of my love is 
 no longer mine own ; it stole so softly into my heart, that 
 there was no time to be wary ; and, almost before I knew it 
 myself, its existence was known to you. In your father's 
 hands rests its termination ; whether I am to be a blessed 
 and happy wife, or my love is to remain hid in the deepest 
 recesses of my heart, his word can alone decide. Nay, 
 look not displeased, Horace. Ask your own noble heart, 
 if mine would be worthy to be allied with it, if that 
 alliance were to be based on ingratitude." 
 
 " Ever right and ever perfect art thou, Marian; and in 
 listening to these truths I feel that they but make thee 
 more dear to me ! But, dearest, why doubt my father's 
 willingness to secure my happiness?" 
 
 " I do not doubt it, Horace. I dare not think I ought 
 to doubt it, — for then, indeed, I should be wretched." 
 
 Horace caught the speaker to his heart, and though no 
 plighted vows were spoken, both felt that henceforth they 
 lived but for each other. 
 
 vni. 
 
 Little more remains to be told. The chieftain of Glen- 
 gary has paid the debt of nature, but not before the stigma 
 on his father's name had been effaced by the indefatigable 
 and untiring exertions of our old friend Mr. Needham, the 
 noble-minded merchant, who, from the first, suspecting 
 treachery on the part of Mr. Muir, had persevered in his 
 inquiries, dispatching the minstrel on one expedition after 
 
152 EVENINGS AT HADDON UALL. 
 
 another to the East, where the late Mr. Muir had died ; till, 
 at length, a deed was discovered which gave ample proof 
 of the late chieftain's having redeemed his estate ere he 
 executed his will. This news was brought to Cintra by 
 Horace, who came, by his father's desire, to conduct his 
 beloved Marian and the Glengary to their ancient home; 
 but another revulsion of fate had been too much for the 
 honoured chieftain. He was one among the many who 
 find it more difficult to support the extreme of joy than 
 to endure the bitterness of sorrow. His spirit was 
 broken, and he calmly sank to his long rest, supported 
 and cheered to the last by the presence and filial affection 
 of his exemplary daughter. 
 
 Jb SU Jb ^b jk 
 
 ^ TT TT ^ TT 
 
 ***** 
 
 Eighteen months have elapsed since his death. The 
 minstrel has again returned to the castle. Marian's first 
 interview with this old and faithful servant presented a 
 touching scene ; but when first summoned to the presence 
 of the Glengary — for Horace had, on his marriage with 
 its heiress, assumed that distinction — how great was the 
 minstrel's surprise to , behold and recognise the traveller 
 who had spoken with him in the lone hut on the Danube ; 
 for, wishing to assist the old man's memory, Horace had 
 arrayed himself in the Eastern costume which he had then 
 worn. 
 
 Once more the minstrel's harp was strung, and again the 
 name of Glengary resounded through the castle walls. 
 
EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 153 
 
 The more happily and entirely the project of the fair 
 Eva seemed to succeed in eliciting pen-and-ink pictures 
 out of painted ones, the more eager did she grow that the 
 progress of it should not flag. The second evening had 
 already reached the accustomed hour of retirement at the 
 moment when the last story reached its close ; but, on see- 
 ing one or two of the guests show signs of departure, she 
 seized on a beautiful design which lay immediately before 
 her, and, as if a new thought had come to her, she ex- 
 claimed, " A Poem! we have had no poetry yet; and I 
 have heard that Painting and Poetry are sisters, and 
 always go together. Look! this moonlight view is poetry 
 itself. Who will ' marry it to immortal verse?' as I have 
 heard some poet say or sing, on a similar occasion. Oh, I 
 know !" she continued, after a momentary pause, during 
 which no one answered to her appeal—" I know!" and she 
 turned to a young lady, who had just returned from Italy, 
 and who had lately told her many legends that she had 
 gathered in that " sunny land." " Here," she exclaimed, 
 " is one of those gondolas you have so often described to 
 me— and a lover, I think, by his earnest look— and a 
 beautiful lady up above. Why, this alone is a story, if 
 you would but make it into rhyme. Do try !" 
 
 " I cannot invent stories, my dear Eva, as your other 
 friends do," was the reply; " but I will repeat to you a 
 legend I heard in one of those very gondolas, and you 
 may fit it to your picture if you can, though it will, I 
 
154 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 am afraid, impart inlinitely less illustration than it will 
 receive." 
 
 The lady then related 
 
 LOVE'S LAST TRYST. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF VENICE. 
 
 'Tis night, and such a night as smiles 
 In beauty 'neath a southern sky ; 
 The. silvery waves are hushed to rest, 
 And in the moonbeams slumbering lie. 
 No cloud to dim the stainless blue, 
 Upon the crystal deep is thrown, 
 Where Venice stands in regal state. 
 Encircled by her glitt'ring zone. 
 Amid the fairest spots of Earth, 
 Ye tranquil stars watch o'er below; 
 Never can one more lovely be 
 Than this ye sweetly shine on now. 
 Still is each sound of Life ; awhile 
 Reposes Pleasure's wearied train, 
 And brooding o'er with dove-like wings, 
 Day-banished Silence breathes again. 
 
 Not long it reigns — the stroke is heard 
 Of oars, whose bright phosphoric ray 
 Gleams in the distance, and a liark 
 ( )'er the l)luc water makes its way. 
 
love's last tryst. 155 
 
 Yet stealthily, as if it sought 
 But wakeful ears to list the song 
 That o'er the calm, unruffled wave 
 The night breeze gently bears along. 
 
 " 'Tis midnight's charmed hour, 
 
 And every folded flower 
 Weepeth in sorrow that sweet Day hath flown, 
 
 Softly she sunk to rest, 
 
 Lulled on Night's quiet breast. 
 And o'er her smiles her ebon hair is thrown. 
 
 The Hours pass slowly by, 
 
 With pinions noiselessly, 
 On to the curtained East they sadly move, 
 
 As if they feared to break 
 
 Her slumber, or awake 
 The listening Echo of my whisper'd love. 
 
 They wait for thee, sweet one, 
 
 For thy dear smile alone 
 Illumes my dreary path o'er Life's dark sea ; 
 
 Rise in thy beauty, rise. 
 
 Star of these southern skies, 
 For weary is my way, love, without thee." 
 
 The song is o'er, and he who sang 
 Still lingers at the vessel's prow ; 
 Lofty his port, but southern suns 
 Have left no trace on cheek or brow 
 To mark him of Italia's clime ; 
 But through the gondolier's disguise 
 
15G EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 The Austrian Ulric stands reveal'd. 
 No mask but Love's keen glance defies. 
 Why comes he here, alone, unarm'd, 
 'Mid hearts that seek to work his woe? 
 How will his single footstep gain 
 The dwelling of his direst foe? 
 And yet he comes ! — as seamen scorn 
 The dangers of the storm, and keep 
 Watch o'er the one bright guiding star, 
 That lights their pathway o'er the deep. 
 And who, Bianca, loving thee, 
 But would have risked a life's poor stake, 
 And felt e'en blessed were the boon 
 To lose it — if for thy sweet sake? 
 Oft hath he stemmed the Adrian wave 
 To gaze upon those deep-fringed eyes. 
 Dark as the veil that shades their light, 
 And radiant as their own fair skies. 
 Now from Lioni's silent tower 
 A fairy hand puts lightly by 
 The lattice ; on the peaceful scene 
 A fond glance wanders wistfully. 
 'Tis she — Bianca ! — she who loves 
 This foe to Venice and her race, 
 To-morrow's dawn that gilds these towers. 
 Will shine upon her vacant place. 
 A distant clime, and other tongues 
 Will hail her by a holier name. 
 And one fond glance her home shall make- 
 To love all climates are the same. 
 In very weariness or scorn, 
 She flings aside the gems that press 
 
love's last tryst. 157 
 
 Her throbbing brow, that little needs 
 Their aid to make its loveliness. 
 Ay, loose thy richly 'broidered vest, 
 And throw thy mask of smiles aside, 
 Thy prisoned heart beats free at length 
 From chains the World hath forged for Pride, 
 Well mayst thou curse the noble blood 
 That flows to whelm all Life's sweet ties. 
 For feuds of them who sleep in death. 
 And one poor maid the sacrifice. 
 
 A cloud is on her brow to-night, 
 A nameless fear that mocks control, 
 Shadows the Future that had shed 
 Its sunniest visions o'er her soul. 
 Her pale, sweet face yet paler seems. 
 The pearls that braid her raven hair. 
 Beneath the moonbeams' glitt'ring light. 
 Gleam in its darkness far less fair. 
 Moored nearer yet the palace walls, 
 Once more awakes her lover's strain ; 
 Secure, in past security, 
 The signal song is heard again, 
 Around her slight and trembling form 
 She throws a mantle's sheltering fold, 
 Her foot has reach'd the postern gate. 
 So oft their trysting-place of old ; 
 She paused. Perchance the ties of home. 
 Familiar voices, household words. 
 Came thronging at this parting hour 
 To touch the full heart's swelling chords. 
 
158 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Slowly she moves ; a coward eye, 
 Hath tracked her footstep through the shade 
 Of the deep arch ; one moment more, 
 She falls beneath a ruffian's blade ! 
 Oh ! not for thee was aimed the blow 
 That quenched thy young life's vital flame, 
 'Twas for the Austrian's bosom dealt 
 By him who owned a brother's name. 
 
 By a lamp's uncertain lustre, in a dungeon's narrow cell, 
 Where the gibes and frenzied laughter mark the spot 
 
 where maniacs dwell, 
 Paces one Avhose tale of sorrow oft hath drawn tlie 
 
 stranger's tears — 
 'Tis an aged man; each midnight, through a weary length 
 
 of years. 
 Steals he to the narrow casement — watching for his bride, 
 
 they say. 
 And he tells the maddening story as it were but yesterday. 
 
 " Ere the vesper star had risen in the summer twilight sky, 
 'Neath yon tower's friendly shadow, swept my lone bark 
 
 silently. 
 Then the cypress hush'd its murmurs, and the waves their 
 
 rippling sound, 
 'Twas to list her whispered Avelcome, that sweet Silence 
 
 breath'd around. 
 There I linger'd, till the midnight melted into silver mist. 
 And the rosy hues of morning beach and bower, and islet 
 
 kiss'd. 
 
love's last tryst. 159 
 
 'Mid the azure waters, Venice, throned upon her hundred 
 
 isles, 
 Look'd a bashful bride unveiling 'neath a lover's radiant 
 
 smiles ; 
 With a timid hand withdrawing from her shrouded face 
 
 the screen 
 That conceal'd her tearful beauty, thus uprose the ' Ocean 
 
 Queen :' — 
 Venice! let the pangs I owe thee blight thee with the 
 
 woe thou'st wrought. 
 Let my wild curse cling about thee, that thy treachery 
 
 hath bought ! 
 May a despot's foot oppress thee, brand thee with each 
 
 loathsome crime. 
 Graven in the brazen annals of the blood-stain'd book of 
 
 Time ! 
 Cycles hence, the sighs of anguish, from thy murderous 
 
 hand the source, 
 Shall have strength to sap thy power with a stranger's 
 
 with'ring curse ! 
 May thy noblest blood betray thee! Blood? Upon my 
 
 wildered brain 
 Comes a dream of thee, Bianca, stealing o'er my soul again. 
 See, the moon is bright above me; she who lives among 
 
 the stars. 
 Comes in all her bridal beauty, smiling through my prison 
 
 bars ! 
 Lightly floats her dark hair round me ; — ay, she comes to 
 
 set me free ! 
 There is blood upon her bosom, and that blood was shed 
 
 for me ! 
 
IGO EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 What? they strike me when I clasp thee ! Fear not, love, 
 
 1 will not chide; 
 Long I waited through the midnight, yet thou didst not 
 
 seek my side; 
 Nor till Morning's dawn had opened was my cup of sorrow 
 
 full; 
 AVhen in Death's cold grasp I found thee — mine, my lost, 
 
 my beautiful !" 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 101 
 
 EVENING THE THIRD. 
 
 On the company re- assembling in the library, on the 
 third evening devoted to the Haddon Hall Revels, the 
 Lady Eva was, as usual, duly prepared with her pictorial 
 treasures. Holding in her fair hand the design which she 
 wished to be next illustrated, she glanced round the gay 
 and intellectual circle, and her eye fixed on a gentleman of 
 whose literary abilities she had heard much, but with 
 whom she had too slight an acquaintance not to feel 
 timid at proffering a request. With that ready and gentle 
 courtesy which distinguishes some few above their fellows, 
 the gentleman anticipated her wishes, and, going up to 
 her, remarked that the drawing she held in her hand was 
 a masterly delineation of a wild, bold, and chivalrous 
 scene. " Does not the principal figure in the group 
 remind you. Lady Eva," said he, " of the pictures we 
 have seen of Hernando Cortes?" 
 
 " I had not remarked it," she replied; " but it would 
 gratify me particularly to hear something of that extraor- 
 dinary conqueror." 
 
 The gentleman took the design from the Lady Eva's 
 
 M 
 
162 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 hand, saying, " I will endeavour to recollect some pas- 
 sages in his life, and one in particular, which connects 
 him in my mind with this drawing." 
 
 Then, after a brief pause, he proceeded to relate — 
 
 SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF THE 
 CONQUISTADOR. 
 
 " They tell me that I am good for nothing; that I am 
 a rank, profitless weed, fit only for the burning. Sancta 
 Maria ! how many brawling youths have lived to be great 
 men, and to belie the prophecies of the grey-beards ;" and 
 the speaker, with a toss of the head which set the feather 
 "swaling in his bonnet," smote his thigh with the palm 
 of his hand, and laughed the clear, sonorous laugh, which 
 youth but rarely transmits to manhood. 
 
 The laugh, sincere as it was, elicited no response from 
 the companion of the thoughtless stripling — a pale, meek- 
 eyed girl, who sate beside him, one small hand resting on 
 his shoulder. It was evening — a summer evening — a 
 summer evening in Spain. The setting sun had thrown 
 into deepest shade the walls of old i\Iedellin. The place 
 in which they sat was an ivy-grown ruin, in the corner 
 of a high-walled garden. It miglit once have been a private 
 chapel : it was now a summer-house. Into the arched 
 window-holes peeped the tall, heavy-leaved shrubs, and the 
 languid heads of many gorgeous flowers. The still air 
 was laden with perfume. Sultry was the twilight hour. 
 
 " Yes, they may prate," continued the youth, '' and 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. Ib3 
 
 shake their heads, and look wisdom at me — a world of 
 stern reproof in their cold, hard eyes. A fig for their 
 prophecies ! They shall see me, some day — the prophets ! 
 — if they only live long enough, a — what shall I say, sweet 
 Marina? — a grave and venerable judge.'' 
 
 The young maiden could not choose but smile, as she saw 
 the look of mock solemnity with which her friend accom- 
 panied these words, but there was something of sadness in 
 the tones of her sweet voice, as she said — " Will you never 
 — never, be serious — not even for my sake, dear? — you, 
 who liave sworn to do such great things for me, to deny 
 me, in practice, even this. A judge ! — Salamanca will be 
 proud indeed of the plant which she reared last year. 
 Law! — you who are ever ready to break the law, — you 
 to expound or administer it ! If Medellin ever glory in 
 her son, little will be the share of honour dispensed to 
 learned Salamanca. Our great man may be among the 
 heroes — not among the sages of the world." 
 
 " And is't not better to be among the heroes?" asked 
 the youth, in an eager, and a graver tone. " You shake 
 your head, but your eyes let the secret out. Was there 
 ever a woman yet, who loved not the arm that strikes, 
 better than the tongue which argues — the mailed coat of 
 the soldier, rather than the sombre gown of the clerk?" 
 
 " You wrong us," returned the maiden. " A true 
 woman best loves that which most calls forth the dignity 
 of man. And believe me, love, it is not as a scourge — as 
 a fire-brand — that man exhibits the highest nobility of 
 nature. If we are sometimes dazzled by brilliant acts, and 
 clap our hands as the actors pass by, forgetful of all the 
 sorrow — all the sufiering — which has smeared, as with 
 blood and tears, the wheels of their chariots, it is only 
 
 M 2 
 
164 EVENINGS AT IIADDON UALL. 
 
 because the weakness of humanity clings to us evermore, 
 and being weak, we, in our erring judgments " 
 
 " Tut, tut!" interrupted the youth, " if it were possible 
 for sweet ladies of seventeen to prose with their rosy lips, 
 I should be tempted to charge you with uttering the sagest 
 commonplaces, which have ever grated upon these ears, 
 since I did penance in the lecture-room at Salamanca. By 
 the Virgin, such lips were never meant to preach solem- 
 nity withal ! The language of love, not of counsel, befits 
 that delicious mouth ; and love's language, you know, 
 sweetest, is not always made up of words." It might have 
 been that there was some obscurity in this last sentence, 
 or the youth feared that there might be, for he attempted 
 an explanation ; and it was a practical one. 
 
 There was a pause — there often is, after such explana- 
 tions — which the girl was the first to break. " I do not 
 seek," she said, " to chain you down to the hall or the 
 cloister; but something I would do to curb your errant 
 propensities — to direct your aims, which are often noble, 
 your efforts, which are always strenuous — into one on- 
 ward course, that, so steadily pursuing the path of duty, 
 you may in the end accomplish great tilings." 
 
 " Great things ! — accomplish great things ! I was born 
 to accomplish great things." He laughed, but there ^vas, 
 this time, little sincerity in his laughter. " Yes, I shall 
 be very great some day ; and you shall be very proud. And 
 little Gonzalo, too, who comes, if I mistake not, this way — 
 else what is the tiny figure I see through the t;dl shrubs, 
 which have now shut him quite out from us? Ah — the fine 
 little fellow! A brother worthy of such a sister; and he, 
 too, shall be very proud. Yes, my boy, when I am a great 
 leader, you shall be one of my cnptnins. 1 will not employ 
 
THE CONQUISTADOK. 165 
 
 you then so unworthily us now: you shall not be a spy, 
 but a cavalier. And what tidings have you brought?" 
 
 The child, a fine little boy of some six years, had by 
 this time entered the summer-house. Running up to his 
 sister, he said something, but what, it was hard to divine ; 
 partly because he was scant of breath, and partly because 
 his utterance was marred by a strong natural lisp. But of 
 the nature of the child's story there was no doubt. It had 
 ceased to be safe for the youth to remain longer in that garden. 
 The father of his beloved had returned from his accustomed 
 afternoon ramble. It was time for the lovers to part. 
 
 " Thanks, my brave little fellow; I shall repay you 
 some day !" and, taking the child into his arms, Heknando 
 Cortes kissed the cheek of Gonzalo de Sandoval. Another 
 minute, and Hernando was on the garden wall. There was 
 not in all Medellin one more active than he ; but ancient 
 masonry will sometimes play scurvy tricks even to nimble 
 youths, and the garden walls of Don Sandoval were well 
 nigh as old as his lineage. Alas, for the young lovers! 
 Hernando had scarcely reached the summit, ere the crum- 
 bling masonry gave way beneath his weight, and the youth 
 fell heavily, with a mass of rubbish, on the other side. 
 Then for awhile aU was utter darkness. When the light 
 dawned again upon him, he was lying in his father's house. 
 
 II. 
 
 * * * Gloomy was all around ; the massive stone pillars of 
 that inornate church, the lofty arched roof with its rudely- 
 sculptured cornices, the large heavy-moulded windows, the 
 
166 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 simple iiltars bedecked with little of the Avonted finery of 
 the fiiith, the dark ungainly pulpit, the long aisles, dreary 
 at noon-tide, in the full glare of the meridian sun, and 
 how dreary now that the few tapers which stood upon the 
 altars erected to the Christian's God in the new colony of 
 Fernandina,* shed all the little radiance which struggled 
 through the thick gloom of a starless midnight. 
 
 Gloomy was all around — more gloomy the thoughts of 
 the lonely man, who now paced, with folded arms, those 
 solemn aisles; now leaned, in deep meditation, against the 
 rude altar-rails. That church was to him a sanctuary; 
 but at such an hour, in such a place, what wonder that 
 even his strong spirit should have bowed beneath the leaden 
 weight of despondency which sat upon his heart? — that even 
 he should have obstinately questioned the value of safety, 
 so highly priced? 
 
 He was a young man of goodly aspect, of fair propor- 
 tions. Nature had been bountiful to him; and he was now 
 in that early summer of life, when her gifts are ever 
 in best condition, fresh, but with something in them, too, 
 of the vigour of lusty manhood. He luid numbered some 
 twenty-seven years; and they had not been uneventful 
 ones. Fortune had played him some sorry tricks, but they 
 were mostly of his own invitation. No one, then, thought 
 that Hernando Cortes was his own best friend. 
 
 Another man would, in his present condition, have ap- 
 peared in most woful plight. His hair Avas disordered, 
 his cheeks unshaven, his clothes, in many places, rent and 
 soiled. There was blood upon his wrists and ankles, and 
 he walked not Avithout pain. But still the man who had 
 jioAv a second lime broken the bonds of his persecutors, 
 
 * ('.il)a. 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 1(J7 
 
 and sought refuge in that holy edifice, was of gallant 
 bearing and goodly aspect. Nature had been too prodigal 
 in her gifts for accident easily to mar and mutilate 
 
 It was, indeed, an hour for profoundest meditation : and 
 even he, the man of action, whose thoughts were ever in 
 advance of time, whose nature it was ever to look forward, 
 even he, in those gloomy aisles, was sunk in meditations, 
 of which the Past engrossed the greater share. Much pon- 
 dered he upon his early years, his idle pranks at Salamanca, 
 his wild adventures in his native town, his first love, his own 
 Marina; There was sweetness there ; but not without a sting 
 of remorse. He had been happy— so happy. Such happi- 
 ness, in after life, is not to be renewed. But what had 
 been the end of that long dream of bliss? The old tale. 
 And yet in heart he knew himself to be still true. Many 
 acts of licentiousness had stained the page of his manhood; 
 passions, strong and heady, had moved him to much 
 wrong-doing; injuries to others, to the dignity of his 
 own nature. The irresistible will, the fearless heart, the 
 strenuous impulse, breaking down all barriers of right, all 
 restraints of decency; and yet, beneath all this, there had 
 been an under-current of purer feeling. Ever had he 
 fondly loved the meek-eyed Marina and her lisping brother. 
 Love! What love! To ruin, to blight, to fix a burning 
 sorrow for ever in the heart of the loved one ! 
 
 And then another image rose up before him; another 
 young and lovely girl. One whom, in his new island home, 
 he had courted openly, in the sight of men; one to 
 whom he had plighted his troth ; and yet time had passed 
 over the heads of the betrothed ones, and the compact 
 was unfulfilled. Here was another act of grievous wrong- 
 doing. Catalina Xuarez, the much-doating, the beautiful, 
 
168 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 the true. In his prosperity he had slighted her, and 
 now he laiew the full worth of her woman's heart. A true 
 woman — now that the toils of great peril were around 
 him — now, she was his to aid — to rescue liim ; and yet 
 beautiful as she was in her fair face, and gentle nature, 
 and heroic truthfulness, he had not a heart to give. But 
 justice, expediency; and then the grim face of his great 
 enemy, Velasquez, rose up before him, and Cortes, with set 
 teeth and clenched hands — hands still bleeding from the 
 Avounds he had received in his struggles with the cruel 
 chains, which had fettered him on board the prison-ship — 
 strode rapidly away from the altar. Velasquez, the 
 Governor of Fernandina! how Cortes longed to meet 
 him face to face, and to close with him in one great 
 struggle, neither armed with power beyond that which 
 Nature gives to all her children — not as in unequal strife 
 between governor and vassal, but on the fair open field of 
 manhood. Had not Velasquez wronged, insulted him? 
 And what had he done, under such wrongs? Nothing. lie 
 had but conversed with others, who had their grievances 
 to set forth ; and had pledged himself to proceed to liis- 
 paniola and appeal to higher authorities ; and Velasquez 
 called this conspiracy -^^tho, name that coward selfishness 
 ever gives to the efforts of injured men to obtain for 
 themselves justice. He had been beaten down — worsted 
 for a time; but his hour would yet come. "Yes," he 
 repeated, as the buoyancy of his nature reasserted itself, 
 and the sunsliine of his heart burst through the surrounding 
 gloom — '' yes, I am undermost now. I have trodden on 
 slippeiy ground ; but courage, courage, Hernando Cortes, 
 you have not fulfilled your destiny yet! . . ." 
 
 In sucli varied meditations as these, hour after hour 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 169 
 
 passed away, till the grey dawn of morning had succeeded 
 to the solemn blackness of night. Still Cortes paced the 
 dreary aisle, until arrested by the sound of his own name 
 uttered in a low sweet voice, whilst at the same moment 
 he felt a light hand upon his shoulder. " Hernando !" — 
 he turned round and confronted a female figure, wrapped 
 from head to foot in a large black mantle — " Cortes, I am 
 here ! Catalina is at her post beside you. You are safe. 
 Listen to me, and your trials are at an end. He knows all 
 — the guard is now upon the hill — Velasquez is stirring, 
 but he shall not harm you — Isabella, my sweet sister, is 
 now at his side — she will accomplish much; but you must 
 act your part boldly." 
 
 " Did I ever lose anything yet for lack of boldness?" 
 " Never ; but this, remember — Velasquez will be cheated, 
 so that he seems not to be cheated. He will not remove 
 the guard, but he will be contented if you elude it. Now 
 take this woman's mantle — I thank God that my stature is 
 beyond that of common women. They saw me pass. 
 They spoke to me. One man at least knew me; he must 
 have known that I was wending here to see you. If 
 compelled to pass near them, with eyes on the ground 
 and kerchief to your face, your silence will be interpreted 
 as we would have it. Hie thee straight to Velasquez. He 
 will not be wholly unprepared to see you. The rest I 
 leave, Hernando, to your own strong soul." 
 
 Disguised in the woman's mantle, Cortes was about to 
 quit the sanctuary, when a sudden thought arrested his 
 progress ; he turned round, took the hand of Catalina, and 
 silently led her to the foot of the altar. Still holding her 
 hand he knelt down, and in tones of deepest solemnity 
 exclaimed — " Holy Virgin, who now lookest down upon me 
 
170 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 und this maiden, linked hand in liand before thee, hear 
 me, as now at the altar-foot I pledge myself never to desert 
 her — hear me, as I solemnly vow, ere another moon has 
 waned, to make her my wedded wife ; and may God smite 
 me with all human afflictions if the vow be not fulfilled." 
 He rose, and turning towards Catalina, said, " Such 
 as I am, sweet one, I am yours. If you can value a heart 
 like mine, whose freshness is lost for ever, take it. I have 
 hesitated, for sorry is the return you must take for the 
 gift of your virgin affections; but it is far better, Catalina, 
 that there should be no deceit ; that were a sorry stock 
 indeed to begin house-keeping upon." 
 
 The vow was kept. Within the promised time, Catalina 
 Xuarez became the wife of Hernando Cortes ; and Governor 
 Velasquez honoured the bridals with his courtly presence. 
 
 HI. 
 
 * * * The last rays of the setting sun streamed through 
 the windows of that long arched chamber, and, for a little 
 while, the massive shadows which had covered that stir- 
 ring scene, were broken by broad patches of light, foiling 
 upon the stone floor, and the solid walls, and revealing 
 more than one strange group of revellers, who, seated at 
 rude oaken tables, were making the vaulted roof echo 
 with their uproarious mirth. It was a scene not of easy 
 interpretation. The roysterers were men of all ages; 
 judging by their countenances, of all cliaracters; by their 
 attire, of all chisses. Some seemed to be mariners ; others, 
 the casque and the cuirass bespoke of the military profes- 
 
THE OONQUISTADOll. 171 
 
 sioii. A few bore no exclusive stamp upon them, but in 
 the faces of each, however varied, there was a look of 
 eager determination, which seemed to denote a common 
 object, a common bond of unalterable purpose. 
 
 At one end of the long vaulted gallery there was a flight 
 of steps, leading to a narrow entrance-door, and near to 
 this, on a raised platform, beneath an arched window, a 
 party of men, chiefly of the military order, were gathered 
 together, with pikes and spears in their hands, whilst a 
 cavalier, standing upon one of the lower steps, was muster- 
 ing them severally by name, and taking note of their 
 equipments. Nor Avere these the only occupants of the 
 chamber. With the rugged figures and stern features 
 of these adventurers, were mingled the graceful forms 
 
 and the sweet faces of women On a carpet of many 
 
 colours, spread out on the cold floor, near an old cabinet of 
 
 carved wood, which now seemed to be used as an armory, 
 
 sat a comely dame, nursing a young infant, and near her 
 
 two ladies— the one sitting, the other standing by a window 
 
 —looked forth into the outer world, apparently intent upon 
 
 some distant object. Not far from these, in deep shadow, 
 
 stood a youth, who might have numbered some nineteen 
 
 summers, of handsome countenance, and strong active figure, 
 
 dressed, though with something less than the wonted 
 
 ostentation, in a style becoming a cavalier of good descent, 
 
 and beside him, in eager converse, was a lady, perhaps 
 
 some ten years older, whose lineaments were like the 
 
 youth's, as sister's to brother's, but whose meek eyes, and 
 
 pale sad face, told a tale of patient sorrow, crowned with 
 
 calmest resignation. At some distance from these, near 
 
 the head of a long table, stood another cavalier, the most 
 
 remarkable figure in all the many groups, conversing with 
 
172 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 a lady of exceeding beauty, whose sweet eyes were full of 
 tears, whilst the revellers beside them filled their glasses, 
 shouted and filled again, in all the ecstasy of half-drunken 
 merriment. From these turn we awhile towards the youth 
 and his meek-eyed sister, who stood in the shadow of the wall. 
 
 " Hear me, Gonzalo," said the latter ; " and let my 
 words be treasured up in thy heart. Never reproach him, 
 my brother — never. / have not upbraided him ; neither 
 then, nor since, nor now. I come not here to blame, but 
 to bless. He is your friend, brother, — he is mine. 
 
 " Yours, Marina! he your friend! Hernando Cortes 
 your friend!" 
 
 " Yes; out of all my sufierings, the pitying Virgin, not 
 unmindful of my tears, not regardless of my prayers, has 
 helped me to derive peace undying. He is not in effect 
 our best friend, my brother, who makes us most happy upon 
 earth. I am contented; be thou the same. Cortes is thy 
 friend. He has promised to advance thee upon earth. 
 Be honourable, and he will honour thee. Thou wilt be 
 great and glorious, for Hernando Cortes is thy friend." 
 
 "He has promised!" returned the youth. "Alas! 
 Marina, what did he promise thee?" 
 
 " He was young then — rash, idle, impetuous, and sorely 
 tempted. He is now a man, in the lusty summer of life, with 
 great ends to accomplish, with a great soul wherewith to 
 accomplish them. What can he do without trutli? If not 
 true to others, if not true to himself, what but failure can 
 crown all his efforts? Cortes is a great man. Confide in 
 him, and you also will be great. Your eager longings will 
 be satisfied, Gonzalo." 
 
 " I fear, sweet sister, that the nobility of thy nature makes 
 thee too hopeful of tlic tnitli and ii()l)ility of others. But I 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 173 
 
 will believe him. Yes ; I will believe him, though another 
 now bows herself over the hand of her lord — that hand 
 which should have been thine, Marina." 
 
 As he spoke, the figure of Hernando Cortes was radiant 
 with the red sun-light, which fell upon his face, blazed upon 
 his polished breastplate, and made a very " flaming sword" 
 of the bright blade, which, with point upon the ground, he 
 held in his left hand, whilst the lovely woman — Catalina, 
 his wife — ^bowed herself over his right, and pressed it 
 fondly to her lips. The face of Cortes was that of a man 
 who struggles against strong emotion. His heart was 
 touched ; but he was a leader in the presence of his fol- 
 lowers, on the eve of a great enterprise Before 
 
 them, compelled to dissemble, he retained an outward com- 
 posure which had no counterpart within ; and when the last 
 farewell was uttered, the face of Cortes was rigid and pale 
 
 as marble He saw her depart, through a door which 
 
 opened into a small inner apartment, and as the noisy party 
 at the drinking-table toasted the lady of their chief, filled a 
 beaker to the brim, and hastily swallowed its contents. 
 
 The departure of Catalina was the signal for the de- 
 parture of the other women — the wives and sisters of some 
 
 of the principal officers of the expedition As one 
 
 after another departed, Cortes looked anxiously around, 
 as though eager to find himself alone with his comrades. 
 Soon it was even as he wished — nay, not wholly — there 
 was one woman's dress, which in a mass of shadow, for a 
 little time escaped his observation. When he saw that one 
 still loitered, he turned towards a soldier beside him, put 
 a brief question, and received an answer. He then cried 
 aloud, " Gonzalo de Sandoval !" 
 
 The youth stepped forward and stood before Cortes. 
 
174 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " Gonzalo," said the leader, in tones of the utmost suavity, 
 " it grieves me to sever loving hearts, and, most of all, very 
 young hearts ; but the hour has come at which it behoves 
 us all to think of sterner things, and I must bid you part 
 from your beloved. Tell her that you will soon return, 
 with hordes of gold and jewels from the New World, to claim 
 her as your bride — bid her take one last look at the setting 
 sun, and then, evening after evening, at this liour, to look 
 
 towards the new home of her betrothed " 
 
 " General, she is my sister!" 
 Cortes started; " Your sister — Marina?" 
 " The same — she is here — she would speak with Hernando 
 Cortes." 
 
 " Bid her come to me — nay, that were rude, indeed — I 
 am playing the Governor somewhat early — lead me to lier." 
 The deep emotion of his heart betrayed itself beneatli this 
 assumed levity. 
 
 They had not met for years, and now that once again 
 they stood face to face, how changed they were ! It were 
 hard to say which felt the most; but over his feelings the 
 strong man had less mastery than the gentle woman, and 
 she was the first to speak out, in clear, unfaltering 
 accents. There was something of solemnity in the tones 
 of her voice, as she said — " Cortes, I have come hither not 
 to speak of the past — the future lies before thee, a broad 
 and shining tract, over which I would not cast a shadoAv. 
 Upon tliis great adventui'e thou goest forth, Avith my 
 blessing on thy head. It is of little Avorth, Hernando, 
 but there may, in that far country, come an hour — haply 
 long after the moss has grown over the cross Avhich marks 
 my grave — Avhen it Avill be a solace to thee to knoAV that 
 I have blessed thee Avith my Avliole lieart, and prayed the 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 175 
 
 Virgin to smile upon thee ever. My brother goes with 
 thee, Cortes — I ask thee not to befriend him, for thou hast 
 ah-eady jjromised to be a father to the boy, and thou wilt 
 find him worthy of thy tutelage ; but if I might ask a boon 
 of thee " 
 
 "Ask something— anything," interrupted Cortes, his 
 voice betraying deepest emotion — " the greater it be, the 
 more ready I to grant it. Heaven knows I would do much 
 for thee, Marina." 
 
 "It is but a little thing," she said. " Among strange 
 people— among men of different colour and different faith — 
 speaking another tongue, and bowing down to gods — oh ! 
 hoio different from ours — lies thy shining career. In our 
 dealings with such men, it is too common to forget that 
 they are fashioned of kindi-ed clay — that they are men and 
 our brethren still. I speak not, Cortes, of such natures as 
 thine, but there are among the adventurers, who form thy 
 little band of conquerors, some rude and stormy spirits — 
 slow to reflect, quick to act — to whom cruelty is a pastime. 
 Men return blow for blow — cruelty will be met with cruelty 
 — but there are those who cannot retaliate — the innocent 
 and the helpless, who can only suffer — the women, Cortes, 
 however little they resemble the daughters of Old Spain, 
 remember that they are my sisters, the sisters of all the 
 happy dames and merry maidens, who hear with pride, in 
 thy native Medellin, of the exploits of her noblest son ; and 
 when it is in thy power, Cortes, to stretch forth the shelter- 
 ing arm, and to employ the healing hand, when suffering 
 woman looks up for aid to the leader of the white man, as 
 to a God, remember then the last words of Marina de San- 
 doval, and know that she smiles upon thee, in the flesh or 
 in the spirit, and that the mild eyes of the benignant 
 
176 EVENINGS AT HADDON HAIL. 
 
 Virgin look down upon thee in sweetest approval. Wilt 
 thou promise ?" 
 
 " As I hope for mercy ! God smite me, if I fail !" 
 
 " Enough. And now God take thee, Cortes, into his 
 safe keeping. Farewell ! Gonzalo, I am ready." 
 
 " Yet, stay ; Marina, one word more. Have you quite 
 
 forgiven " It was too late ; she had drawn her 
 
 mantle around her, let down her long l)lack veil, and, 
 attended by her brother, passed down the gallery without 
 once looking back. 
 
 " Alone !" muttered Cortes ; " quite — quite alone ! Now, 
 then, for graver matters." And Cortes stood among his 
 men — once more the great leader, inspiring, animating all. 
 The sun had set ; the revel was at an end. Even the most 
 noisy of the roysterers now stood before their commander, 
 cool and collected. The oath and the jest were silenced ; 
 all remembered the great work that they were about to do — 
 all remembered that, ere to-morrow's sun had risen, the little 
 fleet, which might now be seen from the windows of that 
 old edifice at anchor in the bay, would be steering, with its 
 rich freight of gallant spirits, away from St. Jago, on its 
 voyage to the New World. And as Cortes now addressed 
 his followers, now conversed Avitli his officers, now consulted 
 his charts, which had taken the place of the boAvl and the 
 flask on the old oaken tables, a smile of triumph lit up his 
 face; and ever and anon he muttered, with compressed 
 teeth, " Not this time under the heel of Velasquez — not 
 this time in the dust." 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 177 
 
 IV. 
 
 On a wretched pallet, in a small, comfortless apartment, 
 wanting light, wanting cleanliness, wanting every cheerful 
 accessory, a man lay dying, at an inn in the little sea-port 
 town of Palos. The ravages of sickness had not paled his 
 sun-burnt cheek, nor thinned his clustering chesnut hair ; 
 but death was written on his face most legibly — the face of 
 one in the full summer of life, smitten with hopeless disease 
 — struck down in the very flush of triumph, the joyous 
 pride of a great object achieved, the heart-stirring antici- 
 pations of one who, after years of toil and much peril in a 
 far-off land, has returned, laden with honour and wealth, 
 to enjoy, in his old home, among his own people, the 
 harvest he has reaped so painfully abroad. Alas ! and 
 is this the end of Gonzalo de Sandoval ? 
 
 To die thus ; and yet not ignobly, not alone — nor unwept, 
 nor unhonoured. Many a group of brave soldiers, clustered 
 around the door-way of that little inn, or sate in the common 
 diinking-room, with blank faces, uttering but few words, 
 and those in lowest whispers; or, haply, after awhile, 
 moving from their places with silent tiptoe tread, and ever 
 checking, with raised hand and expressive face, the song or 
 the shout of the careless stranger. 
 
 But twofold the honour done to the death-bed of Gonzalo 
 de Sandoval. It is a great thing to be loved by one's fol- 
 lowers. It is a great thing, too, to be loved by one's leader. 
 And thus was he doubly honoured; for Hernando Cortes 
 sat by his bed-side. 
 
 From the convent of La Eabida, whither he had betaken 
 himself on touching once again the shores of the Old World, 
 
 N 
 
178 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 to rest liis weary body and to refresh his o'er-tasked mind, 
 roused by the sad tidings of the fate of his much-loved 
 captain, Cortes had hurried to the inn at Palos ; and there, 
 aUnost with a woman's tenderness, a woman's zeal, he had 
 watched and served in that di-eary chamber. ... A great 
 thing, indeed, to have one's pillow smoothed by such a man ; 
 a great thing, indeed, to have the conqueror of a world act- 
 ing the nurse by one's bed-side. Great the consolation ; but 
 the slayer of thousands could not save one life. " ^lan sends 
 forth the arrow of death : God alone can arrest its flight. How 
 impotent we are!" . . . And Cortes, beside the couch of his 
 dying friend, bowed himself in deep humility of soul. . . . 
 
 The sick man had slept, or it was like to sleeping, for 
 his eyes were closed, and save ever and anon a slight move- 
 ment of the one thin hand which Cortes held gently in his 
 own, and a sweet smile which played about his mouth, he 
 lay there in marble repose. His dreams, his thoughts, if 
 haply he were not sleeping, were very pleasant, very peaceful. 
 The wild war-cry rang not in the ears, a sea of blood swam 
 not before the eyes, of the dying captain. All of this was 
 passed over, and other scenes floated tranquilly before him. 
 " Happy, happy," muttered Cortes ; " the spirit of that sweet 
 saint, his sister, is whispering glad tidings in his ears." 
 
 It might have been so ; but now the angel visitant was 
 gone. Gonzalo opened his dim eyes, turned them upon his 
 friend, and said, in accents low but very clear — " Waking 
 or sleeping, I have had sweet thoughts, blessed remem- 
 brances, my general. I have been again in that old chapel, 
 again among the tall flowers, o'er-topping me, in my father's 
 garden — The good old man ! . . . And my best of mothers ! . . . 
 My sweet sister. ... All gone — all gone before ! . . . I have 
 been once again among them. And you, too, T have seen — 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 179 
 
 the old Hernando Cortes, the gay youtli, wlio climbed that 
 tottering garden wall, and fell on the other side." . . . 
 
 " Gonzalo ! that fall was the fall of Mexico. Then, 
 on the sick bed, my mind shadowed forth the stirring 
 scenes of ray manhood. Then I conceived the great 
 things which have brought me fame, wealth, everything 
 but happiness." 
 
 "You may be happy; you must be happy; at home 
 again ; among your own people." . . . 
 
 "Oh, Gonzalo, what is Spain to me? Marina among 
 the angels, Catalina buried in the New World, and you, my 
 friend, my faithful companion, my brave captain — you, 
 thus; you thus^ Gonzalo ! " 
 
 " A mother lives to sit under the shadow of thy great 
 tree of honour, Cortes. The Virgin has not suffered every 
 well-spring to be dried up in the soil of home. Think, 
 General, of the thousands who will go forth to meet you. 
 Your old friends, your fellow-citizens. . . . How proud old 
 Medellin is, with her namesake in the New World. Our 
 birth-place, Medellin our mother — Medellin, your child, 
 
 Cortes " 
 
 " Say ours — what would Hernando Cortes have been 
 without Gonzalo de Sandoval ? My best of friends, bitter 
 at such an hour is the thought that I have never done you 
 full justice. . . . Hasty, impetuous, more ready to strike 
 than to hear, I have wronged — once deeply wronged you. 
 . . . Hast quite forgiven that hasty judgment?" 
 
 " General, for that I am more your debtor, than for all 
 other bounties. Men err — the great and the small alike— 
 and appearances were strong against me ; but only the very 
 great can confess an error to those who lie far below them. 
 How doubly glorious the broad sun-light, bursting from be- 
 
 n2 
 
180 EVENINGS AT D ADDON HALL. 
 
 neath the shadow of the cloud ! Never did I love Hernando 
 Cortes, for never did I know him so well, as after that brief 
 season of gloom, when I sat beneath the cloud of his dis- 
 pleasure. ... Oh ! if Marina had but lived to know how 
 nobly you kept your promise . . . aiding, supporting me — 
 making me all that I have been of great and prosperous, 
 my friend." 
 
 " And that other promise. ... I did my best — God 
 knows I did my best," repeated the Conqueror — " At Cho- 
 lula, at jNIexico, Heaven knows I did not forget my promise ! 
 ... I did not forget the sweet saint who implored me ever 
 to be merciful to woman — that last night, how vividly 
 even now the scene stands out before me " 
 
 " And me — ah! yes ... I well remember; and how, as 
 red morning dawned, the wondering people poured down 
 to the quay, thinking it not less than a miracle that our 
 little fleet was standing out to sea. And Velasquez ! — how 
 
 I laughed to think how we had cozened him ! The churl ! 
 
 how blank he looked, as we communed with him from our 
 little boat ! Ah, Cortes ! how the hand of God directs us ! 
 What now would have been the aspect of the New World, 
 if Velasquez had triumphed over you ?" 
 
 "What, indeed! . . . But it was not permitted to liim. 
 I had not fulfilled my destiny then. . . . How vividly do 1 
 remember all — how deeply do I ever bear it stamped upon my 
 heart, Gonzalo. In memory of that scene, of that promise, 
 I named the first woman over whom 1 held the shield of my 
 protection — the first whom I saved from insult — after her, 
 
 who appealed to me thus iiol)ly in favour of her sex a 
 
 woman, too, not all unworthy of the name she bore — one, 
 who taught us all that the beauty and the truth of woman- 
 hood Avill flower almost as Itonnteously under the shadow of 
 
THE CONQUISTADOR. 181 
 
 idols as ill the sunlight of the countenance of the Christian's 
 God. And Catulina, too ; she was there. Poor Catalina ! 
 .... to think that the true and loving wife should have 
 braved so much, only to find her own grave ; and that out 
 of this hallowed grave should have sprung the blackest 
 calumny which ever overshadowed my name! Gonzalo, 
 Gonzalo — when I think how much you did, at that sad time, 
 to crush the slander under your indignant heel, I cannot 
 thank you — I cannot love you too much." . . . 
 
 "And yet I did not crush it — the rank weed does 
 flourish still, in all its gross luxuriance. Curses on them 
 . . . the curses of a dying man!" And clenching his fist, 
 with all his remaining vigour, he threw out one of his 
 emaciated arms and smote the air, as though he beheld 
 before him one of the black-hearted slanderers of his chief. 
 The efibrt was too much for him; the strong feelino- 
 did violence to the weakness of physical nature ; and he 
 sank back, utterly exhausted. His hour was very nigh, 
 ... but not thus did he perish. Gonzalo de Sandoval died 
 not with curses on his lips. . . . 
 
 Tranquilly his spirit departed— forgiving all men, bless- 
 ing all men, he turned his face towards the wall and died. 
 His last words were words of peace ; and Hernando Cortes 
 closed the eyes of his beloved captain. . . . Honoured in 
 life, in death was he honoured. ... His own followers— the 
 best and bravest— carried the bier to the grave, and as the 
 last rites were performed with all solemnity by the Friars of 
 La Rabida, the eyes of the Conqueror were not the only 
 ones which glistened with unwonted tears. 
 
182 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 On the conclusion of tlie foregoing tale, a young and 
 enthusiastic poet, who had hitherto taken no part in the 
 conversation, took up two di'awings which lay before him, 
 and which he seemed to have culled from all those which 
 remained unillustrated, and holding them to the Lady Eva, 
 he said, " If you will let me have my choice of designs, I 
 will, if this good company do not think me presumptuous, 
 volunteer a share in the Birthday Revels. These two sub- 
 jects are at once so charming and yet so totally dissimilar 
 — the one the ideal of Komance, the other the perfection of 
 Keality — that their suggestive qualities will, I feel, make 
 up for any deficiencies in the imagination or fancy of the 
 illustrator. But if I am permitted to undertake this plea- 
 sant office, you must allow me also, in virtue of the con- 
 trasting qualities of these two lovely designs, to unite both 
 verse and prose in their illustration. 
 
 The offer of the young poet was gladly accepted by all 
 the company, and he proceeded to relate 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Delmaii Castle was the scene of unwonted festivities. 
 Banquets, balls, concerts, fetes of every kind, followed 
 each other in uninterrupted succession. Every chamber 
 in tlie spacious old mansion — once a stronghold of 
 knightly power, now a modernized commodious residence 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 183 
 
 — had its occupant. Crowds of visitors from neigh- 
 bouring seats, and even from the distant metropolis, came 
 and went, flitted to and fro, remained or departed, ac- 
 cording to their whims, their engagements, or the prox- 
 imity of their homes. The tenants on the estate and the 
 dependents of the family were partakers, in their re- 
 spective spheres, of the general joy. Happiness seemed 
 for the time to reign absolute over this favoured spot of 
 earth. To celebrate the completion of the eighteenth year 
 of his only daughter, these rejoicings were given by Sir 
 Michael Lindsay. 
 
 Beatrice was in every sense worthy of the honours paid 
 to her. Exquisitely fair, moulded with faultless symmetry, 
 her features delicately chiselled, and marvellously ex- 
 pressive of every emotion of the soul, her eyes pure and 
 intellectual, her brow ample and serene, her movements 
 full of dignity and grace — imagination could not conceive 
 a lovelier being. But if nature had exhausted her art in 
 perfecting the outward form of this noble creature. Heaven 
 had exceeded its limit in breathing into it a spirit of 
 unusual fineness. Under a father's tender, judicious care, 
 her intelligence had expanded, her mind had received the 
 highest cultivation ; and every soft and womanly feeling had 
 been preserved untouched by the least affectation, pedantry, 
 or conceit. A son, twelve years of age, was the only other 
 child left to Sir Michael by a wife whom he had adored. 
 In the lively playful boy were centred his proud hopes of 
 transmitting the ancient baronetcy in a direct line to 
 posterity; in his accomplished daughter reposed all the 
 love that outlived in his breast his sainted lady, blended 
 with affections of younger growth and of more flattering 
 promise. 
 
184 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 More than one heart fluttered during the progress of 
 these natal festivities, at the contenipUition of the beauty 
 and gracefulness of her who was at once the divinity to 
 whom homage was oflered, and the chief dispenser and 
 promoter of the pleasurable rites. Many anxious mothers 
 built lofty visionary castles of future greatness for their 
 aspiring sons, upon the illimitable expectations of fortune 
 assigned to the young lady by their fond fancies. Mean- 
 while, she herself knew not of these amorous palpitations, 
 thought not of these maternal aspirations ; innocent, artless, 
 happy, she presided over her father's hospitalities with 
 infinite cheerfulness, smiling alike on all. Yet there was 
 one man in that throng whose approach excited in her 
 bosom strange undefinable sensations, whose presence 
 oppressed her with mingled feelings of admiration, awe, 
 and other less understood emotions. Beauchamp Mar- 
 mion was one upon whom the fatal gift of genius had 
 been bestowed, and with it all the warmth of temperament, 
 the susceptibility, the fitfulness of exaltation and depres- 
 sion, which are its unfailing concomitants. Being dis- 
 tantly related to Sir Michael, he had spent many joyous 
 days of his boyhood at Delmar, and had conceived a pre- 
 cocious passion for the " rose-bud of beauty," as he then 
 called Miss Lindsay, and had given expression to his 
 admiration in many of those ardent eflusions which are 
 the safety-valves through which escape the intense throb- 
 bings of the poet's heart, lieatrice had accepted his 
 strains as so many pretty compliments to herself, more 
 fictitious than real, Avithout comprehending the full 
 meaning of the glowing thoughts, and Avithout perceiving 
 the germs of undying love that warmed themselves into 
 life in these inspired hiys. 
 
TUE SECKET UF THE FOUNTAIN. 185 
 
 Four years had passed since they had rambled together 
 over garden and field, since he had addressed to her his 
 last tuneful sonnet ; the sylph-like girl of fourteen had 
 expanded into a blooming woman — the clever minstrel 
 had become an illustrious poet. His name had come to 
 her borne on the wings of fame; she had read his pub- 
 lished works, and thought she could discover in them the 
 traces of his early feelings ; she cherished the memory of 
 their former friendship ; she dreaded the renewal of their 
 second intimacy. 
 
 The meeting of Beauchamp Marmion and Beatrice 
 presented nothing to a casual observer to distinguish it 
 from that of any two persons of different sexes, on a 
 similar occasion, between whom friendship and relation- 
 ship existed. But an eye practised in the study of female 
 diagnostics, might have discovered that the lady trembled 
 almost imperceptibly, that she lost a shade of her habitual 
 self-possession, that an air of colder courtesy chilled her 
 salutation, and that she uttered a welcome of more formal 
 construction than accorded with her usual free and unre- 
 strained nature. A keen watcher might also have noticed 
 that, as the greeting passed, a cloud stole over the gentle- 
 man's clear brow, that his colour sunk to a paler tone, 
 that his lip quivered, that his voice lost its manly 
 firmness. 
 
 " 'Tis as I feared — she loves me not!" he mentally ex- 
 claimed, when his reception was over — " she who has been 
 my genius, my inspiration, my soul — she whose face and 
 form wreathed themselves into every idea of beauty that 
 I ever expressed — she whose mind has been the heaven 
 whence I drew all that is immortal in my thoughts and 
 works — she whom I dreamt of, lived for, worshipped — 
 
186 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 she loves me not ! The puling, sentimental, frantic rhymer 
 is contemned, as he should be. One of a fated tribe, 
 Avhat else had I to expect, save misery ?" 
 
 How strange, that that man who could, when calm and 
 uninterested, sound the lowest depths of the human breast, 
 nuravel each intricate mystery therein concealed, and 
 accurately translate every language of the eyes, voice, and 
 countenance, should, when his own feelings and passions 
 were enlisted, be more than blind, be worse than dull, be 
 ridiculously erroneous in all his conclusions ! 
 
 " Hah ! 'tis clear as day ! Fool that I am not to have 
 guessed it before: she loves another — Lord Brookland. 
 A good match — an excellent match, llich, unthinking, 
 riotous, the beau-ideal of a lady's wish. WTiat care could 
 she have for a grub, a book-worm, a sonnet-maker, such 
 as I?" 
 
 Thus, giving wild scope to an imagination fertile in 
 creating unhappiness for its possessor, and, in a fit of 
 complete despondency, delivering himself up to what he 
 poetically called ''his destiny," Beauchamp Marmion 
 kept as much aloof as possible from the festivities, avoided 
 encountering Beatrice, and held communion only with his 
 melancholy, bitter thoughts. 
 
 MeanAvhile, Beatrice, unconscious of having given her 
 former playmate the least cause of offence, and completely 
 ignorant of the real nature of the admiration she felt 
 for him and his writings, simply wondered at his conduct, 
 secretly ascribed his abstracted mood and dejected manners 
 to the influence of genius, and silently wished her birthday 
 festivities at an end, that she might walk and talk with 
 him as of yore, and, peradventure, receive from him some 
 new and graceful tribute to her charms. 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 187 
 
 Amongst the visitors at Delmar Castle was Lord Brook- 
 land — a good-humoured, pleasant, fox-hunting, young 
 country gentleman; the owner of no great quantity of 
 brains, though the inheritor of large neighbouring estates ; 
 a man who could boast of an excellent heart, though not 
 of a tender one — of a generous mind, though not of a 
 refined understanding. Between Sir Michael Lindsay and 
 the late lord a strong friendship had existed, and they 
 had often indulged, over their claret, in canvassing the 
 probability of a future union between the heir-apparent 
 of the one and the only daughter of the other. No pledge 
 had ever been made on the subject, for both fathers were 
 too wise to think of promoting a marriage that might be 
 opposed to the wishes of the persons most concerned ; but 
 the advantage of such an alliance for Beatrice naturally 
 recurred to Sir Michael's mind often since the death of 
 his old friend. He was resolved never to constrain his 
 daughter's affections, but he nevertheless deemed the match, 
 if it could be effected, one most desirable in many respects. 
 Lord Brookland so far acquiesced in the desires of his 
 deceased parent and in the wishes of Sir Michael, as to regard 
 Miss Lindsay as the most beautiful of created beings, next 
 after his favourite hunter. He believed, that being doomed, 
 like his forefathers, to the pains of matrimony, he would 
 not easily find a wife who could sing a sweeter song, 
 preside with more affability over his convivial feasts, or 
 attract more admiration at a country ball, a meet, or a 
 race-course. He had even gone farther, and had con- 
 fessed his partiality for the young lady to Sir Michael, who 
 referred him to her, declaring that he could not interfere, 
 directly or indirectly, until Beatrice's inclinations were 
 first frankly ascertained by him who aspired to her hand. 
 
188 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 The gaieties at Delmar Castle were drawing to a close : 
 the ball which was to terminate them was at its height ; 
 the spirits of the company were exuberant. One person 
 only in that gay throng wore an abstracted brow, 
 seemed uninspired with the general mirth, glided from 
 place to place without evincing any emotion of pleasure — 
 scarcely of life. Like a mummy at an Egyptian feast, 
 Beauchamp Marmion appeared, regarding the hilarious 
 crowd Avith solemn gloom — among them, but not of them ; 
 dead to the present, brooding over the past — a mockery of 
 human excitements. Wherever Beatrice mingled in the 
 mazy dance, or reclined for a moment after her fatigue, 
 thither Avould his eyes mechanically turn; but they, in 
 truth, saw not the graceful object which they followed — 
 they were engaged looking into his own breast, where 
 everything was dark, despairing, and teeming with dismal 
 shadows. 
 
 The attentions paid by Lord Brookland to Beatrice 
 throughout this evening were remarkable. He had 
 engaged her for almost every dance, and displayed such 
 progress in the art of agreeable courtship, as surprised all 
 who were cognisant of his usually blunt, unceremonious 
 manners. Indeed, he had convoked all his powers of 
 pleasing for one grand occasion, on which he had made 
 up his mind to settle his love affairs for life. 
 
 At the conclusion of a mazourka. Lord Brookland led 
 his partner to a retired seat. Having procured her some 
 slight refreshment, and finding his courage elevated to the 
 necessary pitch, he invited her to enter a convenient con- 
 servatory, to hear something " very particular," which he 
 had to communicate. Beatrice, wholly unsuspecting tlie 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 189 
 
 motive of his request, and femininely disposed to listen to 
 anything " very particular" from a friend, assented Avithout 
 an instant's hesitation. They passed into the aromatic 
 retreat. 
 
 " Miss Lindsay," began his lordship, as soon as they 
 were seated — " I have your father's permission to propose — 
 that is, to oifer, 1 mean — pshaw! In one word. Miss 
 Lindsay, I think you a beautiful girl — a good girl. I have 
 a mind to take a wife — will you marry me? There, now — 
 I have said as much as if I had made a speech of an hour's 
 length." 
 
 While he rapidly uttered these words, he seized the 
 hand of the astonished Beatrice, and pressed it vehemently 
 to his lips. 
 
 At that moment the figure of Beauchamp Marmion 
 darkened the entrance of the conservatory. His eyes fell 
 upon the agitated girl, and lingered a few seconds, with 
 an expression more of sorrow than of anger. A half- 
 suppressed sigh escaped his lips: the figure then disap- 
 peared, unnoticed by Lord Brookland or Beatrice. 
 
 A very short time sufficed Miss Lindsay to collect her 
 alarmed thoughts. With dignified firmness, prompted by 
 that modesty and nobility which in her were innate, she 
 declined the honour proposed to her, and in such terms 
 as set the question at rest for ever. Lord Brookland and 
 she left the conservatory as good friends as before, though 
 the pretensions of the gentleman to her hand were unequi- 
 vocally withdrawn. 
 
 Delmar Castle had returned to its wonted peacefulness ; 
 the bustle attending the arriving and departing of visitors 
 had subsided; the commotion left by yesterday's past fete. 
 
190 EVENINGS AT ITADDON HALL. 
 
 or originating in to-day's coming festivities, was no longer 
 discernible. Beauchamp Marmion and a young lady, a 
 cousin to Beatrice, were tlie only guests who remained. 
 How doubly delightful does a country seat appear after 
 the departure of a motley crowd ! How enfranchised — how 
 relieved from hostile invasion — how restored to natural 
 repose ! The discordant hum of men is succeeded by the 
 melodious song of birds ; the trampling of feet is exchanged 
 for the sweet murmuring of trees ; the noise and rattle of 
 society, with its conversation, suggestive of no valuable 
 thought, is replaced by charming solitude, which speaks 
 wisdom and true philosophy incessantly to ear and heart; 
 the voices of passion, of envy, of malice, of paltry ambition, 
 are hushed, and in their stead, love — fresh, genial, all- 
 pervading love — breathes from field, and plant, and flower, 
 and bird, and beast. 
 
 Beauchamp Marmion had consented, after much per- 
 suasion from Sir Michael, to prolong his stay for a little. 
 His pride and his reason counselled him to go, but his des- 
 tiny and liis heart urged him to remain. He contemned 
 himself for his weakness, in hovering around the light which 
 had vitally seared him, yet he could not summon resolu- 
 tion enough to plunge from it into unfathomable darkness. 
 Retracing those steps, wliich in happier days he had taken 
 with her tlirough dell and glade, he fed his melancholy 
 to repletion ; and then, in the secrecy of his cliambei', 
 relieved his breast by venting his tribulations in wild and 
 agonized verses. 
 
 Delmar Castle, like many old seats which have under- 
 gone successive modernizations, presented, both in itself 
 and the buildings attaclicd to it, a medley of all the styles 
 

THE SECRET OF THE TOUNTAIN. 191 
 
 of arcliitecture now extant. Egyptian, Greek, Hindoo, 
 Italian, Gothic, Moorish — there were specimens of all — and 
 some so mixed and confounded, that they literally can be 
 described only as the composite. 
 
 One of the curiosities of the castle was a reservoir of 
 water, which went by the name of " The Magic Fountain." 
 The copious stream of a rivulet had been conducted with 
 much art and taste under a high and magnificent arch, 
 and thence caused to form a beautiful cascade, by falling 
 into a tank of large dimensions. The mysterious way 
 in which the architect had contrived to let the superfluous 
 waters escape, so that the basin, though ever receiving, 
 never overflowed, gave rise to its name. 
 
 The Magic Fountain was a favourite retreat of Beatrice, 
 as well for its cool shade and convenient bowers, as for 
 the ideas of romance which somehow were associated with 
 its locality. Thither she and her cousin, Caroline, repaired 
 to sing, and chat, and read away a lovely evening. Seating 
 themselves on a flight of marble steps that led from a ter- 
 race down to the aqueduct, they indulged for some time in 
 sweet retrospects and bright anticipations becoming their 
 youth, their beauty, and their innocence. Their confidences 
 were exchanged, charily at first, and afterwards less re- 
 servedly. Yet still each had a little secret lurking in a 
 corner not yet unfolded — a secret that she could not un- 
 bosom — a secret that perhaps should die with her unre- 
 vealed. Fearful lest her tongue might utter that which 
 should be left unsaid, Beatrice seized her mandoline, of 
 which instrument she was a proficient, and ran her taper 
 fingers along the chords. The strains extracted were for 
 awhile fantastical, but soon they settled into a pretty 
 
192 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 simple melody, to which her voice kept concord. With 
 particular sweetness and expression she sang and played 
 the following 
 
 " Wake, maiden, wake! Rise, beauty's sun, 
 
 And at thy lattice high appear! 
 The sky a sable pall hath on, 
 
 In mourning for thy absence here. 
 Arise! and with thy peerless light, 
 Dispel the gloom of sorrowing night ! 
 
 " The winds that but a little past 
 
 Breathed tones of love when thou didst hear, 
 Now howl in grief — each deep-di-awn blast 
 
 Bewailing thy sad absence here. 
 Up — up, then ! one kind look or tone 
 Will change to love their savage moan — 
 
 " Appear — appear, blest sun ! and light 
 
 All heaven and earth with joy again, 
 Lest nature, grieved, should turn to blight. 
 
 And chaos recommence again. 
 Appear, my love — appear ! and fill 
 With bliss thine ardent minstrel still. 
 
 " Arise ! and with thy peerless light 
 Dispel the gloom of sorrowing night!" 
 
 Beatrice's cheeks were suffused with blushes, her eyes 
 sparkled with animation, her whole being glowed with 
 enthusiasm. Caroline, though no alchemist, could not 
 avoid discovering that there was something in this song 
 more than the words imported, something that touched the 
 tenderest chords of her young cousin's heart. With fenii- 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 193 
 
 nine tact, she refrained from noticing Beatrice's emotion, 
 and merely exclaimed — 
 
 " What a charming air! I don't think I ever heard it 
 before." 
 
 " I should think not; it is by an unknown composer," 
 replied Beatrice, with a faint smile — " that is, the music, 
 I mean," she added, correcting herself. 
 
 "But the words — are they, too, by the Unknown?" 
 demanded Caroline, curiosity having urged her to put the 
 question in a direct shape. 
 
 " Unknown! — no!" answered Miss Lindsay, kindling 
 into emphasis. " But come, I have a book of beautiful 
 poetry with me; let us sit by the fountain, and read." 
 
 As she spoke, she laid down her guitar, and leading 
 Caroline by the hand to the marble bench beside the 
 fountain, the two cousins seated themselves, and began to 
 peruse a dainty volume, which Beatrice took from her 
 reticule. Page after page was recited, the last being ever 
 pronounced yet more exquisite than its predecessors. The 
 poems were short, and written at various times, under 
 divers shades of feeling, and on many different topics. One 
 deep vein, however, ran throughout them — the vein of 
 early, pure, requited love. 
 
 Beatrice was the reader. She had evidently learnt the 
 pieces by heart; and she threw so much natural eloquence 
 and passion into them, that they came to the ear of Caroline 
 like strains of inspiration — like music really divine. 
 
 " Ah ! you have not heard my favourite yet," broke in 
 Beatrice, exultingly, as she interrupted her cousin's ex- 
 clamations of delight. " Listen to this !" she cried, spring- 
 ing to her feet, and preparing to give the verse the benefit 
 
 
 
19-i EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 of her impassioned elocution. Then, standing before her 
 entranced cousii^, she read, or ratlier recited, 
 
 €l)t poet's- JSnftc. 
 
 " The Poet's Bride — oh, happy girl! well mayst thou look so proud, 
 And walk with such majestic step among the envying crowd; 
 The empress seated on her throne — the goddess in her shrine — 
 Commands not half the worship and the glory that is thine. 
 
 " "What kingly bridegroom ever clothed his regal one in rare 
 
 And gorgeous robes of beauty, such as those which thou dost wear? 
 What amorous god did e'er bedeck his heavenly queen above 
 With gems immortal such as those the Poet gives his love ? 
 
 " Oil, no! the robes the Poet weaves are wrought of threads of light, 
 Are dyed in fancy's rosiest shade of colour — soft and bright ; 
 The gems he gives are brilliant stars, whose lustre ne'er will dim — 
 Alike beyond the hand of theft, or fashion's varying whim. 
 
 " The flowers he weaves around thy brow are of unfading bloom; 
 From time they gain a lovelier blush, a costlier perfume. 
 The golden braid and silk he gives, to mingle with thy hair, 
 Are bright beams conquer'd from the sun, and chain'd for ever there. 
 
 " From heaven he wins its softest, purest, and brightest blue, 
 To give it to thy witching eyes, to tinge their modest hue; 
 The quickest lightnings are impress'd, in fiercest hour and wild, 
 Are tamed, and gently taught to jilay among thy glances mild. 
 
 " At morn the virgin snow he takes from mounts of fearful height, 
 To give unto thy neck and breast an all-surpassing white; 
 While sweet Aurora of her blush is half despoilM, thy brow 
 And cheek of beauty lo enrich witii ever-chast'ning glow. 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 195 
 
 " The voice of rills, the bee's sweet hum, the music of the spheres, 
 Are brought to murmur on thy tongue, which ravisheth all ears; 
 And gentlest zephyrs, as they play th' iEolian harp along, 
 Are ta'en, and hush'd to sleep, to wake in thy harmonious song. 
 
 " Then walk in conscious dignity — oh happy, happy Bride! 
 Thou ai't the Poet's only love, his glory and his pride! 
 Nor empress, on her pui'ple throne, nor goddess in her shrine. 
 Can boast one half the dazzling f;ime and glory that is thine." 
 
 By the time Beatrice had concluded the poem, she was 
 nearly overcome by her emotions. Caroline likewise was 
 much moved. The moment for entire and perfect con- 
 fidence between the two girls had arrived. 
 
 " Oh, Beatrice! you love this poet?" was the first start- 
 ling question that rose to Caroline's lips. 
 
 " I do," was the simple reply. 
 
 " And he is " 
 
 " Beauchamp Marmion." 
 
 " He? — and the writer of the Serenade?" 
 
 " The same. He wrote it for me, four years ago this 
 very night. I have set it to a little tune of my own com- 
 position." 
 
 *' And you would be a poet's bride?" 
 
 " Rather that, than queen of the universe." 
 
 A loud merry laugh pealed in the ears of the affriglited 
 ladies, and brought the interesting conversation to an 
 abrupt termination. Appalled, they turned, and perceived 
 the delighted face of the young heir of Delmar, who had 
 approached them unnoticed, and who, from behind an ad- 
 jacent tree, had distinctly heard the whole secret of his 
 sister's heart. 
 
 Ere they could devise any expedient to stop his tongue, 
 
 2 
 
196 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 the boy had seampered off, shouting and dancing at the 
 trick lie had played, and determined to let all the world 
 know that Sister Beatrice was to be a poet's bride. 
 
 Marston Lindsay was an intelligent, high-spirited boy, a 
 favourite with every one, somewhat of a pet, and exces- 
 sively fond of " harmless mischief." He loved his sister 
 better than all the world beside, and would have suffered 
 martyrdom rather than seriously injure her by word or 
 deed. But to banter her, or make her blush, was his 
 greatest pleasure. Now, he believed himself richer than 
 Croesus, for he was in possession of a treasure : how to get 
 rid of it, was what puzzled him ; how to exchange it for 
 the greatest quantity of fun, engrossed his imagination. 
 Poor child! he little knew what it is to sport with a 
 young maiden's first declaration of love; he little under- 
 stood the meaning of the confession he had overheard; his 
 was the gamesomeness and innocence of twelve years. 
 
 With perversity of judgment, to which ardent, proud, 
 over-susceptible minds are unfortunately prone, on matters 
 touching their own affections, Beauchamp Marmion had, 
 during his visit to Dclmar Castle, misconstrued every word, 
 look, and tone of Beatrice. He had worked himself into 
 the conviction that she had forgotten their early loves, and 
 cared not for him beyond a mere acquaintance ; he believed 
 that he had irrefragable proof of her engagement to 
 another ; he regarded their eternal separation as sealed ; he 
 vowed that, though his heart should break, he would never 
 let her hear a sentence of reproach from his lips. But the 
 torture of daily beholding the idol he worshipped, and yet 
 of maintaining a rigid silence in his adoration, was beyond 
 his strength ; the task became insupportable ; he resolved 
 to leave Delmar without delay. Iicturning from a long 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 197 
 
 sombre walk, and deep in meditation on his blighted hopes 
 and miserable fate, he was suddenly arrested by Marston 
 who, glowing with excitement, and almost out of breath 
 with running, whispered joyously in his ear 
 
 " Oh, I have such a secret to tell you about Beatrice ! 
 We will have such quizzing of her!" 
 
 Beauchamp trembled violently, and grew ghastly pale ; 
 he attempted, but could not utter a syllable. The boy 
 continued — 
 
 " She's going to be a bride— a poet's bride— ha, ha, ha ! 
 I heard her say it myself, just now, to Cousin Caroline. Do 
 come, and let us tease her about it !" 
 
 Beauchamp leant against a tree for support. He felt 
 stupified, under the influence of a dream. He was recalled 
 to his senses by the boy, who said — 
 
 " Are you a poet ?" 
 
 The question passed through every fibre of Beauchamp's 
 frame like an electric shock. His suspicions and his 
 despair yielded to the potency of that simple question. 
 
 "Why do you ask, Marston?" he, after a pause, arti- 
 culated. 
 
 " Why, because if you are, and that you have written 
 the book of poetry, you are the very person I heard her 
 say she loved. Now I think of it, your name was men- 
 tioned. But, come — do let us go back to the Magic 
 Fountain, and torment Beatrice ! She will blush so ! We 
 will have rare sport!" 
 
 The boy rattled on. Beauchamp learnt what gratified 
 his wildest wish, what almost surpassed his credence. 
 Having enjoined the most inviolable secrecy to Marston, 
 they returned towards the castle. The dark cloud had 
 entirely cleared away from the brow of the poet. That 
 
198 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 night the courteous moon and accommodating stars were 
 witnesses to lengthy explanations, to repeated vows of 
 mutual passion, to eloquent protestations of eternal love, 
 and to the formal registration in Hymen's book of two 
 beings who were resolved to be made one with the shortest 
 possible delay consistent with duty and propriety. 
 
 Beauchamp Marmion prolonged his visit at Delmar for 
 several weeks ; the reserved misanthrope became the soul 
 of domestic joyousness ; the sarcastic railer at all woman- 
 kind was changed into the devout believer in the perfecti- 
 bility of one; the desponding lover was turned into a 
 thrice happy betrothed. A poem, which he had written 
 under the paroxysms of his late insanity, and into which 
 he had thrown the concentrated gall of his diseased mind — 
 painting woman as a fiend, and representing himself as the 
 lacerated victim of her black arts — caused him to laugh im- 
 moderately when he thought of it. The irony, the reproach, 
 the invective, the denunciations, launched by him upon the 
 whole sex, now appeared so exaggerated, so grossly un- 
 measured, that he resolved to commit the mad effusion to 
 the flames. Before doing so, however, he bethought him of 
 showing the manuscript to Beatrice, to prove to her from 
 what a state of frenzy she had rescued him. 
 
 Beatrice read the composition, shuddered, wept, thrilled 
 with admiration — 
 
 " Ijurn that !" she exclaimed — " that ! Why it's a master- 
 piece — there's genius in every line — lightning in every 
 thought ; there never was — there never will be — so intense, 
 so magnificent a poem ! If you love me, you must publish 
 it, witliout a word of alteration." 
 
 AVith the unlicsitating compliance of an aflianccd one, 
 Beauchamp packed off the poem to his publisher. The 
 
THE SECRET OF THE FOUNTAIN. 199 
 
 critics ratified the opinion given by Beatrice : the author 
 was pronounced to be the greatest of living geniuses, and 
 the most injured of men; and while the world were bewail- 
 ing him as one reduced to a shattered wreck by a heartless 
 female fiend, he was enjoying the best of good cheer, and 
 anticipating the delights of paradise with her who was 
 the faithful angel of his love and life. 
 
 Twelve months rolled on from the day when Marston 
 overheard the confession at the Magic Fountain. 
 
 Within a tastefully appointed dressing-room a lady sat, 
 motionless, entranced, rapt in beatic visions. She was ap- 
 parelled in rich but simple robes, and her unadorned beauty 
 shone resplendent in its own lustre. Her eyes were kindled 
 with happiness, her cheek was glowing with content, her 
 form was dilated with pride. 
 
 Her tiny feet resting on an embroidered cushion, and 
 her marvellously small hands reposing in her lap, she ap- 
 peared an exquisite model for a sculptor. But on what 
 were her eyes fixed — where was her wandering mind? 
 They were gazing into the profundity of the future. They 
 were contemplating splendid triumphs, unheard-of glories, 
 crowns of immortal laurels, pageants, trophies, honours 
 greater than ever before were dreamt of — brighter than 
 ever could be realized. Let us not interrupt her delicious 
 trance — let us not break the spell of enchantment which 
 envelopes her — let us not dissipate the illusion in which 
 she revels: the realms of imagination are her own, for 
 she is young, lovely, enthusiastic; she has reached the 
 pinnacle of her ambition — she is the wife of Beauchamp 
 Marmion — she is the Poet's Bride ! 
 
200 EVExNINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 TuE best of all good things is a good example, for it is 
 the maker and multiplier of good. That which was set by 
 the volunteer relater of the foregoing tale was followed, on 
 its conclusion, by a lady Avhose distinguished literary 
 position, as tlie Royal Historian, par e^vcellence, might 
 well have entitled her to set an example on the present 
 occasion, rather than to follow one. " I am not an adept 
 at improvisation," said she, " but there is a subject, of 
 which this beautiful drawing reminds me, that might inspire 
 the darkest imagination, and awaken the drowsiest fancy. 
 But you must allow me to treat of it in ' numerous verse,' 
 for plain prose cannot reach ' the height of my great 
 
 argument. 
 
 So saying, the accomplished Historian of the Queens of 
 England proceeded to sing — 
 
 QUEEN MARY'S WELCOME. 
 
 " O'er Leven's dark towr the young May moon has risen, 
 And our Queen, our bright Mary, has 'scaped from her 
 
 prison. 
 Good speed to the shallop, that bears o'er the wave 
 The fortunes of Scotland, the fair and the brave. 
 She raises the signal — her gold-broider'd veil, 
 With its border of crimson, it iloats to the gale, 
 And gleams in the moonbeam, all glorious to see 
 Our Queen, our own Marv ! Once more she is free! 
 
QUEEN MARY'S AVELCOME. 201 
 
 We see her, we know her ; and there, by her side, 
 Stands the gallant yonng stripling, her champion and guide : 
 Oh ! Willie the landless, the orphan,* shall win 
 Prouder name by this deed, than the lords of his kin. 
 
 " Though traitors have broken their faith and her laws. 
 
 Our Queen hath good friends still to fight in her cause ; 
 
 Ay, men pure and stainless, who never have sold 
 
 The honour of Scotland for England's base gold. 
 
 Oh, many's the vigil we've kept for her sake 
 
 On this storm-beaten rock, that o'erlooks the broad lake, 
 
 Till practised through darkness and mist to descry 
 
 Every object, that varied its surface, flit by. 
 
 Long months we have watched for this moment in vain, 
 
 And each night found us still at our eyrie again. 
 
 How our hearts throbbed and fluttered with eager delight, 
 
 When we first marked the shallop unmoored for her flight. 
 
 As it glided the castle's dark shadow beneath. 
 
 Every pulse was suspended— we scarce drew a breath 
 
 Till we saw it, still trembling 'twixt hope, fear, and doubt, 
 
 O'er the moonlighted waters shoot vent'rously out. 
 
 * Willie Douglas, commonly caUed Willie the Orphan, or Little 
 Douglas, was a young cadet of the noble house of Lochleven, 
 brought up as a page in the castle. When his cousin, the gaUant 
 George Douglas, was banished from Lochleven by his mother, for 
 contriving the former ineffectual escape of Queen Mary, with whom 
 he was passionately in love. Little Willie succeeded to his trust, and, 
 although only sixteen, successfully completed the undertaking. Many 
 interesting particulars of this brave boy are to be found throughout 
 the Letters of Mary, Queen of Scots. (See second edition, lately 
 pubhshed by Colburn.) Queen Mary did not forget her obligations 
 to Wdhe at the hour of her death; his name occurs in the will she 
 wrote on the night before her execution. 
 
202 EVENINGS AT UADDOX UALL. 
 
 But the peril is over ! she springs to the shore — 
 She is Queen of the true men of Scotland once more !" 
 
 They gather around her, that stout-hearted band, 
 They kneel at her feet, and they kiss her fair hand ; 
 But brief are their greetings ; 'tis death to delay ; 
 The fleet steeds stand ready : the word is — "Away !" 
 
 Queen Mary has mounted ; a blush on her face. 
 
 As they murmur of " beauty and womanly grace ;" 
 
 For soft as the moonlight that kisses her brow. 
 
 Or the plume that waves o'er it, her bearing is now ; 
 
 Yet no daring moss-trooper that scours Ettrick side. 
 
 More firmly can sit, or more fearlessly ride. 
 
 Like a bird just escaped from its cage, in her glee. 
 
 She feels the bold spirit that gladdens the free ; 
 
 One touch to her courser, and off like the wind, 
 
 She leaves mountains and woodlands and waters behind ; 
 
 And she proudly looks back to her friends with a smile. 
 
 As she dashes the first through the rocky defile. 
 
 " Nay, forward, dear Lady, the race is for life, 
 
 Push onward amain, through the fair plains of Fife; 
 
 We must pause not for breath, nor to tighten a girth, 
 
 Till we've won the steep bank of the wide-rolling Firth. 
 
 Tlien hey for the ferry — St. Margaret to speed ! 
 
 May the boatmen be ready and true at our need." 
 
 They have crossed the wild waters, and there, on the 
 
 strand, 
 Fair escort, and tried, the brave Livingstones stand ; 
 And the Ilamiltons, foremost in courage and zeal. 
 Pour down to the muster from bonny Kinncil. 
 
.?=e~;7 
 
QUEEN MARY'S WELCOME. 203 
 
 Ab-eady an army sweet Mary commands, 
 Who'll avenge her, or die with the arms in their hands ; 
 And brightly the Monarch has smiled through her tears, 
 As she bows to her yeomen, and welcomes her peers, 
 While they gaze on her beauty; and vow " 'tis a cause 
 To win cowards to fight for true glory's applause." 
 Now, gallant lord Seaton, lead on to the west, 
 For the Queen comes to Niddry this day, as thy guest ; 
 Brief warning hast thou to prepare royal cheer, 
 To shoot the wild moor-fowl, or slay the red deer; 
 Yet fling wide thy portals, and blithe will she be. 
 Though rude be the fare, to take breakfast with thee. 
 
 Ah, grey roofless castle, how changed is the scene 
 
 In thy desolate halls, and thy courts lone and green. 
 
 Since thy lord knelt in homage to welcome his Queen, 
 
 And they rang with the shouts of the loyal array. 
 
 Who feasted with Seaton and Mary that day, 
 
 While gaily the strains of the minstrels arose — 
 
 " Here's a health to Queen Mary ! and death to her foes !" 
 
 At the conclusion of the foregoing poem, a youno- 
 writer, whose forte is the reflective and meditative rather 
 than the stirring and contemplative, signified his willing- 
 ness to contribute his share towards the Eevels of the 
 evening, provided the company would accept, in place of 
 an illustrative tale, the result of those reflections and 
 associations which had been called forth in his mind and 
 memory by the contemplation of a design, the profound 
 
204 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 repose of which seemed, he said, to put to flight all 
 tlioiight of movement and action, and leave no room for 
 anything but the brooding image 
 
 " Of those lone walls and solitary cells 
 "NVlicre heavenly pensive Contemplation dwells, 
 And ever-musing Melancholy reigns." 
 
 The offer was gladly hailed by the Lady Eva, if only 
 for the variety it would give to the proceedings of that 
 evening, which it was determined should close with the 
 following Reflections on 
 
 THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 
 
 " There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 Fashioned by long-forgotten hands. 
 
 ****** 
 
 !(4 * * * * * 
 
 Out upon time! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before ! 
 
 Out upon time! who for ever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be. 
 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see; 
 
 Kemnants of things that have passed away. 
 
 Fragments of stone reai-'d by creatures of clay." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Poetry accommodates the shows of things to the desires of 
 tlic mind, and as tliese desires are infinitely various, so 
 are the forms of beauty into wliich the genius of poetry 
 moulds the thoughts of the heart. ^Vhere is the feeling 
 heart of man <»r Avoman tluit will not, in certain moods, 
 
THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 205 
 
 acknowledge the romantic, melancholy beauty of Byron's 
 complaint of Time? Who does not yearn over departed 
 memories, when he looks upon a magnificent ruin, nor 
 wish he could unlock the heart of its mystery, and live 
 in the spirit of the time when as yet it was no ruin, but 
 the scene of life and emotion — of battle — strife, perhaps, or 
 of love's soft persuadings, or deepest policy, or high re- 
 solves, or (highest, holiest of all!) of religious strivings — 
 meek aspiration, lone endeavour, looking through the 
 gloomy gates of death to the joys of heaven and the ever- 
 lasting song of angels ? 
 
 Yes, such are often the speculations of an ardent, con- 
 templative curiosity, plunging into the far and shadowy 
 depths of time, and reproaching the destroyer that he has 
 left so little. 
 
 But, again, the mind sets out upon a different flight; 
 and at first hovering o'er the crumbling remains of de- 
 parted strength and magnificence, subsides at length into 
 calm and not unpleasing contemplation of the work which 
 time has done, and gradually arrives at a kind of worship 
 of the dim magnificence of ruin, acknowledging that there 
 is a Providence even in decay; which, while it sweeps 
 away much that is too hateful for prolonged existence, 
 bequeaths to us bright dreams of the past, and makes room 
 for the healthful exercise of head and hand in every suc- 
 cessive generation of men. 
 
 Hail ! thou superb relique of the middle ages — the abbey 
 of the olden time, the castle and the church in one ; the 
 abode of the learning and policy of the period, and not un- 
 frequently of the stoutest hearts that rushed to battle as to 
 a banquet — of the strongest hands that wielded the pon- 
 derous lance as it were but a riding-wand, or the huge 
 
206 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 sword that cut tlirougli plate armour as if it were but a 
 woollen doublet ! Hail, old abbey ! magnificent even now, 
 in thy stern, stony grandeur, an image of enormous power ! 
 Beautiful, too, in the graceful shafts and delicate tracery 
 of the windows, presenting images of the elevation and 
 piety which graced the barbarism of the time, and often 
 checked the ruthless hand of the bold and cruel. See how 
 the light streams through, like a gleam from heaven, upon 
 the stern monument of human strength, and of the short- 
 lived existence of it. 
 
 " Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay." 
 
 Yes, " clay" — as to their mortal bodies, which have 
 long ago crumbled into dust and ashes ! But the spirit 
 which was in them, wherever be now its abode, or what- 
 soever its mode of existence, did its work in its time, and 
 has not perished ; but survives, not only in history and in 
 tradition, but in its effects. We are inheritors, not only 
 of the names and the possessions, but of the spirit of our 
 fathers ; and though they have all undergone changes, yet 
 survives it in pure prosaic matters of fact as much as 
 the antique works of men's hands, and more than they. 
 Time rolls his ceaseless course, and decay and reproduction 
 proceed in their everlasting round ; but as the leaves of 
 this year are the nourishment of the trees of future years, 
 which in their turn produce more leaves, so do the thoughts 
 and deeds of men, which lie still perhaps for ages, yet 
 serve their office as the material out of which future 
 thoughts and deeds are matured. 
 
 " Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, 
 Who danced our infancy upon their knee, 
 And told our mai-velling boyliood legends store, 
 Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea. 
 
THE ABBEY IN RUINS. 207 
 
 How are they blotted from the things that be! 
 How few, all weak and wither'd, of their force, 
 
 "Wait on the verge of dark eternity; 
 Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse. 
 To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course." 
 
 But the legends do not altogether die, which have been 
 poured into the ears of our marvelling boyhood. True, 
 they do not survive, as in the mind of the wondrous Wizard 
 of the North, who wrote those noble lines ; but in other 
 forms they still live, and move, and have their being, 
 and will some day leap up into obvious life, after the sordid 
 bustle and mechanical clamour of this present time shall 
 have passed away. 
 
 The half-ecclesiastical, half-military strongholds of the 
 middle ages, were frequently built by the side of deep 
 waters which laved their walls. Some say this was for the 
 convenience of fish, which has been, time out of mind, a 
 more religious kind of eating than flesh, and therefore a 
 special convenience to monks. Whether fish generally 
 appeared upon the tables of lordly abbots for the special 
 uses of fasting, must be left to the decision of antiquaries. 
 Even tradition is prone to scandal, and therefore we must 
 not too readily yield to irreverent suspicions, which are 
 sometimes indulged in concerning the social habits of reli- 
 gious orders in the olden time. Monks were fat in those 
 days, and some of them were certainly the best judges then 
 extant of a good dinner, and the way to cook it. But 
 it is to be remembered, that a life of peace and content- 
 ment, for which religious retirement is the best security, 
 will cause the frame of a man to swell into obesity, inde- 
 pendently of good living ; and if the monks were the most 
 learned men of their day in culinary science, the same 
 
208 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 thing was to be said in respect to all other branches of 
 recondite knowledge. What would have become of the 
 classics or the sciences, of Greek or of gastronomy, without 
 the help of the monks, during the ages of feudalism and 
 chivalry, it were hard to conjecture. If the spread of 
 knowledge have overthrown the monasteries, it is but 
 another instance to which we may apply the illustration of 
 the bird that died by a shaft feathered from its own wing. 
 Perhaps it may be contended, that in the case before us 
 the owl should be taken for the illustration rather than the 
 eagle. It may be so ; yet, with all their vices, it is true 
 that the monasteries preserved and kept alive, after their own 
 peculiar fashion, the learning and the arts, which otherwise 
 (so far as appears on the face of human affairs) might have 
 perished for ever. 
 
 However, there is but too much reason to believe, that 
 not alone for the convenience of replenishing their larders 
 with piscine food, were these edifices constructed by the 
 margin of deep waters. The military advantage was 
 manifest. It was almost a security from attack on the 
 sides of the building which could only be approached by 
 boats, and was often a means of escape under cover of dark- 
 ness, and with muffled oars. No sentinel could challenge 
 upon the watery path, and the opposite shore might be one 
 of safety. Happy, however, it had been if this were all ; 
 but, alas ! there were darker and more terrible uses of the 
 contiguous lake, than those which ])elong to the exigencies 
 of war and siege. The dark waters formed a capacious and 
 an ever-ready grave, to which many a wretch was hurried, of 
 whose departure to the shadowy shore of another world, the 
 existing world, ])cyond the stern abbey walls, knew nothing. 
 The convent bell noted not their fate to the passing wind. 
 
THE ABBEY IN RUIN. 209 
 
 The judicial sentence was passed in the secret council 
 chamber, and then came the fatal oubliette^ and the dark 
 wave beneath closed upon the victim for ever. Awful are 
 these dread reminiscences of the deep, dark dungeon, the 
 secret way to the chamber of trial, so frequently, also, the 
 chamber of torture ; and then the horrid death and unhal- 
 lowed burial of the oubliette ! Thank Heaven ! such things 
 are now but memories. From that kind of cruelty and 
 injustice the condition of civilized mankind is now free. 
 
 The stern old walls of the abbey are slowly yielding to 
 the decay of time, while moss and lichen cover the rude 
 traces of ruin with their softness, and wild flowers wave, in 
 short-lived beauty, in the crevices of the mouldering stone. 
 But other traces of the past are there which appal the 
 sight. The lake yields up its dead. The very waters 
 change their place in the long round of revolving years, 
 and the receding tide reveals the story of long-forgotten 
 tyrannies and murders. Where be the hands that did 
 these deeds, or they that grasped, in helpless fury, the sword 
 which the waters have now abandoned ? Sad record of a 
 miserable time! The dungeon-stone, with its ponderous 
 key, is there. Where be they whose eyes it shut out from 
 the world's light — whose groans it hid from the world's 
 knowledge? Horrible thought ! More terrible than death 
 was that lingering existence in a living grave, tortured 
 with thinking of all that might be without, and finding 
 nothing but despair within. How long it must have 
 seemed to wait for death ! 
 
 But that^ at all events, was sure. It might be waited 
 for long, but it would not be waited for in vain. Lo ! 
 these are the records of the inevitable fate of man. These 
 skulls are the most awful of the ruins which we contem- 
 
 p 
 
210 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 plate. What are decaying walls ? Such works as man hath 
 done, man may do again. But here is ruin indeed, and 
 who shall pretend to rebuild it, or its likeness ? 
 
 " Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
 The dome of Thought, the palace of the soul : 
 Behold, through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole. 
 The gay recess of "Wisdom and of Wit, 
 And Passion's host that never brook'd control ; 
 Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?" 
 
 These, indeed, are sad and solemn relics of the deeds and 
 of the actors of them, who have long ago been swept away 
 " adown the gulf of time." Fearful relics ! But let us 
 not, after all, while admitting and detesting the horrors of 
 feudal tyranny, judge even these times too harshly. The 
 victims of the tyrannies to which allusion has been made, 
 were generally men of turbulence and ambition, who would 
 themselves have been playing the part of tyrants over 
 others, if they had not been the victims of tyranny them- 
 selves. Their lives were an alternation of conquest or of 
 suffering, and with that they had laid their account. 
 And though the ecclesiastical strongholds were often the 
 scenes of cruelty and vengeance of their own, yet they, too, 
 were the places of refuge, and the only available places of 
 refuge, from the blind and headlong rage of infuriate princes 
 and nobles, whose cruelty knew no limit, and whose power 
 had scarcely any check, save that which was interposed by 
 ecclesiastical authority and privilege. The sanguinary 
 lord might pursue his vassal to the death, or wreak what 
 vengeance his aroused passion might dictate upon the rival 
 
THE ABBEY IN RUIN. 211 
 
 he had overcome, unless the convent opened its gates, 
 beyond which the rude foot of brutal force dared not fol- 
 low. There was in this way provided, on many occasions, 
 if not always, a home of peace amid the terrors of feudal 
 war and persecution. 
 
 Again, we are to remember that, along with these 
 terrors and these tyrannies, there was also a protection 
 for the common people. They belonged to their lord; 
 they fought for him, and were fed by him, so long as the 
 land gave enough of food for all. The tyranny of the 
 feudal lord has been swept away, but another tyranny has 
 succeeded — that of circumstances and of necessity. And the 
 new tyranny spares the ambitious, adventurous, and tur- 
 bulent few, while it falls with strong and stern hand upon 
 the many. The feudal lord may no longer compel a man 
 to the wars, but neither is the owner of great possessions 
 bound to share them with the people. They have now a 
 lord who is called Necessity ; and though they have 
 theoretical and legal freedom, yet Necessity commands 
 them to dig in the deep mine far from the light of day, 
 or to labour at the loom, or to enlist in the factory army, 
 and to submit to the drill and discipline of the spinning 
 jenny, where the sound of the bell which summons them 
 to work is quite as peremptory as the roll of the drum on 
 military service. True, they may disregard it without 
 fear of the halberts or the lash, but not without fear of 
 " destitution," which is no less sharp a punishment. In 
 short, society, with all the progress it has made from the 
 institutions and habits of the middle ages, has, for so far, 
 only escaped from one kind of evil to another. The 
 achievement of a condition of society in which the multi- 
 tude shall escape from the tyranny of the more powerful 
 
 p2 
 
212 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 few, and yet have the benefit of protection, and a right to 
 share in whatever tlie land to wliich tliey belong produces, 
 is yet a desideratum in the world's history, and perhaps 
 will be till the millennium. It is much easier to effect 
 changes than to make sure of improvements. Not that 
 we should therefore be deterred from constantly trying to 
 improve; but if we are wise, we shall neither indulge in 
 indiscriminate scorn of the errors of antiquity, nor in the 
 vanity of complete satisfaction with what we may con- 
 ceive to be our own vastly improved methods of managing 
 the affairs of mankind. 
 
 As for the monks, it were indeed easy enough to repeat 
 the charges which have been justly made against tlie 
 abuses of their establishments; nor is it to be doubted 
 that superstition and laziness were in the monastic ages 
 very common characteristics of the lives of these secluded 
 worthies. 
 
 But we should also bear in mind that these establish- 
 ments did not always and altogether consist of abuses. 
 At all times, but especially in periods when violence and war 
 disturb society, and mar the fair face of earth, it is natural 
 that certain portions of men should associate for the 
 sake of peace and piety. It is natural that they 
 should endeavour to find some kind of refuge, not merely 
 from personal danger, but from " the shock of accident," 
 and the perpetual disturbance of ordinary life. 
 
 "What other yctiniiiiir was tlie master tie 
 Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rook 
 Aerial, or in green secluded vale, 
 One after one, collected from afar — 
 An undissolving fellowshij)? What but this — 
 The universal instinct of repose, 
 
THE ABBEY IN RUIN. 213 
 
 The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
 
 Inward and outward; humble yet sublime : 
 
 The life where hope and memory are as one ; 
 
 Earth quiet and unchanged; the human soul 
 
 Consistent in self rule; and heaven reveal'd 
 
 To meditation in that quietness! 
 
 Such was their scheme : thrice happy he who gained 
 
 The end proposed ! And, though the same were missed 
 
 By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, 
 
 They,ybr the attempt, and for the pains employed, 
 
 Do in my present censure stand redeemed 
 
 From the unqualified disdain that once 
 
 Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 
 Of forward youth, that scruples not to solve 
 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 
 To overweening faith; and is inflamed 
 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 
 The test of act and sufiering, to provoke 
 
 Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, 
 
 Whether afiliction be the foe, or guilt." 
 
 So sings Wordsworth, the prince of meditative philoso- 
 phers, though some persons find a difficulty in discovering 
 liveliness in his poetry. Yet, speaking (or singing) upon 
 this very subject — that is, the desire of the human heart 
 for peace — few will deny the extraordinary energy of 
 his verse : — 
 
 " Not alone 
 
 Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
 Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
 Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned. 
 
214 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 Love with despair, or grief in agony; — 
 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 
 He fled, but compassed round by pleasure, sighed 
 
 For independent happiness, craving peace, 
 
 The central feeling of all happiness." 
 
 Farewell, then, thou beautiful ruin of the olden time of 
 religious brotherhood. Doubtless thou liadst thy scenes 
 of woe and of terror, the emblems of which lie scattered 
 round. But let us believe that thy main purpose was 
 that of peace, of a shelter from the storms, or from the 
 satiety of the world, and of calm devotedness to the hopes 
 of another and a better. 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 215 
 
 FOURTH EVENING. 
 
 As the company assembled in the library on the fourth 
 evening of the Lady Eva's Birthday Revels, they found 
 her looking, even more anxiously than usual, for the 
 arrival of her guest«_for, at these literary »« ^ 
 had now grown to regard the guests as hers, for the time 
 being On this occasion, however, it seemed that she 
 looked for some one of those guests in particular ; and 
 ,./„-c/.ofthem it was, became evident on the entrance of 
 the writer of a popular novel, the title of which pomted at 
 one of the most celebrated of those historical localities, 
 
 our Eoyal Palaces. 
 
 " Ah '" she exclaimed, as the writer in question en- 
 tered the library, " I thought you would never come 
 Look at this beautiful picture-an Astrologer among his 
 books. I do not very well know what astrologers are ; 
 very learned and very clever people, I 1^^ /^"'^ ^ ff^ 
 very wise in foretelling what will happen before it does 
 happen. Is it not so? Now, then, I will be an astrologer 
 J will predict the pleasure you will afford t« all this good 
 company, and t« me in particular, if you will only teU us 
 
216 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 a story about this picture, as full of pleasant mystery as 
 that ' proi)hecy fulfilled,' which, I remember, kept me wide 
 awake all night after I read it. 
 
 The request of the Lady Eva was complied with as 
 frankly and promptly as it was made, and the company 
 listened with marked attention to 
 
 THE ASTROLOGER. 
 
 " Bear me on that blood track !" gasped convulsively 
 Count Christofle, vainly and feebly struggling with his 
 comrades in arms, who were carrying their wounded friend 
 from the field of Roras. " Bear me to her !" he again 
 indistinctly murmured ; "let me but die at her feet — 
 rather, let her trample me to death ; my arm it was that 
 drew her blood!" He fainted, and was being slowly borne 
 to the rear by his ofiicers, when the foe, led on by the 
 father of the wounded lady, roused to fury and exaspera- 
 tion at what the former conceived to be a deliberate act 
 of unmanliness, and only to be atoned for by the heart's 
 blood of her dastardly assailant, pressed forward with 
 resistless force, and broke the devoted band of the 
 Albigenses. Dispirited by the fall of their leader, they 
 gave way. 
 
 The extraordinary appearance of the Lady Ludovica on 
 the field of slaughter had taken the party of her father by 
 surprise, and none more so than himself. At that moment 
 the combat between the troops of the Duke of Savoy and 
 those of the Protestants was at its hottest. The battle- 
 ground was now, owing to the giving way of the Duke's 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 217 
 
 army, a meadow, at the foot of a fort in which the Lady 
 had, unknown to her father, secreted herself with one of her 
 maids, to behold the varying fortunes of the fight, and 
 from its embattled height pour out fervent prayers to 
 Heaven for success to the avengers of the holy Roman 
 apostolic church. The fortunes of the day had varied ; at 
 last the forces of heresy, which, though inferior to their 
 adversaries in number, seemed united, and, led on by a youth, 
 absolutely drove in those of the champions of the church. 
 The quick eye of filial instinct perceived that her father 
 was wounded ; his head bent over his horse's neck in an 
 unequal conflict with his younger opponent; and, unable 
 to restrain herself, she rushed from the tower down the 
 steep ravine, the brink of which, when calm, she had 
 trembled to approach. Pushing her way amid pikemen 
 and archers, she threw herself before her father, and the 
 next moment received a sword-cut on her ivory shoulder, 
 from the falchion of the leader of the adverse army, at that 
 time in personal encounter with her parent. 
 
 The life of the latter was undoubtedly saved by his 
 daughter's sudden intervention, for though her person 
 was unseen when the blow was aimed, it was not brought 
 fully home before the fire-flashing eyes of the striker were 
 involuntarily widened by the unlooked-for vision between 
 him and his intended victim; and by the instinct of 
 true valour, ere a thought could take birth in his brain, 
 his arm became flaccid and aimless; the weapon in his 
 hand, missing the duke, glided on, rather than smote, 
 the bust of the lady. From a fearful gash gushed 
 the ruddy life-stream over her beauteous shoulders, 
 staining the white robes that enveloped her figure, and 
 trickling on the path up which she was carried. Count 
 
218 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Christofle's tailing vision was not insensible to the 
 revolting spectacle. Horror and disgust overpowered 
 the instinct of self-preservation ; and had he not sunk 
 under wounds in all parts of his person, he had 
 resisted the succour and protection of his soldiers, and 
 had thrown himself from very shame on the soil stained 
 with her blood. Ilis eye had met hers but for a 
 moment — it was a cruel one — too late to avert the act 
 that would abase him for ever — too late to check the 
 fatal blow. What man could forget the scornful glance 
 of a woman against whom his hand had been raised? 
 From that moment, until some hours afterwards, the 
 smart of his wounds was unfelt. Comte Christofle, in- 
 sensible in the arms of his faithful guards, saw them 
 not all cut to pieces in defending his helpless person 
 from outrage — nor beheld the savage glee with which 
 his capture was regarded by the victors. Halberds and 
 battle-axes were raised for severing him limb from limb 
 on the instant ; and more than one impatiently claimed the 
 honour of carrying on his pike the heretic's head to the 
 Duke of Savoy, as the most acceptable present that could 
 be made. 
 
 The axe was raised, and would have fallen, but for the 
 suggestion of the grimmest and most relentless of the per- 
 secutors of the reformed, Captain Mario, who, acting 
 under the orders of the Marquis de Pianesse, had directed 
 his soldiers, under pain of being shot as mutineers, to ex- 
 terminate every Protestant in the district of Roras, " from 
 the oldest to the youngest amongst the males; from the 
 pregnant female to the sucking child." These horrid 
 commands were obeyed by none of his papist soldiers 
 witli more zeal and cheerfulness than by one Irish Catholic 
 
THE ASTROLOGEK. 219 
 
 regiment. " Drag the heretic to the tower of Mount 
 Capulet," they cried; "and, if possible, we will prolong 
 his life, that he may suffer the tortures of the rack, 
 and that it may ebb slowly, in excess of agony!" 
 
 This brutal thought was received with cheers; addi- 
 tional punishment to a brother mortal who refuses to 
 substitute the word of an Italian pope for the word of 
 Christ himself, was, in the mind of these adherents of the 
 former, an additional claim for the favour of the latter. 
 By this mode of reasoning was Piedmont sought to be de- 
 populated; stimulated and confirmed by the bull of Pope 
 Innocent the Eighth, dated 1487, and that of Pope John 
 the Twenty-second, dated Avignon, 1332, expressly ex- 
 horting " all Catholics to extirpate heretics wherever they 
 exist, as well as to absolve all Catholics from censure in 
 breaking faith with one, let the pledge be of the most 
 solemn nature soever." 
 
 Count Christofle was therefore dragged up the rugged 
 rock to the tower, and cast into a noisome dungeon. 
 The Duke of Savoy received the intelligence of his 
 enemy's capture with exultation. His highness enjoyed 
 the distinction of being the most bloodthirsty of the 
 holy Catholic army employed in the murderous commission 
 issued by the head of his church. He boasted of having 
 impaled alive, and burnt, and hewn in pieces, more men 
 and women and children than any of the generals embarked 
 in this frantic service. These tortures and persecutions 
 failed, however, to convince the simple mountaineers that 
 Catholicism was the only true type on earth of the mild 
 church of Christ, whose law is " peace on earth and good 
 will to all men." However their want of perception might 
 be wondered at, its consequences were unflinchingly prose- 
 
220 EVENINGS AT IIAUDON HALL. 
 
 cuted. This devoted people, driven from their mountain 
 homes, their farms, and villages, by the emissaries of 
 eight successive popes, had, in a moment of desperation, 
 hound themselves together, as a last resource, into a 
 legion ; resolved to die at once with arms in their hands, 
 rather than be seized singly for the stake and the gibbet. 
 Their once smiling happy valley was now a scathed desert, 
 blackened ruins only marking what had existed, ere con- 
 flagration and the sword had laid Avaste and depopulated 
 one of the fairest portions of God's earth. 
 
 The young chief, under whose command they had sworn 
 to range themselves, could boast of no high birth, had no 
 support from alliances, and of territorial influence possessed 
 not an acre. But his father was their valued pastor, and 
 was a good man ; his flock thought him the best man living. 
 What genealogical distinction could be prouder? Purity 
 of conduct, almost bashful modesty, bravery united with 
 prudence, the good word of the young and the smiles of 
 the old, were his reward. He had distinguished himself 
 early for these qualities under Janavel, Laurens, and Benet, 
 and was bequeathed to his little band by the former re- 
 doubtable Swiss patriot, as the richest legacy he could 
 leave them. Under him, the villagers of Lucerne, Bubiane, 
 and Bargis, had attacked a force five times their number, 
 posted at the foot of Mount Capulet, under the command 
 of the Duke of Savoy. 
 
 Covered with Avounds, Count Christofle was laid upon a 
 pallet ; the refined cruelty of the man into whose power he 
 had fallen, seeking through surgical aid, to revive his 
 strength, sind render his nerves more susceptible to the 
 agonies of the torture. Fully aware that on his ]-ccovery 
 from his wounds, — if lie evei- should recover, whicli lie 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 221 
 
 had no reason to desire, — lie had nothing to expect but 
 a miserable end at the hands of the Duke, the assiduities 
 of a medical attendant greatly astonished the sufferer. 
 
 He noticed that the doctor placed a constraint upon 
 himself, and spoke but little ; never more than was necessary 
 for acquiring a knowledge of the progress of his patient. He 
 avoided his eye, and at every confession of amendment 
 showed an uneasy aspect, and tokens of an unaccountable 
 reservation of feeling which he would fain disguise ; but the 
 Count's interest — nay, respect — for his medical attendant, 
 involuntarily rose at these mysterious indications ; a weaker 
 man had been alarmed at them. 
 
 One day, seeing that Dr. Hersheim was alone in his 
 room, the nurse who invariably accompanied him being 
 dismissed on some errand, the Count raised himself in his 
 bed, and put a question he had long desired to ask, whilst 
 the burning blush of shame that rose on his cheeks implied 
 the miserable sense of abasement which accompanied the 
 inquiry. 
 
 " Dr. Hersheim," faltered the Count, " in what state is 
 the Lady Ludovica?" 
 
 " Lady ," scarcely articulated Dr. Hersheim ; re- 
 lieving his embarrassment by pretended inattention to 
 his querist. 
 
 " The Lady Ludovica — yes; I could not have been de- 
 ceived; though but for a second did her beauteous face 
 flash before my eyes." 
 
 This was true ; for the lady had thrown her arms up- 
 ward§ to her father's neck, as he sunk from his horse 
 before two terrific strokes on his cuirass and helmet, from 
 the Count's two-handed sword. 
 
 Dr. Hersheim regarded his patient for some time in 
 
'2'2-2 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 silence — a cause for hate struggling with a generous 
 nature, and its offspring compassion. The nurse re-en- 
 tered ; he seemed relieved by this interruption to further 
 conversation, and in a few minutes more the prisoner was 
 left alone. 
 
 No opportunity arrived for some days to renew the in- 
 quiry, though it was on the Count's tongue whenever any 
 movement of the nurse betokened a temporary retreat 
 from the bed on which he lay. He thought that Dr. 
 Hersheim was aware of his desire to repeat tlie inquiry, 
 and avoided its recurrence by watchfully retaining a third 
 person at his elbow. Yet how, pondered he, could the 
 Doctor have dived into his thoughts, and imagine cause for 
 embarrassment on the part of the inquirer, unless motives 
 for shrinking from naming the lady existed in himself also ? 
 Surmises, uneasy, because undefined, floated in his brain 
 that evening, and made the still hours of the solitary night 
 more cold and disheartening. 
 
 Another slept uneasily in the fort that night. Was 
 it the Lady Ludovica ? No ; it was the young disciple 
 of ^sculapius himself. He had, for the care and treat- 
 ment of his patient, a double set of instructions — two- 
 fold, yet how contrary ! One originating in cruelty, 
 thirsting for revenge, and another in woman's tender- 
 ness to the stricken, in which her own wrongs are 
 ever forgotten. Unhappily for liis peace of mind, the 
 channel and instrument of these instructions was far 
 from being impassive for tlie secret purposes of eitlier 
 party. The Lady Ludovica was acquainted witli her 
 father's implacable temper, and the terrible ordeal destined 
 for his gallant captive on return of convalescence, and 
 knew what this savage parent had ivsolved he should 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 223 
 
 undergo, prior to the exhaustion of strength and extinction 
 of life, under its excruciating torments. She was a lady 
 of high spirit, great beauty, and of that command of 
 temper which irresistibly sways all minds within the sphere 
 in which their possessor moves. The young Genevese 
 doctor worshipped the high-born beauty from a humble 
 distance, but his adoration was from his very heart. 
 He would not repress the self-exaltation of his devotion ; 
 but he knew its object to be as remote from his destinies 
 as the bright morning star, shooting her gentle radiance 
 through the mists of receding night. 
 
 At the end of a month the Count was able to walk in 
 a corridor adjoining his cell, a much superior apartment 
 to his fii-st lodging within these walls. To his astonish- 
 ment, a tall female, with a single attendant, entered the 
 corridor from a small portal, which was instantly closed 
 after them. She advanced up the passage, only lighted 
 from narrow gratings in the thick stone walls. Count 
 Christofle drew back before her stately form, the upper 
 portion of which was enveloped in a cloak, Avhich, thrown 
 over the head, and held together by her left hand, would 
 have precluded any glimpse of her face, even had sufficient 
 light from the gratings allowed it. 
 
 He retreated to his cell, at the door of which he per- 
 ceived the muffled female pause, as it Avere, hesitating to 
 enter. She entered not, but stood immovable for some 
 minutes before him. Silence was not broken by either 
 party. The lady turned round, was the next moment 
 plunged in the gloom of the corridor, and, before Count 
 Christofle could recover from his amazement, and grope 
 his way towards the quarter where she had disappeared, the 
 small door was closed with a dull firm clang, which told. 
 
224 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. 
 
 as far as sound could indicate, of the hopelessness of 
 escape, save possessed of the means of working its pon- 
 derous lock of six well-sprung bolts. 
 
 He now rei^retted his want of courage to address the 
 figure, of whose identity he remained uncertain. Some 
 one was surely interested in his fate. Save from his 
 medical attendant, no word of comfort had been uttered 
 during his melancholy incarceration. The few words of 
 kindness dropt from the hitter were treasured for days after 
 they fell from the amiable Doctor's lips. Their remem- 
 brance, and the scanty segments of sunshine that for 
 a brief period of the day speckled the cold stone wall of 
 his cell, formed the sole materials for cheerfulness. Be- 
 yond these, he had nothing to expect until the gates 
 of heaven should pour a flood of celestial brightness upon 
 his soul, and give to his spirit above, the rest denied to it 
 on earth. He was, however, seized with a shivering fit 
 during the night, and on the approach of daylight was 
 in a state of high nervous fever. 
 
 By Dr. Hersheim's manner it was evident that a 
 change in the bodily health of the Count was anticipated. 
 The Doctor was earlier than usual in his attendance, and 
 from the moment of his entrance to that of his departure, 
 his eye never ceased regarding his patient uneasily. For 
 the next few days he was weaker than he had been since 
 his imprisonment. On the fourth from the day of the 
 visit of the veiled figure, the Doctor, in a tone of in- 
 difference and ill-dissembled reluctance at being made the 
 medium of communication, informed him tliat a religious 
 lady, a Sister of Charity, who wished to speak to him on 
 points connected with the salvation of his soul, would be 
 in his apartment the following morning. 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 225 
 
 " Will not the bigots let me die in peace ! To listen 
 for a moment to one of them is a compromise of my con- 
 stancy to the cause for which they persecute unto death. 
 Spare me, Doctor !" 
 
 The Doctor seemed touched by the energy of his appeal, 
 and was about to shape the request more persuasively, 
 when the Count seized his arm, and with grinding teeth, 
 and every muscle of his attenuated frame knit, with an 
 effort which a sense of utter hopelessness alone could have 
 endowed the prostrated youth, he almost shrieked in the 
 former's face : 
 
 " Doctor ! you have practised upon me. If I am to die 
 by poison, why is it slow and tormenting? I once thought 
 I had a friend in you. Oh, my God ! how have I been 
 deceived !" 
 
 Doctor Hersheim rose from the bed on which he was 
 sitting. Successful as he had hitherto been in concealing 
 his sympathies and sentiments, this direct attack on his 
 uprightness and humanity overcame his discretion, and he 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Poison thee, brave youth ! That end would have 
 been too happy a one in the eyes of the powers that 
 control both thee and me ; and a destiny to be envied by 
 all who are at their mercy." 
 
 " Then why am I thus thrown back from the hour I 
 took that potion from thy hands, and was persuaded by 
 thee to be nearly bled to death ?" he muttered, in bitter 
 and disdainful accents. 
 
 " To deprive thy energies, from waste or pain's en- 
 durance, from giving thee further being in the world. 
 Wouldst thou have executioners draw^ drop by drop thy 
 blood; or wouldst thou yield it me for lengthened life? 
 
 Q 
 
226 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 Wouldst have it prolonged at the behest of an angel, or 
 
 shortened by a " fiend, the excited Doctor would have 
 
 said, but aware that too much had fallen from him, he 
 checked himself. 
 
 " An angel !" murmured the exhausted prisoner, uncon- 
 scious of the Doctor's emotion. 
 
 " That angel thou shalt see this night," exclaimed 
 Dr. Hersheim, unable to veil his kindly feelings towards 
 a tyrant's helpless victim, though that victim had 
 acquired an interest, by his sufferings and his impending 
 fate, in a bosom in which he had for many years prayed to 
 have but the humblest place. 
 
 Count Christofle, supposing it was to the angelic attri- 
 butes of a devoted Sister of Charity that his doctor alluded, 
 shook his head slowly, to mark how greatly he desired to 
 be spared her visit, then sunk on his pillow. 
 
 He was visited next morning by Dr. Hersheim, who, 
 whilst informing him of the approach of the holy Sister of 
 Charity, appeared desirous of adding something, but checked 
 himself. A few moments after his departure, a female in 
 the garb of a Sister of that holy order which aspires to 
 earn, by ceaseless watchings round the bed of pain, the 
 rewards promised by God to those who " visit the sick and 
 fatherless in affliction," entered the apartment. Her face 
 was concealed by a veil worn under the white coif, which 
 is the distinguishing mark of the Sisters, but that her 
 eyes were large and expressive, he could plainly perceive. 
 In a collected and firm tone she at once told him that her 
 object in paying a visit to the greatest foe of her church 
 was to offer him pardon from the Duke, as well as 
 absolution from the Archbisliop of Arun, if he would 
 renounce heresy, and bid his brethren do likewise. A\'itli 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 227 
 
 warmth and energy she painted the beauty of unity, and 
 the duty of obedience to God's priesthood in his church, 
 the torments in the next world awaiting rebellion against 
 its canons, and the duty of their holy head, the 
 Pope, in this, to exterminate contemners of his ordinances. 
 The church had never a more persuasive and eloquent 
 missionary, or one who clothed its dogmas more attrac- 
 tively. 
 
 The Count, raising his head upon his hand, leaned 
 forward from his pillow as respectfully as his weakness 
 would permit; but his anxiety was, not to hear her 
 eloquent sophistry, or to allow himself to be entranced with 
 the beautiful garb in which subtlety and enthusiasm were 
 dressing errors, but to imprint upon his own mind the 
 faint outlines of feature partly visible through the veil, 
 that he might beguile his solitary hours at her departure, 
 with painting, by the aid of imagination, a countenance 
 worthy of them. 
 
 During her discourse, she paused several times, as if 
 expecting a reply ; but the Count had no wish to inter- 
 rupt his earnest counsellor, who rose to depart, after 
 bidding him weigh well the words she had spoken. 
 
 The next day the lady came again, as before, attended 
 by a Sister of the same order, who stood apart during the 
 interview, and whom the Count desired to be seated in 
 vain. At the close of this interview, the lady spoke more 
 rapidly, and he thought with some show of mortifica- 
 tion at her want of success, for he still preserved silence : 
 the sweet sound of woman's voice, apart from the subject 
 that evoked it, reminded him too much of the world he 
 had quitted, of happier hours never to return, and was too 
 entrancing, to permit him to interrupt its enchantment. 
 
 q2 
 
228 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 At parting, the supposed Sister left a book in his 
 liands, with earnest injunctions to read it in a right mind. 
 He found it to be a defence of the papal faith, by Bellar- 
 mine. lie had seen this book frequently, and heard its 
 sophistry exposed. He resolved to put on paper all 
 that he recollected of the arguments of the most learned 
 of the Reformers of the age a century before the one in 
 Avhich lie lived, as well as of those who had been the light 
 of the primitive church of the "Waldenses. 
 
 To learned refutations of modern errors engrafted upon 
 the church by her hierarchy, the Count added confutations 
 of the charges against his brethren, extorted by their be- 
 haviour, from the lips of those who would fain be their 
 persecutors. He bade his fair spiritual adviser remember 
 that a high authority in her church, Jacob de Riberia, 
 confessed, " that the Albigenses taught their children, yea, 
 even their daughters, the epistles and gospels, and that he 
 had heard a plain countryman repeat the book of Job, 
 and divers others that could perfectly repeat the whole 
 New Testament." He reminded her that a friend of the 
 Duke of Savoy, the Bishop of Cavaillon, appointed a 
 monk to dispute with them, but that he returned and de- 
 clared " tliat lie had not so much profited in his Avhole 
 life in the Scriptures as he had done in those few days of 
 his conference with the Waldenses." The Count continued 
 at his new employment on behalf of the faith he inherited 
 from liis fathers, which he liad hitlierto only defended with 
 his sword. At times he sunk from exhaustion, at others 
 he seemed supported in liis work of devotion with super- 
 natural aid ; words I'rom the source of truth flowing un- 
 ceasingly over his page. 
 
 At lengtli tlie visitant, bent upon tlie conversion of a 
 
THE ASTltOLOGER. ^^^ 
 
 soul from perdition, was again in bis prison-room; and 
 the pages he had written were respectfully presented to 
 her at the close of a more impassioned address than he 
 had yet heard from beneath the closely-veiled coif; but 
 its wearer recoiled from them as from a poisonous ser- 
 pent, after hearing from their writer the nature of their 
 
 contents. 
 
 " I came to save thy life on earth, and thy soul m eter- 
 nity " she said; "thou meetest my intercession with con- 
 tumacious persistence in error. The Lord have mercy 
 
 on thee." 
 
 Here she was overcome with emotion, and Count Ohris- 
 tofle, alarmed lest she should fall from the miserable seat 
 that' supported her by his bed-side, stretched out his arm. 
 Rising at the same moment, her veil caught his hand, and 
 disclosed the noble features of the Lady Ludovica, under 
 the stiff linen coif of a Sister of Charity. 
 
 There was more than religious interest in the brilliancy 
 of her dark hazel eye and flushed cheek. Solitude and 
 reflection had engraven the momentary vision of the lady of 
 the battle-field upon his memory. These, at the raising of 
 the veil, flashed so vividly over his mind, that, uttering a 
 wild cry, he fell back on his pallet and fainted. 
 
 The lady, darting a frightened glance at his pale, insen- 
 sible countenance, directed her attendant to call instantly 
 Dr. Hersheim, who had remained in the corridor; her 
 hand involuntarily clasping that of the prisoner by an 
 impulse consistent in any one with consciousness of having 
 endangered the life of a fellow creature, as well as, perhaps, 
 with feelings, which to herself she would refuse to ac- 
 knowledge. 
 
 The doctor started at beholding the noble lady bending 
 
230 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 over the person of his patient, her face marked with expres- 
 sions so at variance with the proud majesty that awed 
 the loftiest peers and the most stately dames of the Court 
 of Savoy. He was by the bed-side, in her presence, ere he 
 was perceived ; when gracefully rising, without betraying 
 any surprise or annoyance at the discovery of her position, 
 the lady quitted the room. 
 
 The doctor, perceiving the closely-written pages which 
 were lying on the bed, where they had dropped from the 
 Count's hands, shrugged his shoulders, half repented of his 
 indulgence to his patient, and proceeded to restore him. 
 This was not effected so quickly as he expected. Reaction 
 from strong emotion is slow in a weakened frame. 
 
 Under a change of treatment, his strength altogether 
 recovered, for nature was no longer tampered with. Having 
 one morning, with a bitter smile, expressed his wonder to 
 Dr. Hersheim at the Duke of Savoy's delay of the gra- 
 tification of his revenge, noAV that his victim was ripe 
 for the slaughter, the former, with a warmth and frank- 
 ness never before evinced, took both his hands in his, 
 and bade him from that moment consider that he was 
 his friend. 
 
 " Pardon me," replied the Count, with the spirit which 
 returning health had restored to him; " the relentless 
 persecutor of the humble followers of the gospel, and my- 
 self, can have no mutual friends; and as long as I am a 
 prisoner only for being a humble soldier of the latter, the 
 minions of the former and myself are sworn foes." 
 
 " For your distrust I will iiot censure you ; but the day 
 may speedily arrive when you may llnd a difficulty in par- 
 doning yourself for it." 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 231 
 
 With these mysterious words, the Doctor prepared to 
 take his leave. 
 
 " When shall I see you again? — have I still the privilege 
 of being on your sick list ? Though I hold our friendship 
 but conditional, I would not exchange willingly my doctor 
 for a turnkey," said the Count, perceiving his motion to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 " This evening, I will return. Do not prepare yourself 
 for repose. It may be late, but you shall see me," said 
 the Doctor, in a firm tone and assuring manner. 
 
 That evening. Count Christofle, conducted beyond the 
 ramparts by Hersheim, quitted the Tower of Capulet by a 
 path well known to him, over the mountains, to Aix in 
 Dauphine, and rested there three days, to cheer the spirits 
 of some devoted refugees, who forgot their own danger in 
 joy at beholding their leader alive and at liberty. He 
 then repassed the mountain, skirting one of the Alps, by 
 Villar and Bobi, named Pelaa de Geanvet. With not 
 more than twenty men, he surprised Lucernette, a village 
 near Lucerne, and killed many of the Duke's army. 
 A thousand troops were instantly roused to arms, but 
 Christofle and his band cut their way through this sur- 
 rounding force without losing a man. 
 
 Sick at heart with all he heard, and despairing of brighter 
 days for his countrymen, he resolved to enter the service of 
 the great champion of Protestantism, Gustavus Adolphus ; 
 and communicating his views to an officer of that prince, 
 who was then in Piedmont encouraging the Protestants in 
 their resistance of Catholic tyranny, was entreated by that 
 gentleman to repair immediately to Stockholm. 
 
 In the wars of the King of Sweden, Count Christofle 
 
232 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 maintained bis justly acquired reputation, and towards 
 the close of three years from the period of escaping from 
 the Tower of Mount Capulet, had amassed a sum large 
 enough to carry into effect a long-cherished plan of traiLs- 
 porting himself and a select band of adventurers to the 
 newly-planted colony of Delaware, in North America, 
 whither many Swedes and Saxons had already repaired. 
 Instead of embarking from the Swedish ports, the place of 
 rendezvous fixed on was Trieste, a ship being there placed 
 at their disposal. Count Christofle passed through Ger- 
 many ; found most of his party already at Trieste, but learnt 
 that two of their number were at Malta, with an assorted 
 cargo of the productions of the Levant, which would prove 
 highly valuable at their place of final destination. 
 
 Whilst his brother- adventurers were busily engaged 
 embarking the goods that were to yield them this profit, 
 Christofle traversed every part of the island, so long the 
 stronghold of the intrepid military monks of the Christian 
 faith, and the bulwark against the westward progress of 
 Moslem invasion. 
 
 He found every one full of the praise of a wonderful 
 Astrologer, who not only responded to his querist correctly, 
 and foretold the domestic incidents of every man's future 
 life, but presented individuals to each other who w^re 
 dwelling a tliousand miles apart. The Count was no 
 exception to his cotemporaries in entertaining an universal 
 belief in auguries disclosed by the disciples of astral science, 
 lie found that the Astrologer was reported to have been 
 once a physician, who from a disappointment in love, had 
 betaken himself to the occult studies, in which he had 
 become such a master as to be consulted from all parts of 
 Christendom. 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. z66 
 
 To this Astrologer he resolved to repair, in order to leurn 
 {ill he could about the powerful lady who, he doubted not, 
 had saved his life — whether the merit he attributed to her 
 was her due, and Avhether she had been induced to influence 
 her father to abate his rigour against his Protestant sub- 
 jects, and if so, whether from a conviction of the abuses 
 introduced into the church of Rome, or from kindness for 
 him. This last reason embodied illusions too flattering 
 not to be cherished, groundless and visionary as he in 
 calmer moments was obliged to confess them to be. 
 
 The Astrologer had resided two years at Malta, under 
 the especial patronage of its knights, and three years had 
 elapsed on the very day of the Count's visit to him, since 
 the nocturnal flight of the latter from the Tower of Mount 
 Capulet. The Astrologer's abode was in the chapter-house 
 of a decayed hospital, or institution of these military 
 monks. Its octagonal form contributed greatly to the 
 picturesque aspect of its internal architecture, which was 
 not a little heightened by the grotesque objects that met 
 the eye on all sides. Every bird, beast, and fish whose 
 shape outrages nature's harmony, or disgusts by its dis- 
 tasteful features, was found hung in mid-air, in varying 
 attitudes, from the roof to the floor of the chapter-house, 
 ranged round the central column of the crypt. The form 
 of the apartment much aided the efiect of its contents; 
 for nowhere could the eye rest amid the bewilderment 
 of objects. 
 
 The man of destiny was tall, stately, and venerable; 
 a long beard fell on his breast, and his eyes were deeply 
 sunk in his head; he was enveloped in a rich green 
 mantle, deeply edged with sable, a cap of the latter material 
 covering his head. At the Count's entry, the Astrologer 
 
234 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 was seated before a table covered with horoscopes and 
 phmetary types for the calculations of nativities. After 
 raising his head in the direction where the former stood, 
 he started backwards, but immediately recovering his 
 wonted composure, dextrously, though gracefully, drew his 
 mantle more closely around him, and by a scarcely percep- 
 tible motion, pulled his cap over his forehead, so as more 
 completely to shade the upper part of his face. He waved 
 silence to his visitor, but put out his hand to receive the 
 paper on which the hour of his birth was written, as well 
 as the questions to be propounded, which the former, 
 knowing the regulated forms exacted by these mysterious 
 personages, had duly prepared. On it was written — 
 "Date of my birth, 16 May, 1630, at 5 m. past 6 in the 
 evening. — Was Lady Ludovica, daughter of the Duke of 
 Savoy, the contriver of my escape from the Tower of 
 Mount Capulet? — What is her employment at this moment? 
 and upon whom and what does she most think?" 
 
 The Astrologer held this paper so long in his hands, that 
 Count Christofie imagined it had been written unintel- 
 ligibly, and was about to offer verbal explanation, when 
 the former betrayed so much agitation of manner, that 
 he feared to approach or disturb him. After a visible 
 effort to recover himself, the sage, in a voice the Count 
 thought he had often heard before, desired him to stand 
 outside of two circles drawn on the floor. Flanking them, 
 due north and south, were two large globes, and in the 
 centre was a sarcophagus from the pyramids, carved on 
 every side with the mystic cabala of the Magi of Egypt. 
 The twelve signs of the Zodiac were drawn between the 
 outer and inner circles. Tlie Astrologer waved his wand 
 round its centre, occasionally pointing it towards Sagitta- 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 235 
 
 rius, and gazing intently upon the contents of the sarco- 
 phagus, from which a grateful perfume was dispensing itself 
 around. Sagittarius was the sign under which the nativity 
 of his questioner was cast. 
 
 After some moments spent in cabalistic invocations to 
 strange sounding names, which he could not catch, the 
 Astrologer, in a solemn voice, said — " Thou art governed by 
 the &st lord of the triplicity of the tenth house, and wilt 
 be fortunate, and arrive at honour. Thou hast been con- 
 stant and devoted, and the cause thou hast fought for with 
 thy blood shall triumph in the face of heaven. In the 
 west shall arise a mighty nation, sprung from England, the 
 cradle of the religion ' whose worship,' as the service of 
 the church saith, ' is perfect freedom,' w^here tyranny and 
 persecution for conscience' sake shall not so much as be 
 heard of in the length and breadth of its beautiful land. 
 The country which shall send forth these children of 
 light will be the beacon of thy faith, the soil where God 
 shall be worshipped in spirit, and where no man maketh 
 his fellow afraid. But in combating Antichrist, thou must 
 enlist charity, the sister of truth ; learning and an in- 
 structed mind will convert more than the sword." 
 
 The Count showed signs of impatience, which the As- 
 trologer perceived; and after some further remarks upon 
 the positions of the planets in conjunction with his 
 nativity sign, he regarded him so intently, whilst his hand, 
 still holding the wand, passed to and fro before his fore- 
 head, that the Count felt a sensation altogether different 
 from any he had yet experienced. The atmosphere before 
 him over the sarcophagus became a luminous medium. 
 Gradually thin vapoury clouds floated before the centre of 
 the luminous atmosphere, thickening and becoming more 
 
236 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 opaque, as dispelling themselves, they diminished the relief 
 of the grotesque intercepting objects. Behind deep volumes 
 of cloud was silvery moonlight : the planet itself was seen 
 in unclouded loveliness, its cold rays fading on the form of 
 a lady, who, as far as he was able to discern through the 
 clouded foreground, was bending over a volume. Whilst 
 the clouds gradually fell away to the right and the left, 
 the bright moon above her made clearly visible the features, 
 shape, and dress of this lady, whose slender neck, 
 finely-moulded head and magnificent bust, as they thus 
 slowly developed themselves, could leave no doubt of their 
 possessor. 
 
 Count Christofle breathed fast. His question was 
 answered ! The recumbent lady before him in the pale moon- 
 beams was the angel that loosened his bonds and delivered 
 him from a shameful death. Deep and solemn were the 
 commencing incantations of the commanding genius of this 
 mystic revelation; but they assumed a louder and more 
 authoritative tone as the vision became more distinct; and 
 as the lady turned over a leaf without raising her eyes, his 
 voice became awfully sonorous, its triumphant tone com- 
 municating a corresponding thrill of exultation to his en- 
 raptured client, who was also wrought up to a state of ex- 
 citement that would have prostrated him before the figure, 
 but for a power unseen that kept him standing spell- 
 bound Avhere he was. With the softest move of her 
 transparent hand, the page was turned, and at the same 
 moment a ray of crystal light fell on the feathery leaf of 
 her phantom volume. The eyes of Christofle read his own 
 words written by his own liand in (lie prison tower; the 
 pages under tlie intent meditation of the beautiful spirit 
 before him were tlic same lie liad placed in her corporeal 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 237 
 
 hands, and had seen left, contemned, on the floor of his cell, 
 up to the last hour of his detention, for he had not had the 
 heart to remove them. A film passed over his eyes, and the 
 next moment all traces of the vision were fled. Instead of a 
 bright celestial atmosphere, in the serene depths of which he 
 had been existing for a period measurable by no method of 
 time, an alligator was swinging before his eyes, between 
 two stufied owls ; and the Astrologer was standing outside 
 of the Zodiac on the floor. 
 
 " Thou art satisfied, gallant youth," murmured the 
 Astrologer; " I know thou art. Set forth on thy journey. 
 Thou hast no more to ask of the devoted disciple of Cor- 
 nelius Agrippa?" 
 
 " I would know tidings of an old friend who, next to 
 her whom thou hast made visible to my eyes by thy art, 
 claims my honour and service." 
 
 " I know whom thou meanest. Eegard him also," ex- 
 claimed the Astrologer, moving behind the column of the 
 crypt ; and Count Christofle the next moment beheld 
 Dr. Hersheim, in the same dress in which he visited him in 
 prison. He would have thrown himself into his arms and 
 embraced him ; but immediately a glare of blue flame, fol- 
 lowed by a thick sulphureous vapour, passed between the 
 
 Doctor and himself, and from it came these words " In 
 
 three days, thou shalt see me again !" In another moment, 
 the Astrologer's cap of sable towered above his implements 
 and spheres, and the Count was recoiling from the column, 
 rubbing his shoulder after a hard bruise, to which his 
 anxiety to embrace his prison doctor had subjected him. 
 Shortly after, the Count found himself in broad daylight, 
 outside the chapter-house. 
 
 The revelations involved in the vision he had just beheld 
 
238 EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 were not to be slighted. Count Christofle instantly re- 
 solved to repair to Lucerne, and satisfy himself of their 
 verity. If so, what an alteration might not the change of 
 religious opinion in the daughter make upon the councils of 
 the father. Could it be possible that he was to be instru- 
 mental in working a change on which the Ua^cs of thou- 
 sands must depend? He decided to leave Malta by a 
 vessel now in the harbour, bound for Genoa, and rejoin 
 his friends at Gibraltar, on his return from Lucerne, where 
 he induced them to believe pressing business demanded his 
 presence. 
 
 He took ship next day, and landed in Sicily on the third, 
 when the first person who greeted him on shore was Dr. 
 Hersheim. The crowd on the quay was great. The various 
 costumes of the motley population of this island, with those 
 of the soldiery of a dozen different powers, always touching 
 there on their passage from the Levantine States, distracted 
 his attention for some minutes. He had grasped his good 
 friend's hands, and received a salute on both the cheeks, after 
 the manner of his countrymen ; the embrace was warm and 
 human ; he felt it the harbinger of a renewal of associations 
 with the land of his birth ; yet he could not entirely overcome 
 a sensation of awe and astonishment, amounting even to dis- 
 trust of his senses, as he beheld the form phased so preter- 
 naturally to them but a few liours previously, in the 
 chapter-house at Malta. His quickened susceptibility for 
 aerial revelation now pictured, under the crimson and green 
 scarf of a Neapolitan fish- wife, the Madonna of the 
 Capella Sistina — the realization of majestic womanhood, 
 of that tremendous genius and grand moral being, Michael 
 Angelo. And, as the features under his gaze relaxed 
 from spiritual to mundane perfection, he could have sworn 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 239 
 
 that tlie visitant of his prison cell, the eloquent and beau- 
 tiful Sister of Charity, was before him. In his delirium 
 of joy and astonishment, he turned to his friend, who was 
 but a few moments before cordially welcoming him to a 
 strange land. He was not there, nor to be found amid 
 the crowd, nor could any one say that such a person had 
 been seen. He believed himself still to be under the influ- 
 ence of enchantment, and was now more than ever anxious 
 to find himself in Lucerne. 
 
 He landed at Genoa; and he there heard that the inha- 
 bitants of the numerous towns and villages who held fast 
 to the simple faith of their fathers, still groaned under 
 oppression. 
 
 On the second day of his arrival, news came that tliis per- 
 secution had ceased altogether, by order of the Duke of Savoy, 
 on the very day that Count Christofle had consulted the won- 
 drous Astrologer at Malta; and the story in Genoa ran, that 
 a sudden conversion of the Duke's only daughter was the 
 cause of this unlooked-for clemency. She was found one 
 morning by her maids, it was said, reclining on her couch, 
 so deeply engaged in perusing some sheets of manuscript 
 before her as to be insensible to their approach, and they 
 found that she had not disrobed, nor had sought slumber 
 during the night; nay, that without a pause for the daily 
 arrangement of the toilette, she had sought her father in 
 his bed-chamber, and after falling on her knees, and praying 
 to Heaven for strength to endure the consequences of the 
 course she was about to take, had declared to him that she 
 would quit his palace, repair to England, and incite the 
 Lord Protector of that Commonwealth (then regarded as 
 the head of the Protestant interest in Europe) to make war 
 upon his principality, unless persecution througliout it 
 
240 EVENINGS AT II ADDON UALL. 
 
 entirely ceased. The Duke, who was ever influenced by tlie 
 masculine mind of his child, promised all she desired ; and 
 the latter refused to take meat or drink, or change her dis- 
 ordered apparel, until orders were dispatched to publish the 
 amnesty throughout the valleys of Piedmont. To this in- 
 telligence was added, that the writings which had ulti- 
 mately wrought such a joyful amelioration in the condition 
 of his countrymen, had been found in a cell from which 
 a heretic prisoner had escaped some three years previous, 
 and which had been from that time unoccupied. 
 
 Arrived at Lucerne, he had the happiness of finding all 
 he had heard at Genoa perfectly true, and of receiving the 
 highest reward a son can take from the hands of a 
 parent — the blessing of his aged father, to whom alone he 
 imparted his share in restoring the peace of the valley. 
 
 The words of the Astrologer still rung in his ears, 
 promising him success and good fortune in all his under- 
 takings. He resolved not to be distrustful of the augury, 
 already in part so wonderfully realized, but go forward 
 to the New World with the companions he had engaged to 
 join. This resolution was no sooner taken, than a message 
 by one of the chamberlains of Lady Ludovica invited him 
 to her presence, with intimation that her influence with 
 her father was at his command, to obtain any post of 
 honour, advantage, or privilege, he might desire. The 
 terms of the invitation left no doubt of the anxiety of his 
 fair and distinguished convert to see him. Men possessed of 
 a less susceptible mind would have rushed exultingly to so 
 flattering and propitious an interview, but the Count re- 
 coiled therefrom, instantly resolving not to retard his de- 
 parture from Europe a single day. His hand had smitten the 
 form of tliis lady : and his eyes could never again knowingly 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 241 
 
 meet hers ; though her kindness towards him assured him 
 that her forgiveness was sincere, his ears could not endure 
 to hear her lips pronounce it ; his manliness would receive 
 a shock therefrom, and all the purpose of his existence be 
 paralyzed, by the abasement of that moment. 
 
 To carry out the prediction of the Astrologer, he fled 
 the patronage of his sovereign's daughter, all-powerful as 
 he knew her to be. The lady was astonished at this 
 disdain of her favour, and sent to the Astrologer, in 
 Malta, to learn its cause. He declared — " that the destinies 
 of both the Count and herself forbade another inter- 
 view in this world; and that, having accomplished her 
 glorious work of pacification, her own end was nigh." 
 Had the Count and herself, he said, met after the wonder- 
 ful effect produced on her mind by the former's written 
 pages, their feelings would have been too deeply interested 
 in each other to have parted ; and the impossibility of 
 their union, and her own short space of life, must have 
 lessened the power of the former to accomplish the great 
 cause to which she would die a martyr. 
 
 This noble lady expired shortly afterwards, from poison 
 administered by a villain, in hopes of finding favour with 
 Rome. So was fulfilled, to the letter, the predictions of 
 the Astrologer. 
 
 Near to the Lady Eva was seated a venerable diplo- 
 matist, who had known her from her cradle, and felt 
 for her all the tender attachment of a father. When the 
 foregoing tale was concluded, the Lady Eva arose, but 
 
 R 
 
242 EVENLNGS AT JIADDON HALL, 
 
 paused, as if in doubt whether she might venture to 
 solicit this dear old friend to assist her project ; at length, 
 conquering her feeling of shyness, she glided gently 
 behind the Baron's chaii', and affectionately resting both 
 her l)eautiful arms on his shoulders, held before him a 
 drawing representing an Italian landscape, with a marble 
 fountain, and a guitar lying on the steps leading to it. 
 
 As the graceful Eva bent forward, her rich and luxuriant 
 ringlets softly caressed the furrowed cheeks of the old 
 Diplomatist, whilst she whispered — " Will it tax your 
 indulgent goodness too nnich to fulfil my request?" And 
 here let us observe, that the Baron's appearance did truly 
 embody the very ideal of " indulgent goodness." His 
 silver hair partly shaded a forehead replete with wisdom 
 and profound observation, whilst the expression of his eyes 
 and mouth Avas so redolent of sweet benevolence, that he 
 never failed to awaken confidence in the pure and young. 
 Often, indeed, had he been heard to say, that the brightest 
 pages he had learned in the history of the human heart 
 were from the outpourings of young and unsophisticated 
 minds. 
 
 Fondly pressing the Lady Eva's tiny hands in his, he 
 said, " Dear child, I am too old to weave the web of 
 fiction ; but, strange to say, this print evokes in my 
 memory some scenes of days long gone by ; and often have 
 you reminded me of the interesting girl who was the 
 heroine of that tale." 
 
 Then sighing, as he fondly gazed on Eva's speaking 
 countenance, he added, " You are fair and good as she 
 was, sweet maiden. May you enjoy a happier destiny?" 
 
 The liaron then proceeded to relate the story of 
 
243 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 In the opening of the spring of 1829, when Paris, by its 
 gaieties and fetes, was attracting and enthralling the 
 natives of every part of Europe, the young and noble 
 diplomatist, the Marquis de Querancy, was suddenly 
 ordered to proceed without delay to Naples, with important 
 despatches. To any other Frenchman, such an order at that 
 moment would have conveyed inexpressible annoyance. But 
 even Paris had failed to rekindle one throb of pleasure in 
 the mind of De Querancy. All things seemed to him taste- 
 less and hollow in the most brilliant salons he frequented. 
 Did a murmur of applause direct his attention to any new 
 beauty among the many syrens of the day, his calm and 
 passionless countenance reflected neither emotion nor ad- 
 miration. In such a temper of mind, it could be no grief 
 to him to leave Paris; and having but a few hours to 
 prepare for his journey, he determined not even to make 
 a single visit of adieu, except to a young Englishman, 
 Clarence Russell, with whom he had travelled in the East, 
 where they had become intimate, and much attached to 
 each other. Clarence Russell, like the generality of his 
 countrymen, ever desirous of change of scene, proposed, on 
 the spur of the moment, to accompany him to Naples, an 
 ofler which was gladly accepted by De Querancy, and the 
 two friends left Paris together. 
 
 It had been the Marquis de Querancy's intention to 
 travel day and night till they reached Naples, but when 
 they came within sight of the Eternal City, Clarence 
 
 R 2 
 
244 EVENINGS AT IIADDON UALL. 
 
 Russell mentioned, for the tirst time, that he had never seen 
 Rome. " Of course, my dear Arthur," lie added, " you" 
 Avill indulge me by remaining here one night? I care only 
 to visit St. Peter's in the morning, and will be ready to 
 start immediately after." De Querancy felt it would be 
 too churlish to refuse his friend so natural a desire, but 
 it was with a heavy sigh that he consented to it. Alas ! 
 Rome, the mighty sepulchre of the martyred saints, the 
 great and the wise of yore, was also the sepulchre of all 
 the Marquis's earthly hopes. 
 
 When the friends drove up to Cerny's well-known hotel, 
 Piazza di Spayna, it was about four o'clock in the after- 
 noon, and having ordered dinner for seven, they sauntered 
 forth in that listless way usual to travellers Avho want to 
 kill time in the interim due for the preparation of meals. 
 Wrapt up in his own sad thoughts, De Querancy followed 
 Clarence Russell whichever road he chose to lead. After 
 walking some time, the hitter called his friend's attention 
 to a neighbouring height, crowned with those glorious pine- 
 trees so peculiar to Rome, expressing a wish to reach the 
 spot on which they grew, and they found themselves in the 
 Pamphili Doria gardens. 
 
 It was about the middle of April ; some gentle showers 
 had fallen in the early part of the day, as if to refresh the 
 verdure, and bring forth a thousand balmy odours. Who 
 has ever visited Rome without lingering with delight in 
 the shades of Pamphili Doria? There the pine-trees reign 
 supreme in their melancholy ; the Parma violets grow wild ; 
 and the grass is peculiarly enamelled at this season with 
 anemones; — in short, there is a wild romance about these 
 haunts that well becomes the Eternal City. 
 
 Clarence Russell proposed to rest awhile on the marble 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 245 
 
 steps of a beautiful fouutain, admirably situated under a 
 natural arch of noble trees, and where a cascade seemed 
 to pour forth showers of diamonds, its waters sparkling 
 under the bright rays ol" an Italian sun. De Querancy 
 approached this fountain slowly, his eyes fixed on the 
 ground. Unhappy man ! Blindfold he could have led the 
 way. On the last step there was a guitar, with a white 
 ribbon attached to it. Clarence Russell, passionately fond 
 of music, snatched it up, and began singing that well- 
 known Neapolitan melody — 
 
 " Ah, die soifrii' mi resta!"* 
 
 Often and often had De Querancy heard that air sung in 
 various salons of Europe ; but when at this moment, and 
 on this spot, it burst upon his ear, all the long pent-up 
 emotions of anguish broke forth, and, gasping for breath, he 
 hid his face in his hands, and wept like a child ! 
 
 Clarence, startled and amazed, ceased singing, and 
 placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, exclaimed, 
 " Good God! my dear Arthur, what can move you thus? 
 Far be it from me to surprise a confidence from any one ; 
 but I have more than once felt the relief which springs 
 from sympathy and friendship. Say, Arthur, shall I leave 
 you alone, or will you confide your grief to one who has 
 long watched, with affectionate anxiety, the settled sadness 
 which pervades your every action?" 
 
 " Clarence," replied Arthur, " well do I know your 
 frank and manly character, and that a mind like yours 
 will pity rather than ridicule my weakness. I will, there- 
 fore, as you desire it, try to give you an insight into my 
 chequered life, nor attempt to palliate the fiiults and errors 
 
 * Written by Prince Pignatelli, the night previous to his execution. 
 
246 KVF.MN(;S AT JIADDON HALL. 
 
 which have tended to cast an irreparable blight over my 
 whole existence." 
 
 Clarence warmly pressed his friend's hand, and Arthur 
 began: — " ]\Iy father perished on the scaiFold during 
 the fury of the Revolution, a martyr to his religious and 
 political creed. He left an inconsolable widow, wholly 
 devoted to his memory, and who clung to life only to 
 fulfil his dying injunction to educate me, their only 
 child, in those loyal sentiments for which he had died. 
 All my nearest relations trod the same path of duty, 
 serving the cause of legitimacy to the last, either in 
 the wars of La Vendee, or in upholding their followers 
 while struggling, in manifold ways, against those monsters 
 of iniquity who have cast an eternal blot on the fair pages 
 of French history. To these fatal remembrances, and also 
 to the wild Breton legends — to which I listened in child- 
 hood with pleasing dread — do I trace that melancholy so 
 unusual to my countrymen, which, even in those times, 
 affected my mind. How shall I describe to you all tlie 
 tenderness of my mother — that best of women — who, 
 during the emigration, denied herself every extra comfort 
 to bestow on me an enlightened education, and grant me 
 every indulgence my young mind could anticipate. 
 
 " On the restoration of the Bourbons, we left Bath, the 
 retreat chosen by my mother during our exile from France, 
 and returned to the home of my ancestors — an old French 
 chateau, near Nantes. I became naturally anxious to see 
 something of the world, but delayed expressing my earnest 
 wishes from filial piety to that revered parent, who rested 
 her whole happiness in me. ]\Iy fortune being nowise pro- 
 portioned to the nobility of my birth, the army or the navy 
 were the careers I sighed for ; but when I merely glanced 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. '^47 
 
 at these projects, a pang of anguish disturbed the sweet 
 serenity of my mother's still handsome countenance. ' I 
 had anxiously prayed, my Arthur,' she exclaimed, ' that 
 you might not choose the military career, for it has been 
 ever fatal to all of your name. Think not, my son, that 
 I thus oppose your wishes to satisfy my selfish love; I 
 feel that the dull life you lead in these remote parts is 
 unfit for one of your character and age. I only wish to 
 aid your choice. Few careers are more promising than 
 diplomacy; and I have some interest at the present moment 
 with our ambassador at Rome, who is one of your lamented 
 father's oldest friends. I should be proud to see you 
 introduced into society under his tutelar care. He was 
 ever my type of all that wins and commands respect 
 in the aristocracy. Most truly did Madame de Stael 
 describe the Due de L. M. as " the first gentleman of 
 
 France.'' ' 
 
 " I renounced, with much regret, my military plans, 
 but felt amply compensated in sacrificing my wishes to 
 those of this admirable mother. To an Englishman, this 
 entire submission to a parent may appear overstrained; 
 for, on reaching manhood, your first impulse is total 
 emancipation from home, and the shackles of womanly 
 influence. With us, the holy ties of gratitude bind us all 
 our lives to the will of her who gave us birth. Hence the 
 great moral influence women exercise throughout France. 
 To woman's gentle sway may be attributed the intimacy 
 kept up through life in French families, which you have 
 often pronounced so patriarchal, while you lamented 
 that it was rarely, if ever, to be found in England. 
 
 " On my coming of age, my mother wrote to ask the 
 Due de L. M. to have me appointed to the French em- 
 
248 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 bassy at Rome; and by return of post he answered, with 
 his usual gracious kindness, that the son of his ever- 
 lamented friend should find in him a second father. 
 
 " I think it worth mentioning a strange incident, which 
 happened the day before I left home — unheeded at the 
 time, but which has since proved a foreshadowing of my 
 future fate. 
 
 " Among our tenants was an old peasant, called Dame 
 Marguerite, supposed by the surrounding peasantry, who, 
 in Brittany, are most superstitious, to have the gift of 
 second sight. She was grandmother to my nurse, had 
 received a superior sort of education for her rank in life, 
 and had often attracted me in childhood by her love of 
 fairy stories. I always entertained a kindly feeling to- 
 wards the aged sybil, so I turned into her cottage to take 
 leave of her; and remembering the supernatural gifts 
 attributed to her, (though incredulous to their reality,) 
 begged Dame Marguerite to tell me my fortune, and held 
 out my hand to her, that she might peruse the lines 
 therein, according to custom. 
 
 " The aged woman gazed on me long and sorrowfully ; 
 then bid me remain in ignorance, ' for,' added she, in 
 her wonted figurative mode of expression, ' the traveller 
 should set forth with a light heart, not to faint on the 
 way.' 
 
 " I then insisted on her explaining the mysterious sense 
 of her allusion. 
 
 " ' Woe to me,' said Dame Marguerite, in her low but 
 impressive voice, ' for I look on the last scion of the 
 time-honoured liouse of Querancy ! To you, also, the 
 month of April will be fatal ! Shun women and music' 
 
 " I chid my ^ellerable soothsayer ibr her evil omens. 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. '249 
 
 The warning concerning April was natural enough, for in 
 that month ray father was guillotined; but as to the two 
 latter prohibitions, I told Dame Marguerite that without 
 them life was little worth. 
 
 " I never mentioned this anecdote to my mother, who 
 behaved on this trying occasion— her first separation for a 
 lengthened period from me-with her wonted fortitude; 
 not a murmur escaped her lips; but to offer up prayers m 
 her lonely retreat for her child's happiness, was henceforth 
 her sole vocation on earth. 
 
 " I arrived at Rome on the 20th of April, 1817. It was 
 the residence, of all others, most suited to my pursuits, for 
 I was born an innate artist. The embassy was a home to 
 me in every sense ; the general society delightful ; but ere 
 long, one house became my chosen resort in preference to 
 all others. This was the Villa Manno, the residence of 
 Uberto Manno, the most remarkable person in Rome at 
 
 that epoch. 
 
 " This eminent artist— Roman by birth, painter by pro- 
 fession—was the honoured guest of the great and the 
 talented of all countries. The fine arts were hereditary m 
 his family. Uberto Manno's racy wit and pungent satire, 
 charmed alike his friends and terrified his enemies; his 
 rapid conceptions, and graphic pencil, raised him to a 
 proud eminence among his brother artists. To these he was 
 courteous and generous in the extreme, his purse and ad- 
 vice ever liberally given; but to the great and noble lie 
 could, at times, assume a haughtiness of demeanour which 
 became well his democratic principles, if their talents or 
 conduct equalled not their worldly advantages.^ All the 
 softer shades of Manno's character shone forth in his in- 
 tense love for his only child, Virginia; her mother had died 
 
250 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 in giving liur birth. It is wellnigh impossible to do jnstice 
 to the endearing charms of this imgelic being. Her features 
 Avere pure as those of the first blonde virgins of Raphael; 
 her figure light ; her step elastic as a sylphid's ; her long 
 swan-like throat inclined rather forward, as if the gentle 
 maiden bent under the constant admiration she called forth 
 from each passing observer. To Uberto's deep regret, she 
 possessed not the family talent of painting, but her talents 
 for music were surpassingly great. When at tlie piano, 
 singing hymns to the Virgin, she seemed the personifica- 
 tion of a St. Cecilia; and yet was most touching when 
 singing to the guitar that same air which so powerfully 
 affected me just now — A ravishing mixture of saint 
 and of sylphid; sometimes she looked too ideal-like for 
 human love; and then, the moment after, would en- 
 chant one by dancing the saltarella in the Eoman 
 costume, with a buoyant joyfulness so peculiar to her 
 sweet self. 
 
 " At the end of May, Rome is quite deserted, for the mal- 
 aria reigns in all its loathsome vigour, and few care to 
 brave this infectious malady; for me, spell-bound by the 
 attractions of the Manno villa, I remained the whole sum- 
 mer. Too brief were the hours, the days, I passed with 
 Uberto Manno and his daughter, devoted to the cultivation 
 of the arts, and under all the illusions of a first love. How 
 often, during the great heats, have we sat on these very 
 steps, sketching, or reading the great poets of France and 
 Italy alternately aloud, or listening to Virginia's seraph 
 voice, accompanied by her favourite guitar. The only alloy 
 to the rapturous existence I enjoyed, was the remembrance 
 of all my mother's inveterate prejudices to my marrying 
 one beneath mc in birth ; this prevented me at once telling 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 251 
 
 my hopes and fears to Uberto, for I dared to hope that 
 my presence was not indifferent to his fair dangliter. Also, 
 I had heard the painter declare that he would never con- 
 sent to Virginia's marrying out of her own sphere ; and I 
 had reason to know that more than one Italian noble had 
 vainly tried to win her hand ; but, full of sanguine hope, 
 the best dower of the young, I thought time and constancy 
 would level every obstacle, when a new addition to Manno's 
 family circle changed its aspect entirely. 
 
 " The new comer was Uberto's nephew, Antonio Carelli. 
 He was an orphan, adopted by Manno, and his most pro- 
 mising scholar. His uncle had often mentioned his talents 
 with pride, so I was fully prepared to regard him as a 
 friend; but at our first interview, after one keen glance 
 of his fiery eye round our daily group, I felt we were hence- 
 forth rivals and enemies. Antonio was an ardent repub- 
 lican, impetuous in every impulse. As a Frenchman, he 
 hated me; as a rival, he defied me in his inward soul! 
 Madly jealous of the admission of a stranger into his 
 cousin's intimacy, whom he loved with all the fiery passion 
 of a southern, he was ever on the watch, by means fair or 
 foul, to find an opportunity to exclude me from a society 
 so replete with bliss to us both. 
 
 " Virginia was of too soft a nature to repulse any one, 
 still less Antonio, whom she had regarded as a brother 
 from her cradle. She submittedy.with gentle patience, to the 
 insolent sarcasms, and various inuendoes he daily poured 
 into her ear, and would, when I was tasked by the young 
 Italian beyond endurance, turn on me her dove-like eyes, 
 as if to implore forbearance for her sake. 
 
 " Fluctuating between my growing attachment to Vir- 
 ginia, and the certainty of my mother's displeasure, I con- 
 
252 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 tinued undecided liow to shape my course, and felt trulv 
 miserable. One morning, on entering Uberto's studio, 
 Virginia passed by me rapidly, but I had time to see that 
 slie was much agitated, and in tears. I found her father, 
 brush in hand, pacing the room in a disordered manner, 
 and speaking with vehemence to Antonio Carelli, who, on 
 my appearance, left the studio, but cast on me, meanwhile, 
 a withering look of hatred and triumph. 
 
 " ' Marquis de Querancy,' exclaimed Uberto Manno, fixing 
 on me his eagle eye, as if to read my inmost thoughts, 
 ' you behold in me a most unhappy parent ! For the first 
 time my child dares to disobey me, in opposing herself to 
 the fond scheme of my life, to see her united to Antonio 
 Carelli, my best and most promising scholar, that my works, 
 my family relics, might be bequeathed to the two dearest 
 objects I have on earth.' 
 
 " I was stunned with this unforeseen disclosure. On 
 recovering myself, my first impulse was intense joy at 
 Virginia's open repugnance to a union with her cousin ; 
 and forgetting all things in my love for her, I would have 
 implored her father to bestow her hand on me, as the 
 dearest boon life could afford, but I detected a lurking 
 sneer on Uberto's lips, as he awaited my answer. I fimcied, 
 that, instigated by my wily rival, Uberto only sought to 
 provoke the offer of my hand and fortunes, to reject both 
 with scorn. Ancestral pri4e resumed its sway, and, hiding 
 my deep emotion, I merely uttered some common-place 
 l)hrases about offering my best wishes for his and his 
 daughter's happiness. I left the Villa Manno for the first 
 time dejected, resolving to absent myself from it for a 
 time, and yet watch, unseen, if ^'irginia became too easily 
 amenable to her father's wishes. An excellent opportunity 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 253 
 
 occurred to rae to follow up this plan, and give the irri- 
 tated artist time to cool over his first resentment at my 
 thus crossing his favourite scheme. 
 
 " My mother wrote to me at this time, to desire me to 
 enact the part of cicerone to the noble family of De Gosson, 
 neighbours of ours in Brittany. As winter was fast approach- 
 ing, they proposed to me to devote the last days of autumn 
 in visiting the most celebrated spots in the environs of 
 Rome, such as Albano, Tivoli, &c. I agreed willingly, for 
 I sought distraction of any kind, and was pleased at having 
 social duties forced upon me. 
 
 " In the De Gosson's society I met, for the first time, the 
 beautiful Countess Zamoysky, a Pole. And here I must 
 dwell at some length on this woman, who, by her dazzling 
 beauty and treacherous arts, exerted such a fatal influence 
 in separating me for ever from the only woman I truly 
 loved. 
 
 " Painters have vainly tried to reproduce the perfect 
 loveliness of Madame Zamoysky 's features. Her glo- 
 rious black eyes; her luxuriant dark hair, braided on her 
 high and intellectual forehead ; the perfect oval of her face ; 
 the rich tints of her complexion ; are to be found only in 
 Raphael's Madonna della Seggiola,* or in Domenichino's 
 Sybil, in the Capitol ; then her figure was like the Diane 
 Chasseresse, so truly proud and commanding in every 
 aspect — in every gesture. She was the admired of all, but 
 loved by none. Public report described her as accepting 
 universal homage as her due ; but perfectly passionless, and 
 of spotless reputation, though united to a man much her 
 senior in years, and wholly unworthy of her. The Count 
 
 * At the Palais Pitti, in Florence. 
 
254 EVENLNGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Zamoysky was a mean, cringing courtier, making poor 
 attempts at wit, and gladly sheltering his nonentity under 
 the shadow of his wife's celebrity, to frequent every house 
 open to society, where otherwise he would have been voted 
 an intolerable bore. 
 
 " A young Russian prince at the time insinuated to me, 
 that the lovely Pole had more than once taken pleasure in 
 drawing on young and inexperienced men, to study the 
 intensity of their youthful adoration for her charms, and 
 when they dared to claim the reward due to their devotion, 
 rejected them with scorn and derision; but this I listened 
 to as the calumny that too often attacks women of superior 
 beauty, shielded by equal virtue. My own heart filled witli 
 the image of Virginia, I feared not to indulge in all the 
 gratification I derived fi-om Madame Zamoysky's various 
 talents and fascinating manners. 
 
 " Towards the winter, foreigners began to pour into Rome 
 from all sides. The carnival promised to be unusually 
 brilliant; and at every fete Madame Zamoysky w^as the 
 magnet of attraction — the cynosure of all eyes. 
 
 " She attended regularly Uberto Manno's Monday even- 
 ings, where the fair Virginia presided, and did the honours 
 of her father's house with matchless grace. These soirees 
 were delightful, for there, mixed with the most eminent 
 artists of all countries, were to be seen, in turn, each illus- 
 trious traveller passing through Rome. In return, Uberto 
 Manno and his daugliter were invited to all the embassies 
 and best houses then open in Rome. The painter accepted 
 these invitations, not from a wish to soar above his equals 
 in rank, but as a tribute paid to the divine art, of which 
 he was the most ardent votary. 
 
 " On my i*eturn from our excursions in the environs, T 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 255 
 
 remarked, in my morning visits to Uberto, that Virginia 
 was no longer to be seen in his studio ; so I was obliged to 
 defer, till the next Monday evening, my purpose of learning, 
 from her own lips, her reasons for rejecting Carelli's love. 
 Her answer, I was resolved, should decide my future 
 course. Dancing and music were equally resorted to at 
 Manno's soirees. During a waltz with Virginia, I ventured 
 to allude to her sorrow, which I had involuntarily wit- 
 nessed, also her unusual absence from her father's studio ; 
 and told her how painful both these circumstances had been 
 to me. A bright blush suffused her cheek, and her little 
 hand trembled in mine, seeming to bid me hope my affec- 
 tion was returned, when Carelli suddenly interrupted us by 
 claiming Virginia's hand for the saltarella, just asked for 
 at the express desire of Madame Zamoysky, who, leaning 
 on the young painter's arm, said she would take no 
 refusal. The whole assembly made way in the centre of the 
 room for the youthful couple, who performed their native 
 dance with grace and vivacity. Never did Virginia look 
 to more advantage than on that night, dressed in virgin 
 white, as was her invariable custom, her beautiful blonde 
 hair richly plaited round her head, her soft blue eyes down- 
 cast, as if unwilling to encounter the general gaze of admi- 
 ration her dancing called forth. 
 
 '"Does not Virginia remind you,' said Madame Za- 
 moysky, ' of those graceful dancing figures on the Etruscan 
 vases?' Then, following my eyes, jealously riveted on 
 Virginia's every movement, she continued, ' How ad- 
 mirably they contrast at this moment. Behold Carelli's 
 manly figure, seeming to uphold the aerial nymph-like 
 form which now clings to him for support — now turns 
 away in affected coyness. What a pity,' added she, as 
 
256 EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 if thinking aloud, ' that her mind is not as candid as her 
 angelic countenance would seem to denote, and tliat, by an 
 unpardonable spirit of coquetry, she persists in distressing 
 her doting father and devoted lover.' 
 
 " I asked, abruptly, if their engagement had been long 
 known ? 
 
 " ' ^yhen I was here last winter,' answered Madame 
 Zamoysky, ' Carelli, who is a great protege of mine, in- 
 formed me of their mutual attachment, and that their 
 youth alone retarded their marriage. But he now tells 
 me, that on his late return from Russia, he found Virginia 
 altered, and capricious in the extreme; but he knows that 
 it is only to put his love to the test, for that her heart is 
 his, and his only.' 
 
 "Knowing that she must soon hear it from others, I 
 frankly avowed to Madame Zamoysky my unabated love 
 for A^irginia, assuring her, at the same time, how totally 
 unconscious I was till now of her previous attachment to 
 her cousin. 
 
 " I left Manno's house without attempting to resume my 
 broken conversation with Virginia, for the mere suspicion 
 of her having trifled with my feelings wounded me to the 
 soul ; and besides, Carelli never left her side for the rest of 
 the evening. 
 
 " The next day, when I calmly reflected on the past, I 
 called reason to my aid, and ended in convincing myself 
 that, to my sorrow, I had mistaken Virginia's endearing 
 sweetness of countenance and manners for a warmer feeling. 
 I could not bear to suppose so guileless a being could 
 voluntarily inflict the pangs I felt; then I thought on 
 Carelli, and pride came to my aid. Was I, the son of one 
 of the noblest houses in Brittany, to dispute Virginia's 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 257 
 
 heart, inch by inch, with a low-born artist, and by so 
 doing incur the lasting displeasure of my beloved mother? 
 No— never ! I would strive to forget Virginia, whose greatest 
 charm, in my eyes, was gone, for I had hoped to win a 
 virgin heart. I thought, with gratified pride, on the un- 
 feigned sympathy shown me by Madame Zamoysky, and 
 sought her society more than ever. How it humbles me, 
 Clarence, to show myself to you, whom I so honour and 
 esteem, in such a despicable light ! Yet such was my 
 miserable infatuation for Madame Zamoysky, that it hur- 
 ried me on, step by step, to the renouncing of a pearl 
 without price — to be ensnared by the specious wiles of one 
 who, like the ignis-fatuus, beguiles the benighted traveller 
 but to lead him to destruction. 
 
 "One of Madame Zamoysky's greatest attractions in 
 my eyes, was the respectful admiration she testified for my 
 mother, from the various details she had learnt from the 
 De Gossons. How she won me by dwelling with elo- 
 quence on the sorrow the disparaging union of her only 
 son would give her ! Then, if in our walks to the galleries, 
 or during our musical repetitions, the theme of love was 
 mentioned, how glowing were her thoughts on that subject, 
 how touchingly she would deplore the misery of conjugal 
 life unblessed by mutual sympathies ! At such moments 
 as these, I thought her the most interesting of her sex, 
 and felt proudly happy that this lovely woman should 
 thus single me out from the crowd of admirers watching 
 for a smile, to impart to me alone her hidden sorrows, 
 ever carefully veiled from the public eye by a haughty 
 reserve. 
 
 " The winter passed most rapidly. I now no longer 
 frequented the Villa Manno in the morning ; and when I 
 
 s 
 
258 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 met Virginia, wliicli was but seldom, at the different balls 
 and parties, her manner was frigidly cold. A bare reco- 
 gnition passed between us. This I ascribed to her entire 
 return of Carelli's affection. 
 
 " One evening, at Madame Zamoysky's house, tableaux 
 were proposed. The most successful were, Virginia as a 
 Virgin of Carlo Dolci, and the Countess Zamoysky, as the 
 Sybil of Domenichino. This latter tableau caused enthu- 
 siastic admiration. Manno and Carelli were the directors 
 of the whole. Wlien the tableaux were over, Carelli 
 approached Madame Zamoysky, exclaiming, with trans- 
 port — ' You were indeed an object to bow down before 
 and worship, as the ideal of beauty, and a new source of 
 inspiration to us artists!' 
 
 " Indignant at the presumption of the young artist 
 thus openly expressing his admiration to the fair Countess, 
 I drew her arm through mine, and left the spot where Carelli 
 stood. 
 
 " ' You are wrong, Querancy,' said she, as if reading my 
 thoughts, ' to blame us women for listening graciously to 
 the artist's praise. Their homage is sincere — solely 
 prompted by the love of their art; and then,' added 
 she, in a soft murmur, ' I do feel a grateful triumph, 
 if, for one night only, the Sybil has effaced the Virgin.' 
 
 " I gazed on the fair Countess at these words ; and, as 
 she stood, her lustrous eyes raised towards mine in all 
 their radiant beauty, I must have been more than human 
 not to yield to the rapturous triumph of that hour. I led 
 her out on the mooidit terrace, and, for the first time, 
 breathed words of pa.^jsionate love into her ear. She 
 listened, and checked me not, and I thought a tear fell 
 on my hand. When I paused foi- an answer, she recovered 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 259 
 
 her usual composure, and told me that another time 
 she would chide me for my folly, but in so bewitching a 
 manner, that I could have wished to be reproved for ever 
 by so lovely a monitress. Her husband called her in, to 
 speak to some guest who was leaving the assembly, and 
 thus we parted for several days. 
 
 " I called repeatedly at her house, but was invariably 
 answered that the Countess was too indisposed to 
 receive. 
 
 " During this interval, I had a conversation with Uberto 
 Manno, which stung me to the quick. Latterly, he had 
 resumed, whenever we met, his old familiarity — doubtless, 
 no longer finding in me an obstacle to his matrimonial 
 plans for his daughter. Madame Zamoysky was the 
 subject of conversation among the visitors present. On 
 leaving the house where we had met, he followed me to 
 the door, and, in a whisper, complimented me on the 
 miracle I had effected, in touching the heart of one, as 
 dazzling in her beauty, as she had been hitherto invul- 
 nerable in her virtue. I writhed under the hidden satire 
 of the father of Virginia, and this within the hearing of 
 Carelli. A fearful doubt flashed across my mind. Was 
 I, too, to be one of the many dupes formerly alluded to by 
 a friend ? I resolved to demand an interview of Madame 
 Zamoysky, and probe her very heart. I wrote, accord- 
 ingly, a most emphatic letter, imploring her, if I had 
 not loved in vain, to wear, on the following Tuesday, a 
 nosegay of white camelias, which I should offer to her on 
 that day. Should she not grant my supplication, 1 
 resolved instantly to leave Eome, and endeavour to forget 
 one who had led me to believe that my fondest hopes were 
 about to be realized. 
 
 s 2 
 
260 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " I named Tuesday, for that day had l)eeu proposed pre- 
 viously by Madame Zamoysky, as a sort of farewell party to 
 her immediate circle of friends in Rome. The remainins; 
 days that preceded the one so fraught with interest to me 
 were spent in a state of feverish excitement; my whole 
 destiny seemed, by the agony of suspense I endured, to be 
 summed up in that one day. 
 
 " Tuesday at length arrived, and a more beautiful day 
 never gladdened the opening spring. Though early in 
 April, the weather was warm enough to allow the repast 
 to be laid out on the grass, just within sight of this spot 
 where we now sit. All the details of the pic-nic were 
 organized by the Count Zamoysky, who, in such matters, 
 enjoyed an undisputed supremacy. 
 
 " I watched, meanwhile, with torturing anxiety, each 
 carriage that arrived, till the object of my solicitude, 
 Madame Zamoysky, appeared in her all- surpassing love- 
 liness, carrying in her hand the nosegay of camelias 
 already mentioned. When I approached, she received 
 me with her brightest smiles, and allowed me to pick 
 from her nosegay a bud, which I proudly wore near my 
 heart for the rest of that eventful day. 
 
 " Never did this fair enchantress exert to greater advan- 
 tage her powers of captivation. Judge of the rapture of 
 my soul, to feel that all these blandishments were exerted 
 for me, and me only. 
 
 *' The weather seemed to exhilarate the spirits of all 
 present; the women were beautiful, the men all animation. 
 Additional zest was given to the pic-nic by the unlooked-for 
 apparition of a band of strolling Hungarian gipsies in their 
 fanciful costume; and many youthful couples were to be 
 seen eagerly inquiring from them oi' tlicir future destiny. 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 261 
 
 Only late in the afternoon, Uberto Manno and his 
 (laughter joined our party. Carelli hastened to her side, 
 with the tender eagerness of an affianced lover. A young 
 Russian tenor had just been singing his national airs to 
 the guitar, and a general wish was expressed that Virginia 
 should favour us with a song. She appeared much dis- 
 tressed at the request, and said, she feared her voice 
 would fail her. But Carelli besought her to try only one 
 verse of ' Ah, che soffrir !' which was ever her song of 
 predilection. Was it my fancy? As she turned to reply, 
 her dark blue eyes met mine, and I thought I read in them 
 reproach, and deep anguish. Her father hastily whispered 
 to her, and instantly Virginia made an effort to sing. 
 She murmured, rather than sung, the touching complaint 
 of the Neapolitan poet; but so heart- felt was the expres- 
 sion she gave, that each breath was hushed to catch 
 the low tones of her seraphic voice. She soon paused, 
 and, with artless grace, begged of Madame Zamoysky to 
 finish the verses, adding, that she would do more 
 justice to the composition, than was in her power to 
 effect. Then, complaining of the damp of the evening, 
 she rose to return home, followed by her father and 
 
 Carelli. 
 
 " A fast ebbing tide of pure and happy recollections 
 rushed through my memory, as I watched that fairy form 
 vanish in the distance ; for 1 looked for the last time on 
 her, who will be to me, while life lasts, 'the day-star 
 of memory.' 
 
 " The Countess Zamoysky roused me from my reverie by 
 the impassioned fervour with which she sang. She elec- 
 trified all present. Virginia was forgotten in the enthu- 
 siasm of applause bestowed on the lovely virtuoso. 
 
262 EVENINGS AT HADDON IIALI,. 
 
 " At that moment one of the gipsies renewed her whining 
 importunities to tell me my fortune. A pang shot across 
 my heart, for she made a long-forgotten chord vibrate in 
 my memory — the predictions of Dame Marguerite, appa- 
 rently about to be fulfilled. 
 
 " AYas not the mouth of April fatal to me and mine? 
 Was not my whole soul enslaved by woman's charms — 
 enhanced by music's softest strains? 
 
 " It had been agreed upon, that the same party should 
 meet again in the evening at Madame Zamoysky's house. 
 Manno and his daughter did not come, but Carelli did; 
 and I observed that he talked long and earnestly to the 
 fair Countess. I vainly strove to speak to her a moment 
 in private; though I had never Avitnessed her whole 
 demeanour more soft and yielding, still I fancied she 
 avoided giving me an opportunity to speak to her alone. 
 
 " I remembered that the Count Zamoysky was engaged 
 to play whist at the Russian embassy, and would certainly 
 not return home before two in the morning. I therefore 
 determined on creating an opportunity to solve all my 
 doubts respecting Madame Zamoysky's sentiments. 
 
 " At eleven, the company began to leave, and I feigned 
 to leave also ; but, thoroughly acquainted with every issue 
 of the apartment, on finding myself alone in the last drawing- 
 room, I turned into a door on the left, that led into the 
 library, and which, I was aware, opened into Madame 
 Zamoysky's boudoir. The library was lit by a single 
 lamp. 1 was just enabled to find my way to the window, 
 where I hastily concealed myself behind the thick damask 
 curtains, in the deep embrasure of the window conmion to 
 old lloman palaces. From it, 1 could watch unseen what- 
 ever passed in the great receiving room, the windows of 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 263 
 
 which were exactly opposite, and left open on the terrace. 
 Thus 1 should be enabled, on seeing the last guest depart, 
 to emerge from my retreat, and obtain the interview I 
 so ardently sought. 
 
 " Soon after, I beheld the Countess alone ; she remained 
 wrapt in thought for a short time, her beautiful head 
 resting on her arm, supported by the piano. She then 
 drew from her bosom a small note, and, on perusing the 
 contents, an air of soft regret subdued the brilliancy of 
 her dazzling beauty. Might it not have been my letter 
 she was reading, and perhaps despising me for the timid 
 diffidence that restrained me from pouring forth my vows 
 of passionate love at her feet? 
 
 " She roused herself, and, tearing the letter with a 
 haughty air that became her well, left the room. The 
 lights were all extinguished; the clock struck twelve — 
 each stroke resounded on my beating heart. I listened 
 to the retiring steps of the servants — then all was 
 
 silent. 
 
 " I. soon after heard distinctly the Countess's voice^ in 
 the adjoining boudoir, dismissing her maid, and telling 
 her that she would write till the Count's return home. 
 
 " Then only I ventured to leave my retreat, when, to my 
 utter consternation, I heard a carriage roll into the court, 
 and Monsieur Zamoysky's voice in the outer room, already 
 described. Thus all retreat was cut off. He entered 
 the library, giving me barely time to screen myself again 
 from view, and in the perturbation of this crisis, I upset 
 a flower-stand, actually placed in the window where I 
 
 stood. 
 
 " Zamoysky, guided by the noise, walked straight up to 
 the window, and tore the curtains open. His wife, 
 
264 KVENINGS AT llAODuN llAl.L. 
 
 equally attracted by the same noise, entered I'roni her 
 own door, and found me face to face with her husband ! 
 
 " The Count demanded of me what was my purpose in 
 being thus susjjiciously concealed in the vicinity of his 
 wife's apartment at this hour of the night, and if he was 
 to conclude it was with her consent ? 
 
 " This demand gave Madame Zamoysky time to recover 
 herself; and with admirable presence of mind, and all the 
 dignity of otFended virtue that conscious innocence ought 
 alone to impart, she addressed herself to me, saying 
 she defied me, by word or deed on her part, to exone- 
 rate myself from the outrage I had oifered her, in thus 
 invading the sanctity of her privacy ; and then added, 
 with galling irony, that it was a well-known weakness 
 of Monsieur de Querancy's, to imagine his love acceptable 
 where it was wholly unrequited. She then implored of 
 Monsieur Zamoysky to forgive my youthful presumption, 
 more to be pitied than resented, and retired into her 
 apartment. 
 
 " While she still spoke, the veil which had hitherto 
 obscured my blinded intellect had fallen for ever! Her 
 beauty seemed to me abhorrent, since it was but the 
 mask of a soul stained with perfidy of the darkest dye. 
 That voice, which a few hours before, 1 liad compared to 
 a syren's, sounded harsh and discordant, from the utter- 
 ance of premeditated falsehood. 
 
 " Powerless — for there is no vengeance to be wreaked on 
 a woman — maddened and reckless, life appeared to me 
 an intolerable burthen. Gladly would 1 have offered a 
 defenceless breast to the weapon of an injured husband. 
 Animated by this feeling, I scorned all subterfuge, and 
 declared to the Count Zamoysky tliat 1 came there, 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGKL. 265 
 
 resolved not to leave an art untried to seduce his wife 
 from the path of conjugal duty, and therefore awaited 
 his wishes, to give every satisfaction to his offended 
 honour. 
 
 " He sternly interrupted me by saying, ' Is it not 
 enough, sir, that your audacious presumption has exposed 
 a blameless wife to the comments of my servants, without 
 incurring further publicity and scandal to her fair fame 
 by a duel ? Her wishes are ever my law. I merely re- 
 quest your absence from Rome for a time, and trust, for 
 tlie future, you will refrain from measuring a virtuous 
 woman's high sense of duty by the laxity of yours !" 
 
 " Struck dumb by such an odious combination of treach- 
 ery and meanness, I fled from the house, like one pursued 
 by avenging furies. I returned to the embassy, and, late 
 as it was, demanded an audience of the Due de L. M. 
 After briefly narrating my miserable discomfiture, I 
 appealed to his paternal kindness to help me to leave this 
 now hateful city, and, if possible, enable me to hide my 
 cruel disappointments by some far distant diplomatic 
 appointment. 
 
 " The Due de L. M. soothed my youthful anguish with 
 fatherly kindness, then wrote on the moment a letter to 
 the minister of foreign affairs, in Paris, begging of him 
 to forward my wishes. This done, I ordered post-horses, 
 and before daylight was on my way to France. 
 
 " Bitter were the reflections that tormented me on my 
 cheerless road home, which same road, but a year before, 
 1 had travelled buoyant with the exhilarating visions of 
 early youth. But the deepest sorrow I felt was, to have 
 become an object of contempt to Virginia, and ridicule to 
 the sarcastic Uberto Manno. 
 
266 EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 " Fortune favoured me so far, that I was enabled to 
 effect an exchange with a brother diploraate, who was to 
 have started within a few days for Rio Janeiro, but who 
 gladly consented to take my vacant post at Rome. 
 
 " I had but one day to devote to my poor mother. Our 
 meeting was a sad one, for she was painfully alarmed 
 by the alteration of my whole appearance. In reply to 
 her tender inquiries, I merely glanced at an unfortunate 
 attachment to one already engaged ; for I cared not to sully 
 her pure mind by the fulsome tale of Madame Zamoysky's 
 heartless coquetry; nor until this day have these details 
 ever passed my lips. My mother saw me so firmly bent 
 on trying to divert my cares by total change of scene, that 
 she encouraged the idea ; and thus I left my home for the 
 second time, and joined at 1' Orient a schooner bound for 
 America. 
 
 " I spent nearly two years in the Brazils. When free 
 from my diplomatic duties, I made long excui'sious into 
 the interior parts, and occupied myself principally with 
 botanical researches, for which I have a decided taste. I 
 loved to explore those sublime solitudes, and reflect on the 
 overthrow of such mighty empires to fulfil the inscrutable 
 decrees of Providence ! Among these great wrecks of the 
 past, I tried to forget my pigmy sorrows, and sought 
 oblivion of the hard lesson taught my wounded heart by 
 the hollow arts of European civilization. 
 
 " Towards the second spring of my stay in the Brazils, I 
 joined a large party of travellers bound to the northern 
 l)arts. On the third day after our departure from Rio 
 Janeiro, my attention was arrested by an Italian artist 
 relating the consternation he had witnessed at Rome, 
 occasioned l>y the suicide (jf a most promising young 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 267 
 
 brother artist, Antonio Carelli. Inexpressibly shocked at 
 this news, I eagerly asked the Italian for further detads. 
 
 '"It appears,' he replied, ' that at the last exposition 
 of modern paintings in Rome, his picture of " The Guardian 
 An-el" was pronounced unanimously to be the finest pro- 
 ducdon of the times. It created tenfold interest from the 
 well-known fact, that his source of inspiration was his 
 affianced bride, the lovely Virginia Manno. Favoured in 
 love and by the arts, his rash act of self-destruction will 
 ever remain a mystery. The day after his triumph, he 
 was found dead in his studio ! His unhappy cousin, over- 
 come by this fatal blow, has retired for a time, to give 
 vent to her grief, in the convent on Monte Pincio, at 
 
 Rome.' , 1 • 1 J 
 
 » What a succession of thoughts and projects whirled 
 through my brain on hearing of this unforeseen event ! But 
 one idea was all absorbing— Virginia was again free; 
 and my first, my unforgotten love, might still be mine ! 
 Carelli's untimely end led me to conclude that Virginia 
 had not repaid his love. Like me, might she not have 
 been the victim of Carelli's arts, prompted by the Countess 
 
 Zamoysky ? 
 
 " My resolution was soon taken; once more restored to 
 hope, all future obstacles seemed easy to overcome. In- 
 stead of prosecuting this journey, I would return to Europe 
 by a ship which was to sail the following week. 
 
 " I pleaded urgent business to excuse my abrupt depar- 
 ture from my fellow-travellers; and having obtained a 
 strong mule, resolved not to delay a moment till I could 
 reach some public conveyance to take me back to Rio 
 
 Janeiro. 
 
 " The sky was dark and lowering; a low wind clearly 
 
268 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 indicated the coming storm. All my companions endea- 
 voured to turn me from braving alone in the forests the 
 coming tempest. Their friendly advice was lost on my 
 unwilling ears. They knew not of the fair prize which would 
 have tempted me to encounter far greater dangers. We 
 parted company, and I rode on like one impelled by 
 irresistible fate. The storm raged about me with terrific 
 fury. My faltering mule, blinded by a vivid flash of 
 forked lightning, came down on its knees, and threw me 
 on some fragments of broken pillars, where I lay a sense- 
 less heap amid the fury of the elements. 
 
 " I afterwards learnt that I was found by a Jew pedlar 
 merchant returning to his home, a sort of place of way- 
 fare to benighted travellers in those solitary parts. Like 
 the good Samaritan, he picked me up, laid me across his 
 mule, and conveyed me to his home. 
 
 " On recovering my senses, my first question was to in- 
 quire the day of the month, on account of the vessel sailing 
 for Europe. My host told me it was the first of April. I 
 shuddered ; for again Dame Marguerite's warnings arose 
 before me. I was seized with n burning fever, from the 
 wet to which I had been exposed, and soon after became 
 delirious, as I was afterwards told by this most hospitable 
 Hebrew. I lay stretched on a bed of sickness for six weeks. 
 My host had a good deal of medical knowledge, and to 
 his care — but, above all, to my youth and vigorous con- 
 stitution — I owed my recovery. 
 
 " This deplorable accident retarded my return to Europe 
 fur lour months ; at last, after an unfavourable passage, I 
 landed at Havre. My first impulse was to ask for a 
 newspaper; judge of my des[)air on reading, that the 
 daughter of the celebrated Uberto Manno had taken tlie 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 269 
 
 irrevocable monastic vows, at the convent of the Monte 
 Pincio, at Home." Had it not been for the cruel mischance 
 that delayed my return, I might have been in time to 
 dissuade Virginia from her fatal resolution. Bereft of my 
 last hope of happiness on earth, I sought my mother's 
 counsels. She recommended me more than ever to pursue 
 my career. I obtained a special mission to the East, 
 where I first met you, my valued friend. I have declined 
 promotion, not to be tied to one particular spot ; and thus 
 I intend to lead the life of a wanderer, tasting of every 
 excitement in turn. But, alas ! to you I confide that ' the 
 heart— the heart is lonely still !' Its last throb will be 
 for the loved one immured for ever in yon dark convent 
 
 walls!" 
 
 The friends rose to leave the gardens, when, again 
 attracted by the form and workmanship of the guitar, 
 already mentioned, l)e Querancy examined it more closely, 
 and observed engraved on it the initials " V. M., 1817." 
 
 Struck by this mysterious coincidence, he proposed to 
 Clarence to obtain, if possible, further information on the 
 subject, by inquiring at the Villa Pamphili Doria to whom 
 this instrument belonged. 
 
 While he was speaking, a young girl ran up to them, 
 claiming the guitar, saying, that she had been playing on 
 it at the fountain, but having run home to attend her sick 
 grandmother, she had been detained longer than she had 
 expected. 
 
 De Querancy asked her her name. She replied, " Vir- 
 ginia Cecchini." On hearing this name, he bid her lead 
 them at once to her relation— for such he remembered to 
 have been the name of Virginia Manno's old nurse, whom 
 she loved and regarded as a second mother. As they 
 
270 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. 
 
 entered the room into which the young Italian introduced 
 them, they found an elderly female spinning, evidently 
 suifering from the wasting effects of the malaria. On see- 
 ing De Querancy, Camillo Cecchini uttered an exclamation 
 of surprise, not unmixed with pleasure. She greeted him 
 as an old acquaintance, and said, " Ah, signor, I little 
 thought I should ever have had the honour of receiving 
 you ! Sad, sad events have taken place since last we met !" 
 (And tears rolled down her face as she spoke.) " I 
 see the purport of your visit," she added, looking at the 
 guitar De Querancy still held in his hand; " you must 
 have already recognised it as belonging once to my dear 
 young mistress, and wonder, doubtless, how it came into 
 my humble possession." De Querancy bowed assent, and 
 she spoke as follows : — 
 
 " It was in 1818 that you left Rome, if I remember well. 
 Soon after that time, my poor child (as the Signorina 
 Manno allowed me to call her) grew paler and more sorrow- 
 ful every day. We all concluded that this deep grief was 
 caused by her father's immovable resolution to unite her to 
 her cousin Antonio Carelli, who vainly tried, by tender- 
 ness and violence in turn, to win her to listen to his love. 
 She sought relief to her cares in the fulfilment of her pious 
 and charitable duties, which obtained for her the touching 
 surname of " the Guardian Angel." It was this inspired her 
 lover with his cliefd'ceuvre — since his death given to the 
 nuns of Monte Pincio. My dear mistress's only solace was to 
 sit for hours alone in her room, singing to the guitar. One 
 evening she was thus employed, singing her favourite air, 
 
 ' All, die soflrir mi resta!' 
 when Carelli surprised her, and 1 heard him in bitter tones 
 
THE GUAKDIAN ANGEL. 271 
 
 reproach her for her inexorable cruelty to him, and un- 
 availing regrets for the worthless stranger. 
 
 " For the only time in her life, I believe, Virginia was 
 roused to anger. She told him, with dignity, that it was 
 ungenerous to persecute one who had never for a moment 
 deceived him; that solely from obedience to her father she 
 would accompany him to the altar, since he persisted in 
 claiming an unwilling bride. ' Heartless one!' he ex- 
 claimed, ' then be the results of this declaration on your 
 head !' And he rushed from her presence. A few hours 
 afterwards he committed the dark deed which has con- 
 signed his family to eternal sorrow. 
 
 " My young mistress, on that day of dreadful memory, 
 attended, as usual, morning mass at the Convent of Monte 
 Pincio, where she was loved as a daughter by all the good 
 nuns. When I told her the fatal catastrophe, she was 
 horror-struck, and accused herself of being the cause of 
 Carelli's untimely end. Vainly I strove to console her; she 
 bid me leave her, to find comfort in solitude and prayer, 
 for she dared not return home and face her father's anguish ! 
 She judged rightly. Uberto Manno declared he would 
 never forgive her, in the fii'st ebullition of his fiery passion. 
 This was, unfortunately, repeated to his gentle child ; and, 
 heart-broken with remorse, she dedicated herself to a holy 
 life of penance, in the hopes of atoning for her involuntary 
 share in her cousin's death. Too late, Uberto Manno de- 
 manded the return home of his only child. He was made 
 aware of her vow ; he mourned, but dared not oppose it. 
 After her taking the habit, he left Rome, and, I hear, seeks 
 to forget the downfall of all his fondest hopes, in distant 
 travels to the Eastern courts, where he is received with the 
 royal hospitality due to his splendid talents. 
 
272 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " The Jay before my dear cliild pronounced tlie irrevocable 
 vows, she called nie into her cell, and holding to me yon 
 guitar, she said, ' My good Camilla, I love you as a 
 mother; therefore I wish to bequeath to you and yours a 
 remembrance of me, and one of the things dearest to me 
 on earth. Henceforth my voice shall only sing the praises 
 of the Most High! Nor,' added she, in a low whisper, 
 ' could I look on this guitar without my memory straying 
 back to earthly remembrances far too tender. Teach my 
 Camilla, your granddaughter, and my godchild, to sing to 
 it the songs I loved best.' And as a relic have I trea- 
 sured ever since that guitar, which, for the first time to- 
 day, was taken out of my room by my grandchild to the 
 fountain. 
 
 " The Manno villa is now a deserted mansion. Though 
 made independent for the rest of my days by the bounty of 
 Uberto Manno, I consented to take charge of this villa, in 
 the absence of the Prince Pamphili Doria, hoping to derive 
 benefit to my health from its elevated situation." 
 
 De Querancy thanked her warmly for all tlie details she 
 had given, and rose to leave, when she beckoned him back, 
 and whispered, " To-iporrow is Easter Sunday ; slie will 
 sing at high mass !" 
 
 The next morning Clarence went to St. Peter's, and De 
 Querancy attended high mass at the chapel of the French 
 convent of Monte Pincio. Strangers are admitted, for the 
 nuns who sing are entirely concealed by Ji thick curtain, 
 which screens them from public gaze. 
 
 When the friends again met to proceed on their journey, 
 De Querancy appeared wonderfully calm, and in the even- 
 inf of that day he voluntarily spoke of his sensations in 
 the convent. " Wildly," said he, " did my licart beat, 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 273 
 
 when the solemn silence of prayer was broken by the un- 
 forgotten seraphic voice of my lost Virginia !" 
 
 "The subject chosen, sung in Latin, signified, 'The 
 Lamb has redeemed his sheep; Christ, who was innocent, 
 has reconciled sinners to his Father.' How render the 
 convincing truth, the inefi-able expression, the inspired 
 singer gave to these sublime words? She infused into all 
 pre'^ent the glad tidings of mercy and hope. For me, my 
 head buried in my hands, I knelt motionless, drinking in 
 each sound of that loved voice! When high mass was 
 over, I remained alone in the chapel, overwhelmed with an 
 intense feeling of solitude; it seemed as if I had enjoyed a 
 foretaste of heaven, but to feel still more my exile on earth. 
 As I once more raised my dejected head, the bright rays of 
 the noonday sun attracted my eyes to a picture on the side 
 of the chapel; there I beheld Carelli's beautiful conception 
 of the Guardian Angel. There stood Virginia, arrayed in 
 flowing robes of white ; her fair hair, as if gently sup- 
 ported by the wind, formed a crown of golden glories round 
 her angelic head; her azure eyes, beaming with a soft, but 
 all-penetrating gaze, seemed to search the depths of my 
 desponding soul^ whilst her parted lips, and hand raised 
 towards heaven, indicated that permanent rest was only to 
 be found there. The kneeling Christian, clinging to her 
 gown, his dark brow resplendent with genius, yet marked 
 by doubt and grief, was a most faithful portrait of the un- 
 fortunate Carelli. Long— long did I dwell on this sublime 
 picture, and as I did so, a holy calm entered my troubled 
 soul; I felt invigorated with new and healthy ideas ;^ I 
 knelt before this image of spotless purity— touching victim 
 of the unruly passions of men— and vowed to lead, hence- 
 forth, a life more worthy of the love she had felt for me. 
 
 T 
 
274 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 by forgetting my own selfish sorrows in helping to assuage 
 those of my fellow-creatures. 
 
 " Before leaving the convent, I wrote to request of the 
 abbess to allow me to have a miniature copy of the 
 chiif d'ceuvre in their possession, and begged to offer a 
 donation to the orphan asylum belonging to them. My 
 two demands were graciously received. I thus learnt that 
 sister Virginia had the orphan asylum under her special 
 care ; she was described to me as a perfect saint on earth — 
 so rigorous in her austerities, (though apparently deli- 
 cate,) so indefatigable in her admirable charity to all. 
 How my hand shook as I wrote my name in the book, 
 with the exact date, among the various benefactors of the 
 convent. I breathed a fervent prayer that my name might 
 be read, at some future time, by the " saint-like" Virginia, 
 and — oh, blessed thought ! — she would, perchance, rejoice 
 in her holy influence over me." 
 
 The sequel of this touching narrative was made known 
 t(^ me by Clarence, after his friend the Marquis de Que- 
 rancy's death, which occurred in 1832. 
 
 " Great," said he, " was the change Avrought in my 
 noble friend the Marquis de Querancy, dating from the 
 time of his visit to the convent of Monte Pincio. No 
 longer yielding to that mournful apathy which had so long 
 lulled the bright faculties of his powerful understanding, he 
 seemed upheld by some secret impulse, which led him 
 onwards, unerringly, to every ennobling pursuit. 
 
 " After having concluded most satisfactorily his diplo- 
 matic mission to the court of Naples, he returned to Paris, 
 and soon afterwards spoke, for the first time, in the 
 Chamber of Peers. All present were filled witli respectful 
 
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 275 
 
 admiration at the sentiments he professed on that occasion ; 
 his unaffected piety, fervent patriotism, and extended views 
 of benevolence, were worthy of the disciple of Chateau- 
 briand, and portrayed with the vivid eloquence of 
 Berryer. 
 
 " Frugally simple in his person and tastes, he devoted 
 his fortune to every laudable purpose, and by his personal 
 exertions improved inconceivably the country and peasantry 
 surrounding his estates in Brittany. 
 
 " One of the traits I admired most in my lamented 
 friend was, that though perfectly insensible to the charms 
 of the fairer sex, he never affected cynicism or contempt 
 towards the follies of other young men, and thus won over 
 more than one from the paths of vice, by the encouraging 
 example afforded by his own exemplary life. 
 
 " In 1830, when the elder branch of the Bourbons were 
 expelled from the throne of France, faithful to the political 
 creed of his ancestors, he protested against and declined to 
 serve the newly-elected King of the French; and hoping 
 for better times, he vowed unalterable fidelity to the 
 youthful Henri de Bordeaux, that innocent victim of the 
 faults of his forefathers. 
 
 "In the year 1832, when the cholera raged so fearfully 
 in Paris, the Marquis de Querancy, who was there at the 
 time, instead of flying the fatal contagion, thanked Heaven 
 that he had found a vast arena, wherein to exercise the 
 all-engrossing charity which animated his whole being. 
 
 " He is known to have emulated, and shared to the utmost 
 extent, the untiring zeal and holy labours of the poorest 
 Catholic priest at this dread era in the annals of human 
 sufferings. Like them, filled with holy abnegation of self, 
 he was ever to be found at the pallet of the plague-stricken ; 
 
 T 2 
 
276 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 his immense charity and heroic courage are recorded but 
 by the all-seeing eye of God. 
 
 " At last, worn out and exhausted by mental and bodily 
 fatigue, my poor friend Avas afflicted by a pulmonary com- 
 plaint, Avliich the faculty at once declared to be beyond all 
 human remedies. His mother came up to Paris to attend 
 his dying moments, and I found her worthy of the tender 
 veneration her son had always entertained for her. 
 
 " l^lost grateful was I to be thus enabled to share, if not 
 to alleviate, the sorrow of this heart-stricken motlier. 
 
 " On the evening of his death, De Querancy profited by 
 his mother's absence from the sick room to speak to me in 
 private. 
 
 " So emaciated was my poor friend by illness, that it 
 would have been difficult to recognise in him the once so 
 admired Arthur de Querancy. But a higher, holier beauty, 
 now adorned his head ; it was the calm serenity imparted 
 by the high faith of the dying Christian. 
 
 '" Is it not singular, dear Clarence,' said he, ' that Dame 
 Marguerite should have prophesied so true, for to-day is 
 my birtli-day, the 20th of April ! But I die most happy, for 
 I have borne my cross,' said he, looking mournfully on 
 the miniature of the Guardian Angel, which never left 
 him. ' Think you not, Clarence, that 1 am now more 
 worthy of the pure love of my Guardian Angel?' 
 
 " As he yet spoke, his mother approached the bed-side, 
 and offered him tlie calming draught she had left him to 
 prepare. 
 
 " De Querancy bent gently forward to accept it, and in 
 this dying effort breathed his hist sigli on that fond nia- 
 ternal bosom, wIkmicc he liad derived the first sustenance of 
 life." 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 
 
 277 
 
 At the conclusion of the foregoing tale, a gentleman, in 
 whose mien and bearing there was something which be- 
 spoke the gallant profession to which his life had been 
 devoted, and whose bronzed complexion showed evidently 
 that he had stood the brunt of " the battle and the 
 breeze," took up from the table at which he was sitting an 
 exquisite design of a dismantled ship under severe stress of 
 weather, and, addressing the Lady Eva, said, " If you will 
 let me tell you a simple tale of the sea, of which this 
 drawing reminds me, it may serve, rude though it be, to 
 afford time for others to prepare something more worthy 
 the occasion on which we are met together — an occasion 
 which it would grieve me not to be allowed to assist in 
 celebrating." 
 
 The offer was gladly greeted by Lady Eva and all the 
 company, and the gallant veteran proceeded to relate 
 
 THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 
 
 " Mislike me not for my complexion; 
 I wear the shadowy livery of the sun, 
 To whom I am near neighbour." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Over a parched and arid desert a train of captives 
 painfully pursued their way. The air was heavy with 
 intense heat. The sun, whose outline was obscured by 
 the hazy atmosphere, seemed to communicate to the vast 
 
278 EVENINGS AT IIADDON UALl.. 
 
 surface of heaven liis own burning and blinding power. 
 A pale and sickly hue of yellow coloured the whole scene. 
 It gave to sky and Desert the same scorched aspect, and 
 I'roni its universal and intolerable glare was infinitely 
 more dreadful than the fierce brilliance of an unclouded 
 noon. The sand, level, and to the eye boundless, had a 
 hard and polished surface, which presented an image of 
 frightful sterility. That saffron light cast no shadow on 
 the earth. The fainting traveller looked in vain for the 
 reflection of his form. There was no shade, no air. Around, 
 below, above, heat was present, as if it were concentrated 
 into a palpable substance, resting heavily on the head, 
 weighing down the limbs, oppressing and suffocating 
 perspiration. 
 
 To rest was to perish. The captives, with languid steps 
 and throbbing temples, moved on, animated by the prospect 
 of moistening their parched lips as the guide indicated 
 that wells were at hand. "Water! water!" was repeated 
 in many dialects of Africa, one desire, in a dozen languages, 
 and by hundreds of voices, — " AVater, water, or we die !" 
 
 Old Haloo, the chief of the band, whose life had been 
 passed in the traffic of slaves, looked on the fainting 
 throng, as if to calculate how much longer nature could 
 support existence. He took a skin from his camel's back, 
 drank himself, and wetted the mouth of the beast. His 
 prisoners waited with expectation. " Oh, water," muttered 
 he ; " if you want water, you must move more quickly." 
 He menaced those who seemed most eager for relief with a 
 heavy scourge. He was understood, and the unhappy 
 beings endeavoured to quicken their pace. 
 
 The train Avas numerous. Most of the captives were 
 young, some mere children, others rising into youth ; 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 279 
 
 others approaching histy maturity. Those who carried on 
 the traffic in human life understood their trade. The 
 young were sooner tamed, and more docile to command. 
 More died, it is true, but they cost little, either to take or 
 to keep. They did not attempt to escape, so there was 
 something saved in fetters. A ship would carry twice or 
 thrice as many of them as of full-grown beings ; and if they 
 were judiciously chosen, they sold well. 
 
 In this band there were almost as many girls as lads and 
 men. With few exceptions, all were unconfined. There 
 was no fear of their attempting to escape upon the Desert. 
 Their homes were hundreds of miles away. Around the 
 neck of each was a bag, containing roasted maize. This 
 was the sole provision for their journey. Each carried a 
 supply for several days. They received water only at the 
 appointed resting-places, which were often at the distance 
 of a long and weary day's travel. They were driven 
 forward like a herd of cattle, kept from straying by natural 
 instinct. When they approached a habitable country, they 
 were bound together in gangs, to prevent any from 
 deserting. In this mode they were hurried to the sea- 
 shore, to be borne across the Atlantic, and commence their 
 life of slavery. 
 
 But now they thought not of the future. They had but 
 one wish ; they believed they should be happy if they could 
 but satisfy the thirst which consumed them. Panting, 
 and with swollen tongue protruding from the mouth, they 
 pressed on, repeating the one word that animated them 
 to exertion. Some, unable to endure their agony longer, 
 fell. They Avere left to perish on the burning sand. In 
 the Desert, life was cheaper than water. 
 
 The horrors of that day drew to a close at last. In the 
 
280 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 distance, the guides who had advanced were seen filling 
 skins and vessels from the well. A cry of joy resounded 
 through the train. The single camel of the expedition 
 stretched forth his long neck, and quickened his pace, while 
 his large lips trembled with desire. As the resting-place 
 was reached, the sun went down, and water and shade were 
 attained together. The younger captives forgot everything 
 in the exquisite sense of relief and delight they experienced. 
 AVhen their wants were relieved they were careless of the 
 future, and sank to rest, beneath the large palms, which, 
 at the edge of the Desert, gave promise of a more fruitful 
 country. 
 
 One man alone had performed that day's march with 
 
 fetters to his wrists, and a thick rope attached to his 
 
 ankles. He had been brought from a province of Nubia, 
 
 where the White River watered the sultry plains, and tall 
 
 mountains cast on them a grateful shade. A tribe of 
 
 the Desert had invaded his village, burnt the dwellings 
 
 to the ground, and made him prisoner. He had struggled 
 
 desperately, but in vain ; though well had he maintained his 
 
 reputation for courage, and justified the confidence reposed 
 
 in him. Three of the savages fell by his hand ; at last, he 
 
 was only overpowered by numbers. Bound hand and foot, 
 
 he had been transferred from one tribe to another, till he 
 
 formed part of the band destined for the sea-coast. This 
 
 man was prized by Old Haloo, for his youth, large frame, 
 
 and prodigious strength. No labour seemed to tire him, 
 
 no punishment to subdue his spirit. He never complained. 
 
 He took food and water when oftered him, but he never 
 
 asked for either, and, unlike the other captives, he disdained 
 
 to carry provision for his journey. He was considered of 
 
 too much value to be neglected, and so was supplied with 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 
 
 281 
 
 sufficient nourishment to support life. He had more than 
 once endeavoured to escape, and was now so fettered, that 
 no struggles could avail him. At night, he was securely 
 tied to several of the other prisoners. 
 
 When the well was reached, this man had thrown himself 
 
 to the ground, and closed his eyes. Water was paraded 
 
 before him, but he did not heed it. He did not stretch 
 
 forth his hand for one draught of that precious fluid which 
 
 the herd of captives sought so eagerly. All were first 
 
 served, and then was taken to him a few drops of water, 
 
 sufficient to support life, but not to quench thirst. This 
 
 was gratuitous torture, for the element was now abundant. 
 
 When the vessel was offered to him, he struck it to the 
 
 ground, and dealt a heavy blow to the slave who bore it, 
 
 His outcries brought Old Haloo to the spot. He was 
 
 enraged, but did not wish to lose the 100 dollars which he 
 
 knew he should receive for so valuable a prize on the coast, 
 
 and a larger supply was brought. The Nubian drank it. 
 
 and ate some grains of maize. He next received the 
 
 punishment of the scourge, ordered him for his disobedience, 
 
 without a word, and appeared easily to fall asleep. 
 
 There are people who hold that the colour of the skin 
 affects the rights of humanity. They hear of an African's 
 stripes and chains with indifference, for he has thick lips 
 and woolly hair. He is not of the Caucasian race ; perhaps, 
 even, he may have little sense of physical pain. Why 
 should they care for agonies that cannot be told in a 
 civilized tongue! Freedom was made for the white skin, 
 slavery for the coloured. Thus is God's creation abused. 
 Never does He give life but for enjoyment. Man makes 
 the existence of his fellow one scene of wretchedness and 
 torture. 
 
282 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 No one could pierce into the thoughts of tlie Nubian that 
 night, or tell tlie pains of his body, the misery of his spirit. 
 He lay still, but he did not rest. Sometimes a low groan 
 escaped liim, wliich he sought to suppress, as unworthy his 
 fortitude. His bonds had fretted him, and now he could 
 gain no relief from their pressure. To him, of all the band, 
 that night brought no relief. He longed for the dawning 
 of day, though with it his sufferings would re-commence ; 
 the rest and silence of night he found more intolerable than 
 the toils and action of the day. 
 
 In his village home some scattered light of Christian 
 truth had reached him. He had gathered that one God 
 reigned in heaven, and that love and justice were his attri- 
 butes. Often were his fettered hands raised to the sky. 
 AVas his muttered prayer for deliverance, or for vengeance ? 
 He must have thought the answer long delayed. Yet it 
 did not seem that hope deserted him. His fellow-captives 
 sometimes saw him on his knees, and they attributed his 
 surprising resolution and untiring strength to the super- 
 natural aid he received in those moments from the Deity 
 he worshipped. 
 
 Twelve days more of privation and of fatigue to fainting, 
 brought that band in diminished numbers to the shore. 
 The discipline that tames the lion and the tiger — hunger 
 and weariness, had made them obedient to the slightest 
 gesture of their drivers. They were weak in body, but yet 
 weaker in spirit. Tliey lmm])ly entered the boats, though 
 the raging surf threatened their destruction, and were con- 
 veyed on board the vessel anchored in the distance. The 
 Nubian went with the rest, for lie was now incapable of 
 resistance. If these poor creatures liad any thought, they 
 must have wondered i'ur wluit end irons were rivctted to 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 283 
 
 their limbs, when they of themselves were almost incapable 
 of moving them. They were stowed thickly in the hold, 
 without light and without air. The slave- decks were 
 ready, the schooner sank deep in the water with her cargo 
 of flesh and blood, and the anchor was raised. 
 
 Fair but roughly blew the breeze. The vessel rose to 
 the swell, and gallantly flew over the waters to the west. 
 Night and day the ship rolled onwards, no pause in her 
 motion for an instant, no abatement of the heaving of the 
 waters. Frightful were the groans and shrieks of the 
 captives. " 'Tis no matter," said the captain; " they are 
 safe. No escape here." He was wrong. The escapes 
 were numerous. Each morning the dead were separated 
 from the living — not before. Those who were not on the 
 watch, yet heard in their berths below the sullen plash in 
 the waters which sounded the funeral knell of the victims. 
 
 It was horrible to see the shoal of sharks which followed 
 that ship. They seemed, like the rolling waters, to know 
 no rest. They knew their prey was in that vessel, and 
 they never forsook it. Often, in the day they were not 
 seen. They knew their time, and they observed it regu- 
 larly. Long before the sun rose, these monsters, in the 
 earliest dawn of light, were observed moving on the surface 
 of the water, opening their huge jaws, springing over each 
 other, touching the sides of the ship, as if they smelt their 
 prey through the planks, and manifesting the most furious 
 eagerness to obtain it. 
 
 The captain was naturally more careless than cruel. 
 When matters went well, he was good-humoured enough; 
 but when crossed, he lost all control over himself, and his 
 bad passions blazed forth with irrestrainable fury. In his 
 wrath he Avas a perfect fiend. The slave-trade brought 
 
284 EVENINGS AT HADDO.V HALL. 
 
 liiin wealth, and lie was indifferent about tlie rest. There 
 are many characters like his in the world, though not all 
 are exposed to the same temptation, who suffer themselves 
 to be guided by events, without a thought for the conse- 
 quences. He had no interest in his cargo, but he felt a 
 pride, as he expressed it, in landing it in good order. He 
 had amassed Avealth, for his schooner was a smart thing, 
 and had distanced many an English cruiser. She had so 
 good a look about her, too, that she was not often suspected, 
 and besides the traffic in slaves, the captain did something 
 in ivory, and other commodities. He was British born, 
 and had been bred to the sea, but had lived a free life in 
 the West Indies. For the last ten years he had said, 
 "A few more trips, and I will give over this trade;" but 
 the temptation was too strong for him. The profits of a 
 run from Africa to the Brazils or Cuba were enormous, 
 and he was so well known, and had so great a reputation 
 for dexterity and success, that he had abundance of com- 
 missions offered him. No one, it was found, made the 
 passage so quick, or brought home so full a cargo. As for 
 the guilt of his occupation, that troubled not him. When 
 his wife remonstrated, he shook a bag of gold in her ear. 
 " Negroes, hey," said he, after a successful voyage, " pooh, 
 pooh! My trade is in gold dust, nothing else." This 
 man was as fond of his family as one of his rugged nature 
 could be, and for his sole child, a girl, he hoarded the 
 wealth made by his perilous and criminal voyages. 
 
 His present cargo had been reduced in strength beyond 
 the safe limit. Their wretched confinement, coming imme- 
 diately after their dreadful journey, had produced a malig- 
 nant fever among them, and the mortality was so great 
 that it seemed likely the captain would have but a scanty 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 
 
 285 
 
 complement to land. This soured his temper, and when 
 some of the crew fell sick, and he had scarcely hands 
 enough to work the vessel, he fretted like an enraged 
 brutl He had but one consolation. The voyage promised 
 to be unusually rapid. He was bound for the Havannah, 
 and though he had lost a third of the slaves on board, he 
 congratulated himself on being within three or four days 
 sail of port. A new mortification awaited him. 
 
 The wind changed, and with the change his glass 
 fell. He saw certain indications of stormy weather, 
 and prepared to meet it, cursing the mischance which 
 deprived him of half-a-dozen stout hands. Thick clouds 
 gathered, but at night the wind went down with the sun. 
 In the morning it increased to a gale, and, as if to complete 
 his ill-luck, a fine brig was seen in the distance with the 
 Union Jack flying at her mast-head. She was an English 
 cruiser, that was quite clear; and it was soon evident that 
 she had suspicions of the schooner, and was crowding all 
 sail the gale would allow her to carry, in pursuit. The 
 captain's mind was made up to run for it. He hoisted 
 canvas till the schooner's masts groaned with the press, 
 and adopted every resource of experienced seamanship to 
 bafile his pursuer. He resolutely disregarded all signals. 
 He believed that he could hold his distance till night, and 
 in the darkness he did not doubt he could escape. But it 
 soon appeared that the cruiser was the better sailer, and 
 that her commander, heavy as the gale was, did not fear to 
 put her sailing qualities to the proof. By noon, the 
 distance was greatly lessened, and the captain saw that 
 the guns of his enemy would be brought to bear upon him 
 long before night. 
 
 His position was desperate, and he determined to try an 
 
286 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 expedient whicli he had more than once before found 
 successful. A raft was rudely constructed of some spare 
 spars ; to this were lashed half-a-dozen of the captives. 
 Their entreaties were no more regarded than the whistling 
 of the wind. As a wave advanced, the raft was lowered 
 to its surface. The result was watched by the crew of the 
 slaver with breathless suspense. The captain calculated 
 rightly on the humanity of the English commander. The 
 height of the sea was disregarded — a boat was lowered from 
 the brig ; the chase was for the moment slighted, in anxiety 
 to save the wretched beings whom the waves threatened 
 each instant to engulph. They were safely got on board, 
 but not until the distance between the two vessels was 
 perceptibly increased. Three several times was the same 
 plan tried with the like success. At evening the schooner 
 was still beyond range of her pursuer's guns. 
 
 Still the gale increased ; the sky was obscured by pitchy 
 clouds, and the schooner plunged madly through the dark- 
 ness. Tremendous squalls of wind and hail swept the 
 decks ; one fearful sea, breaking over the bows, carried 
 away part of her bulwarks. Every inch of canvas was 
 taken in, but not before two seamen had been carried from 
 the yards with the sail they were reefing. The long 
 swollen waves strained the vessel fearfully, as she scudded 
 under bare poles. At one moment she rose on the crest of 
 a mountain of water, and at the next plunged down into 
 the black gulph which seemed yawning to swallow her up. 
 
 It is a horrible thing when the bad passions of man 
 mingle with the wrath of the elements — when the light- 
 ning's flash is answered with a sharp curse, and the awful 
 peal of thunder with a blaspheming laugh. So it was in 
 that night of storm. The captain, infuriated by the events 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 287 
 
 of the day, raved on the deck like a maniac. He stood by 
 the helm with clenched teeth. In the darkness of night 
 his eyes flashed fire. There was murder in every glance. ^ 
 Suddenly a wild uproar rose from below, a clanking of 
 chains, and a rush against the slave-decks and bulk-headings, 
 which made the stout timbers of the schooner quiver. The 
 captives, feeble as they were, had become possessed with 
 the strength of madness, as they felt the waters rising round 
 them. The ship had sprung a leak, and the sea rushed in 
 through the gaping seam. The desperate slaves, banded 
 together, rushed against the partitions which confined 
 them, or trampling down the weakest, made a platform of 
 their bodies, and beat their fetters against the decks above 
 
 them. 
 
 The seamen, worn out at the pumps, left them. The ship, 
 they said, wanted lightening. 
 
 The captain laughed devilishly as he caught their words. 
 "Ha! ha!" he raved, "we'll lighten the ship and quiet 
 those noisy fellows down here together. Now run out a 
 plank there, so, so. There shall be a clean ship, if we're 
 caught at last." 
 
 The slaves were ordered up on deck by half-dozens. 
 They complied with alacrity, believing they should be saved 
 from the waters that rose around them, reaching now 
 almost to the necks of those who were stowed lowest. They 
 came, to meet a more certain and speedy death. The cap- 
 tain's hoarse voice was heard above the howling of the 
 storm. " If they resist, kill them, and throw their bodies 
 overboard." All shared the same fate ; there was no dis- 
 tinction of sex or age. Most fled from the gleaming steel 
 to the raging waters. That wild scene of massacre is too 
 
 horrid for mortal view. 
 
 ****** 
 
288 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 AYith the last batch came the Nubian, worn almost to a 
 skeleton, yet Avith some portion of his vigour remaining. 
 He obeyed the order, and came on deck. He had heard 
 the screams of those who ascended before him, and at a 
 glance saw his intended fate. A plank stretched to the 
 sea ; he must tread it, or be cut down by the cutlasses of 
 the merciless men around him. He advanced firmly and 
 unresistingly to the plank. As his foot touched it, and 
 the armed men were off their guard, he turned, and his 
 eyes met those of the captain, glaring with the fury of a 
 tiger, about to spring upon his prey. The glance exchanged 
 was momentary, but of terrible import. It spoke the 
 mortal hatred and defiance of deadly foes. The captain 
 raised his arm to strike. The Nubian sprang aside, struck 
 with his fettered arm a sailor who opposed him, into the 
 sea, and leaping forward, agilely ascended the foremast, 
 clinging to portions of the rigging. With a fierce oath, 
 the captain called for a musket ; he raised it to fire. At 
 that instant the clouds opened, and his aim was dazzled by 
 a stream of lightning, which, illuminating for an instant 
 all the scene, showed the Nubian clinging to the mast, yet 
 shaking his chains in defiance at his enemy — the blood- 
 stained deck, the dimmed cutlasses, the black waves, and 
 here and there a human form, tossing up its hands in wild 
 despair abo\e its head, ere it sank for ever in the depths of 
 ocean. The rage of the elements was hushed for a moment, 
 as in awe, but as the thunder rolled away, a terrific storm- 
 gust made the ship groan fearfully ; another, and the fore- 
 mast, snapping near the waist, fell with a tremendous crash 
 into the boiling sea. 
 
 Ill the morning, the schooner lay like a log upon the 
 water. ]jut her i)ursuer was nowhere to be seen, and slie 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 289 
 
 reached port in safety. Of her captives, not one remained. 
 Wlien the blood-stains were scraped from the deck, all trace 
 of the massacre was lost. 
 
 Through the night the Nubian clung to the mast. 
 Despite of his chained hands, he lashed part of the rigging 
 around him, and kept himself above the sea. When day 
 broke, he raised his head, but he could see only the moun- 
 tainous waters rising on every side. As the long waves 
 swept by, he could discern the heads of sunken rocks above 
 the trough in which he rolled. A few sea-birds flew above 
 him, as if awaiting the moment when life should be extinct, 
 to dart upon his body. These signs assured him that land 
 was near, though he despaired of reaching it. He was 
 saved beyond hope. 
 
 A maiden, in the first blush of youth, and bright and 
 beautiful as morning, looked from the topmost window of 
 her dwelling on the northern shore of Jamaica. She was 
 watchful, for her father was at sea, and she had been 
 taught to dread the fatal fury of the tempest, as she 
 dreaded the hurricane which sometimes swept the shore of 
 produce and of life. She perceived a speck on the distant 
 waters, though hardly could she discern a living form. 
 Issuing from her dwelling, she hastened to the beach, and 
 offered a reward to the fishers who would venture forth 
 and make for that fragment of a wreck — a father, she 
 said, might be clinging to it in agony. A stout boat was 
 manned ; it returned with the senseless Nubian. He had 
 fainted when taken from the mast. The young girl had 
 him conveyed to her house; there he was tended during 
 a delirious fever. His language was not understood ; but 
 the visions that distracted his mind could be gathered from 
 his gestures. He shrank appalled from the frightful 
 
 u 
 
290 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 images terror had stamped upon his brain, or with raised 
 hands seemed to call down maledictions from Heaven upon 
 the authors of the guilty scenes that were ever present to 
 his fancy. 
 
 His treatment was kind and merciful. A great reproach 
 had just been removed from the English name. The truth, 
 long since recognised, that all men were brotliers of one 
 great family, was now practically acted on. Property in 
 man was abolished in all our possessions ; a coloured skin 
 was no longer thought unfit for freedom, or deemed a bar 
 to the immortality of heaven. 
 
 In the gentle breast of this young maiden a peculiar 
 interest had been awakened for the African race. She 
 had been taught that a long arrear of justice and benevo- 
 lence was due to them for the wrongs they had suffered, 
 and her heart, filled with pure and kind feeling, gladly 
 received lessons which made the exercise of its gracious 
 tendencies a duty. A minister of the English church had 
 settled in the neighbourhood of her dwelling. He had left 
 home, ambitious hopes, the pleasures of society, the chance 
 of distinction and wealth, to take up his abode in this 
 retired district, that he might gather the despised negroes 
 into a church, and prepare them for freedom. In the long 
 intervals of her father's absence, the sweet girl found in 
 this good man a friend and instructor. Delighted with 
 the child-like and artless simplicity of her nature, he 
 watched over her education, and taught her the graces of 
 polished life. He was glad that she had rescued the ship- 
 wrecked Nubian, and now attended to him ; for he believed 
 that all the virtues required exercise, and that they 
 flourish best when their blossom is left to ripen into 
 fruit. 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 291 
 
 The name of this young girl was Mary Langley. She 
 was a child when her mother died, and as she saw her 
 father so seldom, her disposition had been much left to the 
 guidance of Nature. She grew up with the untrained 
 beauty of the plants that made her home a garden. In 
 her heart, the love and charities of her faith had flourished 
 in the wilder luxuriance for being untrained. When her 
 father saw her, he was satisfied with her lovely and bloom- 
 ing appearance. Though now rising into womanhood, he 
 would still treat her as a child, would take her up in his 
 rough arms as he did in her infancy, and let her silky 
 brown tresses flow on his breast, while her graceful arms 
 embraced his neck, and he decked her out with trinkets. 
 He could not understand all the tenderness of her cha- 
 racter, nor make out why she was sometimes sad when he 
 was boisterous in mirth. He saw in her only the innocence 
 and endearments of childhood. Sometimes she would 
 laughingly try to make him share her feelings. He list- 
 ened as men do who hear mysteries of which they can 
 make nothing, so he interrupted her by telling her what a 
 fortune she would have when she was a woman. Yet these 
 two beings, so opposite in sentiment and disposition, loved 
 each other fondly. Nature had linked them together with 
 those mysterious bonds of affection which triumph over 
 time, separation, and death. If her father did not soon 
 return, the maiden was to join him at a port in South 
 America. 
 
 The Nubian recovered, but it was evident that he had 
 suffered much ; his manner was dejected and reserved, and 
 sometimes it seemed that the visions of his delirium re- 
 turned, for a convulsive movement, momentary but fright- 
 ful, passed over his usually rigid features. He appeared 
 
 u 2 
 
292 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 not wholly ignoi-ant of Christianity, for he recognised a 
 gold cross which Mary wore about her neck, and devoutly 
 kissed it as the emblem of salvation. On the past he was 
 silent; a nurse, who had recognised some words he had 
 spoken in his fever, addressed him in the same tongue, 
 but he remained mute. He made rapid progress, however, 
 in acquiring some knowledge of English. AVhen he spoke 
 in that language, he said he had been dragged from his 
 home, and wrecked on his passage. He would say no 
 
 more. 
 
 His gratitude to the young girl who had saved him 
 seemed boundless; he recognised her as the preserver of 
 his life, and Avas willing to devote himself to her service. 
 Her care in his recovery, her kind tones, her beaming 
 smile when she met him, penetrated his heart with a sense 
 of her goodness. His large frame remained motionless 
 while she addressed him, his full and expressive eyes alone 
 spoke his emotion, and betrayed the eagerness with which 
 he sought to comprehend her meaning, when he only par- 
 tially understood her words. He seemed to know her 
 wishes by intuition, and to take delight in studying and 
 gratifying her tastes., Her garden, under his care, was 
 beautifully kept. The spot was richly fiivoured by nature, 
 it was open to the cool winds, and shaded from the tierce 
 heats by hills, and plantations of cocoas and tamarinds. 
 All the choice and varied vegetation of the fertile soil 
 assumed, under his hands, the most luxuriant growth and 
 beautiful arrangement. There was no toil to which he 
 seemed unerpial. Once Mary expressed a wish for a 
 shaded walk, the Nubian knew no rest until the appointed 
 space was planted with young trees of the choicest 
 kinds. 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 
 
 293 
 
 When abroad, an antelope and an elephant could 
 scarcely have presented a greater contrast than these two 
 beings. Mary was only just rising into womanhood, 
 though in that ardent clime nature brings the human form, 
 as she does all other things, to maturity earlier than in 
 colder regions. For her height, her shape was exquisitely 
 delicate,— only beginning to acquire that smooth roundness 
 which indicates the ripening of the child into the maiden. 
 All her motions were full of airy joyousness; she had been 
 subjected to none of the discipline of schools, and loved to 
 let the evening air sweep her tresses from her face, and to 
 play amid the wild luxuriance and beautiful solitudes of 
 her home, with the delights that Nature presented to her. 
 The Nubian's massive frame was firmly knit ; he had just 
 entered into the period of vigorous manhood; his motions 
 were grave, slow, and measured. When the young girl 
 was revelling in the soft cool air, that blew from the ocean 
 at evening, he remained standing motionless, like a colossal 
 statue, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his 
 eyes to the earth. They seemed personifications of grace 
 and power met in amity. Hers was the will to devise, his 
 the strength to execute. 
 
 The Nubian was attentive to the offices of the church, 
 and had been formally baptized by the name of Christian. 
 The good minister, regretting to see his time passed in a 
 way that could be little useful to him, mentioned in his 
 hearing, that labour was greatly wanted at a neighbouring 
 plantation, and that, in the present scarcity of hands, 
 strength and industry were equal to a fortune. He had 
 not calculated wrongly on the Nubian's quickness —the 
 next morning he was gone. The young girl pouted a little 
 for his loss, but the minister showed her how much better 
 
294 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. 
 
 a life of toil would be for Christian, by which he might 
 realize an independence, than a life of profitless servitude. 
 She was convinced, and yielded. 
 
 The Nubian's proffered service was readily accepted. 
 He toiled with unremitting energy, and was speedily 
 noticed as a prosperous man. His savings were large, and 
 were prudently invested. He soon saw that in this country 
 wealth was power, and power he coveted, to realize the 
 projects which now began to shape themselves in his soul. 
 
 He saw the gentle Mary but once in the week, — he 
 knelt with her in the house of prayer. When the service 
 was ended, he stood beyond the church porch, tranquil and 
 motionless, to Avait her words. His answers to her ques- 
 tions were brief, yet, it seemed, nothing of what she said 
 was lost to him. He appeared impassible and motionless, 
 but each accent of her tongue was treasured up in his 
 heart. For her he often obtained the choicest fruit, the 
 finest mangoes, the largest cocoas ; sometimes too, rare 
 shells and beautiful plants. These offerings were delivered 
 to her attendants without a word. He departed as swiftly 
 and as silently as he came. 
 
 A sorrow, which no care could remove, clouded the brow 
 of the sweet girl. Her fiither wrote to her of crosses and 
 misfortunes, which rendered it impossible for him to come 
 to tlie island. Months after those notices of disaster 
 came word that she should quit her home in a vessel which 
 would call for her, and join him at Rio Janeiro. He 
 intended, he said, finally to settle at Jamaica, but he had 
 arrangements to make first, and he could not bear longer 
 to be deprived of the delight of seeing his dear daughter. 
 She who had been born on tliis spot was loth to leave the 
 flowers she had tended with so much care, — the domestics 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 295 
 
 who had grown so fond of her, — the dear minister, who had 
 been her friend from childhood; she loved them all, yet 
 her heart told her the faithfnl Christian wonld suffer from 
 her absence the most. When she took leave of him, he 
 remained mute and still, as though he had no power of 
 motion ; but he lost not a Avord of her parting instructions. 
 She would write often, she said, to the good minister. 
 His eye glistened with delight as she added, " And some- 
 times to you too, Christian, for I shall never cease to 
 take an interest in your welfare." He made no answer, 
 but kneeling, raised her hand to his lips. His gesture 
 was full of devotion and love ; he seemed to be performing 
 an act of adoration ; when he rose, he bent his head upon 
 his breast and left her. 
 
 There are breaks in real life, which its historian does 
 but imitate when he passes over months or years with 
 little comment. Not that preparations for great events 
 are not in progress, but that the movement is so slow and 
 gradual, and often so hidden from human view, that its 
 progress cannot be traced day by day. When Etna volleys 
 forth its flame and lava, we note the awful progress of 
 destruction with fear and wonder, and chronicle its mi- 
 nutest effects. But we think nothing of the mountain 
 while it remains in repose, though in its quietude a power- 
 ful agency is working in its breast, and each hour it 
 gathers force and materials for a new explosion. 
 
 Four years passed by, and then a letter was received 
 from Mary, announcing her speedy arrival. Her father 
 would follow; she came first to prepare his reception. 
 
 In this interval the Nubian prospered beyond all ex- 
 pectation. By his unceasing labour he had amassed 
 wealth, which the diminished value of land enabled him to 
 
296 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 lay out to excellent advantage. When the foundation of 
 his fortune was thus laid, his progress Avas rapid, for on 
 himself he spent notliing. A fortunate speculation proved 
 his shrewdness. He foresaw the failure of the next year's 
 sugar-crop, and bought extensively at a low price ; the 
 result justified his expectations. He cleared an enormous 
 profit by the transaction, and at once established himself 
 both as a merchant and a planter. His estates were 
 thenceforth prudently managed. He was a kind but vigi- 
 lant master, and soon acquired all the details of commerce. 
 He still maintained his reserve of manner, but with that 
 few persons troubled themselves ; they were content to 
 know that he was prosperous and wealthy. 
 
 AVlien Miss Langley arrived, he was the first to welcome 
 her. To her his fortunes had made no change in his 
 manner; he was still humble and submissive in her pre- 
 sence as when he fii'st devoted himself to her service. She 
 found her home more beautiful than she left it, for the 
 Nubian had been unceasing in his care to heighten the 
 charms of the spot ; nothing had been omitted that could 
 gratify her taste, or minister to her convenience. He had 
 made that sheltered dell a paradise of nature, having 
 collected in it whatever was most rare and beautiful in 
 that beautiful clime. When, after her first burst of plea- 
 sure at the improvement she saw around, she remonstrated 
 at the expense that must have been incurred, the Nubian 
 intimated, in a quiet though sufliiciently expressive manner, 
 that he regarded her as his mistress still, and held himself 
 indebted to her for all that he possessed. Mary was touched 
 by gratitude so fervent and unusual ; she allowed the 
 Nubian to pursue that course from which he seemed to 
 derive most pleasure, and he was thankfid to her for this 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 297 
 
 compliance with his wishes. Each morning he sent to her 
 some token of his remembrance, trifling, but sufficient as a 
 tribute of homage. To him this seemed an acknowledg- 
 ment that his life was due to her, as a single prayer in the 
 morning consecrates us to the service of Heaven through 
 the day. He saw her but once a week, on the Sabbath, 
 as before ; and he still waited, with crossed arms, beyond 
 the porch, for her to address him. Sometimes he es- 
 corted her home, and walked with her through the beau- 
 tifully shaded paths he had helped to form. Custom easily 
 reconciles us to outward appearance. Mary no longer 
 thought of the colour of his skin ; she conversed with him, 
 as she did with the minister, and regarded him as almost 
 a dear friend. She was pleased with his penetrating re- 
 marks ; and on his side he was never wearied of hearing 
 Mary's descriptions of the various lands she had visited. 
 Her voice was, in his ear, sweeter harmony than music 
 could ever form. He never ventured to speak of her 
 personal appearance, yet he thought, and with truth, that 
 she had become more lovely during her absence. 
 
 Mary was at this time one-and-twenty. Born of Eng- 
 lish parents, her skin had been purely fair, but it had been 
 tinged by the sun, so that it had now always that shade of 
 beautiful and healthy red which we observe with admi- 
 ration colours the face and bust of a blonde, when exertion 
 or excitement makes the blood dance with quicker motion 
 through the veins. From contrast with this hue of her 
 complexion, her eyes appeared of a deeper and purer blue, 
 and to float in more brilliant lustre. Her bright hair hung 
 in curling masses down her face, framing the sweet profile, 
 which looked forth in gay playfulness. She had become 
 more thoughtful, but not less innocent. Her travel had 
 
298 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 taught her more of the world's crimes, but liad not fixed 
 one stain upon her heart. 
 
 The morning was bright, when a ship was perceived in 
 the distance. Langley had at length arrived to commence 
 his life of calm tranquillity. The news ran over the neigh- 
 bourhood, and the surrounding residents came down to the 
 beach to welcome the voyager, — the Nubian with the rest. 
 Mary was caught in her father's embrace as he stepped 
 from the beach. Iler companionship had smoothed the 
 natural roughness of his disposition. He returned kind 
 greetings to all Avho met him, clasping the good minister 
 warmly by the hand. Mary turned to introduce the 
 Nubian, but he was nowhere to be seen. She was vexed at 
 this, for she wished to present him to her father at a 
 favourable moment, when he would perceive the estimation 
 in which the fortunate Christian was held. She knew his 
 general dislike and contempt of coloured people, and for 
 that reason had not said a word to him of Christian's 
 rescue from the sea by her means. She preferred that her 
 father should first view him prosperous, before he was told 
 of his destitution some years previously. 
 
 From that day the Nubian was absent for weeks. At 
 his dwelling it was told that he had been called by urgent 
 business to Kingston, the capital of the island. 
 
 It seems that in the soil of human hearts there is none 
 so barren that some precious quality will not take root in 
 it, which, if watered and nourished, may change the con- 
 stitution of a bad nature. The poets have feigned that 
 this principle of fertility pervades all nature, and have 
 told that the toad, ugly and venemous, 
 
 " Bears yet a precious jewel in his head." 
 
 In Langley 's soul this jewel was his love of his daughter. 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 299 
 
 What to him seemed folly in others, was holy and blessed 
 in her. By constantly sharing in her pure thoughts, he 
 learned at last to comprehend them, and perceive their 
 beauty. Imperceptibly, he learned to delight in her inno- 
 cent pursuits. At first, when she told him of her schemes 
 of charity, and would make him share them, he complied, 
 from a yague feeling of curiosity, or to gratify her humour ; 
 but afterwards, from the strong force of sympathy, her 
 purity attracted his mind nearer to her own. As spirits 
 of darkness flee from the presence of light, he found him- 
 self, when with Mary, another person, his bad thoughts flying 
 from him, as the dark visions of Saul rolled from his soul 
 at the sound of David's harp. This change had been long 
 in progress, unknown to himself. He felt himself another 
 and a better man, though he could scarcely discover the 
 agency of his improvement. Let no one say that the at- 
 traction of goodness is weak. It is more powerful in com- 
 manding homage and respect than any other quality of 
 humanity. We recognise it at once — we bow down before 
 it — we feel irresistibly attracted to imitate what we ad- 
 mire. If gross passions prevail over its sweet influence, 
 we yet never cease to regret the fatuity that has lost us 
 heaven for earth. If we dare to deny its supreme excel- 
 lence with our lips, we acknowledge it with our hearts. 
 We are infidels only outwardly. The world may refuse to 
 bend its knee, but it never can refuse the worship of its 
 soul. 
 
 In his calmer and secluded hours, with Mary as his 
 guardian angel always near him, the conversion of Langley 
 went on.- He experienced a felicity he never knew be- 
 fore. He had been used to consider the clergyman a 
 fanatic; he now regarded him as a sober and a sensible 
 
300 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 man. People having only a partial acquaintance with the 
 world, are apt to mistake sentiment for character. The 
 two are wholly apart from each other. Langley was as 
 bold, as adventurous, as active, as ever he was, but his 
 energies were now turned into a new channel. He became 
 an ardent experimentalist on the qualities of soils ; he in- 
 vented improvements in crushing-mills ; and, in short, 
 brought into the life and occupations of a planter all the 
 industry and resources which had distinguished him in 
 another career. He learned to take an interest in Mary's 
 flowers, and her schools for poor children, and talked of 
 building a church after his own design. But in the midst 
 of this new and happy life he never looked back. 
 
 He sat one evening, in company with the good minister, 
 engaged in cheerful chat. Mary had just finished an ex- 
 quisite little air. The wax-lights brightly illuminated the 
 large and lofty apartment, rendered cool by the evening 
 air stealing in through the closed jalousies. The minister 
 was not one of those austere spirits who dislike whatever 
 savours of gaiety and enjoyment. The soul, he held, re- 
 sembled wax in this — that an impression was often most 
 surely and lastingly stamped on it when it was relaxed. 
 He sometimes quietly told that he had done more with the 
 planters in a few words over a game of chess, or a hand at 
 picquet, than he could effect by his best sermons. He 
 sat now keeping Langley company with an excellent 
 Havannah. 
 
 The turn of conversation is often singular. A moment 
 before, they were discussing the flavour of cigars ; now they 
 spoke of the consequences of sin. The ca[)tain was curious 
 to know if, with a new course of life, all past crimes and 
 errors were truly forgiven. Mary listened with more 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 301 
 
 anxiety than marked the tone in which the question was 
 put; for the past had so little the captain liked to look 
 back on, that he contrived to banish it from his remem- 
 brance altogether. The minister replied, undoubtedly ; that 
 to the repentant, sin was forgiven ; but he remarked that, 
 in some way or other, a punishment was attached to the 
 original crime, from which it could not escape. " Sin is 
 pardoned, without doubt," he said; " but believe this, tliat 
 not one guilty action can be committed which will not 
 meet with a strict reckoning, and for which a full and 
 severe penalty will not be exacted in this world or the 
 next; sometimes by mental, sometimes by bodily ?gony. 
 To no man is it permitted to greatly offend with im- 
 punity." 
 
 The captain thought this doctrine carried a great deal 
 too far. He was for a scheme of general amnesty, such as 
 is granted by tottering states, which confound weakness 
 with mercy, giving out that it fails to punish, not from 
 impotence, but from an excess of charity and good- 
 nature. 
 
 The scene and the conversation had hitherto been com- 
 mon-place enough, though the changes which passed over 
 Mary's face as she listened to the argument, threw in that 
 touch of poetic feeling which is often found in the most 
 ordinary occurrences. She knew herself deeply interested 
 in the topic ; for there were passages in her father's life, 
 darkly hinted at sometimes by him, which chilled her 
 blood when she thought of them. 
 
 The captain grew warm, and applied the argument, as 
 heated persons will do, to himself. " Look here, now," 
 said he; ^' suppose that I, when I wasn't so wise as I am 
 at present, had a cargo of slaves on board? Well, we'll 
 
302 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 say the ship leaked, that she wanted lightening, that, no 
 matter how, it was necessary to turn them out ; do you 
 mean to say now, that I should be punished for that when 
 I took up with better notions?" 
 
 " I should say," replied the minister, regarding the 
 case quite hypothetically, " that in this world or the next 
 would a fearful punishment be awarded you." 
 
 The captain grew a little paler. As for Mary, she gave 
 a faint scream ; it was not without great difficulty that she 
 could further suppress her feelings. 
 
 " Tush, man !" said Langley, roughly, " I have done 
 such things in my time, yet what am I the worse for it 
 now ; where's my accuser ?" 
 
 A voice that filled the room with terror, said, distinctly, 
 "Here!" 
 
 All eyes were instantly turned to the spot whence that 
 voice issued. 
 
 The Nubian stood in the door-way, his figure dilated 
 beyond the grand proportions of nature. For the second 
 time the glance of these two men met, and the captain, 
 though his accuser was unarmed, felt that he was a lost 
 man. 
 
 His courage did not desert him, though horror almost 
 froze his blood, and deprived him of sense. He rose to 
 meet the Nubian's gaze. " With what," he said, " do you 
 charge me?" 
 
 The black said, simply, " With murder !" 
 
 Langley advanced to grapple with his accuser ; but 
 Mary, quick as light, threw herself on the Nubian, be- 
 seeching him to withdraw at once, telling him that he had 
 accused her father — that he was in error — that he knew 
 not Avliat lie was about. 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 303 
 
 Never had the Nubian seemed more calm, as he said — 
 " Ahnost I would to God I did not. Gentle girl, you 
 speak to me in vain, I am but the agent of Heaven, The 
 cry of the blood that wretched man has wantonly spilt, 
 has risen to the Almighty throne. The hour of retribution 
 has come !" 
 
 Four men entered the room at these words. The 
 Nubian said to them, " Behold your prisoner !" 
 
 His terrible calmness carried conviction to Mary's heart. 
 She tried to struggle with her dread — to address the 
 Nubian. In vain ; her faculties were paralyzed ; she sank 
 senseless at his feet. 
 
 He raised her with the mingled reverence and love due 
 to a divine being: with such tender care and holy awe 
 must the Christians of old have touched the body of a 
 martyred saint. He threw back the bright masses of hair 
 from her pallid face, and touched her temples with some 
 water at hand. 
 
 Langley fiercely grappled with the men who held him. 
 " Villains!" he shouted, " let me go; that fiend would kill 
 father and daughter at one blow !" 
 
 The Nubian had laid the fainting form on, a couch, and 
 knelt beside it. He raised his eyes, and said, in tones of 
 deep pathos, " Thou hearest, gracious God — thou hearest ! 
 still am I doomed to suffer !" 
 
 " Detested monster !" exclaimed Langley, " why didst 
 thou come here to destroy our peace?" 
 
 The Nubian answered him not. He saw in the bright- 
 ening colour of Mary's lips signs of returning life. " Guard 
 well your prisoner," he said to the men. Then grasping the 
 hand of the minister, who, during the few minutes of this 
 dreadful scene, had been motionless with astonishment, he 
 
304 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 bade him watch over lier. " I will not shock her l)y my 
 presence. It may be, I shall never see her more." lie bent 
 down to imprint one kiss on her yet cold hand, and left 
 the room, answering not one word to the fierce reproaches 
 of his enemy. 
 
 The Nubian had recognised the captain of the slaver 
 the instant Langley set his foot upon the shore. His 
 mind was torn by the storm of contending passions. The 
 horrors of that night of massacre, setting the seal of blood 
 to the long career of desperate cruelty and wickedness he 
 had witnessed, was never absent from his mind. lie made 
 no vow of vengeance, but he prayed Heaven to make him 
 the human instrument of its justice. For this end he 
 conceived that in his labour he was gifted Avith super- 
 natural strength. Accident, or, as it seemed to him, pro- 
 vidence, had thrown in his way two of the seamen of the 
 slave-ship. These men, as less guilty than their principal, 
 he had constantly kept in the island, in the full belief that 
 at no distant time would the captain be delivered into his 
 hands, that their testimony might be joined to his own 
 against him. If he came not to that island within live 
 years, the Nubian resolved to wander over the earth in 
 search of him. That time was within three days of its 
 accomplishment when he saw Langley land. 
 
 The struggle of his soul ended in the conquest of the 
 sterner passion. A voice within him cried out, for ever — 
 " Justice — justice!" With all haste he departed for King- 
 ston. For the event that had arrived he had long been 
 prepared. His own testimony, express and clear, was 
 supported by tliat, equally decided, of his witnesses. When 
 the depositions were taken, he felt secure that no mortal 
 l)ower could deprive justice of its victim. " Tliis day," he 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 305 
 
 exclaimed, as he left the court, " have I built up the scaf- 
 fold on which that man shall die !" 
 
 As the intelligence of Langley's crime became known, it 
 excited the greatest horror and detestation. He was ex- 
 amined and committed for murder. By the advice of his 
 council he reserved his defence ; his advisers frankly told 
 him they saw no chance of his escape, if the Nubian pressed 
 the prosecution against him with the same vigilance, and 
 the witnesses all appeared on the trial. Mary had never 
 left her father since his capture. Those words filled her 
 with hope. She believed she had the power to save him, 
 and that belief filled her with courage. 
 
 Christian now resided in the capital. He still per- 
 severed in his business with all his former regularity, though 
 he felt the time was at hand when he should no longer 
 continue it. Mary proceeded to his dwelling, and was 
 directed to his private room. She entered it unannounced. 
 He was standing at a desk, apparently wrapped in pro- 
 found thought, with his face shaded by his hand. Before 
 him was a small miniature, which Mary instantly re- 
 cognised as one of herself, that, at the earnest request of 
 the minister, she had sent Christian in return for his con- 
 tinued course of kindness and benevolence during her ab- 
 sence. From beneath his hand large scalding tears fell on 
 the glass of the miniature. He presented no other trace 
 of emotion. His large form was as rigid as if it had been 
 carved of stone. 
 
 Mary seized the moment as most fiivourable to her 
 wishes. The life of her father was at stake; with that 
 thought what had she to do with scruples? She laid her 
 hand softly on the Nubian's shoulder. He started back 
 for an instant, then gazed upon her with a look of in- 
 
 X 
 
306 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 describable love, admiration, and reverence. Mary, who 
 knew the usual reserve of his manner, and had prepared 
 herself for opening the interview, was surprised and 
 affected when he threw himself at her feet, and raised his 
 hands to her in an attitude of supplication. 
 
 "Pure and beautiful being!" he said, in tones of the 
 deepest feeling, " how can I ever hope for thy forgiveness? 
 yet how can I live, hoAv can I die, Avithout it?" 
 
 Mary felt that the barrier of reserve she dreaded to en- 
 counter was broken down by the Nubian's action in an 
 instant. She addressed him with the simplicity of times 
 past. 
 
 " My forgiveness. Christian ! Oh, you may obtain 
 more than that ! Save my father, as you yet may easily, 
 and you shall have my regard and gratitude for ever." 
 
 Anguish was written in every line of his face, as he re- 
 plied — " This is not my act, but God's. I am but the 
 instrument he wields in his hand." 
 
 " Christian ! Christian ! beware how you mistake the 
 impulse of revenge for the dictate of Heaven ! Vengeance 
 is not yours ! Come, you have been deceived by bad 
 spirits ! Hear what it is I ask of you — only this, that you 
 take no part against my father. Fly ! leave this island at 
 once. I — I, who saved your life, — Christian, I speak not 
 this boastingly, but as a claim to your gratitude, — 1 be- 
 seech, I implore this of you, as the greatest boon that one 
 creature can ask of another." 
 
 He groaned as if his spirit were racked by mortal 
 agony. " This is torture!" he said; " but it cannot con- 
 quer me. Lady, if you liad seen what I have seen, the 
 long train of fainting captives, the horrors of that liold, 
 dark, suffocating, liltliy, in which fever raged, and the 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 307 
 
 dead and living lay together, the massacre of that night, 
 which even now turns my brain as I speak of it, you could 
 no longer doubt that the justice of Heaven cries aloud for 
 atonement." He sprang to his feet, having his mind filled 
 only at that instant with all the crimes he had witnessed, 
 and the sense that he was the chosen agent to avenge 
 them. "He must die!" he said, firmly— " die, that the 
 awful warning may be carried through all lands— die, that 
 human justice may be vindicated — die, that the cry of in- 
 nocent blood may be silenced— die, that the oppressor over 
 all the earth may know God reigneth in heaven !" 
 
 The hope of Mary fainted in her breast as those awful 
 words, delivered with the vehemence and fire of inspiration, 
 fell upon her ear. Yet she made one effort more to turn 
 the Nubian from his purpose. She raised her eyes to his, 
 and waited till she saw them melting with tenderness and 
 affection. 
 
 " Christian," she said, " though I have never breathed 
 my thought into mortal ear, nor hardly looked on it myself, 
 yet I now know well with what feeling you have regarded 
 me. I have your love, such love as men feel for a chosen 
 bride." She saw him start, and fix on her a gaze of pas- 
 sionate love. " My hand, my faith pledged on the altar, 
 shall be yours, if you consent that we fly together. Think ! 
 will not a life of wedded love, my father's years of peni- 
 tence, be more dear to you than a moment of vengeance?" 
 The Nubian turned from her for the space of an instant. 
 When he looked on her again, his face was more tranquil. 
 " Angelic creature!" he exclaimed, " worthy, not of love, 
 but of worship, thou art more beautiful than my dreams 
 ever painted thee. Never did I adore thee as in this hour. 
 No mortal heart can ever conceive the temptation thou 
 
 x2 
 
308 EVENINT.S AT IIADDOX MALL. 
 
 hast offered to my soul. To save tliee I'roiii an uneasy 
 thought, I would have died — I would have deemed all the 
 torture to which man could put me, repaid by one kind 
 word from thy lips. Yet we part now, and for ever. 
 Wretched that I am, I dare not ask thy pardon." 
 
 lie led her out unresistingly, but his keen sense saw 
 that she shrank from the pressure of his hand. This alon(^. 
 was wanting to complete his agony. As she passed from 
 his dwelling, his strong frame fell heavily to the ground. 
 ***** 
 
 A gibbet stood long on a promontory of the Jamaica 
 coast. The chains clanked dismally as the sea-breeze 
 caught them. In that case of iron swung the bones of 
 the murderer Langley. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Nubian, true to his purpose, stayed to see his vic- 
 tim die. He had previously settled his affairs as one who 
 was about to quit the world, giving his last instructions to 
 a trusty agent. A ship waited for him till the execution 
 was over. His parting words were only that his mission 
 on earth was accomplished. No one knew whither he 
 
 went. 
 
 The pure and gentle Mary parted from her father only 
 at the foot of the scaffold, when his spirit seemed wholly 
 Heaven's. With the good minister she quitted that island, 
 which now presented to her only images of terror. Her 
 heart was too confiding to live long without an object. 
 When time had softened her grief, a lieutenant, poor, but 
 high-minded, gained her affections. lie had previously 
 been unfortunate, but now all things prospered with him. 
 He rose rapidly in raid< ; his promotion was secured by 
 purchase; he could never learn wliose was the wealth that 
 
THE NUBIAN SLAVE. 309 
 
 advanced him, that cleared off his incumbrances, and that 
 made him a happy and a prosperous man. His sweet wife, 
 though ignorant of the agent, suspected the source; but 
 the thought Avas too full of painful recollections to be wil- 
 lingly indulged in. 
 
 A few years since, there came reports of a deadly con- 
 flict between a party of Africans in a province of Nubia, 
 and a band of savage slave-dealers. The Nubians were 
 victorious, but their leader received his death-wound in 
 the struggle. One of those who survived him, and who, it 
 seems, had his confidence, took from his breast a miniature, 
 and transmitted it by a safe hand to England. It reached 
 Mary, then a fond wife and mother, with a few words from 
 the seaman to whose care it was consigned, telling how he 
 who wore it fell. It was the miniature she had given 
 to the unfortunate Nubian, and was now stained with 
 his heart's blood. 
 
 If in spirit he ever hovered over earth, he must have re- 
 joiced as he saw that that picture, so dearly prized in life, 
 was sometimes dimmed by Mary's tears. 
 
310 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALE. 
 
 FIFTH EVENING. 
 
 On the morning of the day which ushered in the Fifth 
 Evening of our Revels, there had arrived at the Hall an 
 accomplished literary friend of the host, who had been 
 long absent in the East, travelling over every step of 
 those lands which sacred and classical lore, combined with 
 the beauties of Nature and the wealth of Art, have rendered 
 the richest in the world, both in moral and intellectual 
 associations, and who had since given to the world one of 
 the best books ever called forth by that most fertile of all 
 travelling themes. The Lady Eva had lately been read- 
 ing these charming records of " the Crescent and the 
 Cross" Avith delighted ■ enthusiasm, and the moment tlieir 
 accomplished writer entered the library, she entreated him 
 to aid her Tale-telling project by something about " the 
 land of the sun." He souglit at first to excuse himself 
 from the task, by alleging that what he had told of the 
 beautiful lands he had lately visited was the simple, un- 
 embellished truth ; that lie had seen, and then described 
 wliat he had seen, for the use and convenience of those who 
 might follow him ; whereas what the Lady Eva required 
 of him wiis a fiction, an effort of tlie fancy or tlio imagina- 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 311 
 
 tion; and even if he had succeeded in the former case, it 
 was, so far, an evidence- that he might fail in the latter. 
 But the Lady Eva would hear of no excuse. " Surely," 
 said she, " you must have seen, in those far-off lands and 
 strange conditions of society, enough of that kind of truth, 
 which for us, here at home, will have all the air of fiction." 
 On this hint, the gentleman she addressed, with graceful 
 courtesy, proceeded to relate 
 
 ZOE. 
 
 AN EPISODE OF THE GREEK WAR. 
 
 3Part dTu-^t. 
 
 GREECE AND HER LEADERS. 
 
 " No gospel announces the glad tidings of resurrection to a fallen 
 Nation — once down, and down for ever." — W. S. Landor. 
 
 So spoke a true Poet — yet, for once, not truly : Time is 
 the iconoclast of aphorisms, and every day demolishes some 
 such unstable " eternal truth." 
 
 Hellas, in her shroud of slavery, heard the Israfil voice 
 of Freedom, and awoke ; — her spirit burst its bonds, and 
 
 " Greece was living Greece once more !" 
 
 When the Revolution first broke out, the glow of war 
 was not yet chilled in Europe : youth was still emulous, 
 and age still proud, of glory won under the Lion and the 
 Eagle standards. Many a young student, to whom Ther- 
 
312 KVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 mopylfc and Salamis were more familiar names than those 
 of Torres Vedras, and Trafalgar, — when he heard that 
 armies were marshalling in Greece and Thessaly, believed 
 that the heroic age Avas to return : and many a veteran, in 
 whom the force of imagination had long yielded to that of 
 memory — the memory of privations and hard knocks — 
 listened, nevertheless, eagerly to the first note of war, and 
 found the trumpet had lost nothing of its spell. 
 
 No sooner had fame transmuted the Greek " Insurrec- 
 tion" into the " War of Independence," than volunteers 
 of all nations, ranks, and professions, hastened to the 
 standard of Ypsilanti. Some of these modern paladins 
 were sincere enthusiasts, and had abandoned a life of 
 luxury and ease for this romantic cause ; but by far the 
 greater number consisted of needy and profligate adven- 
 turers : both classes — the seekers of glory or of gold — were 
 equally disappointed in the capabilities of the Grecian 
 camp ; the latter were forced to share the life and hard- 
 ships of the Klepht and Palicar ; the former either obtained 
 at once a leading rank, or retired from the service in dis- 
 gust. All these adventurers were ultimately formed into a 
 regiment called the " Philhellenic Band," which early dis- 
 tinguished itself in the field. 
 
 Early in the year 1822, the young Senate of Greece was 
 assembled at Epidaurus. The members sat, like the 
 Areopagites of old, in the open air ; or lay couched on the 
 fresh grass, in the shelter of some olive-tree. Their ap- 
 pearance was as various as their attitude ; some wore the 
 venerable beard, the flowing robes, and even the turban of 
 their Eastern oppressors; some were clad in the graceful 
 national costume, adopted from Albania; with crimson cap 
 and broidered vest, and sash well filled with pistol and 
 
ZOE. 313 
 
 yataghan. Their appearance was imposing and strangely 
 picturesque, as they sat or stood— grey-beard and warrior 
 grouped together— on the slope of a gentle hill that com^ 
 manded a wide-spread view of the country in whose cause 
 they were assembled. It is true that the classic Land 
 beyond that glorious Gulf lay still in slavery ; but those 
 who gazed upon its beauty there, had pledged their lives 
 for its redemption ; and when was such a pledge kept truly, 
 and in vain ? 
 
 In all Greece, a more fitting place for such assembly 
 could scarcely have been found: beneath them lay the 
 Saronic gulf, winding round Salamis and old iEgina: — 
 
 beyond though purple shadows wrapped Pir^us and the 
 
 plains, — the Acropolis of Athens stood out against the 
 evening sky, with its marble temples gleaming in the 
 setting sun's last smile. That sunset streaked with gold 
 the violet shadows of the mountains over Marathon, while 
 far to the eastward it glistened on the sea ; and even in the 
 darkling west one magic ray had lighted up the citadel of 
 Corinth, through the very shadows of Parnassus. 
 
 Even this Assembly, usually so turbulent and discordant, 
 seemed influenced by the quiet of that evening hour. No 
 voice was heard but that of the orator, through whose 
 melodious, but warlike words, there stole at intervals the 
 happy song of the wild bird, or the murmur of the waves. 
 Occasionally, perhaps, when a friend was accused, or a 
 native city threatened — some armed senator would start to 
 his feet ; and, with flashing eyes and fierce eloquence 
 denouncing the accuser, fling back tlie charge : but tran- 
 ([uillity was soon restored. 
 
 A short distance from the assembly, a guard of the 
 Philhellenic band lay scattered among some orange trees 
 
314 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 that shaded the ruins of a temple ; all were asleep, except 
 the sentries, and their young officer, who was leaning on his 
 sword, and engaged in conversation with a stranger of very 
 diflfereiit appearance. The latter wore a sort of undress 
 uniform like that of a Kussian officer of rank, but this 
 might have been assumed from its convenience and sim- 
 plicity; there was no disguise, however, in the military 
 carriage, and dignified bearing of the wearer. His cap 
 was drawn do^Yn over his keen but thoughtful eyes ; and 
 heavy moustaches performed their part in concealing the 
 expression of the mouth, and giving a character of stern 
 repose to the whole countenance : his dress was handsome, 
 but uncared for; his sword and spurs alone were bright. 
 His young companion, the Philhellene, presented a striking 
 contrast to the stranger in every respect : the graceful and 
 noble costume of Greece was carefully arranged about his 
 light, athletic figure, and his richly-mounted arms were 
 brightly polislied. Though war and weather had scarred 
 his cheek and bronzed his brow, his eyes still shone 
 with enthusiasm ; his whole bearing was calm and proud, 
 but there was that in his look Avhich told of unbroken 
 energy and resolution. 
 
 " Shall I, then, announce you to the Senate?" inquired 
 the young officer. 
 
 " By what name?" asked the stranger, with a smile. 
 
 " I know not, though this is our second meeting. But I 
 feel that I am in the presence of one who alone seems 
 superior to the unhappy circumstances of the time; and 
 who Avill assuredly, soon or late, control the destinies of our 
 country." 
 
 " Of our country ?" repeated the stranger, in the Eng- 
 lish language, but slightly tinctured witli a foreign accent. 
 
ZOE. 316 
 
 " Yes," replied the Philhellene, " it is my country by 
 adoption, as I believe it to be yours. I have already told 
 you how I relinquished high prospects in England, to 
 become a nameless adventurer in a cause which I still hold 
 sacred — how suddenly my first illusions vanished when I 
 found myself in the camp at Yassy. You also know how 
 my comrades perished at Dragastan, — that I, as one of 
 the few survivors, obtained command in the Philhellenic 
 Band — and this, with the exception of our naval expedi- 
 tions, forms my whole history. My zeal in the cause I serve, 
 if less enthusiastic, is more firm than ever : — my fate is now 
 identified with that of Greece: avarice and cruelty, treachery 
 and selfishness, may sully her fair fame; but when I think 
 on all that she has already done, — on all that she may 
 yet perform, — I can still afibrd to hope as well as to 
 remember.'''' 
 
 The stranger appeared to listen with interest to this 
 confession; and, after a pause, rejoined, " It is of such men 
 as you that our country stands in need. I love your 
 nation, but abhor your government. Had England but 
 conceded the right of nationality to Greece, it would have 
 been worth more to our cause than a hundred victories. 
 But of this we will speak no more — It is well that we 
 retain some of our illusions ; they may be converted into 
 truths, and are necessary to veil our corruption: as 
 your comrade, Chaussevigne, once observed to me, ' Greece 
 is like the dome of the Invalides, at Paris — all glittering 
 with gilding, but we know what there is below.'* But, 
 see ! here comes one in whom all the characteristic vices 
 and virtues of this people are combined." 
 
 * Michaud. 
 
316 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 As he spoke, a Greek officer, showily dressed and 
 accoutred, "vvas challenged by the sentries, and then, dis- 
 mounting, made his way to the assembly. " That is 
 Theodore Colocotronis," resumed the stranger ; " brave, 
 avaricious, sanguinary, and coxcombical. I thank the 
 Turks that they have left our old men the dignified ap- 
 pearance of nonchalance with which they receive him: 
 he comes from Nauplia, with tidings of defeat. But here 
 comes a man of another stamp — Suli's heroic chieftain, 
 Marco Botzaris. See how proudly he wears that stained 
 capote over his simple vest; no herald's escutcheon in 
 your kingly courts ever bore a nobler blazonment than 
 the soils upon that shaggy skin. By heaven ! they rise 
 to meet the rugged mountaineer — there is virtue still in 
 Greece ! Their courtesy is well rewarded ; he brings tidings 
 of the surrender of Corinth by the Turks. With what 
 classic brevity, but force, he tells his tale. Look well 
 upon him; for such men live short lives in times like 
 these." 
 
 " And by what means, may I ask, have you become 
 acquainted with events that these hurried men have only 
 just had time to tell?" inquired the Philliellene, whose in- 
 terest and curiosity were strongly excited by his strange 
 companion. 
 
 " Some day or other you shall know," said the latter, 
 " but not now. Here comes a friend of yours, the bravest 
 yet most diffident man that sails the seas. Farewell, for the 
 present ; tell Ypsilanti, when tlie assembly rises, that he who 
 gave you this ring awaits him at Tiadi; then keep the 
 trinket — it may serve you yet." So saying, the stranger 
 left him ; and almost at the same instant Canari grasped his 
 
ZOE. 317 
 
 hand hurriedly but affectionately, as he passed to deliver his 
 report to the assembly. The slight and delicate appearance 
 of this naval hero gave little token of the hardships he 
 had braved ; and when he timidly related to the assembly 
 how he had steered his iireship into the midst of the 
 Turkish fleet, and exploded her under their very guns — his 
 faltering voice and downcast eyes appeared to belie his 
 daring deed. His story was soon told ; he exchanged a few 
 words with the President, and in a few moments more had 
 flung himself down by the side of the Philhellene — his 
 timidity had passed away, and he was once more the frank, 
 bold-hearted seaman. 
 
 "Norman! my friend, my brother!" he exclaimed, 
 " I have glorious ucavs for you to-night. We sail at mid- 
 night for Mycone, the isle of love, and wine, and beauty ; 
 there, even your stately step shall flourish in the Ptomaika, 
 and your cold Northern blood shall glow with night's dark 
 wine.* Then, on for Scio! to avenge our slaughtered 
 friends : — the butchering Turk holds his feast of lanterns on 
 Friday night, and by all the gods of your mythology and 
 my mother-land, he shall have a light he expects not." 
 As he spoke thus, his eyes flashed fire, and his voice was 
 in tune with a trumpet's blast. " But more than all this," 
 continued the volatile Greek, changing once more to a joyous 
 mood — " more than the wine which cheers the body, or even 
 than the vengeance that refreshes the soul, — I have found 
 for you a heroine at last ; — not one of those exemplary old 
 women who is ready to set fire to a powder magazine, 
 
 * The " Vino di Notte" is made in the Cyclades, of a grape so 
 delicate, that, if gathered by daylight, it ferments, and becomes 
 worthless. 
 
318 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 though herself and Jier children be a-top of it* — but a real, 
 romantic heroine — brave, beautiful, eloquent, and even 
 rich. What! nothing but your old incredulous smile? I 
 tell you, had you heard and seen her as I have done, you 
 would abandon those dreams and reveries of yours for a 
 bright reality that transcends them all, and forget that the 
 world contained aught else but her. It was she who roused 
 the Eastern Islands to resistance, and inspired them with 
 resolution to be free." 
 
 The Philhellene listened with interest to a rhapsody 
 well suited to those stirring times, and inquired how long 
 his friend had known the subject of his glowing eulogy. 
 
 " I'll tell you, my boy, how it happened. You know 
 how reluctant Tenos and Mycone have shown themselves 
 to join our cause, or even to afford supplies. Last week, 
 though I left my mark upon the Turkish fleet off Scio, my 
 own ships did not come out of action exactly as they went 
 into it; and I was obliged to seek Mycone, to refit. I 
 found the little harbour almost deserted, and there was 
 scarcely a soul to speak to. One surly old fellow remained, 
 however ; and he told me that the whole village was gone 
 to the orange grove, where the ruined temple stands. 
 And there I found them — men, women, and children — 
 crowding round Modena Mavroyeni.f Now, I'm not 
 fond, myself, of hearing a woman talking to more than 
 one person at a time, but — before I had looked and 
 listened wliile my pulse beat five, to that inspired 
 
 * This was a circumstance of frequent occurrence in the Greek 
 war — when the men were slain, and nothing remained for their wives 
 and children but the brutality of the Turkish soldiery. 
 
 t Her story, as well as those of all the jjcrsons in this tale, is 
 historical. 
 
ZOE. 319 
 
 girl — I only wished that all Greece could have heard her, 
 too. 
 
 " She stood upon the ruined temple's marble steps, 
 surrounded by the Primates of the island, who looked 
 like priests of old, attendant on their deity; and never 
 yet did priest or Pagan picture a divinity of more 
 glorious form, or inspiring voice. She spoke of Greece, 
 and the cause became divine ; of slavery — and I felt 
 its chain upon my neck ; she spoke of our ancient valour — 
 I thought I had been a coward until then, and was in- 
 vincible thenceforth. She spoke of freedom, and her voice 
 sounded like a Marathonian trumpet. She told of our 
 slaughtered brethren, and her own slain sire, and the 
 people wept; and then she spoke of vengeance! — ven- 
 geance — fierce, terrible, and swift ! Vengeance — that 
 should sweep the Ottoman from the face of earth, and 
 carry Freedom on its wings ! 
 
 " She ceased — for a moment there was silence, as the 
 ear strove to catch some echo of that thrilling voice: 
 but then burst forth from every pent-up bosom one 
 glorious shout — high, vehement, prolonged — that reached 
 the Turks in their distant citadel, and told them their 
 accursed rule had ceased for ever !" 
 
 The Philhellene caught instantly the enthusiasm of the 
 sailor, and grasped his hand — " There spoke the spirit of 
 old Greece!" he exclaimed. " This is what I have longed 
 to hear and know. I sail with you to-night, and if my 
 faith in the regeneration of Greece has ever languished, I 
 will kindle it anew on the altar of Modena Mavroyeni !" 
 
 " Not by that name, however," rejoined his mercurial 
 friend; who noAv, half ashamed of his own enthusiasm, 
 sought to amuse himself with that which it had awakened. 
 
320 EVENINGS AT IT ADDON HALL. 
 
 " My heroine disclaims the half Italian title she received 
 from her Fanariote father, and now styles herself, simply, 
 ' Zoe,' — a name by which her mother used to call her." 
 
 The assembly soon broke np, and the friends separated — 
 to meet at midnight on board the galley of Canari. 
 
 LOVE AND AVAR. 
 
 " And yet in times so stormy, in a land 
 Wliere Virtue's self held forth a bloody hand, 
 To greet armed Power — in such times as these, 
 Still Woman's Love could find a way to please." 
 
 Philip Van Artaveldt. 
 
 Merrily the light mystico* of Canari bounded over the 
 starlit sea — winged by her snowy sails spread widely to 
 the breeze. Strenuously, too, her stalwart seamen bent to 
 their oars — changing at every sweep the purple water to 
 phosphoric foam. AVill was in their work; for, whatever 
 the vices of the Greek, his country's name was then on 
 every lip — her cause in every heart. Swiftly they sped, 
 for the mission of Canari was an urgent one, though now 
 that Delhi of the Seas lay wrapt in such deep luxury of 
 repose as none but men of eager action know. 
 
 The Philhellene kept watch for his wearied friend; and 
 found his own imagination strangely haunted by that 
 Island Girl ; whose image would still present itself to his 
 
 * The mystico is a liglit, long boat, peculiar to the Archipelago ; it 
 is adapted both for sail and oars, and has extraordinary spce<l. 
 
zoi:. 321 
 
 excited fancy, and block up, as it were, every avenue to 
 other thought. Hitherto, everything Greek, except Greece 
 herself, had disappointed him; although during his brief 
 but stirring career he had left no opportunity of adventure 
 unessayed — 
 
 " Woman, the field, the ocean — all that gave 
 Promise of pleasure, peril of a grave — 
 In turn he tried." 
 
 Little more than twelve months had elapsed since Nor- 
 man first joined the gallant but ill-fated Ypsilanti, in 
 Moldavia; but, in trial, disenchantment, and experience, 
 those months had done the work of years. He believed that 
 his worldly education was now complete — that he at 
 length saw life in all its clear and cold reality. Vain 
 thought! such knowledge is denied to man. Every one 
 has his own " reality," which to his neighbour seems the 
 veriest illusion ; — and who is to decide ? 
 
 However war, wealth, ambition, and woman's self, may 
 be argued down to an illusion, and lose their charm when 
 applied to the cold touchstone of experience — Nature's 
 glory will never lose its power over a heart in which 
 enthusiasm has once existed. This even our adventurer 
 could feel, as the Day-god — born a-new at Delos — rose 
 gloriously from his native isle, and shot his golden arrows 
 over earth and sea : lightly they glance from the J^^gean's 
 silvery shield, but pierce and scatter the pale mists on 
 Sunium's Promontory, and the proud Athenian hills. 
 
 As their first warm shower fell upon Canari's cheek, 
 he sprang to his feet. For a few minutes, he gazed 
 proudly and fondly on the view before him, then knelt 
 devoutly, and prayed to a little image of the Virgin. 
 
 Y 
 
322 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " Well ! my volunteer !" he exclaimed, as he rose from 
 his devotions ; " the galley makes good way, and we shall 
 make Mycone by nightfiiU. Now, tell me what you think 
 of our expedition ; and, first — of Zoe." 
 
 " First inform me who it was you found me with, last 
 night, at Epidaurus — the stranger whom you saluted so 
 respectfully." 
 
 " That's exactly what I cannot tell you," said the sailor, 
 looking serious; "he knows more of our affairs than any 
 man in Greece, yet he never drew a sword in our cause. 
 He is one day at St. Petersburg; another, at Stamboul; 
 a third, in the heart of the Morea; dictating, not only 
 wisely, but bravely, to our vacillating president." 
 
 *' He seemed unwilling to be seen last night," observed 
 the Philhellene, " and Ypsilanti would scarcely wait to hear 
 and grant my application to join your expedition, after lie 
 had heard his message." 
 
 " And yet they say the Prince hates the very ground 
 this stranger shadows;" replied Canari: "he feels his 
 superiority, and fears his superseding him as president. I 
 have heard it whispered, that this man is Capo d'Istria; 
 and that — cold, cautious, and subtle — he only waits until 
 the more forward men of Greece have rendered her cause 
 illustrious, to put himself at the head of her affairs. Now 
 let us change the subject; and thank the gods that we have 
 only Turks and war to deal with, instead of place-hunters 
 and politics." 
 
 " Agreed — in good time, too; for yon blue speck on the 
 horizon is the island of your lady-love.'' 
 
 " Nay, she's no love of mine," rejoined the sailor. 
 " Think you 1 should babble about her I loved, even to 
 your cold ear? Moreover, Norman, she's as proud as 
 
ZOE. 323 
 
 Lucifer, though lovely as his own bright star. And yet," 
 he added, musingly, " I am the only man on whom she 
 was ever seen to smile : but then it was in pity." 
 
 " What ! you^ Canari — the flattered favourite ashore, 
 the fearless and the feared afloat — you^ scorned by a vil- 
 lage girl?" 
 
 "Nay — not scorned; neither is she a 'village girl.' 
 Her father was one of the first families of the Fanal,* and 
 came to Mycone only to avoid the persecution consequent 
 on the war. Even here, however, it pursued him; and 
 he was put to death by Hassan Pasha, when the Turkish 
 fleet arrived. From that hour, his daughter became 
 changed ; — no longer the timid girl, who seemed to shrink 
 if the rude breeze disturbed her veil ; she went from house 
 to house — rousing the spirit of the people to revolt by 
 her own sad story, and her wondrous eloquence. At 
 length, hearing that the dastardly Council of the island 
 was about to send submission to the Porte, she appeared 
 among them; followed, as I told you, by all the inha- 
 bitants of the village. The beauty, zeal, and unexpected 
 appearance of the heroic girl, gave to her mission almost 
 a supernatural character. The senate heard her, as it 
 were, reverentially; and, as her glowing words fell burning 
 on their age-chilled hearts, they warmed to nobler views ; 
 each senator forgot his corporation craft, and felt — thought 
 — voted — as an individual man. Mycone was free, and 
 Zoe was the angel of its freedom ! 
 
 " And now, to come to my part of the story : — The 
 island was to furnish its share of ships and seamen to the 
 
 * Constantinopolitan Greeks, called " Fanariotes," from the 
 " Fanal," the name of the district they inhabit. 
 
 Y 2 
 
32-4 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 fleet, nnd Zoii was the first to contribute the two best 
 galleys in tlie hai'lxnir. My name was somehow wliis- 
 pered round ; and, turning to me, she poured on me alone 
 tliose words and looks that had overpowered the whole 
 assembly. IVIint she said, I know not; but how she said 
 it, I shall remember in my dying hour. AYhen she ceased 
 to speak, the peo[)le turned to me, expecting a reply. You 
 know my failing — my utter inability to speak before a 
 crowd. My heart felt bursting with a thousand thoughts, 
 but / — stood trembling like a beaten slave. That impor- 
 tunate assembly seemed now all eyes — and now all ears — 
 and now seemed all gasping for my words as if for breath ; 
 still, I was silent as the dead. Tlien it was she smiled. 
 No smile of scorn, Norman; but one of gentlest, kindliest 
 encouragement, as she exclaimed, ' Our Canuri prefers to 
 speak by actions, rather than by words ; his silence accepts 
 the command that shall speak in thunder to our tyrants !" 
 
 Witli these words she ceased — the enthusiasm that had 
 hitherto sustained her, seemed to fail ; she drew her veil 
 timidly, but gracefully, al)out her, and retired. Then my 
 words came fast and free enough; for I felt, Avlien slie was 
 gone, as if there was no one left. I swore that those very 
 galleys should fire the sliip of Hassan Pasha, and the false 
 Turk shall confess to-morrow that Canari keeps his 
 word!" 
 
 Merrily still flew the light mystico over the sunny sea, as 
 the island she was bound for seemed to rise from the waves 
 to meet lier. Gradually its bold and beautiful outline 
 became more clear; then its bosomy hills and shadowy 
 glens bccaiiif dcxcloiicd ; the myrtle and dlivc groves came 
 into view ; and, linally, the temple, the snow-white cottages, 
 ami llie |»eti|)lc (tn the shore. 
 
zoE. 325 
 
 The mystico shot in swiftly to tlie harl)our ; but before 
 the friends had hmded, they could discover, from the 
 excited crowds ashore, that something unusual had hap- 
 pened. Groups of long-robed elders or Avhite-kilted youths 
 were scattered round, each listening to some speaker who 
 was declaiming violently. Women sat upon the rocks, with 
 hair dishevelled and faces hidden in their hands; while 
 little children pressed unnoticed to their sides. Bustle 
 and confusion prevailed along the quays ; and high aliove 
 the town the blood-red banner waved upon the Turkish 
 citadel, whence salvos of artillery proclaimed some victory. 
 
 The moment his flag was recognised, loud welcoming 
 cries of "Canari! Canari!" resounded from the populace. 
 Crowds pressed eagerly about his galley as she took the 
 ground ; and before he had landed, he learned from a thou- 
 sand voices that Scio was laid waste, and all its inhabitants 
 were massacred by the Turks.* 
 
 Canari was well used to hear of death and horror. From 
 his youth up, he had been accustomed to wrestle with the 
 storm, and grapple with destruction in its most ruthless 
 form : but this murder — so terrible, so universal — for the 
 moment seemed quite to overwhelm him. He thought of 
 the kind, the beautiful, the loved, who had so often wel- 
 comed him to their delicious island, now cold in a bloody 
 death; polluting with their unburied corpses the scenes 
 that they once blessed! He sank upon his knees; and, 
 clasping his trembling hands upon his burning brow, re- 
 mained for some time in a silence that none dared to inter- 
 rupt. Then, starting to his feet, his form dilated, his 
 
 * Ninety thousand Greeks were slain on this occasion, out of a 
 population of 110,000; and the loveliest island in Greece blighted 
 into a wilderness. 
 
326 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 eyes flashed lightning fire, and liis pale lips quivered in a 
 vain attempt to give utterance to the storm of passion that 
 raged within him. No words would come, though he 
 laboured fearfully to speak ; but at last he raised his bugle 
 to liis lips, and blew his well-known battle-note — so wild, 
 and long, and fierce, that his very comrades slirank before 
 him, and the Turks were startled in their lofty citadel. 
 
 Not all the tongues of ancient Greece could have 
 spoken more eloquently, or made a more powerful appeal 
 than that one trumpet-blast. All the heroic feelings that 
 had slumbered for a thousand years in Hellenic blood 
 were roused to action by its spell. The whole people 
 crowded once more round Canari —boys, and warriors, and 
 grey-haired men — and demanded vengeance, as if it was 
 only his to give. " And vengeance ye shall have !" ex- 
 claimed the sailor. " To-morrow's dawn will bring us 
 arms from the Morea — to-morrow night, we sail for Scio!" 
 Then, knowing how necessary it was that this excitement 
 should be sustained, he continued — " To-night for the 
 banquet — the funeral feast to our lost friends; to-night 
 we will keep festival like our ancestors; and like them, 
 keep the morrow for revenge !"* 
 
 A\"elcome Avas that word. The Myconians were of old 
 renowned for hospitality, and the elders now hastened to 
 occupy their fevered minds with a new excitement: the 
 young men hastened to the ships, and employed themselves 
 under Canari's orders, in preparing them for sea. Mean- 
 while the Philhellene Avandered alone among scenes tliat 
 seemed everywhere to speak of Zoe ; and pondered whether 
 even her spirit could save Mycone from the fearful doom 
 of her sister island. 
 
 * " Let us flinc monily, for wo bUjt with rinlo." — Ltovidits. 
 
ZOE. 327 
 
 And now evening was come: not, as in our northern 
 climates, with damp, cokl shadows falling upon cloaked 
 people, hurrying to the shelter of their houses; but " softly, 
 beautifully bright;" genial as the noontide, refreshing as 
 the dawn— thoughtful, tender, and inviting. The sea- 
 breeze wafted fragrance from the orange-blossoms, as it 
 made music with their boughs ; and fluttered through the 
 long, dark tresses of many a Grecian maid. 
 
 Where a soft green hill sloped gently to the shore, 
 Canari and his comrades held their festival in the open 
 air. No one could have judged, from their gay, joyous 
 bearing and frequent laughter, that such was merely the 
 light foam upon the torrent of one deep, dark passion that 
 rolled beneath. Unlearned as were most of the island 
 Greeks of that time, there was a classic instinct amongst 
 them that seemed to induce imitation of the customs, and 
 even of the garb of ancient times. The wide white tunic, 
 with its close vest, whose embroidery was an armour in 
 itself —the long hair that floated round the shoulders, the 
 brazen helmet, the greaves, and even the trumpet that 
 characterized the naval Greeks, might have been worn at 
 the siege of Troy. Like their ancestors, too, they made 
 this funeral feast ; like them, they quaff'ed the rich red 
 wine of Scio, and poured libations to the manes of the 
 dead. But when they came to drink Canari's health, 
 their toast was peculiar to their own time and people. 
 " Sudden and glorious death!"* was drunk to their leader 
 with as much enthusiasm as if it involved length of days 
 and peaceful happiness. 
 
 * I know not how I can better translate the Greek toast of 
 " KuXoy i-uAvji'i,'" — a good (or handsome) bidlet. 
 
328 EVENINGS AT IIADDON UALL. 
 
 And so the festival went on. The people of the island 
 had decreed a crown of honour to Canari, for his last suc- 
 cessful expedition against the Turks, and now he was to 
 receive it. 
 
 As is usual all over the East, whether Christian, Moslem, 
 or mere Pagan, tlie men banquetted alone. But now the 
 sounds of a distant serenade Avas heard from beyond the grove, 
 tlirough whose vistas a procession of Greek maidens was 
 seen advancing to its music. Ordinarily, the melody of these 
 festive Islanders was of the soft and gentle character that 
 seemed suited to their clime; but now it had caught the 
 warlike tone of the roused people's mind, and the clang of 
 the Moorish cymbal, with tlie loud roll of the throbbing 
 drum, gave strength to the soft breathings of jEolian 
 flutes. This contrast (and yet union) of the martial, with 
 the festive spirit of the hour was everywhere apparent. 
 In the harbour, the fire-ships lay dancing on the playful 
 waves, bedecked with flags and streamers, fluttering 
 thoughtlessly over the volcanoes that slept below. The 
 revellers along the shore were equipped for war ; helmets 
 wore the Bacchic wreath; and many an arm that raised 
 the sparkling glass, was stained with soils of the ar- 
 mourer's forge. At intervals, the watch-cry of the 
 sentries broke upon the ear, tlirough tlie merry chat- 
 tering of children ; and the peaceful olive-groves below 
 reposed in the shadow of battlemented clifis above, sur- 
 mounted by the Turkish citadel and its crimson flag. 
 
 But every eye was now fixed on the graceful procession 
 emerging slowly tlii'oiigh the old ti'inple's colunnied porch, 
 that spanned their itathway. As tliey advanced, the men 
 rose from their grassy seat, and gathered round Canari, 
 
ZOE. 329 
 
 who stood with folded arms, in embarrassed suspense. To 
 him, that bright array of graceful women was more un- 
 Avelcome than the fierce columns of the Turkish host; and 
 she who led them, more formidable than all else. Her 
 companions wore the rich and varied attire of their 
 country; their leader alone was arrayed in simple white, 
 airily enfolding her stately form. All the others wore 
 chaplets of bright flowers, but she was crowned with a 
 simple myrtle wreath. On she came — with a calm though 
 timid air : high-souled maidenly virtue shone in her eyes, 
 and endowed her glorious shape with majesty. The revel- 
 lers paused in their wild glee, and bacchanals grew reverent 
 before her ; for she looked like an angel descended from a 
 higher sphere on some gracious mission to fallen man. 
 And such, indeed, she was — from the lofty sphere of 
 thought in which her spirit dwelt, she had brought free- 
 dom's aspirations, and conferred them on her tyrant- 
 trodden countrymen. 
 
 A hundred voices whispered " Zoe!" as she came, slowly, 
 and more slowly, until she paused before Canari : then, 
 as he knelt with folded arms, she placed a chaplet of 
 oak-leaves on his helmet, and said, in a voice that, gentle 
 as it was, reached every ear; " My cone, grateful to her 
 hero, sends you this." The acclamations that burst from 
 the excited crowd were hushed instantly, when her lips 
 were seen to move again, as she raised the white-cross 
 banner. — " For what you have already done, Canari, our 
 people offer you this crown ; for what you are about to do, 
 they entrust you with this sacred symbol, the standard of 
 regenerate Greece. Confident that, in your keeping, its 
 glory is secure, we add only the injunction of the Spartan 
 
330 EVEiMNGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 'II rav, 77 Ittj rav'." * Ail" loves sweet souiids, and wafts 
 
 them carefully idoiig. The Grecian echoes caught those 
 classic words, so breathed by classic lips, and poured them 
 into every listening ear of that widely-circling crowd. 
 Once more a shout of acclamation rent the sky, and once 
 more was hushed, as Canari, losing his timidity in 
 enthusiasm, rose suddenly, and gave the flag to Norman. 
 
 " By him," he cried — " by him that banner shall be 
 carried more nobly, though not more proudly, than by me. 
 Grecian-born as I am, my country claims my life and 
 service as a right ; but here is one who has dared as much, 
 and done far more than I — who has shed his blood for us 
 on the hills of Epirus, and the ^gean seas; who for us 
 has abandoned his own prosperous England — his home, 
 and that of Freedom !" Once more the acclamations rang 
 in generous echo to that generous speech, and the Philhel- 
 lene was startled to find that every eye Avas bent on him. 
 His proud self-possession soon returned; and as there is 
 nothing more imposing to an excited audience than perfect 
 calmness in the person who addi'esses them, his words, 
 sincere though few; his manner, modest though manly; 
 instantly rivetted attention. But he soon found himself 
 speaking for one alone — that beautiful being who stood 
 before him, with her large, soft, inquiring eyes fixed ra- 
 diantly on his ; her exquisitely chiselled lips seeming 
 to quiver with the echo of each word he spoke; and the 
 rich, warm blood betraying every emotion of her heart in 
 her changing cheek. 
 
 Why should we pause on such a scene ? — It is over ; and 
 the people are dispersed along the shore ; each group sustain- 
 
 * " Witli it, or upon it." Tlie words and allusion of Germanos, 
 Archbi.shoj) of" Patra?. 
 
ZOE. 331 
 
 ing its excitement in a different mode : here a circle of young 
 islanders whirl rapidly in the liomaika dance, to which 
 the surrounding crowd keep time with clapping hands and 
 martial song ; — there a party of revellers, crowned with ivy, 
 sustain the island's Bacchic character, as they drink deeply 
 to the health of Zoe and the gallant stranger. Gathered 
 round the old elm-tree, the elders are assembled in debate 
 on the equipment of the morrow's expedition ; and many a 
 doomed sailor is strolling along the shore, with his arm 
 encircling some slender waist that shall never feel that 
 pressure more. 
 
 It is the invariable result of times of common and in- 
 tense peril, that the usual conventionalities of life are dis- 
 pensed with, and the fetters of formality relaxed. The 
 Greek islanders were never remarkable for demureness; 
 and now, by universal consent, every disguise abandoned, 
 life wore, openly and honestly, its best and truest feel- 
 ings — as it might be, in its last hour. Old feuds were 
 forgotten, decaying friendships were restored, and lovers 
 no longer shrank from free confession, or feared observ- 
 ant eyes. 
 
 Softly and gloriously the summer moon shone over that 
 fair island and its joy- tranced people — ^joy all the deeper 
 and more intense from its uncertainty : but a brighter 
 light was shining, and a deeper joy was basking in its ray, 
 where Zoe wandered with the stranger by her side. Nor- 
 man was deeply versed in all the graceful learning of 
 that lady's land : a scholar's fame had long been his, and 
 his aspiring mind had grasped at all that ever came within 
 its reach. And yet how much had he to learn from this 
 simple island girl ! What was the value of all the light 
 that ever beamed from philosophic page, compared with 
 
332 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX UALL. 
 
 tliat now shilling from her eyes? How dark and objectless 
 seemed life till then — how eagerly and devotedly he gave 
 himself up to a first, deep, reckless love ! And Zoe — how 
 changed was she within that hour ! Till then, her every 
 thought was engrossed by her orphan sorrow or by pa- 
 triot pride: the fii'st passion to Avliich her young heart 
 awakened was thirst for vengeance on her father's mur- 
 derers ; this became sublimed into zeal for her country's 
 cause ; and feeding thereupon, her soul grew strong. Then, 
 finally, came Love — the master passion that absorbed all 
 others — shining out suddenly, like sunrise in those Eastern 
 skies: no struggling dawn — no long protracted contest 
 between light and shade — but flashing forth upon her soul 
 like lightning, and filling at once its Avhole horizon. 
 
 Man seeks, however vainly it may be betimes, to preserve 
 the "Divide et impera" system in his passions; and in 
 his heart, ambition, pride, and glory may share their rule 
 with Love. With woman — Heaven bless her ! — the master 
 passion is a despot, and one that " brooks no brother near 
 the throne :" Avhatever it may be — love, pride, anger, or 
 revenge — it rules alone. 
 
 And thus it was with Zoe — Nature's own wayward 
 child : but a few hours ago, her every thought was occu- 
 pied with glorious abstractions, that seemed to leave no 
 room for another emotion in her mind : unconscious of her 
 rare endowments, to her it seemed as natural to speak 
 eloquently as to feel deeply. !Slie had never known what 
 it was laboriously to strive for, and lingeringly to acquire, 
 influence: she appeared, and her power was felt — she 
 spoke, and it was omnipotent. To her ardent but modest 
 mind, this influence seemed simjjly owing to lier mission 
 as Priestess of the glorious creed she preached. 
 
ZOE. 333 
 
 And then came Norman, clothed with all the attributes 
 most attractive to her imagination; with a spirit so calm 
 and self-possessed— yet enthusiastic as her own ; with all 
 the prestige of the most daring deeds, yet the gentleness 
 and reverence towards woman that combines with bravery 
 so Avell. His eloquence, earnest and commanding, made 
 the exclamatory harangues of her own people appear to be 
 mere angry prattlings : and then his devotion to her — so 
 sudden, trusting, and entire: the critical and exciting 
 times in which she lived — all these things " rent moments 
 into immortalities," and made the passion of the hour 
 appear mature. 
 
 Night went, and morning came full swiftly to that 
 island people ; but most of all, to the palace where Zoe 
 entertained her guests. Apart from the gay and thought- 
 less crowds, she sat beneath a lofty alcove, looking out 
 upon the sea. Eastern luxury was there, blended with the 
 refinements of civilized Europe. Italian art had decorated 
 with frescoes the light, graceful architecture of the Sara- 
 cens ; silken cushions were piled upon the porcelain floor ; 
 silver lamps shed soft light upon a sparkling fountain; 
 and around it vases of flowers, exotic even there, breathed 
 perfume. 
 
 And Zoe gazed upon the paling stars, and the bright- 
 ening hills, and the shadowy form of the Turkish mosque, 
 that showed where the beleaguered Moslems still kept their 
 ground. The eyes of the Greek maiden wandered over 
 the sea, and rested long and earnestly on the galley that 
 bore the banner of the Cross. In a few short liours it was 
 to bear the stranger, now her lover, to danger and perhaps 
 to death: but lie was by her side; and he also gazed 
 
334 EVENINGS AT HADDON IIALL. 
 
 thoughtfully upon that tranquil view, and proudly on that 
 fateful banner. 
 
 " To-morrow night," he whispered, " that flag that 
 floats serenely now, shall ascend to the skies on the ex- 
 plosion that destroys the pasha's ship. But not more high 
 or suddenly will it soar, than the hope that now breathes 
 softly in your ear, to claim reward when we return." 
 
 "When we return!" she repeated. " Alas! the 
 charmed life Canari bears may be proof even to this des- 
 perate chance — he may return ; but he may come alone 1" 
 
 Just then the bugle of Canari blew; and thenceforth 
 prompt, energetic action took the place of thought and 
 reverie. Eager and armed crowds now hastened to the 
 shore, and Norman's step was not the last that trod 
 Canari's deck. Still the little fleet waited for the morn- 
 ino-'s breeze ; and at the earliest dawn the Patriarch of the 
 island came, with his priesthood in all their sacred pomp, 
 to bless the expedition. The 
 
 " Full of hope, misnamed forlorn," 
 
 confessed themselves devoutly ; and bent humbly beneath 
 the absolving hands, before they mustered at their re- 
 spective posts. In each of the fireships an altar was raised, 
 and garlands of flowers adorned the rigging. Who could 
 imagine, as he looked upon those ministers of peace — sur- 
 rounded by every sacerdotal sign, and voice of hymns, and 
 festive wreaths — that destruction's fiercest devil crouched 
 below? Every cavity in these ships was charged with 
 explosive matter; hand-grenades lay in piles along the 
 decks, and a battery lurked among the grappling irons, the 
 first strain of which was to explode it: the subtle Greek- 
 
ZOE. 
 
 335 
 
 fire— penetrating and quenchless— was laid in tubes from 
 stem to stern; and a curtain of bullet-proof, to defend the 
 firemen, lay ready for tricing up the shrouds when the ships 
 were about to act. 
 
 The breeze blows merrily, the harbour is deserted, the 
 open sea is gained, and galley and fireship strain eagerly 
 for the scene of action. Day fades, and evening comes. 
 Scio looms before the invaders through the evening's gloom, 
 and soon they open on the bay where the Turkish fleet lies 
 crowded in fancied security. The Grecian galleys come to 
 an anchor along the unprotected southern shore ; but the 
 fire-ships that are to begin the action sail on to the north, 
 in order to command a leading wind. 
 
 Meanwhile, the triumphant Moslems held their festival 
 in the desolated homes of the slaughtered islanders. A 
 thousand bonfires along the shore gave light to groups, 
 rejoicing tranquilly according to their fashion. Every 
 Turkish ship was clearly visible by the light of innu- 
 merable lamps hung amongst the rigging: and conspicuous 
 above all was the admiral's flag-ship; on which three 
 bright-green lanterns showed that Hassan Pasha held his 
 
 orgies. 
 
 By the last light of evening, two little brigantines, bear- 
 ing the crescent banner, were seen slowly entering the bay. 
 On they came, tranquilly and unnoticed, till, instead of 
 bending their course toward the merchantmen, they were 
 observed to steer straight for the centre of the Turkish 
 fleet. That fleet had already experienced the fearful 
 havoc of the Greek fireship, and at once a cry burst from 
 every watchman—" The Greek! The Greek!" Instantly 
 the Moslem joy was hushed; hurried and confused com- 
 
336 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 mands were issued aboard of every ship ; cables were cut, 
 and sails were hastily let fall. 
 
 Just then, one of the two dark little craft that had 
 caused such panic in that stately fleet, was seen to haul her 
 wind ; for a moment she remained motionless, while the crew 
 of her doomed consort got on board, and left Canari and his 
 friend alone to work her. A small caique — their only hope 
 of safety — towed astern ; and on went the little brigantine 
 gallantly through the heart of the Ottoman fleet. Cannon 
 opened upon her from every quarter ; and a thousand bul- 
 lets whistled round the white-cross banner that now 
 proudly streamed from her mast-head, as she swept calmly, 
 bat swiftly on. Canari holds the helm, and Norman 
 leans against the foremast with folded hands, in one of 
 which is visible one burning spark. The brig passes on 
 silently through the confused and drifting fleet, and winds 
 her way steadily towards the towering ship of the admiral. 
 Now she is under her very counter — and now her gunwale 
 grates against the sides ; tlie grappling-irons fasten in the 
 main-chains — the little spark has been planted and makes 
 quick harvest; a hundred dusky hands strive to shake ofl" 
 tlic irons; but the grenades explode, annihilating every- 
 thing but tlie grim hooks that they })rutect, and tlic 
 stanchions to wliich they cling. — " Now, Norman, our task 
 is done ! — Away for life and Zoe!" shouted Canari, cheerily, 
 as he leapt, followed by his friend, into the caique, that 
 soon sliot clear of the fireship and her gigantic victim. 
 The latter had cut her cables, Jind now drifted to and fio, 
 as if struggling to get free from lier destroyer; — vainly as 
 the tall giraffe attenq)ts to lly fi-oui tlic tiger that bestrides 
 him while it tears his sides! Tlie caique paused upon 
 her oars, and watched for the e,\))losion. It eaiiie full 
 
ZOE. 337 
 
 quickly ; — for a moment the brig recoiled, — then seemed, 
 transformed into fire — to plunge into the Moslem ship: 
 instantly was the fiery invasion met, echoed, and repelled, 
 by another explosion, louder and more terrible by far; 
 the huge three-decker and her destroyer disappeared 
 from the ocean and mingled their blazing fragments in 
 the clouds. 
 
 By that sudden flash were seen a thousand turbans 
 floating about on the dark water: one — only one — 
 small boat was seen escaping, and Canari's eagle eye 
 caught the Pasha's standard at its stern. A gesture was 
 enough: the caique shot along through the sparkling 
 shower that hissed around it, towards that boat. It struck 
 the barge ; the very shock gave impetus to the force with 
 which the assailants sprang on board, and their swords 
 descended as they came 
 
 A moment is gone by; that boat contains no living soul. 
 The caique skims again lightly towards the open sea; 
 and the insignia of the ruthless Pasha is amongst her 
 trophies. 
 
 That night and its morrow are passed by. Evening 
 comes again, with all the soft beauty that it wore when the 
 lovers looked out upon Mycone's bay. Softly and gloriously 
 once more the moon shone over that calm scene, and 
 thoughtfully did Zoe once more gaze upon its beauty. 
 Long had she striven to sustain her spirit with heroic 
 thought, and Tyrtfean song; but suspense had tranced her 
 into silence, only broken by the beating of her passionate 
 heart. The lute lay neglected by her side, flowers were 
 torn and scattered round her; the very horizon she had 
 watched so long seemed like some iron circle pressing on 
 her brow, and she buried her face in her clasped hands. 
 
 z 
 
338 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 A ripple is heard — a caique shoots along the waves, and 
 lightly touches on the marble stairs— a firm but slow step 
 is heard — and Canari comes — but comes alone ! 
 
 i9art Cl)irtJ. 
 PEACE. 
 
 " But song of bard, or sage's lore, 
 That land ennoble now no more ; 
 It is not Greece — it must not be; 
 And yet look up — the land is free!" 
 
 Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 Long years of sanguinary struggle and fearful vicissi- 
 tude had passed by ; Greece was left desolate of her beauty, 
 her wealth, and her bravest children — but she was left 
 FREE. Her patriot people either slept in honourable death, 
 or lived in liberty. 
 
 In the early spring of 1833, the beautiful harbour of 
 Nauplia was crowded with ships of war ; the conquering 
 flags of Navarino — English, French, and Russian — floated 
 from their spars; and salvoes of artillery welcomed to jier 
 shore the monarch of regenerate Greece ! 
 
 And such was the result of what cold-hearted, calcu- 
 lating Europe denounced twelve years before as a hopeless 
 struggle ; as if any noble cause were ever hopeless ! Twelve 
 years before, and Ypsilanti might have said — 
 
 " Lo! with tlie chivalry of Christendom, 
 I wage my war — no nation for my friend; 
 Yet in each nation having hosts of friends!"* 
 
 * See Henry Taylor's admir:il)lf' drama, " I'liilip Van Arti-veldo." 
 
ZOE. 
 
 339 
 
 And now the most powerful nations in the world were 
 emulous of doing honour to tlie cause they had so long- 
 denounced. 
 
 Almost all the Greeks of the Morea, whom the war had 
 spared; and many of those from Livadia and the islands, 
 were assembled on the shore to greet their king. Infi- 
 nitely various was their appearance and array; as Primate, 
 Klepht, and Palicar, in coloured robes, or snow-white 
 tunics;' and scarfs, and arms, and armour of antique 
 fashion; crowded round the path their sovereign was to 
 take. Some clambered about the broken bastions, or over 
 fallen columns, to command a better view. Greek matrons, 
 in their festival attire, thronged each safer spot of ground ; 
 holding their unconscious infants up, as if they could see 
 also through their eyes. The pathway to the citadel was 
 kept clear, not by soldiers, but by Greek maidens, upon 
 whom none of those wild warriors of the hills would dare 
 to press; and little children sang hymns of joy and welcome 
 as they strewed the ground with flowers. 
 
 Facing the place of disembarkation, the ground was 
 broken by military operations, or their result; the road 
 to the citadel wound among huge rocky fragments, whose 
 mossy eminences afforded resting-places to gay groups. 
 Beyond this space rose the Acropolis, backed by the wide 
 sweep of the hills of Argos and the mountains of Arcadia. 
 
 Another loud salvo of artillery shook the sky, and an- 
 nounced that Otho had landed in his new kingdom, whilst 
 a universal shout of enthusiasm from his new subjects wel- 
 comed him to Greece. The graceful and classic costume 
 of his adopted country became his light and youthful figure 
 well; and he trod the sacred soil with a firm and noble 
 step. His eyes glanced eagerly around ; but, alas ! there 
 
 z 2 
 
340 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 was no generous fire, no proud inspiration there! His 
 salute was courtly, but cold ; and while Grecian warriors 
 pressed to catch his notice, he chattered hghtly to his 
 Bavarian friends. 
 
 He was, however, the gift of the Great Powers to 
 Greece, and it behoved her to be grateful. And so her 
 enthusiastic people felt, for a little while. No foreboding 
 of worse than Turkish tyranny, renewed under a Christian 
 form, then shadowed their glad hearts ; mirth and revelry 
 resounded everywhere, and the first festival of fi-eedom was 
 well kept. 
 
 That evening — when the sun had set, the breeze blew 
 off the land, and the fever of rejoicing was at its height — 
 a lonely galley held her way from the festive shore, on, — 
 over the darkening sea. She steered the same course that 
 the galley of Cantiri held long years before, and reached the 
 same haven in the harbour of Mycone. The islanders were 
 celebrating their king's arrival with their usual zeal in the 
 cause of pleasure; but the pilot of the galley made no 
 pause among the revellers. He soon found himself alone 
 among the orange groves ; and near the ruined temple found 
 the object of his search — a grave. 
 
 A tomb of Parian marble bore a simple symbol; but 
 while an inhabitant remained, there was no epitaph needed 
 to tell the stranger, that beneath its shelter reposed the 
 chivalrous valour of the Norman, by the side of the passionate 
 but i)ure beauty of the classic East. 
 
 Cauciri, too, has long since found a sailor's sei)ultur(' 
 among the islands that he died to save. There he lies in 
 honoui- — shrouded only by the dark ^Egean that he loved 
 so well. 
 
EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 341 
 
 At the conclusion of the eastern traveller's narrative, 
 with which all the company professed themselves much 
 gratified, the Lady Eva turned appealingly to a young 
 lady who sat near her, and intimated that the more her 
 own sex would assist in this novel celebration of her 
 birthday revels, the more she should, in after life, recur 
 with pride and pleasure to the recollection of this happy 
 year. " And I know you can tell stirring stories," she 
 added archly and beseechingly; "for Saint Etienne 
 revealed this fact to me one long winter night of last 
 year." 
 
 The appeal was successful; a drawing was quickly 
 chosen and presented by the Lady Eva, and the result 
 was 
 
 THE TEKRACE GARDEN. 
 
 In the southern provinces of France, the climate is almost 
 Italian. There, along the range of the maritime Alps, 
 the vegetation is luxuriant as that of Italy ; the air- tints of 
 that sunny region possess all the magic glow of the sweet 
 south, and the short twilight following the summer day is 
 as soothing to the soul and sense as that which heralds the 
 night upon the shores of Naples. It was an evening in 
 the month of August, 1790; the sun was slowly sinking 
 towards the blue waves of the Mediterranean, along whose 
 sleepy and slowly heaving swell, his last rays fell in a 
 
342 KVKNiNGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 broad tract of light. Large volumes of copper-coloured 
 vapours rested on the western horizon ; a few white, feathery 
 clouds flecked the deepening azure of the high vault of 
 heaven, and already the young moon glimmered above the 
 crests of the distant mountains. A bold promontory 
 stretched far into the glassy waters of the gulf of Lyons. 
 A thick wood of aged oaks, with a few tall pines rising 
 proudly above their broad masses of foliage, clothed the 
 promontory from its summit to the verge of the steep rocks 
 skirting its base. Midway up the ascent stood the chateau 
 de Montauban ; it was a stately pile of Gothic architecture, 
 with the dark ivy, the growth of three centuries, clinging 
 to its grey stone, mantling the highest turrets, and almost 
 hiding the sculptured shields of noble blazonry surmount- 
 ing each deep-arched gate and window. The chateau was 
 surrounded by terraced gardens, with their groves of 
 orange trees, their thickets of roses, their stone vases filled 
 with exotic shrubs, and their fountains sparkling in the 
 evening light. Long flights of stone stairs led from the 
 upper to the lower terraces, until they descended to the 
 loAvest, which Avas scarcely raised above the shore of a small 
 cove, where the rippling waves, dancing in between the 
 cliffs, washed murmuring over the pavement of the 
 terrace. 
 
 Two persons stood hand in hand upon the lowest terrace, 
 and looked silently over the scene we have essayed to 
 picture. One was a young man, who might perhaps have 
 already attained his twentieth year. His figure was tall 
 and graceful, but cast in that athletic mould which showed 
 that he had already acquired the full strength of manhood. 
 His head was set on with the proud grace often seen in the 
 works of the antique sculptors; his features were aquiline. 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 343 
 
 iind strongly marked, possessing the haughty and somewhat 
 stern beauty of the Roman statue. His eyes were dark 
 and fiery as those of the mountain stag; and his hair, 
 wliich curled closely round his forehead, was black as the 
 raven's wing. His dress was the plainest garb of the 
 Alpine hunter; but the easy dignity of his whole air and 
 mien proclaimed his right to rank with the highest nobles 
 of France. He was certainly a handsome man, but his 
 almost faultless beauty repelled rather than attracted 
 interest. His countenance too truly mirrored his spirit, 
 and betrayed the feeling of disgust and lassitude which 
 follows the excitement of premature passions. The fresh- 
 ness and the illusions of life were lost; he had lived too 
 quickly, and the clear keen observation of men and their 
 motives, — the cold selfish spirit of worldly calculation 
 had succeeded to the expansive generosity and warm- 
 hearted confidence of youth. His wealth had enabled him 
 to purchase the bitter knowledge of the worthlessness of 
 the world, and to buy pleasure which had destroyed hap- 
 piness. 
 
 His companion was a girl, apparently about one year 
 younger. Her fairy form, beautifully rounded, but almost 
 infantine in its fragile lightness, her long auburn hair 
 falling in waves over her shoulders, her soft and dark- grey 
 eyes, shadowed by their black lashes, and the rosy and 
 transparent bloom on her fair cheek, gave to her beauty a 
 witchery which had won for her the name of the Fee de 
 Montauban. She leaned upon her companion's arm, and 
 looked fondly into his eyes, which were fixed upon her 
 with a gaze of equal fondness. 
 
 " To-morrow !" she said, with a sigh : " so soon — so very 
 soon !" 
 
6hi: i;\i:mn{;s at haddo.n hai.i,. 
 
 " To-morrow !" lie replied, with a look of fierce impa- 
 tience; "it is even now too late." 
 
 " Adliemar, why Avill you leave us? There is no hope 
 of glory now, nothing but danger." 
 
 " And duty, Madeleine," he added. " Would you, tlie 
 last scion of our race, would you wish your brother to 
 dishonour our name, and to stain that noble shield, which 
 has been borne untarnished since our ancestor won his 
 spurs on the fields of Palestine, and received them from 
 the hand of Philip Augustus?'' 
 
 " But the court can claim no duty at your hands,'' said 
 Madeleine ; " you never sought power or rank from the 
 favour of the king. Not one of our ancestors ever received 
 any honour from the court." 
 
 " True, Madeleine. The name of a Montauban was never 
 heard in the ante-chamber of some lowborn minister, 
 whose arrogance marked the depth from which he had 
 crept, as well as the height to which he had climbed. No 
 Montauban was ever seen in the degraded levee at the 
 ruelles of the fair favourites, the only mediators wliose 
 intercessions with our kings could obtain the royal favour 
 for the nobles of France. Never were our names heard 
 there ; but when did a Montauban desert his sovereisjrn in 
 the hour of danger?" 
 
 " But the danger now lies in the hatred of men so far 
 Ijeneath you, that it is a degradation to contend with 
 them," said Madeleine. 
 
 " A pack of wolves may be as destructive as a lion; shall 
 we spare them in contempt?" replied Adhemar de Mont- 
 auban. " Enougli, Madeleine, I must go. I must take my 
 place by the side of the king. 1 will not lurk here as if 1 
 feared to avow my principles. 1 will not emigrate; lor 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 345 
 
 emigration is only a cowardly desertion of our duty, our 
 country, and our king. I am an aristocrat; I have a 
 name to uphold, and a property to defend, and the canaille 
 shall know that I may die, but never shrink from the 
 struggle." 
 
 " Yet the poor peasants have been very miserable," said 
 Madeleine ; " perhaps they only seek for justice. Dear 
 Adhemar, do not call them canaille." 
 
 " My sweet Madeleine, you argue like a woman. A 
 moment since you spoke as if the blood of the rabble would 
 stain my sword, and now you speak of them as very 
 moderate, estimable people. You do not know what you 
 want to say." 
 
 " I know that I want to keep you here Avith me, and safe," 
 said Madeleine. " For the rest, I do not understand any- 
 thing about politics ; your vassals are happy, for you are very 
 kind to them ; but on other properties near my convent I 
 saw the peasants very wretched ; they were starving, and 
 yet they were obliged to work for their lords without pay- 
 ment for their labour." 
 
 " Tush, Madeleine, you must not deduce principles from 
 solitary facts. There are a few tyrants among our noblesse, 
 perhaps, but most of them are kind to their vassals, and 
 considerate of their welfare ; their kindness gives as favours 
 all that the laws could grant as rights to the peasants." 
 
 " Yet, Adhemar, it is hard to think that one must ask 
 as a favour what ought to be a right ; it is dreadful that 
 the lives of thousands, or at least their welfare, should de- 
 pend on the caprice of one, — yes, Adhemar, even of you." 
 
 " Do you accuse me of oppressive conduct ? " said 
 Adhemar. 
 
 " Oh no, you are too noble, too kind, to be severe to 
 
346 EVENINGS AT ilADDON HALL. 
 
 your dependents," said the young girl, with a look of 
 ardent love and pride; then, seeing that Adhemar looked 
 annoyed by her words, she changed the conversation, 
 and added, " Will you not consult our grandfather, Ad- 
 hemar?" 
 
 " He is in his dotage," said the Marquis de Montauban; 
 " I have consulted a better counsellor, Edouard de Lorency. 
 He advises me to go, — he accompanies me." 
 
 Tiladeleine trembled ; a deep blush passed over her cheek, 
 and then it ebbed away and left her very pale. Her 
 brother observed not her agitation, and he went on speak- 
 ing with bitter energy. 
 
 " We go, and though it may cost us our lives, yet we 
 will prove that we are aristocrats and patriots also. 
 Patriotism and self interest are one in our feelings. What 
 is the welfare of a country to a man who has nothing to 
 lose by its ruin? What is dishonour to a man who has no 
 name?" 
 
 At this moment a servant informed Adhemar that his 
 lawyer was awaiting his pleasure in the library. 
 
 " He comes to take my instructions before I leave the 
 country, perhaps for ever," said the Marquis ; " I would 
 De Lorency were her6." 
 
 Madeleine remained alone. She leaned on the pedestal 
 of a sculptured vase, which was filled with some rare Indian 
 plants. Their drooping branches bent over her head, and 
 their bright and perfumed flowers rested on her hair and 
 on her brow. Her eyes were fixed on the setting sun, but 
 her thoughts were abstracted from all around her. A light 
 footstep reached lier ear — she started ; a smile played on 
 her ]\\), and a rosy llusli rose even to her temples, but she 
 did nof turn lier head towards the terrace stairs. Monsieur 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 347 
 
 De Lorency was at that moment descending those stairs. He 
 was about thirty-five years of age, but he looked much older. 
 A wound received in America had caused his dark brown 
 hair to assume a touch of grey. His figure was very fine, 
 but his commanding presence was somewhat injured by the 
 slight stoop which always bent his head. A deep furrow 
 was traced upon his broad and thoughtful brow, and a 
 shade of melancholy gravity rested on his clear grey eyes. 
 He was not happy. The last representative of a noble but 
 fallen house, he had experienced the neglect and the cold- 
 ness of the world, and in return, he looked upon that vain 
 world with haughty scorn ; and shrank from the pleasures 
 of that society, in which he felt that he was received without 
 a welcome. When chance threw him among those who were 
 only his equals in birth, although more richly favoured by 
 fortune, he met them with a reserve which would have re- 
 pulsed any advance towards intimacy. Though generally 
 silent, he possessed great conversational powers, but he 
 spoke with a cynical bitterness which sprung from wounded 
 pride and the galling feelings of high-born poverty, and 
 which effectually repelled the interest which his high cha- 
 racter as a soldier, and his powerful talents as a political 
 writer, would naturally have excited. 
 
 " Mademoiselle De Montauban," he said, " I come to 
 take leave of you." 
 
 The tone of deep sorrow in which he spoke contrasted 
 strangely with the cold formality of his words. After a 
 pause, he added, in the same low, broken voice, " Your 
 brother has told you that we must leave you to-morrow." 
 " Why do you persuade him to leave me?" said Madeleine. 
 They were silent once more. She still looked along the 
 darkening sea, while his eyes were fixed on her with a look 
 
348 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. 
 
 of painful tliouglit ; but though her face was half averted 
 from his gaze, she felt that it was fastened upon her, and 
 she dared not turn towards him. 
 
 "Your brother asked my advice; he placed his honour 
 in my hands. Could I deceive him? If my advice has 
 caused you grief, I implore you to pardon me. And oh ! 
 Mademoiselle de ]Montauban, do not hate me." 
 
 " When may you return?" said Madeleine. 
 
 " I know not," he answered. " Adhemar has hope; he 
 thinks the cause of loyalty may yet triumph. I have no 
 hope; the cause is lost. Our king has no energy ; our nobles 
 have deserted the country ; our priests are infidels ; the 
 popular party wish for revenge for past injustice, as well 
 as for the obtaining of the recognition of their own rights ; 
 the royalists wish to uphold every oppressive abuse of law, 
 to which they give the name of justice. How can peace 
 ever arise from these discordant elements?" 
 
 " No, no," said Madeleine, " there can be no peace. 
 I shall never see Adhemar again." 
 
 She burst into tears, and hastily extending her hand to 
 De Lorency, she murmured a few words of parting 
 regret. Lorency took her hand, touched it with his lips, 
 lightly, courteously, and timidly, and allowed her to leave 
 him without one word which could betray the truth which he 
 but too deeply felt, that thus to part from her was worse than 
 death. Slowly she ascended the terrace stairs; when the 
 last flutter of her white robe was lost beneath the gate of 
 the castle, Lorency caught the branch of the ipomea which 
 had touched her hair — he plucked it from the plant — he 
 pressed it madly to his lips, and hiding it in his bosom, he 
 hurried to the chateau, in search of Adhemar. He found 
 liiiii ill tlie library with the lawyer. 
 
TUE TERRACE GARDEN. 349 
 
 " I sent for you, Edouard, to consult you about 
 the settlement of my property. My father's will fixed my 
 majority on my twentieth birthday, so I have been of age 
 for some months." 
 
 " I know you have had that misfortune," said Lorency, 
 trying to force his attention to the business to be laid 
 before him. 
 
 " I wish to secure all that I can dispose of to Madeleine, 
 in the event of my dying, or, to speak more correctly, in 
 the event of my being killed in the civil war which I fore- 
 see. She requires a guardian ; now my mother's father is 
 almost the only relation we have living, of her family. My 
 father's family have quarrelled with me, because I an- 
 nounced my intention of settling everything on my sister. 
 I will not name any of them her guardians. Our grand- 
 father is already in his dotage, so that he cannot discharge 
 that duty. Will you accept it ? It is a strange request, 
 but you are my only friend." 
 
 " I cannot, Adhemar — I will not!" replied Lorency. 
 " You will not !" said Adhemar, impatiently ; then seeing 
 that De Lorency was pale as death, and fearfully agitated, 
 he took his arm, led him out on the terrace, and said, 
 " Tell me, De Lorency, what has agitated you thus?" 
 
 " Your own words, Adhemar. You ask me to be a 
 father to your sister, to watch over her, to see her every 
 day, and to sign the contract which will make her the 
 wife of some man whom she may love, but who never 
 could love her as I have loved her from the moment I first 
 saw her." 
 
 " She has rejected you?" said Adhemar, inquiringly. 
 "No; she dreams not that I have dared to love her. 
 I will not pain her by confessing the misery she has in- 
 
850 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 flictecl. I am too proud to acknowledge a hopeless love, 
 even to Madeleine." 
 
 " Flopeless! I do not think it hopeless," said Adhemar; 
 " a woman might love you, if you loved her, but I never 
 could have suspected you of so much condescension. Your 
 pride " 
 
 " What has pride to do with love?" said Lorency. " My 
 pride is the consciousness that I love her more than life ; 
 more than all, except my honour. She is young ; I am old. 
 You have shown rae how old I am, by asking me to be her 
 guardian; her father, as it were. I am poor; she is rich. 
 I will not tell her what anguish she has caused me." 
 
 Adhemar made no answer. He left the Baron de Lo- 
 rency upon the terrace, and sought Madeleine in her dress- 
 ing-room, where he heard she was sitting. Her head was 
 bent upon the cushions of the sofa, over which her hair 
 hung in disordered tresses. At the sound of Adhemar's 
 voice she looked up, but large tears stood gathered on her 
 eyelids. Adhemar drew her to his breast. " Madeleine," 
 he said, fondly, " Edouard De Lorency loves you ; but he 
 fears that you would banish him from your presence, if he 
 dared to confess it. Will you forgive his presumption for 
 my sake, and allow him to plead his own cause." 
 
 " 1 knew that he loved me," said Madeleine, hiding her 
 face upon her brother's shoulder, " and yet he was so cold 
 and so distant, that he made me very unhappy. I could 
 not speak to him when he treated me so coldly, and then I 
 saw that he was hurt and miserable ; and yet it was not 
 my fault." 
 
 Adhemar kissed his sister once more, and returned to 
 De Lorency, who was pacing the terrace in extreme agi- 
 tation. 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 351 
 
 "I have seen Madeleine," said Adhemar; she has long 
 known that you loved her." 
 
 " And therefore she treated me with cold disdain," 
 said Edouard; " I knew that my love was madness." 
 
 " Must I offer her hand to you," said Adhemar. " Go 
 to her, plead your cause, and come back to me when she 
 has given you your sentence." 
 
 Half in desperation, half in hope, De Lorency sought 
 Madeleine. The conscious blush and the unconscious 
 smile which greeted him when he spoke to her, answered 
 all his doubts. He threw himself on his knees at her feet, 
 and poured forth his love, his hopes, his fears, and his joy. 
 Before Adhemar interrupted him, he had told her the story 
 of his life. She was his first and his only love ; and she had 
 promised to repay the years of suffering he had endured, by 
 a whole life of happiness. Adhemar was delighted. Edouard 
 was his only friend, and he was now the guardian of Made- 
 leine, so that he was freed from a great responsibility, and 
 Madeleine was secure in a husband's protection. 
 
 The will of the late Marquis de Montauban had fixed 
 the twentieth birthday of Adhemar as that on which he 
 should come of age; it had also given to Madeleine a noble 
 fortune, coupled with a condition that she should not 
 marry until she, too, had attained her twentieth year. 
 Adhemar and De Lorency, therefore, left the chateau im- 
 mediately after the fian^ailles of the Baron with Madeleine. 
 She remained alone with her mother's father, who had 
 long lived with his grandchildren. Months passed on 
 slowly, sadly, over the lonely chateau. The smile faded 
 from Madeleine's lip, and the bloom withered from her soft 
 cheek; her step lost its elasticity, and her low voice took 
 a sadder tone. Her grandfather had sunk into the utter 
 
352 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 imbecility of extreme old age. She watched over him with 
 patient tenderness, soothing the fretfulness of his feeble mind 
 with gentle fondness. She busied herself much amongst the 
 peasantry of her brother's estates ; her charity relieved 
 their wants, and her assistance was ever ready to second 
 the efforts of their industry. Their gratitude rewarded 
 her kindness, and while political miseries destroyed the 
 peace of all around, there was prosperity and quiet on the 
 territories of Adhemar de Montauban. These occupations 
 filled her days, but still slie was unhappy. Her brother 
 and her betrothed lover were far from her, exposed to 
 every danger, and resolved to share to the last the perils 
 of their fallen sovereigns. Day by day Madeleine watched 
 and waited for the hour which brought her letters with a 
 sinking heart and a dread which was almost despair, for 
 each day might bring the announcement of the arrest or 
 death of those she loved. And when their gloomy and 
 hopeless letters came, they gave no happiness, for they 
 could only tell of escape from the dangers of one day, and 
 promised no safety for the morrow. 
 
 At length, the flight, capture, and imprisoiimcnt of the 
 royal family, left Adhemar and Lorency at liberty to re- 
 turn to the chateau De Montauban. Madeleine was happy 
 once more. Neither Adhemar nor Edouard luul been de- 
 nounced by the republicans ; they lived quite alone, re- 
 ceived no visits, and busied themselves in the construction 
 of a small har])our at a point Avhere Adhemar's land joined 
 those which still remained in the possession of De Lorency. 
 This harbour was of the utmost advantage to the fishermen 
 of tlie coast, and they were grateful to the Mar(inis, who 
 had undertaken tlie work at his sole expense. Adhemar's 
 tenantry loved him; Dc i^urency's were equally attached 
 
THE TEURACE GARDEN. 353 
 
 to him, although his poverty had hitherto restricted the 
 exercise of his charity among them. The cures of both 
 parishes had taken the constitutional oaths ; the municipal 
 officers of the commune were Adhemar's dependents; so 
 that everything seemed to promise them safety during the 
 troubled times which were fast approaching. 
 
 The reign of terror desolated France, but as yet the 
 family of Montauban had escaped. Madeleine's twentieth 
 birthday was at hand, and she had promised Edouard to 
 give him her hand upon that day. At length the day 
 came, and Madeleine was conducted to the municipality by 
 her brother. De Lorency awaited them there. The legal 
 ceremony was performed, and De Lorency returned with 
 his bride to the chateau, where the cure was to perform 
 the religious ceremony at the altar of the old chapel. 
 
 Greatly were they astonished when they learned that 
 the priest had not arrived. He had not sent a letter, nor 
 even a message, of explanation. De Lorency ordered a 
 horse to be saddled, and instantly mounting, rode to the 
 house of the cure. He was not there; he had left home 
 early, saying that he would visit some sick persons, and 
 then proceed to the chateau. De Lorency returned to the 
 chateau. A vague feeling of alarm spread from one to the 
 other; even the aged servants of the house shared in the 
 undefined apprehension. The evening came at length. 
 Adhemar, according to his custom, was playing drafts with 
 his grandfather, which was the only amusement in which 
 the poor old man still found pleasure. De Lorency and 
 his bride walked out upon the terrace. The night was 
 beautiful, a moonlit summer night, and Edouard led her 
 down to the shore. The bright waves curled playfully 
 over the base of the low terrace ; the perfumes of the garden 
 
 A A 
 
354 i:vi:m.\(;s at haddon hall. 
 
 flowers filled the air, and tlie nightingales answered each 
 other from the trees. A deep-huslied quiet reigned over 
 all around; and as Edouard's arm encircled the form of 
 his bride, as his low voice whispered vows of passionate 
 love, Madeleine forgot the vague apprehensions which had 
 haunted her during the day, and surrendered her soul to 
 hope and happiness. 
 
 " Tell me that you love me, Madeleine ! — oh, tell me 
 once more that you love me ! I can scarcely believe in my 
 happiness." 
 
 " You know that I must love you now, Edouard ; it is 
 my duty," said Madeleine, playfully, while unconsciously 
 and fondly she clasped her hand in his. 
 
 "Coquette! is it thus you play with my love?" said 
 Edouard, in the same joyous tone of perfect happiness. 
 " Nay, dearest Madeleine — " He paused, and instinctively 
 he clasped her more closely to his breast; for at that mo- 
 ment a dark speck appeared amid the moonlight on the 
 water. It came quickly on ; it was a boat. It was pulled 
 by one man, but aided by the wind it darted quickly over 
 the waves, and in a few minutes its keel grated on the 
 sand beneath the terrace. The boatman sprung upon the 
 terrace, and De Lorency recognised the good-natured, 
 honest Pierre Iluguenin, the Mayor of the commune, and 
 one of the most attached of Adhemar's tenants. 
 
 *' Monsieur de Lorency, I come to warn you. A party 
 of gens-d'armes from Marseilles have arrived at my house ; 
 they have seized the poor cure, and have orders to arrest 
 you and tlie Marquis. Fly while you have some hope 
 of escape ; cross the frontier into Italy." 
 
 Madeleine sank almost fainting on the steps of the ter- 
 race. Tlie hardy peasant looked upon her with sorrowful 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 355 
 
 compassion. He liad that morning united her to him who 
 now knelt beside her in mute despair. The orange wreatli 
 was yet unfaded on her brow, and yet, ere morning dawned, 
 they should part, perhaps for ever ! De Lorency felt that 
 the bitterness of death was crushed into that one thought. 
 
 " Monsieur, call the Marquis; I dare not venture into 
 the chateau; all your servants may not be true to you." 
 
 Casting one look of agony upon his bride, Edouard 
 ascended the terrace stairs; in a moment he returned with 
 Adhemar. 
 
 " You have been denounced. Monsieur le Marquis, and 
 accused of maintaining a correspondence with the emigres. 
 The gens-d'armes arrived at my house about two hours 
 since ; they brought in the priest, whom they arrested upon 
 the road from Marseilles. While they went to search his 
 house, I got away, and came across the bay to warn you 
 of your danger. Do you suspect any of your dependents 
 of thus betraying you?" 
 
 " I have never confided a single secret to any of my 
 people," said the Marquis, " therefore none of them could 
 betray me. This is a groundless charge, and I know the 
 inventor of it. Boileau, my attorney, is the traitor. I 
 detected some unfair charges in his last account, and 
 therefore, about a week since, I dismissed him from my 
 employment." 
 
 " He has been in close conference with the officer of the 
 party at my house," said the Mayor Huguenin. " Now, 
 farewell ; saddle your fleetest horses and fly to the frontier. 
 I will conceal Mademoiselle Madeleine in my house ; she 
 will be safe as if she were in a chapel." 
 
 "No, she shall share our fate," said De Lorency; "it 
 would be cruelty to leave her alone, even in safety ; fear for 
 
 A A 2 
 
35 G EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 US would kill her. Leave us, Huguenin ; you may be com- 
 promised; fur our safety you have risked your own." 
 
 " No danger for me," said the Mayor; " they know the 
 attachment of your tenantry, and, to avoid all danger of a 
 rescue, they will not visit the chateau till midnight. Their 
 intention of arresting you is kept a secret. I was not 
 informed of it by any of them, but I overheard the con- 
 versation of the officer with Boileau. And now, farewell !" 
 he said, as the Marquis gratefully wrung his hand. 
 
 At that moment the tramp of horses was heard rapidly 
 approaching. Huguenin hastily pushed off his skiff, and 
 pulled her round into the shadow of the rocks. 
 
 " Fly, Madeleine; Huguenin will protect you," said Ad- 
 hemar, thinking only of her safety. 
 
 " Never !" replied Madeleine ; " I will share your fate, 
 your prison, or your grave. What have I on earth but 
 you ?" And as she spoke, she took her brother's hand, and 
 the hand of her husband, and clasped them to her breast. 
 
 " Madeleine ! my own in life and death !" exclaimed De 
 Lorency. 
 
 Slowly and yet firmly they returned to the chateau. It 
 was already in the possession of the police. They had 
 assembled the domestics in the saloon, where the old Mar- 
 quis de Laferte was seated beside the deep chimney, where, 
 as was his pleasure, a fire was burning, although it was 
 summer. He looked from one to the other of the strange 
 faces round him with a childish terror, and seemed to feel 
 the presence of dangers which his feeble mind could not 
 understand. Madeleine placed herself by his side; and 
 there they sat, hel})less age and defenceless innocence, alike 
 unrespccted by the tyrants of the hour. ])e Lorency was 
 calm, though his eyes were fixed on his bride with a look 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 35^ 
 
 which spoke all the anguish of his disappointed hopes of 
 happiness. Adhemar de Montauban stood proudly amidst 
 his enemies, and his haughty and searching glance turned 
 from one to the other, until it rested on the traitor Boileau 
 witli an expression of bitter scorn. The traitor did not 
 quail; he was triumphant, and he felt no regrets. The 
 officer commanding the detachment seemed somewhat em- 
 barrassed ; he saluted Adhemar with courtesy, and with 
 evident reluctance informed him that he was his prisoner. 
 
 He was a young man, and he shrank from witnessing 
 the misery which he had unwillingly inflicted. Adhemar 
 almost pitied him. 
 
 " My sister will accompany us. Monsieur," he said. 
 
 " I have received no orders respecting Mademoiselle," 
 replied the officer. " You and M. de Lorency alone are 
 named in my orders." 
 
 " To what prison are we to be conveyed?" 
 
 " To Lyons," said the officer. That word contained the 
 sentence of death. 
 
 Adhemar turned suddenly to Boileau, and said, bitterly, 
 " Traitor ! why are you here ?" 
 
 A few words from the officer of the gens-d'armes ex- 
 plained all. Boileau had received from the comite de la 
 surete publique a commission resembling that of Canier 
 and Lebon. He was thus arbiter of the destiny of his 
 former master. Adhemar had doubted his probity ; he 
 had dismissed him with contempt from his employment, 
 and he was now at his mercy. 
 
 De Lorency stood in silent despair near Madeleine, who 
 had sunk back fainting upon her chair. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Adhemar, " will you permit my sister 
 to share our prison?" 
 
358 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 The young officer hesitated, spoke to Boileau in a low 
 voice, and said, " 1 dare not exceed my instructions. 1 
 will retire for a few minutes, as you may wish to take 
 leave of your family." 
 
 He left the room, followed by his men ; the terror- 
 stricken servants also retired to the outer hall, but Boileau 
 remained, as if he would enjoy the misery of his victims. 
 He seated himself coolly, and fixed his eyes inquiringly on 
 Madeleine. De Lorency saw not, heard not, knew not 
 aught that passed around him. His soul, his senses, every 
 faculty of his mind, every feeling, was absorbed in his love 
 and his despair. He drew Madeleine to his breast, and 
 covered her pale brow with kisses, while he strove to recal 
 her to consciousness by the fondest vows of impassioned 
 love. Adhemar pointed to Boileau, and said, with an ex- 
 pression of contemptuous disgust, " De Lorency, take 
 Madeleine from this chamber, which is now unworthy of 
 her presence," 
 
 " Stay, Citoyen Lorency," said Boileau, " La fille Mont- 
 auban must hear what I have to say to her. The des- 
 tiny of all present will depend on her reply." 
 
 " Hence, Madeleine, this is no place for you," said De 
 Lorency, as he felt tljat she attempted to extricate herself 
 from his arms. 
 
 " Your fate depends on my answer," said Madeleine ; 
 and suddenly recovering her clear reason, with the noble 
 energy of woman's self-devoted love, she placed herself be- 
 fore Boileau, and said, " Speak! I am ready to hear you." 
 
 " Your brother disgraced me ; he deprived me of the 
 employment by which I lived ; I have obtained my re- 
 venge. He never trusted me, but I suspected liis corre- 
 spondence with the emigres. I tracked his messengeis ; 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 359 
 
 I know all; I have a copy of his last letter to Coblentz; 
 but though his life is in my hands, you can save him if 
 you will. Consent to be my wife, and I will destroy the 
 proofs against your brother, and even facilitate his escape. 
 His estates must be forfeited, but his life will be safe." 
 
 Madeleine could not speak. Boileau continued, calmly 
 and unpityingly, "I know you love that man; he, too, 
 shall be saved. Now I leave you; in half an hour I re- 
 turn to you, then I must receive your answer." 
 
 " Hear it now— I am the wife of Monsieur de Lorency !" 
 " A ceremony can be set aside," said Boileau. " Con- 
 sult together, and decide." 
 
 He left the room. Adhemar laughed bitterly. " Consult, 
 and decide," he said. " An honourable consultation, truly 1 
 He proposes to dishonour my sister, to rob me of my lands, 
 to brand me as a coward; for none but a coward would 
 accept life purchased at such a price." 
 
 De Lorency silently took from his pocket-book the certi- 
 ficate of his legal marriage with Madeleine; with a quiver- 
 ing lip he read it over, and then let it fall into the fire. 
 Adhemar sprang forward to snatch it from the flame, but it 
 
 was too late. 
 
 " Madeleine," said De Lorency, " you are free ; save 
 your brother, if you can; sacrifice yourself— think not of 
 me. I have death in my power; I need but say before 
 my judges, ' Yive le Roi,' and I shall escape from my 
 
 tortures." 
 
 " Madeleine," said Adhemar; " Madeleine, hear me. I 
 am not happy ; I loved, and was betrayed. She whom I 
 loved with the whole burning passion of a virgin heart, 
 deserted me. She married another, more powerful, more 
 wealthy; I need not name them; she became a duchess. 
 
360 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 I met her again ; love, hatred, revenge were busy in my 
 bosom ; my life was a hell upon earth. The syren spread 
 her snares for me ; I sacriticed my conscience, my honour, 
 all for her. I deceived her husband, and he was my 
 friend ; I outraged heaven, I braved hell, for that woman ; 
 I thought her very treachery to the man whose name she 
 bore was truth to me. Fool ! dupe that I was ! She grati- 
 fied her vanity by my public subjection to her caprices, 
 and then she discarded me. Since then, as you know, I 
 have led a life of expiation for my career of guilt. I have 
 only sought to fulfil my duties, — I love not life; let me 
 die!" 
 
 Boileau entered the room : he approached Madeleine, 
 and asked her to inform him of her decision. 
 
 " Take our estates, take all, but spare their lives; I 
 cannot marry you !" 
 
 " Without your hand I should have no title to the 
 estates ; and more than this, where were my revenge? 
 Your brother disgraced me; the disgrace must recoil on 
 himself through you. Once more, girl, choose; will you 
 save them ? " 
 
 " I am Edouard's wife; I cannot save them!" said Made- 
 leine, in agony. She ■ sank ui)on the floor ; De Lorency 
 raised her in his arms and carried her into another room. 
 
 "Madeleine! my own Madeleine! it were worse than 
 dcjith to resign you to another. In a few days I shall be 
 murdered by those demons at Lyons. Swear to me never 
 to wed another; let me carry your love to the grave." 
 
 " I swear it!" said Madeleine; " but can you doubt it? 
 Could I give to another the faith I have pledged to you? 
 But Ave shall not be parted for ever ; I cannot outlive you, 
 my love is a part of my life." 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 361 
 
 " De Lorency, they call us," said Adhemar. He clasped 
 his sister to his breast, and rushed out of the room. The 
 agony of that moment was unfelt by Madeleine ; she had 
 fainted. Edouard's hot tears fell upon her death-like 
 cheek, as he pressed his lips to hers in one last kiss. He 
 laid her on the sofa; he cut off one long curl of her hair, 
 and thrust it into his bosom ; then cutting off a lock of 
 his own hair, he laid it beside her ; and not daring to linger, 
 lest she should return to the consciousness of her misery, 
 he hurried from the castle. 
 
 Days, weeks passed on, and brought no ray of hope to 
 Madeleine. Her heart was broken ; her youth was 
 blighted; her beauty withered; but her mind was calm, 
 and her courage had risen to the energy of desperation. 
 She seemed to live apart from the things of the world ; the 
 only tie that still bound her to life was the care of her 
 helpless grandfather. The estates of the Marquis were 
 confiscated, and Madeleine and the old man were driven 
 out into the world, without a home, without support save 
 from the charity of the former vassals of their house. 
 Huguenin received them; he served them like a menial, 
 and was almost grieved when Madeleine thanked him for 
 his kindness. 
 
 The old Marquis had not known the danger which sur- 
 rounded his family for many months. Even the arrest of 
 the friends had made no impression on his feeble mind ; 
 they were absent, but he heeded it not, as their visits to 
 Paris had accustomed him to their absence. His removal 
 from the chateau had at once roused him from his uncon- 
 sciousness; he felt that danger and sorrow were around 
 him, and he trembled like a timid child awaking alone in 
 the darkness of the night. He clung to Madeleine with 
 
362 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 touching dependence. He was wretched if she left him for 
 a moment. He would often say to her, " Where is Adhe- 
 mar ? where is Edouard ? Write to them, Madeleine ; tell 
 them to come home to-morrow. Why have they left me 
 alone?" 
 
 And Madeleine would seek to soothe his fretful im- 
 patience, and then retire to hide the bitter tears that 
 answered his vain appeal. 
 
 At length the old man's life seemed to decay. Gradually 
 he sunk towards the grave. Before he had been one month 
 in Huguenin's house, he died. Madeleine watched by his 
 side. He died without pain. No priest could attend the 
 bed of death, but Madeleine prayed for the parting soul. 
 
 Madeleine saw him laid in the grave, among the moulder- 
 ing crosses in the village churchyard. The turf was laid 
 on again, and the peasants stood round in silence. Made- 
 leine looked on them with a sad smile of resignation. 
 
 " My friends," she said, " you have been very kind. 
 I cannot thank you. May Heaven reward you, here and 
 hereafter !" The tears burst from her eyes, and she sunk 
 on her knees upon the new-made grave. The paroxysm 
 did not last long. She dried her tears, and rose from the 
 sod. " I am free now — farewell ! — I go to Lyons." 
 
 Huguenin tried to dissuade her from this resolution. 
 She was firm, and he was obliged to yield. He could only 
 place her under the care of the post-office courier, conveying 
 letters to Lyons. That night she left Montauban. 
 
 Lyons — La ville atfranchie — Lyons, whose very name 
 had been blotted from the map of France, was then suffering 
 all the horrors that the diabolical cruelty of republican 
 vengeance could inflict. Day after day, wholesale execu- 
 tions decimated the population. The Place do Terrcaux 
 
THE TERRACE GARDEN. 
 
 363 
 
 rivalled the Place de Gr^ve in its horrible celebrity; but 
 there was this difference: the people of Lyons looked on in 
 terror, because they dared not shun the spectacle; the mob 
 of Paris went to see executions performed, and looked on 
 the Greve as the Spaniards do on the bull-ring, or as the 
 Romans did on the arena. At Lyons, the executions were 
 not so well performed, as some of the Parisian amateurs 
 said. The victims were shot at the side of their common 
 grave. Sometimes the firing party missed their mark, and, 
 instead of mortal wounds, some were only slightly hurt. 
 They were despatched with the bayonet. Then all were 
 thrown into the grave, and the earth cast back on the yet 
 warm bodies of the victims. 
 
 Madeleine was placed by the courier in the house of 
 Huguenin's sister, the wife of an officer in the garrison ; 
 Madeleine was therefore safe in her protection. Day by 
 day she visited the Court of the revolutionary tribunal; 
 she wandered round the prisons, to which she had tried in 
 vain to obtain admittance. She followed the condemned, 
 as they went out to death, but she saw not those she 
 sought. Were they already dead? It was a fearful doubt. 
 If she could but see them once more, even on the verge of 
 the grave ! 
 
 One day, as she returned from the place of death, a 
 man called her by name; she stopped— and Boileau was at 
 her side. 
 
 " To-morrow you will see them. I have purchased Mont- 
 auban. I shall be rid of my rival to-morrow, and I will 
 forgive your refusal, and take you home, if you consent." 
 
 Madeleine laughed a wild maniac laugh, and turned from 
 him without speaking. She was almost maddened at that 
 moment. 
 
364 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " She is mad !" he muttered, as he pursued his way, " and 
 yet, how beautiful she is after all !" 
 
 Madeleine did not return to her friends that night. 
 " To-morrow" — it was her only thought ! the Place de 
 Terreaux, her only world ! She sat on a stone — the hours 
 passed on unheeded ; the silence, the cold night air, calmed 
 her fever ; her mind became clear ; her thoughts were 
 solemn, but not despairing. 
 
 Day dawned slowly over the devoted city. Madeleine 
 knelt and prayed. How long she remained on her knees in 
 prayer, she knew not. The measured tread of the soldiers 
 and the roll of the cart-wheels called back her thoughts to 
 earth. The grave was already dug — the soldiers took their 
 ground — the condemned were placed on the verge of the 
 grave, about to receive them. Adhemar and De Lorency 
 were there, calm, proud, unmoved, as if they were upon an 
 ordinary parade ; with their hands clasped in the last 
 pressure of brotherly love, they waited for death. Made- 
 leine sprang forward, burst through the ranks of the 
 soldiers guarding the prisoners, and sunk at the feet of her 
 husband and her brother. 
 
 " I am come, I am come," she murmured; " Heaven has 
 heard my prayers. We shall die together." 
 
 " Heaven is merciful," said De Lorency. He raised her 
 to his breast, and then looked up to Heaven with unspeak- 
 able thankfulness. Still clasped in De Lorency's embrace^ 
 Madeleine placed her arm round Adhemar's neck, and drew 
 him towards her. No one thought of separating them. 
 One victim more was nothing. They repeated together 
 one short prayer, and then calmly awaited death. Not a 
 hand quivered — not an eye quailed. The word was given ; 
 "Vive Ic Roi!" cried the victims. The report of the 
 muskets drowned their voices. All was over! 
 
EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 366 
 
 The next picture which the Lady Eva had chosen for 
 the close of the Fifth Evening's seance, was one which 
 had, more than any other, puzzled her own fancy as to a 
 fitting theme for its illustration ; and she had, in her pretty 
 perplexity, handed it to an admired and popular wi'iter, 
 whose pen had equally distinguished itself in prose and 
 verse — whose active fancy and powerful imagination had 
 shown themselves capable of evoking " sermons from stones, 
 and good from everything." 
 
 But the request was fruitless; his prose muse was "not 
 i' the vein," and his poetical one had already promised an 
 illustration of a drawing reserved for the concluding 
 evening's sitting. 
 
 In this dilemma the Lady Eva turned to the lady whose 
 imagination had already illustrated two designs, chosen 
 during a previous evening;* and an appeal, from which 
 there was no appeal, presently produced the tale en- 
 titled 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 The Chateau of Eiechoffen is situated on a steep emi- 
 nence, six leagues from Strasburgh. Its park and gardens 
 are the admiration of the neighbourhood ; and few travel- 
 lers are allowed to pass through the village of Riechoffen 
 
 * " The Fortunes of the Glengary," page 93. 
 
306 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 without being asked to visit the superb chateau. To tlie 
 lover of the picturesque, the surrounding park, or rather, 
 the two parks, wliich form part of this rich domain, offer 
 much to excite admiration ; while to the amateur and con- 
 noisseur, the valuable paintings, the splendid carvings, and 
 the countless objects of vertu, which enrich the interior 
 of the chateau, render an admission within its walls a 
 matter of great interest. Two days in the week are set 
 apart for the reception of strangers; but the urbanity of 
 its present venerable owner, the good and pious Count 
 Riechoffen, renders admittance easy to all travellers who, 
 pressed for time, cannot wait for the appointed public days. 
 
 The Count and his beloved partner were for many years 
 regarded as friends by all their vassals; and when the 
 death of the Countess cut short the domestic happiness of 
 their lord, not an eye in the village but wept for the loss 
 of one so endeared to them ; not a family for leagues round 
 that did not sympathize in a grief, which they felt, from 
 the Count's age and character, must be irreparable. 
 
 The only child of their marriage — the Count Wil- 
 helm — was absent at the time of his mother's death ; and 
 thougli lie hastened home on the sad news reaching him, 
 he did not long remain with his widowed father ; and as his 
 absences from Riechoffen were supposed to be errands of 
 pleasure, people marvelled that he did not, after this 
 mournful event, remain to share his father's solitude. 
 
 Whatever might be that father's feelings on his son's 
 departure, he never betrayed either surprise or anger in 
 speaking of it. Indeed, few were admitted to his presence 
 during the first year of his widowhood; the chaplain, who 
 lived in the chateau, was his only companion ; the closet 
 adjoining the chapel where reposed the remains of his lost 
 
CONSCIENCE. 
 
 3G7 
 
 wife, his habitual dwelling-place. During this period of 
 mourning, the gates of the domain were closed to all 
 visitors; but after the year had passed, the Count received 
 a few friends, and strangers were again permitted, on two 
 appointed days in each week, to view the chateau— all but 
 the closet and chapel, to the former of which the Count 
 always repaired during the hours in which company were 
 admitted to the other parts of this superb edifice. 
 
 During Count Wilhelm's second visit to his home, which 
 took pla^e three years after the death of his mother, he 
 mentioned his wish to marry, and confided to his father 
 that the object of his attachment, an Italian lady, though 
 rich in youth and loveliness, was without fortune. The 
 Count Kiechoff'en received this intelligence with unfeigned 
 pleasure ; and the lady's want of fortune was agreeable to 
 him ; for, aware of the sordid avarice which disfigured his 
 son's character, and rendered him unlike either of his noble 
 parents, such a proof of disinterested attachment delighted 
 him, and, putting his arm affectionately round his son's 
 neck, he said — 
 
 " A bride of your choice, my dear Wilhelm, wants no 
 adventitious aid of fortune to ensure her the welcome of a 
 daughter in my heart. Pure and good, I feel she must be ; 
 or my son would never have chosen her to succeed his 
 mother, as mistress here." 
 
 " But she will not live here," replied Wilhelm. " The 
 thought of this cold clime frightens her; our rude sports 
 would terrify her. Born and educated in her own sunny 
 land, she would be lost in this cheerless abode, where 
 neither the charm of music nor the sound of revelry are 
 heard." 
 
 The Count Riechoffen's tall form seemed to dilate, his 
 
368 KVEMXGS AT IIADDON ll.Vl.L. 
 
 usually pale cheek became suffused with the crimson flush 
 of anger, his voice was less firm than usual, as he replied — 
 
 " My son, have you forgot the sad loss which hushed 
 the glad and happy sounds that for many years were 
 wont to resound within these walls? Could revelry have 
 intruded into the house of mourning? Since your angel 
 mother's spirit ceased to bless this abode, what has it 
 been to me and to yourself but a place of solitude and 
 desolation ? Wilhelm, the object of your love is an orphan ; 
 what ties can she have to keep her from her husband's 
 paternal home? Your mother, my peerless Therese, left 
 parents and other kindred to share the home which, by 
 hei- love and the bright excellence of her character, she 
 rendered for nearly thirty years a blessed and a happy one. 
 My son, I would not be harsh, but I must not conceal my 
 opinion from you, that the woman who regards and 
 esteems a man sufficiently to entrust her happiness to his 
 care, should have no minor reserves of climate and of 
 dwelling. Where her husband's duties call him, there 
 should be her sunshine ; and, methinks," added the Count, 
 looking round the rich apartment in which this conver- 
 sation took place, and extending his glance over the broad 
 domain seen from the open window, " it were no difficult 
 task for the most fastidious and refined in taste to recon- 
 cile themselves to this spot." 
 
 Wilhelm perceived that this was no moment to pursue 
 the point ; and thougli firmly resolved never to relinquish 
 the charms and pleasures of an Italian residence, he saw 
 the necessity of concealing this determination for the 
 present, and therefore replied — 
 
 " It must be my task, as it will be my interest, to erase 
 from Guidetta's mind all the gloomy impressions it has 
 
CONSCIENCE. 369 
 
 conceived of our German austerities, both of climate and 
 manners." 
 
 " Bring her here at once," interrupted his father, " and 
 she shall not have to complain of a German welcome. 
 These halls shall once more echo with mirth and song ! It 
 is her son's bridal I would keep," he added, in a tone as if 
 intended for his own ear alone, " and her pure spirit will 
 hover round us !" 
 
 Nothing could exceed the liberality with which the 
 noble Count Riechoflfen provided for his son's establish- 
 ment on his marriage. Besides the income he settled 
 on him, which was an independence, he caused a suite of 
 rooms in the chateau to be newly decorated and set apart 
 for his and his bride's use, and the lonely widower was 
 seen again to smile as he talked of the approaching arrival 
 of his children. But this was an event long protracted, 
 and for many months excuse followed upon excuse. 
 
 On one of the public days, the Count Riechofien, who 
 had retired, as was his wont, to the closet adjoining the 
 chapel, was surprised, on passing from it into his library, 
 to find seated on the carpet, and playing with some flowers, 
 of which she was making a garland, a little girl, apparently 
 about three years old. As the Count approached, the 
 child looked up. Her dark hazel eyes filled with tears, 
 her cheeks assumed a deeper hue, but as if trying to per- 
 suade herself not to be frightened, she said, " Mamma, 
 come back !" 
 
 The Count stooped down and endeavoured to take her 
 hand, but she withdrew it ; and, no longer able to control 
 her emotion at the presence of a stranger, burst into 
 tears. For a long time she sobbed as if her little heart 
 would break, occasionally screaming, " Mamma, Mamma, 
 
 B B 
 
370 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 come and take Rese away !" The Count Riecboflfen, dis- 
 tressed at tlie cliild's agitation, knew not what to devise 
 to calm her. lie did not summon aid, for fear of still 
 further alarming her by the entrance of another stranger. 
 At length he asked, would she go with him and look for 
 mamma? The child nodded assent, but still cried bit- 
 terly; and thus they proceeded into the garden, but no 
 mother was to be found. The child kept running wildly 
 from side to side, till, quite exhausted, she sank on the 
 grass, and nothing but her hushed sobs were to be heard. 
 Day was closing; the Count watched over her till she fell 
 asleep, and then, lifting her in his arms, he bore her gently 
 to the house, summoned his late wife's maid, and gave 
 orders that the child should be taken care of, and put to 
 bed. 
 
 The strange truth had flashed across Count Riechoffen's 
 mind — some cruel mother must have left that sweet child, 
 never meaning to return. At first, his heart was full of 
 indignation and bitterness against the parent; but some 
 good angel whispered him that perhaps some wretched 
 mother, heart-broken and forsaken, had committed her 
 only treasure to his protection, and might even then be 
 dying — her last earthly thought, a hope that he would 
 befriend her innocent babe. " Poor, w^retched mother!" 
 he exclaimed; " what must have been the sufierinc; and 
 the grief which could have induced thee to part with such 
 a child !" And from that hour Count Riechoffen felt an 
 affection for the hapless creature he supposed to have 
 been cast by Providence on his care. So true it is that, 
 in a noble breast, pity is ever allied to love. 
 
 For some days the little girl continued to weep at 
 intervals, and to run from room to room searching for her 
 
CONSCIENCE. 371 
 
 mother ; but as time wore on, her childish grief gradually 
 subsided, and she no longer looked on Count Riechoffen 
 with terror, but received with pleasure his warm caress. 
 The name by which she called herself completed her con- 
 quest of the Count's affection. Therese, the name of his 
 
 lost his idolized wife, could not be heard, or uttered by 
 
 him with indifference. 
 
 Week after week and month after month passed, and 
 yet Wilhelm and his bride arrived not. This delay had 
 at first grieved the Count, but the current of his thoughts 
 had been changed; his warm and affectionate heart had 
 found another interest, and he had become so attached 
 to the little Therese that she was seldom allowed to leave 
 his side. On the evening that he had discovered the 
 poor little girl in the library, he had summoned to his 
 presence the old housekeeper, whose office it was to do 
 the honours of the chateau, and recount all its wonders 
 and all its riches to visitors. But she had retired early 
 to rest, in consequence of some slight indisposition. He 
 was therefore forced to content himself with a message from 
 her, to the effect that she had not noticed the entrance of 
 any child among the crowd of strangers who had that day 
 visited the chateau. 
 
 A governess had been engaged for the little Therese 
 before Wilhelm and his bride arrived; and as the 
 Count Riechoffen did not care to expose his little favourite 
 to the haughty indifference of his daughter-in-law, she 
 never appeared in the reception rooms during their resi- 
 dence, which did not exceed six months. 
 
 Much as Count Riechoffen had desired to love his son's 
 wife, and anxious as he had felt to propitiate her regard, 
 not a symptom of affection, not a trait of attachment, 
 
 B b2 
 
372 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 rewarded his constant solicitude for her comfort. The 
 Countess Williehn was not even respectful or courteous to 
 her husband's fatlier. She was a spoiled and capricious 
 beauty, without one redeeming quality of heart or mind. 
 Her lapdog was her idol; her Italian waiting-woman her 
 companion and intimate. The respect entertained by a 
 populous neighbourhood for this noble family, and the 
 veneration in which the late Countess's memory was held, 
 induced every one to proffer civility and attention to her 
 son's wife ; but Guidetta's manner was either so imperious 
 and reserved, or so supercilious and impertinent, that she 
 became detested and shunned by all the ladies in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Her husband, over whom she tyrannized with all the 
 little cunning of an ignorant and uneducated woman, 
 seemed completely weary of her, and would make long and 
 distant excursions from home, under the pretext of wild- 
 boar hunting, but, in reality, as was evident to his fathei*, 
 to escape from Guidetta's silly persecution, and Count 
 Riechoffen saw them depart on their return to Italy, from 
 the home which he had fitted up for their permanent abode, 
 without one feeling of regret ; and when he again saw his 
 lovely adopted child, his innocent and pure-minded Therese, 
 enjoying herself, and running, with childish glee, through 
 the suite of rooms she had been forbidden to approach 
 during their stay, he felt that on the child of a stranger, 
 — the child, perhaps, of shame — the forsaken one of its 
 mother — on that child did the aged Count feel that his 
 happiness depended, far more than on his own and 
 only son. 
 
 We will pass over the years of Therese's childhood and 
 her early girlhood, during whicli time no inquiry liad been 
 
CONSCIENCE. 373 
 
 made for her, and no clue presented itself to discover who 
 she might be. With her growth the beauty of Therese 
 increased, and at sixteen she was one of the most lovely- 
 beings ever beheld. Rather above the middle stature, she 
 was slight, but gracefully proportioned. Her fairy hands 
 and rounded arm, her swan-like throat and beauteous 
 shoulders, might have inspired the poet, and offered a 
 study to the sculptor. Her small and finely-shaped head 
 lent another charm; and the expression of her dark and 
 melting eyes betrayed the meekness and mild benignity 
 of her disposition. The affection, the tender and watchful 
 assiduity, which marked the conduct of Therese to her 
 benefactor, was beautiful to contemplate. The joyous inno- 
 cence of her heart imparted freshness to his feelings, and 
 her young and ardent nature seemed half reflected on his 
 care-worn and disspirited countenance. They were all in 
 all to each other. Therese remembered no other afiection, 
 and Count Riechoffen had found all that remained to 
 him on earth weak when compared to his fondness for this 
 sweet and loving child. 
 
 About this period the monotony of their lives was broken 
 by letters from Italy, stating the dangerous and hopeless 
 illness of the Countess Wilhelm, who had imprudently 
 swallowed a large draught of some iced beverage imme- 
 diately after dancing. The next post told of her death, 
 and announced Wilhelm's intention of bringing her remains 
 for interment in the family vault beneath the chapel. 
 
 Count Riechoffen had never mentioned Therese in his 
 letters to his son, and therefore, when the mournful pro- 
 cession arrived, he judged it best that she should not ap- 
 pear till the solemn rites had been concluded, and he 
 had acquainted his son with her residence at the chateau. 
 
374 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 There was such a change in Wilhelm's appearance, 
 that his father became alarmed on seeing him, and 
 again his former tenderness for the child of his departed 
 wife was resuming its sway ; but the unbecoming manner 
 in which he received his father's confidence respecting 
 Therese, the coarse and unfeeling remarks he uttered, sent 
 back the warm stream of returning love to the old man's 
 heart, and he turned to the gentle Therese with yet fonder 
 affection, as he exclaimed, " How different would have 
 been my sainted wife's conduct ! Alas ! how unworthy is 
 Wilhelm to have been her son !" 
 
 Count Wilhelm's residence at the chateau was of short 
 duration; but he proposed to return in the winter, and 
 asked permission to bring with him a young man whose 
 father had, some years before, on his death-bed, confided him 
 to his care, leaving Wilhelm sole executor and trustee to 
 the very large fortune he would inherit on attaining his 
 majority. A little less than a year was still wanting ere 
 this event would take place, and his guardian expressed a 
 wish that it should be passed under his guidance. 
 
 Count Riechoffen acquiesced in this proposal; but how 
 little did he foresee the results to which it would lead ! 
 
 Ere the winter had set in. Count Wilhelm and his ward 
 arrived. With the appearance of the latter the Count Rie- 
 choffen was extremely pleased ; there was a manliness and 
 frankness in his manner, which found a ready sympathy in 
 the mind of his aged host. Had not his youth forbad the 
 idea, he might have been supposed the Count's own son, from 
 the assiduity with which he sought to enter into his tastes, 
 and render himself agreeable to him. 
 
 Wilhelm was frequently absent for weeks together. At 
 first he had invited Adolphe di Sanvitalli to join these 
 
CONSCIENCE. 
 
 375 
 
 hunting excursions ; but finding that they were either 
 entered upon with distaste, or declined entirely, he ceased 
 to disturb Adolphe in what he termed his frivolous occupa- 
 tions. But did Count Wilhelm really know the nature of 
 that occupation which bound the young and ardent Sanvi- 
 talli's heart and soul to the chateau of Riechoffen? Did 
 he pause to consider the natural consequence of his con- 
 stant association with a young and lovely woman, who, for 
 the first time, was made sensible of her power to please ? 
 
 Constantly thrown together, their lives passed in the 
 exercise of those kind and pious feelings which arise in the 
 hearts of aU who devote themselves to soothe and divert the 
 aged, how could it be otherwise than that Adolphe and 
 Th6r^se should become attached, and firmly and irrevocably 
 so, before either of them were aware of the existence of 
 such a sentiment? A proposal of marriage was made for 
 the latter by a gentleman of fortune residing in Stras- 
 burgh ; and this proposal being communicated by Count 
 Riechoffen to his son, led to a discussion so loud and angry, 
 on the part of Wilhelm, that Adolphe, who was in an ad- 
 joining room, with the door open, could not avoid hearing 
 it. The first sentence which fell from the Count's lips 
 seemed to unlock the secret of his own heart. " He is not 
 worthy of her," said the old nobleman, " or I could better 
 make this sacrifice; bat to resign Th6r^se, to part with 
 that beloved child to one who cannot know her worth, is 
 impossible. And yet," added he, " my death would leave 
 her unprotected, though not unportioned." 
 
 " No, of that I make no doubt !" exclaimed Wilhelm, 
 sneeringly; "she has not stolen into your affections with- 
 out taking care to get provided for; the itching for money 
 is inherent in these low-born brats, and I dare say your 
 
376 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 paragon has been, from time to time, well tutored. How- 
 ever, my advice is to close at once with this offer; nothing 
 so respectable may again occur." 
 
 "Are you mad, Wilhelm?" inquired his father; " or of 
 whom are you speaking? Of Ther^se's birth nothing is 
 known ; but her virtues and her Christian graces may 
 stand in lieu of the proudest blazon that displays itself on 
 a royal escutcheon. She has been to my failing years 
 their prop and support; she has entwined herself around 
 my heart; and had I a grandson who would make her 
 happy, on him would I bestow her, as the best and choicest 
 blessing I had to give." 
 
 While the Count had been speaking, Adolphe di Sanvi- 
 talli had entered unperceived. Springing forward, he 
 caught the Count's hand, and, falling at his feet, exclaimed, 
 " Would that I were that grandson, to be considered 
 worthy of such a blessing! but even as I am, I would 
 fain entreat it at your hands. Oli ! I beseech — I implore 
 you, let my love, my admiration, for your Therese, be 
 considered my guerdon for endeavouring to become worthy 
 of it." 
 
 " Hold, sir !" interrupted Count Wilhelm ; " do you 
 forget that I am your guardian, and that it is my consent 
 alone which can avail ? Hear me, Adolphe ; sooner than 
 consent to your thus disgracing the noble name you bear, 
 I would " 
 
 At that moment the object of this discussion appeared. 
 It was the hour for prayer, and she came, as was her daily 
 wont, to attend her benefactor to the chapel. The sight 
 of her seemed to paralyze Wilhelm's tongue. Was it 
 shame at beholding the orphan girl, against whom his 
 unmanly speech was directed? or did her appearance rccal 
 
CONSCIENCE. 877 
 
 some recollection, which sent the blood from his cheeks, and 
 rendered him mute and confused ? 
 
 Count Riechoffen arose, and, passing his arm through 
 Therese's, said, " Come, my children, let us go to the 
 house of prayer; and may we, in the exercise of our 
 devotions, recover our serenity." They passed to the 
 closet, and perceived that the servants were assembled in 
 the chapel, where the chaplain was already in his desk, 
 waiting their entrance to commence his exordium. Therese 
 took her seat, as usual, on a low chair by the Count. 
 Count Wilhelm sat opposite to them, looking gloomy and 
 disturbed, and occasionally stealing a furtive glance at 
 Therese, while Adolphe remained standing behind her 
 chair, his eyes alternately wandering from her beauteous 
 head to his guardian's agitated countenance. The Count 
 Riechoffen appeared absorbed in thought, his arms folded, 
 and resting on his crutch- handled cane. 
 
 The service was scarcely concluded, when a message 
 was brought to Count Wilhelm, desiring his immediate 
 presence in the apartment of the aged housekeeper, whose 
 office it had been for more than forty years to conduct 
 strangers over the chateau, and whose health had been for 
 some months fast declining. On entering the apartment, 
 he found the old lady propped up in bed with pillows ; her 
 eyes were sunk, her face livid, and her whole aspect 
 bespoke the near approach of death. She motioned to 
 him to approach, and desired every one else to withdraw. 
 
 " Count "Wilhelm," said she, " know you the name of 
 Miiller?" He started, and turned pale. " Know you," 
 she continued, " the fate of poor Constance Germain, 
 on whom you bestowed, by marriage rite, the name of 
 Muller?" 
 
378 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 " Oh, tell me of her !" cried Wilhelm, thrown off his 
 guard by the abruptness of the question. 
 
 " It is thirteen years since she breathed her last, praying 
 for her destroyer, and blessing those who had fostered his 
 child." 
 
 " What mean you, Agatha? — His child? my child! 
 Gracious Heaven ! why was all this kept from me ? " 
 
 " Why?" returned Agatha — "do you ask me why? 
 As the supposed Wilhelm Miiller, Constance had loved 
 and worshipped him she thought her husband; but from 
 Wilhelm Kiechoffen, who she discovered to be her betrayer, 
 she scorned to seek relief, and so she sank heart-broken 
 to the grave." 
 
 " But her child, Agatha — her child ! Oh, tell me — that 
 did not surely perish too?" 
 
 The feeble spark of life seemed fast fading in Agatha's 
 bosom. Large drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. 
 The exertion had been too much, and the unhappy man 
 who stood by her bed, in all the agony of shame and 
 remorse, feared that her spirit would depart without 
 resolving his torturing doubt respecting his child. Some 
 moments elapsed before Agatha could again articulate. 
 At length she said, almost in a whisper, " Theresa is that 
 child," and then she sank back in a swoon, from which she 
 never recovered, and in a few minutes life had fled. 
 
 On leaving this scene of death, Count Wilhelm retired 
 to his own apartment, where he remained inaccessible to 
 every one for that day. When he joined the family next 
 morning, an extraordinary change was visible in his 
 appearance; the usual sternness of his countenance was 
 gone; a look of melancholy reigned in its stead, and his 
 impetuosity seemed wholly subdued. 
 
CONSCIENCE. 379 
 
 It may be supposed that Adolphe di Sanvitalli did not 
 neglect the opportunity aiForded him by his guardian's 
 sechision, of urging his suit with the gentle Therese; 
 and having won from her frank and ingenuous heart an 
 acknowledgment of regard, he had no difficulty in 
 obtaining the Count Riechoifen's sanction to their engage- 
 ment, though its fulfilment could not take place till he 
 attained his majority, which event would render his 
 guardian's opposition vain. But it soon became apparent 
 that all objection on Count Wilhelm's part was at an end. 
 To his father and to Adolphe he made full confession of 
 his early sin, but Therese knew not that he was her father, 
 till some months after she had become a wife. 
 
;iSU i:VENL\GS AT llADDON UAIL 
 
 SIXTH EVENING. 
 
 When the company entered the library on the sixth 
 evening, those who had hitherto noted with interest the 
 varied and expressive countenance of the youthful Queen 
 of the Revels, could not fail to observe that, on this 
 evening, her features were less radiant with the sunshine 
 of hope, less alive with the eloquence of expectation, than 
 they had been during any previous evening of the week — a 
 week in which the Lady Eva might be said to have lived 
 the life of many years; since, during the course of it, she 
 had for the first time experienced that truest sense of 
 existence which springs from a consciousness that others 
 live, as it were, for the time being, in and through us. 
 
 Heretofore, she had enjoyed that vague and visionary 
 species of ha])piness which, however blessed it may be as 
 the appointed lot of childhood, leaves no more trace behind 
 it than does the ])assage of a beautiful vessel through a 
 sunny sea. l>ut diii-iiig tliis eventful week, the Lady 
 Eva had, lor the first time, l)L'C(tme one of a company of 
 noble and cultiviifrd men iind women. Manv of them slu^ 
 
EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 381 
 
 knew to be distinguished among their Mlows for gifts and 
 acquirements, before which the nobility of l)irth and station 
 bows down in willing homage. She had seen such a 
 company for several successive evenings, devoting their 
 thoughts and intellectual energies to themes of which she 
 felt that she was in some degree the originator ; and the 
 thought seemed to have communicated to her a species of 
 intellectual life and consciousness that she had never felt 
 before. 
 
 But now that the eventful week was verging towards 
 its close, a reaction to the previous excitement had cast a 
 cloud upon her fair brow, which the entrance of the guests 
 did not at first dispel. On each of the preceding evenings 
 she had manifested an anxiety amounting almost to impa- 
 tience for the commencement of the Eevels, but now, as if 
 desirous of delaying it, she did not for some minutes even 
 approach the table round which they had been wont to 
 congregate ; and when at length she did open the gorgeous 
 portfolio which contained the few drawings yet to be illus- 
 trated, it was with a sigh that she commenced the task — for 
 on this occasion she evidently felt it one — of indicating 
 the course of this last evening^ s entertainments. 
 
 She took up a design depicting the descent of a moun- 
 tain cataract into the rugged vale below, and handing it to 
 the accomplished writer, who had promised, on the previous 
 evening, to illustrate it by a poem, she besought him, with 
 almost a starting tear — ^more difficult to be resisted than 
 the sunniest smile — not to disappoint her. 
 The result of this petition was 
 
382 EVENINGS AT llAUDUiN UALL. 
 
 THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE. 
 
 [In 1799, the French army under Moreau, making their retreat, 
 on the advance of the Russian troops under Suwarrow, from the 
 valley of Schullenen, broke down the bridge over the River Reuss. 
 The attack was one of the most memorable of the Mountain War. 
 Tlie French fouglit gallantly, but were overwhelmed, and the pass 
 was won at the point of the bayonet. — September 24.] 
 
 I WOUND my way down SchoUenen ; 
 In purple lay the solemn glen. 
 Night hastened ; yet the western blaze 
 Oft turned my step, oft fixed my gaze ; 
 A shaft of flame, each pinnacle 
 Shot upward from the forest dell ; 
 Along the hill the heather dun 
 Lay crimsoned in the full-orbed sun ; 
 And every rill that down it rolled, 
 Threaded the crimson web with gold. 
 
 All loveliness, and calm around ; 
 No cloud in heaven, on earth no sound. 
 Save tinklings of the Alpine fold, 
 Save where some distant convent tolled, 
 Or when some mountain folcon's cry 
 Touched on the sense, and tlien swept by ; 
 All dewy freshness, eartli and air ; 
 (The hour, by Nature made for prayer!) 
 All pure, as if those scenes sublime 
 Hiid never echoed woe or crime ! 
 
^^/^'''^s-. 
 
 i^ 
 
 -:<^ 
 
THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL's BRIDGE. 383 
 
 But, glance upon the rocky ridge, 
 Where spans the chasm tliat slender bridge, 
 So light, so lofty, and so lone, 
 As if by spells across it thrown — 
 Where, seen between us and the sky, 
 Stands the chamois with fearless eye ; 
 Where, by his fawn, the fallow deer. 
 Scarce to the breezes bends his ear; 
 And the rock-eagle feeds his brood. 
 King of the mountain solitude ! 
 
 Yet, once beneath this golden sun, 
 The sternest work of war was done. 
 
 'Twas autumn-eve, and all was still — 
 A trumpet sounded from the hill ! 
 'Twas answered from the covert green. 
 That darkens down yon rich ravine — 
 'Twas answered from yon oak-crowned dell — 
 'Twas answered from yon marble cell, 
 Where by old Time, or tempest reft. 
 Bursts the bright river from its cleft, 
 'Twas answered from the mountain snow — 
 War was around, above, below ! 
 
 Anon was filled the valley wide, 
 Anon was filled the mountain's side ; 
 With tossing flag and trumpet clang ; 
 From slope to slope the squadrons sprang, 
 And still, to shout and war-horn wild, 
 Battalion on battalion filed — 
 
384 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Still bayonet-point and sabre-blade 
 Swelled upwards from the valley's shade. 
 There, as they rose, the eye might trace 
 The deathless marks of tribe and race : 
 Harnessed with sabre, mace, and bow, 
 The Bashkir, son of storm and snow ; 
 Fierce as the wolf upon the track. 
 Winding his steed, the brown Cossack ; 
 There, silver-sheathed, from neck to knee. 
 The Georgian's knightly panoply ; 
 There, rider of the Desert sand, 
 With turbaned brow, and lance in hand, 
 The fiery warriors of the Khan, 
 Who steeped in blood thy shores, Japan — 
 ^Yho stormed thy giant wall, Cathay — 
 Then, wild as panthers in their play, 
 Rushed where the towery Kremlin flings, 
 Its shadow on the tombs of kings — 
 Then, homeward SAvept, an ebbing flood, 
 Leaving behind but wrecks and blood, 
 Waiting till some new Tamerlane 
 Shall loose the living tide again. 
 
 But, charge for charge, and blow for blow, 
 Was thy bold tactic, brave Moreau ! 
 Along the river's rocky edge. 
 Along tlic Grimsel's lofty ledge. 
 Beneath the forest's twilight shade, 
 Ploughing the host, his cannon played. 
 And still the Russian answered well. 
 Thick poured his storm of shot and shell ; 
 Yet vain his toil to storm the ridge — 
 Cruslied in tlio turront, lay the bridge. 
 
THE ASSAULT OF THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE. 385 
 
 Across that chasm, alone might spring 
 The mountain goat, or eagle's wing- 
 Still flowed the gore, and pealed the gun. 
 Nor yet the mortal Pass was won. 
 
 Night fell. Beneath the cloud of night 
 Still thundered, raved, and bled, the light. 
 But hark ! — a warning horn is blown, 
 And see ! — a rocket upward thrown ! 
 Bagrathion, bravest of the brave. 
 Has climbed the rock and stemmed the wave, 
 Where, bounding from its snowy tract, 
 
 Plunged in the vale the Cataract. 
 
 Torn by his fire from flank to flank, 
 
 The Frenchmen fell in rank on rank — 
 
 On Russia's banner rose the sun. 
 
 Fixed on the ridge— the Pass was won ! 
 
 At the close of this poem, there was a flutter in a part 
 of the room where a young gentleman, recently from 
 college, was deprecating, with the most candid air in the 
 world, the solicitations of a group of ladies who had clus- 
 tered about him. It appeared that he had betrayed to one 
 of them, quite unintentionally, during the animated recita- 
 tion just concluded, the interesting fact, that this poem on 
 Moreau had called to his recollection a statelier piece of 
 versification which he had himself composed on a famous 
 hero, equally brave and energetic. 
 
 Such a discovery, at such a moment, was not to be 
 suffered to escape. It was rapidly whispered from one to 
 
386 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 another, and so reached Lady Eva at hist, who, with that 
 sunny and most arbitrary wilfuhicss which Avas not to be 
 denied, resolved upon putting the gallantry of the detected 
 poet to the test of her persuasive appeal — as yet, invariably 
 successful. 
 
 And that young poet came of a race distinguished alike 
 by gallantry and genius, and had given abundant promise 
 that, at no remote day, he would vindicate its fair reputa- 
 tion proudly in his own person ; for he had already won 
 high collegiate honours, and obtained applause for fugitive 
 productions displaying a lively imagination and cultivated 
 taste. But these effusions Avere only the graceful fruits of 
 leisure moments, snatched from the severer studies to Avhich 
 the loftier ambition of his intellect was steadily directed. 
 It was not possible that the Lady Eva could fail in urging 
 her request in this quarter, and after some playful hesi- 
 tation, the Collegian commenced his heroic lay. 
 
 CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 
 
 Ask ye what meet reward remains to grace 
 
 The hero-monarch's last sad resting-place? 
 
 What lingering trophy of his proud career. 
 
 When Death's stern arm breaks down the strong man's spear, 
 
 Is left, his memory from reproach to save. 
 
 And wipe the stain of carnage from his grave ? 
 
 'Tis the bright hope of glory, that afar 
 
 Sliines througli the mists of time, his leading star, 
 
 And still delusive lights o'er licld and flood 
 
 His onward course to untried scenes of blood. 
 
CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 387 
 
 When on some liard-fouglit field the victor's eye 
 
 Views one vast scene of hopeless misery — 
 
 When from their wasted homes, in suppliant prayer, 
 
 A nation's voice sounds mournful on his ear, 
 
 And Conscience speaks within his breast once more— 
 
 " Behold thy works, and tremble, Conqueror !" 
 
 'Tis then that Glory tempts his wavering mind; 
 
 " One aim be thine!" she cries—" to rule mankind ; 
 
 Let not a few weak tears thy course delay, 
 
 Once shed, then past, mere evils of a day, 
 
 While in all future time thy brow shall be 
 
 Wreathed with the crown of Immortality, 
 
 Thy name in pseans chanted, and enroll'd 
 
 With storied chiefs and demigods of old." 
 
 False Syren ! in an angel's radiant guise 
 
 Thy form first charm'd young Charles of Sweden's eyes. 
 
 When from beleaguer'd town and tented field, 
 
 East, West, and South, the hostile trumpet peal'd, 
 
 Eobed as his country's genius didst thou stand, 
 
 The sword of Yasa gleaming in thy hand. 
 
 Shall then the Dane resume his hated sway. 
 
 The scourge of Sweden in her evil day ? 
 
 Shall the rude Russ and wolfish Polack hold 
 
 Proud Mora's stones, where kings were crown'd of old. 
 
 And heroes worshipp'd, and pollute the home 
 
 That rear'd the conquerors of imperial Kome? 
 
 " Sleeps Balder's spirit? from its mystic fire 
 
 Starts not the buried sword of Angantyr? 
 
 Wake, Thor and Odin, fathers of the strong ! 
 
 Sound from your clouds Valhalla's battle-song. 
 
 Inspiring, like the loud Orthian strain. 
 That fired embattled hosts on Uion's plain, 
 
388 EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 The scorn of coward ease and fleeting breath, 
 
 The joy of battle, and the thirst of death." 
 
 They heed not, — by deep fiord and pine-chid steep 
 
 The fabled gods of Kunic legend sleep ; 
 
 Nor needs the call ; in living strength and wrath, 
 
 Heirs to the glory of the unconquer'd Goth, 
 
 Their home the camp, their breath the battle-cry, 
 
 Forth ponrs the might of Swedish chivalry. 
 
 Train'd from their hardy youth in fight to dare 
 
 The ravening wolf or grisly mountain-bear. 
 
 To brave the Northern ocean's wildest wrath, 
 
 Or scale, mid storms, the dizzy glacier's path, 
 
 They burn Avith Liitzen's fame their names to twine. 
 
 And cleanse in blood the wrongs of Vasa's line. 
 
 Exult, young monarch; but ere shadowy night 
 
 Shuts out the beauteous vision from thy sight. 
 
 Let one last glance of fond remembrance fall 
 
 On the rich beauties of thy capital. 
 
 The setting sun hath thrown his latest ray 
 
 On each fair isle and undulating bay, 
 
 Yet casts one golden beam of lingering light 
 
 Where thy proud palace rears its massive height. 
 
 Far to the right, in all a monarch's pride. 
 
 The mighty Baltic rolls its gladsome tide ; 
 
 There, in calm beauty, Malais waters lie, 
 
 The cradled mirror of the northern sky, 
 
 Reflecting rock and wood, and castled steep. 
 
 And park and plcasancc in its bosom deep. 
 
 Ere darkness o'er the lovely landscape roll, 
 
 Gaze, till that scene be graven on thy soul. 
 
 And let each treasured memory of the i)ast 
 
 Be center'd in that look — lor 'tis thv last! — 
 
CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 389 
 
 Last to the martial thousands muster'd there, 
 Who, as the deep drum beats for vesper prayer, 
 Raise loud the hymn that roll'd o'er Liitzen's field, 
 " God is our fortress! God our sword and shield!" 
 — Weep for thy humbled crown, thy purple torn, 
 For thy proud boastings, Denmark, only mourn ; 
 In the first chafings of his mighty wrath 
 The Swede hath swept thee headlong from his path. 
 Bow down thy vanquish'd head, and, stooping low. 
 Proud Frederic, crave existence of thy foe ; 
 Nor bootless plead; o'er realms unwasted reign, 
 And live, despised and spared, to plot again. 
 On to fresh victory with lightning speed ! 
 East calls to West, in her extremest need : 
 Mark, where their wary Chief arrays for fight. 
 In strong-fenced camp, the hardy Muscovite, 
 And strives by skill and vantage-ground to meet 
 The fiery onset, that knows no retreat — 
 Such onset as of yore, on land and wave. 
 Sires of the Swede, the bold Berserkir gave. 
 Headlong they close ; in vain, with murderous aim. 
 The battery opes its countless mouths of flame : 
 First in the breach, as foremost in the field, 
 Advancing still where valour's self might yield. 
 The warrior monarch cheers his vanguard on 
 'Gainst tenfold odds, and Narva's field is won. 
 Speed on thy course, brave King ; what need to tell 
 The tale of daring deeds recorded well, 
 That swell'd the spring-tide of thy young renown, 
 And liurl'd in turn each leagued aggressor down? 
 Yet nobler, worthier of immortal lays, 
 The kingly virtues of thy better days ; 
 
390 EVENINGS AT II ADDON HALL. 
 
 To give to Poland's best and bravest son 
 
 Her sceptre, from an alien despot won ; 
 
 To hear the peasant's prayer ; with liberal hand 
 
 To heal war's waste amid a conquer'd land ; 
 
 Release the captive soldier, free to roam 
 
 Back to his native fields and scatheless home. 
 
 And bid the voice of veteran thousands yield 
 
 To God the glory of each stricken field — 
 
 These are the deeds which die not : Time may raze 
 
 To dust, old thrones and kingdoms ; but such praise 
 
 Outlives e'en Time, and radiant mounts on high, 
 
 A living wreath to meet Eternity ! 
 
 Hadst thou then known, that He, whose mighty word 
 
 Can raise the weak, and break the conqueror's sword ; 
 
 Whose will the instinctive universe obeys, 
 
 Had mark'd the narrow circle of thy days : 
 
 Hadst thou then paused on that prophetic thought, 
 
 Then had the sword (thy country's battles fought) 
 
 Been sheathed in honour ; and thy name alone 
 
 Had proved the bulwark of thy realm and throne. 
 
 Yet ere the tide of ruin o'er thee roll, 
 
 Tear the dread lust of conquest from thy soul : 
 
 It may not be ! Hard were the miser's part 
 
 To ope the dried-up fountains of his heart ; 
 
 Hard for the desperate gamester's gloating eye 
 
 To shun the hazard of the fatal die ; 
 
 But harder yet, when Victory has shed 
 
 Her lustre on some youthful monarch's head. 
 
 For his proud heart to bow its cherish'd will. 
 
 And spurn her fading chaplet, and be still. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from all the kniglitly ruth, 
 And free, bold courtesy of earlier youth ! 
 
CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 391 
 
 Caress'd and I'ear'd by Europe's mightiest powers, 
 On Liitzen's plain his conquering banner towers ; 
 But vain the boast, to match his purer name. 
 Whose glorious death gave yon rude stone its fame. 
 Pride prompts to wreak on Dresden's vanquish'd lord, 
 . Insults more bitter than the headsman's sword : 
 Pride, rising in his guardian-spirit's room, 
 With hand yet red from Patkul's felon doom. 
 Waves high the torch of war, and calls — "Arise! 
 On, great of soul ! fulfil thy destinies. 
 On ; crown again thy Stanislaus' brow ; 
 Kings be thy liegemen, and their monarch thou. 
 Let Russia's humbled eagle northward fly 
 To her rude eyrie in the Polar sky, 
 And Fame inscribe thee on her shield of gold, 
 ' Stay of the weak, and tamer of the bold.' 
 Away, though howling deserts round thee rave. 
 Though to thine eye one vast unbounded grave 
 Is spread, though hostile elements arise 
 To stay thy course, and bar thee from thy prize. 
 Away! thine ancient foe at length must feel 
 The full outpourings of thy wrath ; thy heel 
 Shall crush his suppliant neck ; thy word must give 
 ' The last poor boon that bids the vanquish'd live.' " 
 How fond the boast ! the cherish'd hope how vain ! 
 The stern Czar waits him on Pultowa's plain. 
 With strength matured, and purpose firm and cool, 
 And learning conquest in reverse's school. 
 No backward look, no quailing heart, was there ; 
 All skill could prompt, or reckless valour dare, 
 That day did Sweden's king, with soul that rose, 
 In combat or retreat, o'er Nature's throes. 
 
392 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 But who the God of battles may withstand ? 
 
 Fall'n is thy star ; a feeble, faithful baud 
 
 Alone of all thy veteran host is left, 
 
 To guard thee still, of all but hope bereft ; 
 
 Aping the empty mockery of state, 
 
 A suppliant at the generous Moslem's gate. 
 
 Again he comes ; let wondering Europe tell, 
 
 IIow desperate grew the strife ere Stralsund fell ! 
 
 Still burning for some deed of high emprise, 
 
 He calls to arms ; at once new legions rise : 
 
 His home unvisited, he parts again, 
 
 To strike to earth once more the traitor Dane, 
 
 In his own den to tame him, as of yore, 
 
 Return with honour, or return no more. 
 
 Why sudden pause upon the rampart's height, 
 
 Yon thunders, volleying through the dead of night? 
 
 And hark, what stifled murmur fills the air? 
 
 No sound of onset or retreat is there ; 
 
 No, 'tis the muffled drum, whose requiem-tone 
 
 Proclaims a mighty spirit quench'd and gone. 
 
 Peace to thy shade ! in such majestic mould. 
 
 Heaven forms the master-souls who win and hold 
 
 Man's free unbought allegiance : those who guide. 
 
 For weal or woe. Time's ever-moving tide. 
 
 Shall the strong heart's indomitahle fire ; 
 
 The Spartan mastery of each gross desire ; 
 
 The friendsliip firm and true; the courage higli. 
 
 In life and death ; the unshaken constancy ; 
 
 The mind that left its impress on an age ; 
 
 Serve but as themes to Mockery's pedant page, 
 
 Marr'd though they were, and warp'd to purpose vain, 
 
 By the mad pride that work'd the angels' bane ? 
 
 
CHARLES THE TWELFTH. i- 
 
 No ! turn we to that Isle of knightly name, 
 
 Sacred to Valour, Loyalty, and Fame, 
 
 Where, mingling with the dust of chivalry, 
 
 By great Gustavus' side his ashes lie. 
 
 The sword his cold hand grasp'd in death's embrace, 
 
 Finds on his tomb its well-won resting place ; 
 
 High o'er his head, a martial nation rears 
 
 The banner'd trophies of a thousand years : 
 
 Around, each warrior-knight, each patriot king, 
 
 The heroes of the North, are slumbering. 
 
 And may not Fancy deem, nor deem in vain, 
 
 That still their spirits haunt yon sacred fane? 
 
 And, as we view each chief's time-hallowed bier. 
 
 Should some far trumpet steal upon the ear. 
 
 Or the faint breeze, at hour of even-song, 
 
 Kustle one banner's drooping folds among ; 
 
 Let fond Imagination catch the sound. 
 
 And paint each warrior-spirit hovering round ; 
 
 While the rapt pilgrim owns with pleasing dread. 
 
 The viewless presence of the mighty dead. 
 
 After the foregoing poem, there remained of the 
 twenty -four beautiful drawings but three unillustrated ; 
 these three the Lady Eva took up, examined, and admired 
 separately. " There is a person present," said she, " to 
 whom I would wish to confide the illustration of these three 
 designs. They are each beautiful in their conception, 
 finished in their execution, and, in the hands I desire to place 
 them, cannot fail to elicit a spirited and dramatic tale." 
 
 The eyes of the company involuntarily followed the 
 
 D D 
 
394 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALl.. 
 
 direction in which tlie Lady Eva's were turned. Not an 
 instant's douht jirevailed as to the accomplislied author to 
 whom she intended to appeal. Coukl her choice have 
 fallen more happily than on a refined Critic, able Historian, 
 and admired Dramatist? Every one present thought of 
 his " History of Russia," his " Lives of the Poets," except 
 those who more immediately recollected " Marriage" and 
 " Mothers and Daughters." A murmur of applause ran 
 through the assembled group, as the Lady Eva approached, 
 and gracefully proffered the three drawings. " But," 
 remarked the gentleman thus silently invoked — " but, 
 
 Lady Eva, this is to be your last tale, and surely " 
 
 " True," she interposed, with a heavy sigh, " it is to be 
 my last tale, and therefore do I beseech you to make it, what 
 indeed you can scarcely fiiil to do, one which shall render 
 my Birthday Revels long remembered by all our Friends." 
 While the Lady Eva was speaking, the gentleman she 
 addressed had taken the drawings from her hand, and, 
 after a careful examination of each, and a few minutes' 
 reflection, related tlie following tale, which he entitled 
 
 LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 iDiduHc— 1656. 
 
 A men autumnal sun was setting over the scanty waters 
 of the Vesle. The broad plain through which they rippled, 
 monotonous and dreary enough in ordinary circumstances, 
 acquired a sort of tender beauty under the influence of the 
 mellow light, which invested the whole scene with a touch- 
 ing and melancholy interest. The sombre colouring of the 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 395 
 
 season and the hour heightened the peculiarly mournful 
 character of that dismal stretch of country, in the midst of 
 which stands the ancient city of Rheims, whose tall spires, 
 and low, fantastic roofs, could be discerned by the rays 
 which sparkled on their points and angles, long after the 
 faint twilight had deepened into dusk on the surrounding 
 
 level. 
 
 Upon the high road which crosses this plain, leading in 
 a direct line to one of the principal gates of the city, a soli- 
 tary traveller was laboriously pressing onwards towards his 
 destination. 
 
 His costume was not that of France. The broad-leafed, 
 conical hat, the short cloak, slashed doublet, and falling 
 band, indicated not only the country whence he came, 
 but the party to which he belonged. English royalists, 
 however, were at that time so well known on the continent, 
 through exile and misfortune, that their dress provoked 
 little curiosity. The traveller bore evident marks of suf- 
 fering and fatigue ; and, although the urgency of his jour- 
 ney was apparent, in the impatient anxiety with which he 
 every now and then quickened his pace, he frequently 
 paused for momentary rest ; — perhaps, also, to indulge in the 
 contemplations suggested by a locality where the chivalry 
 of England had formerly won many a brilliant triumph. 
 
 He was scarcely more than twenty-five years of age ; but 
 mental afiliction, while it could not wholly disguise his 
 youth, had stamped a painful gravity on it, which made 
 him appear much older. A hardy frame, capable of bearing 
 up manfully against toil and privation, was well associated 
 with the earnest spirit which imparted so serious an interest 
 to his face ; certainly not the interest of a fine outline, or 
 handsome features, for he possessed neither — but that sort 
 
 D D 2 
 
396 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 of interest which grows upon the visible signs of ii strong 
 and faithful nature battling against adversity. 
 
 The traveller had now reached the ruins of a Roman 
 amphitheatre, at a short distance outside the walls of the 
 town. Utter darkness had supervened upon the last gleam 
 of sunset, which palpitated for a moment on the edge of 
 the horizon, and vanished ; and the mass of houses, ram- 
 parts, and spires before him, would have been undis- 
 tinguishable in the common gloom, which obscured all 
 objects alike, but for the reflection of the city lights 
 dimly suffused on the sky. Guided by this beacon, he 
 hurried forward, and at last gained the triple archway of 
 the Porte de Mars. 
 
 It happened to be high holy-day at llheims — the day of 
 the patron, St. Remi. Hundreds of people, in their gayest 
 attire, were crowded into the streets, especially round the 
 old, unsightly church, which has nothing to commend it to 
 the admiration of the inhabitants, but the tradition of a 
 fabulous antiquity, and a pious catalogue of miracles. 
 Sedan-chairs, heralded by flambeaux, were in movement in 
 all directions, conveying beaux and old ladies to supper- 
 parties or vespers; and the more commodious avenues of 
 the town were thrown into an absolute uproar of deliglit 
 by itinerant mummers, dancers, showmen, and ballad- 
 singers. A huge model of the tomb of the Consul Jovinus 
 (for Rheims boasts of having given a consul to Rome in tlie 
 fourth century) occupied a conspicuous position in the 
 Place Royale, illuminated inside with candles, and con- 
 taining some wonderful reliques, Avliich the populace were 
 invited to inspect, on payment of a trifling douceur. Bands 
 of music struggled hard to be heard above the miscellaneous 
 din, and everybody seemed to be fiercely intent upon ex- 
 
LOVE TO TUE RESCUE. 
 
 397 
 
 tracting the utmost possible hilarity from the saintly 
 
 festival. 
 
 The stranger hustled his way as well as he could through 
 the tumult; nor did he altogether escape some broad witti- 
 cisms upon the dinginess of his garments, and the shape of 
 his hat. The people seemed to think that one who made so 
 grotesque a contrast to their merriment had no business 
 amongst them; a fact which was still more poignantly im- 
 pressed upon him by his own bitter thoughts. 
 
 It was by no slight exertion that he succeeded at length 
 in effecting his escape into a quiet alley under the ram- 
 parts, disturbed only occasionally by stragglers from the 
 main streets, or idlers hastening to join the revel. Pur- 
 suing this narrow track to the end, he emerged into a small 
 open space, dotted with a few skeleton poplars. Here he 
 paused for an instant to make sure of his route. The mo- 
 nastic repose of the spot assured him that he was in the 
 ecclesiastical quarter of the town. In the opposite angle a 
 massive building stood out darkly against the sky, and the 
 stone cross which surmounted an antique fountain in the 
 centre of the place, satisfied him that he had fortunately hit 
 upon the right point, without exposing himself to the delay 
 
 of an inquiry. 
 
 Rapidly crossing over, he struck into a paved passage 
 under the shadow of the houses, and stood before a low door 
 deeply sunk in the building. The echoes of the carnival 
 he had just left behind floated down into the stillness, and 
 were little calculated to strengthen his resolution, now 
 faltering on the threshold of the very place he had sought 
 so eagerly— the object of his long and weary travail. His 
 hand trembled as he touched the handle of the bell, and the 
 agitation which he in vain endeavoured to subdue, was not 
 
398 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 likely to ensure the most favourable reception from the 
 sacristan, who opened the door. 
 
 "The archbisho})?" inquired the stranger; "I would 
 see the archbishop." 
 
 " An unseasonable request," returned the sacristan. 
 
 "But my business is urgent — I have come a long dis- 
 tance to see him — travelled night and day — I am ex- 
 hausted by fatigue and indifferent entertainment by the 
 way — but that's nothing, nothing ! The reverend father will 
 not be ofiended, when he knows my business." 
 
 " Your name?" demanded the sacristan. 
 
 " It would be of no avail. A stranger craves audience — 
 'tis business of life and death — I entreat you — my need 
 presses." 
 
 "To-morrow — to-morrow," replied the other; "his 
 grace is at prayers." 
 
 " The better for my hopes," responded the stranger, " for 
 mine is an aflfair that pleads to Heaven for help. Oh, God ! 
 what may not happen before to-morrow !" 
 
 The intense anguish with which these words were uttered, 
 softened the habitual indifference of the sacristan. " Well," 
 he replied, scrutinizing the stranger, at the same time, from 
 head to foot, " come in, a,t all events. His reverence will 
 scarcely see you to-night — but as you say your business is 
 so urgent, I must see what can be done. Come in — come 
 in." 
 
 The stranger grasped his hand with a look of fervent 
 gratitude, and followed him into the house, or, as it was 
 then called, the Archiepiscopal Palace. 
 
 The venerable archbishop, a descendant of the famous 
 Sir Peter de Craon, was not so difficult of access as the 
 sacristan would have had the stranger believe. The au- 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. ^99 
 
 dience was granted at once; and the stranger was received 
 with an encouraging condescension, which greatly puzzled 
 the more ceremonious notions of the sacristan. 
 
 "From England, my son?" inquired the prelate, whose 
 benignant manner at once gave assurance to the visitor. 
 
 "Yes, reverend father; nor have I pressed couch since 
 I left Southampton." 
 
 " To what end, my son, have you undertaken so todful a 
 journey? Speak freely. You will find friends here, and 
 
 countrymen." 
 
 " Thank God for that," replied the stranger ; for 1 lett 
 none but wolves and oppressors behind. Pardon me, your 
 ..race, for begging audience at this late hour ; but my heart 
 
 is racked with fears for one who is— perhaps was His 
 
 voice sunk as he approached the inquiry upon which all his 
 anxieties were concentrated. 
 
 " The Prince Charles?" demanded the archbishop. 
 
 « No, reverend father ; he is safe in Paris. But one who 
 perilled and lost all in his righteous cause.^^ I believe there 
 are English monks under this sacred roof?" 
 
 *' Several. 
 
 " And amongst them-Eather Jacques? Does he still 
 live'?" And his eyes had already gleaned the answer before 
 the archbishop had time to shape it into utterance. 
 " Blessed be the Lord, for all his mercies 1" 
 " He still lives, my son." 
 
 " But broken in health-feeble-worn out with sorrow i* 
 I have heard as much, and my only hope was to be with 
 him in his last hours. I am in time for that." 
 
 " He is ill, indeed— very ill," resumed the prelate. H 
 
 you bring good tidings " 
 
 "Ibringnone-none. In England, we have abandoned 
 
400 EVENINGS AT IIADDOX HALL. 
 
 all hope. The adherents of the royal party are scattered 
 and disheartened. No man dare avow his faith there. 
 Nothing remains to us but prayer and death. Our king- 
 dom in this world is gone for ever." 
 
 " Such despondency at your age, my son," replied the 
 archbishop, " is an offence against the justice of Heaven. 
 The time will come when the rights of the throne and the 
 church shall be vindicated in full; but England must look 
 for restitution to its young blood, animated by the memory 
 of hoarded wrongs, and years of tyranny. And when that 
 time comes " 
 
 " I will do my duty," returned the cavalier, " should I 
 survive to witness the glorious issue of our sufferings. But 
 your grace will forgive my present impatience. I have en- 
 dured much in the hope I had scarcely ventured to indulge, 
 of seeing Father Jacques " 
 
 " Not to-night. You need repose and refreshment; nor 
 would it be wise to risk an interview without some pre- 
 paration. We must postpone the meeting till morning; 
 and in the meanwhile confide fully in me. I must not 
 conceal from you, that, in his precarious state of health, any 
 sudden communication might be attended with the worst 
 results." 
 
 The stranger was too much impressed with the necessity 
 of acting upon this prudent advice not to obey the ai-ch- 
 bishop's injunctions implicitly. The sacristan, who still 
 felt some uneasy doubts about a visitor whose business was 
 so importunate and mysterious, could scarcely contain his 
 astonishment when he found that supper was ordered in the 
 closet for his grace and the cavalier ; but all his specula- 
 tions, fertile and ingenious as they were, suffered total 
 shipwreck upon afterwards discovering that his lordsliip 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 401 
 
 and the stranger had remained in close council until a late 
 hour of the night. The worthy sacristan could not for the 
 life of him comprehend it; nor was he much enlightened 
 the next morning when he was required by his grace to 
 conduct the stranger, by a private passage under the cloisters, 
 into the choir of the cathedral. 
 
 The cathedral of Rheims is one of the oldest and most 
 magnificent in Europe. Its clustering columns, rich 
 arches, statues, and monuments, scarcely require that addi- 
 tional appeal to the imagination which it derives from its 
 remote historical associations; and it is impossible to tread 
 its stately nave and noble transepts, to gaze upon its pon- 
 derous towers flanking the entrance, or to listen to the 
 chimes of its mighty bells, smiting the roof and walls like 
 peals of thunder, without being filled with awe. The solemn 
 emotions which the majesty of the scene stirred in the mind 
 of the stranger, lifted him for a brief interval out of the 
 thoughts which had hitherto absorbed all his faculties. He 
 stood close to the font where Clovis is said to have been 
 baptized— upon the spot where a long succession of kings 
 had received their crowns, under the sacred responsibility 
 of a religious trust ; he was surrounded by costly tombs and 
 sculptured effigies, wonders of art and mementos of eternity, 
 peculiarly impressive in the hush of the sombre light 
 that fell upon them from the painted windows ; and as the 
 swelling notes of the distant organ soared through the lofty 
 pile, he was profoundly moved, and, sinking upon his knees, 
 surrendered up his spirit to silent prayer. 
 
 He was not alone in the cathedral. A few solitary com- 
 municants might be seen in some of the side chapels, where 
 the service of the mass was performing ; and upon the steps 
 leading to the choir, at the back of which the stranger had 
 
402 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 taken up his station, an aged monk was engaged in offices 
 of devotion. Through ilhiess and infirmity his limbs were 
 incapable of long sustaining the painful attitude of suppli- 
 cation in which he first addressed the throne of grace, and 
 he sat down exhausted upon the steps. But his mind 
 was still abstracted in pious meditations, and absorbed by 
 the outspread volume of divine truth over which he reve- 
 rently bent his head. 
 
 The action was carefully noted by two of the brother- 
 hood, who loitered in the transept, apparently for the pur- 
 pose of observing the motions of the monk. When he had 
 concluded his orison, they drew near. The stranger had 
 by this time become a dumb spectator of the scene, the 
 issue of which he watched with intense interest. 
 
 A brief salutation, in the customary form of a blessing, 
 apprized the monk that he was addressed by the affectionate 
 greeting of his spiritual superior. 
 
 " Thanks for your holy care," he replied ; " I need it all. 
 I feel more and more every day how swiftly the vain shows 
 of this world are gliding from my eyes. The shadows of 
 the grave are thickly gathering round me." 
 
 " Not so, Father Jacques," mildly responded the arch- 
 bishop; "we must be hopeful in our reliance on the divine 
 mercy." 
 
 " I trust I am so," answered the monk; " and if a con- 
 trite spirit, chastised by much suffering, and bowed to the 
 dust by bereavements, may hope to be acceptable, I have 
 hope, reverend father, of rest and comfort — hereafter!" 
 
 " And why not of a tranquil passage to a future life? 
 There are manifold blessings in store for us all — human 
 sympathies, which it is our duty to nourish." 
 
 Father Jacques raised his eyes, and looked inquiringly at 
 

LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 403 
 
 the archbishop. He felt that there was a meaning in the 
 words beyond the mere expression of general consolation 
 they seemed to convey. 
 
 " It is not well, father," continued the archbishop, " to 
 abandon wholly our interest in worldly ties. We forsake 
 the world's pleasures, its pomps and its vices; but our 
 hearts are human, and must yearn with human love to the 
 
 last." 
 
 » You speak strangely," returned the monk. 
 
 " Yet not without reason," resumed the prelate. " The 
 world you have renounced must contain some objects of 
 
 interest for you." ^ 
 
 The monk grasped the speaker's arm convulsively. io 
 the purpose, I entreat your grace," he exclaimed. " You 
 never spoke thus before. Pardon this weakness-but I am 
 
 very feeble." 
 
 u Well— well— be composed," said his grace; i have 
 received some intelligence, which, under divine Providence, 
 wiU bring comfort and happiness to you. But you must 
 be calm, and show me that you can bear joy as patiently as 
 you have borne affliction." 
 
 » Calm— calm-calm 1" And he added, with a wandering 
 look, as if the communication had bewildered his senses— 
 " Joy for me?— for me— a shattered creature!" 
 
 "Let us retire from the nave," said the archbishop, 
 " and you shall hear the good news." 
 
 Conducting the old man between them, the venerable 
 prelate and his coadjutor led him to a stone bench close to 
 the choir, within hearing of the stranger, who still remained 
 concealed behind a pillar. 
 
 " I received some information from England last night, 
 
 observed the archbishop. 
 
404 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " Ah! the regicide is dead?" inquired the monk. 
 
 " No — Cromwell still lives, more confirmed in his power 
 than ever." 
 
 " That is ill news, my lord," responded the monk, 
 drawing a deep and heavy sigh. 
 
 " Yes — ill news for England. But you have relinquished 
 all interest in such concerns. It was not of that I desired 
 to speak," he continued, cautiously. 
 
 " You put me on the rack. What is the news that 
 touches me? I am as one dead to the world, and nothing 
 in the world can aifect me." 
 
 " You have kindred, Father Jacques?" 
 
 A shudder ran through the frame of the old monk, but 
 with a violent effort he commanded his emotions. " Kin- 
 dred? Not one — not one! Distant relatives, perhaps — 
 strangers to my heart. But kindred is something more 
 than blood. No, no ; I have no kindred !" 
 
 " My information. Father Jacques," observed the arch- 
 bishop, " says otherwise ; and I am disposed to credit it 
 on many accounts." 
 
 *' Unless the grave can give back its tenants, reverend 
 father, your information must be wrong." 
 
 " We shall presently see," returned the other, at the 
 same time motioning the stranger to draw near. " There 
 came to me here last night," he continued, " a young 
 man from England ; one who has still, even to his very 
 habit, maintained his allegiance to the sacred cause of the 
 Stuarts. Your family was known to him ; their history 
 tlirough the war, their sacrifices in defence of the king, 
 lie knows all that has happened, to the very hour when he 
 left the shore. And he tells me " 
 
 " God of mercy, have pity upon me!" ejaculated the 
 monk, clasping liis liands, and gazing into the arch- 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 405 
 
 bishop's eyes, as if he would read the sequel in their 
 
 depths. 
 
 " He tells me that one still lives whom you have be- 
 lieved to be dead— one close to your affections." 
 
 " Where is he?" demanded the monk. " Let me ques- 
 tion him." 
 
 " He is here," returned the archbishop, as the stranger, 
 with hesitating step, approached, and stood before Father 
 
 Jacques. 
 
 The old man rose from his seat, and peered into the 
 face of the stranger, but could recognise nothing there to 
 assist his conjectures. " Speak !" he cried. 
 
 " Your blessing, father !" exclaimed the stranger, in a 
 broken voice, as he flung himself on his knees before the 
 
 monk. 
 
 A bubbling cry escaped the monk, as he raised the sup- 
 plicant totteringly from the ground, and looking again 
 intently into his features, went on, in a low and almost 
 inarticulate tone: " You are a stranger to me; you bring 
 back old times and old faces. Your garb is like that of 
 my youth. It gladdens me to look upon it. And you 
 have suffered, too? You look so harassed! And tears- 
 tears for me ! 'Tis a blessed sign in one so young ! And 
 you bring tidings to me? No, no ! But you come from 
 England; that is something. To breathe the air with 
 you is like home again. I am foolish to talk so. Your 
 name— your mission? Will you not speak to me?" 
 
 The stranger was too much overcome by the piteous 
 aspect of the monk to trust himself with words, and, turn- 
 ing away his head, tried to conceal his agitation. The 
 monk reiterated his question. 
 
 " No matter, for the present," said the stranger; " we 
 shall have time to talk by-and-by. I bring you joyful news. 
 
406 EVENINGS AT HADDON UALL. 
 
 which I shall relate in full — news that I can vouch for. 
 You are no longer friendless — your name is not extinct. 
 There lives one who may yet revive it with honour in the 
 old place." 
 
 This intimation, although it might be dark to others, 
 seemed to be perfectly intelligible to the monk. But it 
 produced a fearful effect upon him. The expression of 
 wonder and incredulity which spread over his features as 
 the stranger uttered the last words, was rapidly succeeded 
 by a sudden pallor. He was stricken with paralysis, and 
 must have fallen to the earth, had not the stranger clasped 
 him strenuously in his arms. 
 
 He was conveyed to his chamber in a state of insensi- 
 bility. For three days the stranger, refusing all rest, 
 watched by his bedside. And during that agonizing in- 
 terval, the monk gathered strength enough to listen to 
 the voice of him who watched, and to reward his care with 
 blessings. 
 
 At the end of three days, the stranger, wan and hag- 
 gard, and with the wretched aspect of one upon whom a 
 brief period of concentrated grief had done the work of 
 years of common misery, was led out of that chamber of 
 mourning. 
 
 The monk was dead. 
 
 I. 
 
 A HAWKING TARTY. 1661. 
 
 Two milk-white palfreys and three horses, all richly capa- 
 risoned, stood in front of the entrance to Lynton Hall. It 
 was precisely tlie sort of morning that old Latham would 
 have chosen to try a fliglit of falcons. The sky was 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 407 
 
 slightly overcast by a light fleece of snowy clouds, which 
 prevented the eyes of birds or sportsmen from being per- 
 plexed by the sun, and there was just wind enough abroad 
 to give freshness to the atmosphere without presenting 
 much resistance to the plumage of hawk or heron. 
 
 The falconer had gone forward in advance with his stage 
 of hawks, making an accompaniment to the music of their 
 bells, by trolling the words of a ditty, which was at that 
 time in the zenith of its popularity : — 
 
 " The soaring hawk from fist that flies, 
 
 Her falconer doth constrain 
 Sometimes to range the ground unknown, 
 
 To find her out again ; 
 And if by sight, or sound of bell, 
 
 His falcon he may see, 
 ' Wo ho !' he cries, with cheerful voice — 
 
 The gladdest man is he!" 
 
 The falconer knew as well as the writer of the ballad 
 how to prize his falcons, and he broke in, every now 
 and then, upon the ditty, to cry " Wo ho !" to his birds, 
 and in especial to stroke with a feather the dark plumage 
 of a stately peregrine, upon whose execution in the ap- 
 proaching sport he evidently laid great stress. 
 
 The track lay through one of the wildest and most 
 romantic valleys of Devonshire ; and when the falconer had 
 gained a particular spot, where the rendezvous was ap- 
 pointed, he scaled a rock to ascertain whether the party 
 were in motion. A flutter of bright colours through the 
 trees announced their rapid approach. Presently a noble 
 greyhound, swifter than the fleetest steed, swept past, and 
 in a few moments more, the whole valley was animated by 
 the presence of the equestrians, who, unable to restrain 
 
408 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 the high spirits of their horses in the clear morning air, 
 came scampering and bounding over the sward. 
 
 The ladies of the party were Lucy Montagu, the heiress 
 of Lynton Hall, and her light-hearted cousin, the Lady 
 Catherine Gower, a maid of honour, who had ventured upon 
 an exile of a few weeks from Whitehall, in the hope of re- 
 trieving her complexion in the breezes of Devonshire. They 
 were attended by the young Lord Nevyl, whose estates lay 
 close by, and two gentlemen who were then visiting at Lyn- 
 ton. From the skill with which Lucy Montagu and Lord 
 Nevyl applied themselves to the exciting preparations for the 
 sport, it was manifest that tliey were thoroughly familiar 
 with its mysteries ; which was more than could be said for 
 the rest of the party, who merely looked on, with a vague 
 and indulgent curiosity, while the merry falconer began 
 to unloose his birds. 
 
 " The peregrine first, Hugh Clark," exclaimed Lucy 
 Montagu, as she touched the falcon with her glove ; " and 
 see that her jesses are safe." 
 
 The falconer was hardly pleased to risk his favourite's 
 reputation on the first flight, and would fain have substi- 
 tuted a fussy little hobby, which, with the impetuosity 
 characteristic of its species, was impatient to be on the 
 wing. But the lady was anxious to show the best of the 
 sport first, before the attention of her guests was ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 The whole party had now dismounted ; and Lord Nevyl 
 was busy helping with the birds. 
 
 *' Shall 1 take the peregrine. Miss Montagu?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 " If you please, my lord," returned the lady; " and I 
 will second you with my own ger-falcon. Give her to my 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 4^9 
 
 hand, Hugh. There — gently. Wo ho, pretty bird!" 
 And stretching out her closed hand, carefully protected by 
 a richly-embroidered glove, the well-accustomed hawk 
 stept upon it with an air of gentle dignity, that excited the 
 admiration even of Lady Catherine. 
 
 " It is wondrously beautiful," she exclaimed, " and 
 seems quite familiar with you." 
 
 " So she should be, Catherine; for I may almost say 
 I trained her with my own hand. Is it not so, Hugh?" 
 
 " Ha " replied Hugh, " your ladyship will train a hawk 
 with any falconer in England. Your ladyship took this 
 bird in hand from an eyas. I remember the first time 
 your ladyship hooded the beauty. There is such an art 
 
 in that 1" 
 
 " But can the creature see?" inquired Lady Catherine. 
 
 " Of course not, Catherine," returned Lucy; " we should 
 have no control over them if we did not keep them 
 blinded till we start the prey. Don't you admire ray 
 rufter, and its handsome crest of pheasant feathers? You 
 shall learn presently how to fly a falcon from the hood;— 
 only keep silence, and watch !" 
 
 Lord Nevyl, who was prepared with the peregrine on 
 his fist, with the leather end of the jesses wound tightly 
 round his hand— for it was a bird of enormous height and 
 power— listened with evident delight to the pleasant lore of 
 Lucy Montagu. Even the two gentlemen, Piers Ever- 
 ington and his brother Charles, both members of the new 
 parliament, seemed to grow interested in these preliminary 
 
 details. 
 
 The whole party now moved noiselessly towards the 
 river which brawled through the rugged bed of the valley, 
 expanding at this place into a sort of basin, with a broad 
 
 E E 
 
410 EVENINGS AT IIADDUN HALL. 
 
 strand at tlie opposite side. A few straggling tall trees 
 on the margin indicated the heronry, to which all eyes 
 were now anxiously turned. 
 
 " Which way is the wind, Hugh?" inquired Lord Nevyl. 
 
 " Down the river, my lord," returned Hugh ; and silently 
 motioning to leeward of the heronry, he led them down 
 through the bushes for a considerable distance. Piers 
 Everington was grievously perplexed by this troublesome 
 manoeuvre, and inquired the reason of it 
 
 " Why, simply," said Lucy, to whom all these devices 
 were mere matters of course, " because the heron on its 
 return must fly against the wind, which gives an obvious 
 advantage to the falcon." 
 
 " Very curious, indeed !" returned Piers Everington, 
 not a whit enlightened by the explanation. 
 
 " You see how accomplished jMiss ]\rontagu is in this 
 royal pastime," said Lord Nevyl. " She might boast, with 
 Spencer's Sir Tristram, — 
 
 ' Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, 
 Whether high towering or accoasting low, 
 But I the measure of her flighte doe search, 
 And all her prey and all their habits know.' " 
 
 " Hush !" interrupted Lucy, " there is a heron on the 
 wing." 
 
 Hugh Clark shaded his eyes with his hand, to note 
 the action of the distant bird, and, after a moment's obser- 
 vation, confirmed the announcement. " Down, down in 
 tlic bushes !" whispered Hugh ; and the whole party, to 
 tlie great reluctance of some of them, crept under the 
 shadows of the brushwood as well as they could. 
 
 Lord Nevyl, having nicasui'cd his distance with a prac- 
 
>'Ki 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 411 
 
 tised eye, let fly the peregrine, who, the moment she was 
 released, discovered her prey, and, fluttering her head, 
 ascended in a series of spiral gyrations into the air. The 
 instinct of the heron was no less rapid. She saw her 
 danger, and strained her whole muscular power to ascend 
 higher and higher, disgorging her food at the same instant 
 to lighten her weight. She was considerably above the 
 peregrine, whose circular flight, however, gradually lessened 
 the distance; but the heron still soared, and kept the ascend- 
 ancy. Now was the time for the ger-falcon to come into 
 play. With a single touch of surpassing dexterity, Lucy 
 slipped the jesses, and snatched oif the hood, and the stately 
 bird shot into the air, taking still wider circles, the pecu- 
 liar action of which had the effect, to the unskilful spec- 
 tators, of making it appear that the pursuers and the pur- 
 sued all took different directions. But presently, as the 
 hawks gained upon their prey, the artifice by which they 
 thus diminished the atmospheric resistance, became per- 
 fectly intelligible, and it was soon evident that theii- 
 apparently divergent flight was directed steadily to one 
 point. 
 
 The peregrine is now close upon the heron; another 
 grand sweep in the air, and she is above her. The spec- 
 tators become as agitated for the issue as the plumed com- 
 batants themselves. The peregrine mounts higher and 
 higher, to secure a more effectual stoop; the heron, with 
 unerring instinct, feels that life or death depends on the 
 next half second of time, and, lowering her wing, watches 
 with fearful interest the motions of her enemy. The stoop 
 is taken ; as swift as light the peregrine makes her blow, 
 but the heron has evaded it by shifting her station ; and 
 the hawk has no sooner shot past her than she takes to her 
 
 E E 2 
 
412 EVENINGS AT JIADDON HALL. 
 
 wing again, and soars upwards Avith increasing energy, 
 but it is only to encounter the ger- falcon, who has all this 
 time been ascending upon her track. The powerful wing 
 of the ger-falcon leaves her no chance of escape. Higher 
 and higher they mount, until at last they fade into specks 
 hardly distinguishable from each other ; but the falcon is 
 still to be detected by her gyrations, and the superior speed 
 of her flight. The interest of the struggle deepens in 
 intensity as the falcon ascends far above the heron, who 
 now, fierce in her agony, and seeing all hope of escape in 
 that direction at an end, comes precipitately down, pre- 
 pared to transfix the pursuer upon her up-turned beak. 
 But luckily the peregrine diverts her from her purpose by 
 a sudden lurch, and the ger-falcon drops upon her prey, 
 which she seizes Avith fatal velocity, the peregrine binding 
 to its felloAV at the same time. The three birds, now 
 twined and convulsed in a fearful contest, descend together 
 rapidly to the earth. 
 
 " To horse !" cries Hugh Clark, dashing into the river, 
 toAvards the place where the birds were likely to drop. 
 Lucy and Lord Nevyl were already in their saddles, and 
 across the river, before the astonished lookers-on had reco- 
 vered their surprize at the suddenness of the challenge. Of 
 course Lady Catherine, and the tAvo members of parliament 
 were left far behind, while the sport carried their friends 
 into a remote part of the valley. 
 
 Hugh Clark had secured the heron just as Lucy and 
 Lord Nevyl came up ; and as they Avere noAV ajDproaching a 
 closer part of the valley where pheasants were to be found, 
 they determined upon trying a kestrel, or Avind-hover, 
 Avhich was then much used for pheasant hawking. 
 
 Dismounting again, Lord Nevyl and Lucy Avalked for- 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 413 
 
 ward, while Hugh Clark selected a favourable spot for the 
 flight. It was a gorge in the steep rocks, out of which 
 issued a waterfall, the river tumbling and foaming through 
 the dark ravine below. The pheasants, who kept the open 
 country, were often to be found here on the summits, and 
 sometimes lower down, tempted into occasional excursions 
 by the stillness and solitude of the place. 
 
 The young lord was not sorry to be left alone with the 
 beautiful heiress of Lynton Hall, and her beauty never 
 appeared so resplendent in his eyes as amidst such scenes 
 as these ; her singularly picturesque dress setting off to the 
 greatest advantage that pure colour and charming frank- 
 ness of expression, which had never yet been deteriorated 
 by the fashionable excesses of a town life. The proximity 
 of his residence had gradually rendered him an intimate at 
 Lynton Hall, and the refinement of his tastes enabled him 
 to discover intellectual merits in Lucy Montagu, which he 
 esteemed even beyond her beauty. It was not surprising 
 that Lord Nevyl should be in love with Lucy Montagu; 
 but it was very surprising that he did not know it. There 
 is a ciu'ious sophistry in certain minds, by which they 
 contrive to mystify themselves into prolonged delight 
 through this season of ambiguous passion, still loitering 
 dreamily on the confines of self-confession, which they 
 continue to evade as long as they can, by one deception 
 or another, as if they were afraid it would all of a sudden 
 put an end to their delicious doubts. But confessions 
 must come at last; and they often come at very unex- 
 pected moments. Sophists of this class are generally 
 surprised, when they least expect it, into the full sense 
 of their own happiness. 
 
 " How charming is the solitude of this place !" exclaimed 
 
414 EVENINGS AT UADDON UALL. 
 
 Lord Nevyl. " Your fair cousin scarcely appreciates our 
 wild scenery." 
 
 " IIow can she ?" replied Lucy ; " she has lived in 
 London all her life ; yet she is not spoilt by it. She has 
 such delightful spirits, and is so natural, in spite of her 
 courtly tastes." 
 
 " 1 can understand her character ; but she would never 
 be happy out of the sphere in which she moves." 
 
 " You are greatly mistaken. Lady Catherine is the 
 most unselfish of all persons. She delights in conferring 
 happiness on others. But how can you know anything 
 about it? We are all enigmas, and must be found out, 
 like other puzzles." 
 
 " Not all, Miss Montagu," said Lord Nevyl, with a tone 
 of earnestness, which appeared rather unusual to Lucy 
 Montagu. " At least," he continued, " one fancies once 
 in one's life that one has found " 
 
 " Oh ! one fancies a thousand things," interrupted Lucy ; 
 " but character is not to be solved by fancy." 
 
 " Then what is the key to this exquisite mystery?" 
 
 " Why, I suppose," rejoined Lucy, laughing at the odd 
 conceit, " keys to mysteries are something like keys to 
 locks, and every mystery must be opened by its own key." 
 
 " But there is a master-key, to which they all yield 
 alike." 
 
 "You absolutely make me curious, Lord Nevyl; pray 
 what may that be?" 
 
 " Sympatliy, ]\Iiss Montagu; before which hearts are 
 laid open, as it were, by a touch of enchantment." lie 
 ought to have said " love," for undeniably that was what 
 he meant; but Lord Nevyl did not yet exactly know what 
 he meant. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 415 
 
 "Oh! people may have sympathy in common pursuits, 
 and yet make great mistakes in extending their inferences," 
 returned Lucy ; " but the argument is a little too subtle for 
 me. And see, Hugh is starting a pheasant." ^ 
 
 Lord Nevyl was grievously vexed at the interruption. 
 He secretly wished all the pheasants in England safe under 
 cover. But there was no time for refining upon lost 
 opportunities. Lucy was already at the entrance of the 
 gorge, with a kestrel clambering on her hand, while Hugh 
 was directing her attention to a distant spot, to which he 
 thought he had traced the flight of the pheasant. 
 " It will presently rise," said Hugh; "be wary." 
 The bird rose 'almost at the moment, and it was not 
 until Lucy had released the kestrel, which mounted with 
 that singularly graceful flight, for which this tiny species 
 is so remarkable, that they discovered the prey to be a 
 heron, and not a pheasant. The disadvantage was great 
 between the pursuer and the pursued; and it was curious 
 to observe how swiftly and courageously the kestrel as- 
 cended, and distanced its prey, which, hoping to elude the 
 pursuit, kept beating about in the brown shadow of the 
 rocks. The hurried cry in the air of pli, plh plh evinced 
 the eagerness of the hawk, until it attained its greatest 
 altitude at a vast height above the afi^righted heron, when 
 the sound ceased. Lord Nevyl, apprehensive of losing the 
 bird, notwithstanding that he still heard the tingle of its 
 bells, hurried upon a rock in the middle of the stream to 
 lure it back, while Lucy prepared a second kestrel to be in 
 readiness in case of need. But these precautions were 
 unnecessary. The kestrel was suspended apparently mo- 
 tionless in the air, although a steady observer, accustomed 
 to this peculiarity, might detect a slight, tremulous quiver- 
 
416 EVENINGS AT HADDON HALL. 
 
 ing of the wings, by which it sustained itself. They held 
 their breath to watch the issue. Like a flash from the 
 sun, the kestrel darted down, and struck its prey. The 
 execution of this movement was perfect. Both the birds 
 were now struggling in the water, from whence they were 
 quickly rescued by Hugh Clark, who, to do him justice, 
 understood his part of the science quite as well as the kes- 
 trel herself. 
 
 " AYe have lost our friends," said Lucy, who, very pro- 
 vokingly, seemed to become aware of the fact now for the 
 first time. Lord Nevyl wished all the friends, as a moment 
 before he had wished all the pheasants, safely under 
 cover — anywhere but in his way. " We had better rejoin 
 them," she added, making a signal for the horses, which 
 were in charge of a servitor at a little distance. 
 
 A spectator seeing these two young people riding hastily 
 back to come up with their party, might have supposed 
 that they were very anxious to escape from each other's 
 company. A part of the way there was not a word spoken, 
 and when they did risk a little conversation it was reserved 
 and constrained. There might be no great difficulty in 
 guessing at the thoughts that were passing through Lord 
 Nevyl's mind, taking sundry contradictory shapes, uncon- 
 sciously moulded by his wayward and poetical tempera- 
 ment. But it was not quite so easy to speculate on Miss 
 Montagu's thoughts. There was nothing to be gathered 
 from her manner, which was most tantalizingly insouciant. 
 The enigma to which she compared her sex was never more 
 vexatiously represented than it was by Miss Montagu her- 
 self during that short ride ; at least Lord Nevyl was of that 
 oi)iiiioii. 
 
 They fuuiul tlieir friends higlier up the valley, trying 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 417 
 
 some hopeless experiments with two or three hawks which 
 had been left with them by the falconer. Mr. Piers 
 Everington had been cruelly lacerated by a little merlin, 
 which he had incautiously unhooded, out of sheer curiosity, 
 without liberating its jesses ; and Mr. Charles Everington 
 was in no little consternation at having lost a hobby, 
 which he had suffered to go in quest of game on its own 
 account, and which had disappeared amongst the trees. 
 Whether Hugh Clark ever recovered the hobby we know 
 not, but it is certain that he muttered an infinite variety 
 of hard words as he went, sAvinging his lure, in search of 
 the fugitive. 
 
 These little contretemps brought the hawking to a 
 stand-still; and, as there was no concealing the ennui oi 
 the visitors from London, it was agreed on all hands to 
 suspend the sport for that day, and return to the Hall. 
 The gallop home was cheering enough. Lady Catherine 
 was in florid spirits, and threw everybody, except Lord 
 Nevyl, into ecstasies with her brilliant wit and sinister 
 repartees. Even his lordship felt grateful to her for sparing 
 him the necessity of talking. 
 
 It was twelve o'clock — a clear hour before dinner — 
 when they arrived at Lynton Hall. Little time enough 
 for maids of honour and courtiers to make their toilets. 
 But Lord Nevyl required less preparation ; nor was he in 
 a mood to fret himself over details of that kind. He 
 dressed quickly, with an uneasy nervousness, and descended 
 to the drawing-room. To his utter astonishment, Lucy 
 Montagu was there before him. 
 
 She was as calm as ever — as frank, as lively, and even 
 more lovely than usual. The enigma became more and 
 more perplexing to Lord Nevyl, who was never so em- 
 
418 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 barrassed before in the whole course of his life. The 
 inexplicable self-possession of women! 
 
 Lucy bantered him upon the celerity of his toilet. 
 She was unconscious of the greater dispatch with which she 
 had dismissed her own. But he was too abstracted to 
 perceive the advantage which this slight oversight threw 
 open to him. 
 
 " I am afraid I have interrupted you, Miss Montagu," 
 he managed to say, at last, as awkAvurdly as he could 
 say it. Lucy had been reading a large folio, bound in 
 vellum, with ponderous clasps. " What have you been 
 reading ?" 
 
 " Drayton," she replied — " my favourite Drayton. They 
 say he is only a bad geographer, with just enough of ima- 
 gination to lead him astray ; but I love his fantastic style, 
 and the sweet glimpses he gives us of pastoral romance." 
 
 " Your unerring taste is sure to detect the beautiful and 
 the true, even in the tangled wilderness of the Polyolbion. 
 Drayton has always been one of my household divinities, 
 but I shall prize him for the future more highly than ever." 
 " I suppose I ought to be obliged by so delicate a com- 
 pliment," replied Lucy, with a very sunny smile; "but 
 it is quite useless to attempt to flatter me into the notion 
 that my taste is a criterion in such matters. I dare say 
 Drayton is an indifferent poet enough." 
 
 " But it is possible, Miss Montagu," said Lord Nevyl, 
 who was now beginning to recover his composure — " it is 
 possible, even if your taste were in error, which it cannot 
 
 be, that still I might like Drayton the more, because " 
 
 There was a tremulous pause on the word. 
 
 " Because? — well?" And in a mischievous spirit of 
 badinage she was half inclined to laugh. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 419 
 
 " I mean," he resumed, " that one cannot help loving 
 
 everything that interests those who " Miss Montagu 
 
 hastily turned over half-a-dozen leaves all at once. 
 
 " I don't like his Barons' Wars," she interposed, " nor 
 
 liis " She tried to flutter over a few more leaves, when 
 
 Lord Nevyl gently arrested her hand. It trembled for an 
 
 instant in his. 
 
 " You will banish me, perhaps, from your presence for 
 ever. Miss Montagu, for my presumption ; but—" he re- 
 leased her hand—" I cannot, I dare not any longer dis- 
 semble my feelings." 
 
 " My Lord Nevyl!" she exclaimed, slightly averting her 
 
 head, " I beg " 
 
 "It is in vain!" cried Lord Nevyl, passionately— " in 
 vain ! My long-pent up secret has found utterance at last. 
 Pardon me that I have dared to love you. It was not your 
 beauty, spiritual and radiant as it is, for which alone I 
 loved you; but that which is more beautiful than beauty— 
 that intellectual grace which raised you nearer to the 
 
 divine nature." 
 
 " I cannot hear this," replied Lucy; " it is so strange— 
 
 so unexpected " 
 
 " Yet to me so long familiar! And I fancied, too, that 
 you must have seen it— that love could speak tongue-tied. 
 How often in the summer nights, when you used to sing 
 some of those broken lyrics of the old troubadours, I 
 fancied, in the tones of your voice, a sweet spirit re- 
 sponding to my silent heart. How I have dreamed 
 of the future— the felicity of realizing the mission of 
 the affections. This thought has consumed me day and 
 night. Pardon— forgive the passionate devotion you have 
 inspired. One word— one little word of hope!" And 
 
420 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 flinging himself on his knees, he clasped the powerless hand 
 of Lucy Montagu. 
 
 In that brief moment she has passed into a new state of 
 existence. Her imperial will, her happy caprices, the 
 bright heedlessness of youth — what have become of them ? 
 Absorbed in the one new image of life — new, startling, 
 confounding. It is the first time the thought has taken 
 an actual form in her imagination. Her sense of things 
 becomes dazzled and bewildered. She will neither desire 
 him to hope nor despair. She needs help and direction 
 more herself. She cannot answer ; she will think — think 
 of what? Everything is changed. She is no longer the 
 beinsr of fu2:itive trifles — on a sudden the half-formed 
 phantasies of all her timid wishes assume vital shapes, to 
 which she must give grave audience ; her fairy Ideal has 
 become disenchanted into the Real. What is to come of this ? 
 Does she love any one else ? No ! Does she love at all ? 
 It is the crisis of her life — this perilous second of time ! 
 
 Fortunately for the trembler, a step, light, quick, and 
 buoyant, echoes on the staircase. 
 
 " My cousin !" exclaims Lucy, trying to disengage her 
 hand, but not until Lord Nevyl has impressed it with a 
 fervent kiss. 
 
 The door is flung open, and Lady Catherine bounds into 
 the room. 
 
 II. 
 
 ARRIVALS AND AUGURIES. 
 
 Lynton Hall was a sumptuous pile, which miglit be 
 traced back from small beginnings to the age of Eli- 
 zabeth. EMlar<^ed and embellished from time to time 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 421 
 
 by different hands, it presented a singular and fantastic 
 specimen of that wilful confusion of styles which prevailed 
 in England down to a much later day. Moorish arches 
 and gothic windows, richly crusted with ornaments, were 
 picturesquely heaped upon the flat surfaces and quaint 
 zigzags of the old Saxon architecture; while Italian ter- 
 races, stepped parterres, embroidered with flowers, and 
 transpicuous alleys, through which the sun played at gam- 
 bols with the dancing shadows, completed the heterogeneous 
 but costly ensemble. 
 
 During the Interregnum, Lynton Hall, in common with 
 all other country mansions, yielded to the dreary influence 
 of the time. It was kept in solid repair, but that was all. 
 The fine arts had nothing to do but stand still ; there 
 were no accessions to the picture gallery ; no new statues, 
 fountains, or garden luxuries ; no improvements, interior or 
 exterior. All was cold and lifeless. The same policy that 
 abolished fans, feathers, and girdle-glasses, and shut up the 
 play-houses, had also spell-bound the residences of the 
 gentry in a long and dismal lethargy. 
 
 The Restoration acted like enchantment upon the sleepers. 
 It was the signal of a universal release from the hypocritical 
 dulness, which sat like a nightmare upon the spirits of the 
 young and hopeful. The whole population started up to 
 enjoy the national holiday, like children suddenly released 
 from the stupefaction of the conventicle. Lynton Hall par- 
 ticipated in the general rejoicing. 
 
 Sir Edmund Montagu was a puritan— firm, inflexible, 
 and sincere. The nobler and the graver elements of the 
 character belonged to him. Lady Montagu, inheriting 
 royalist principles from her family, had sufficient good 
 sense to suppress their manifestation under the Protectorate ; 
 
422 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 but the death of Cromwell dissolved all obligations of tliat 
 kind, and I'cndercd the resumption of the splendour and 
 the gaieties proper to her station, a matter of policy 
 as much as it was, on her part, a matter of choice and 
 feeling. 
 
 The chambers of the liall rang with the clamour of 
 changes befitting the altered spirit of the period. Artists 
 from London, anticipating the advent of the meretricious 
 Verrio, had already, with exuberant fancy, poured out a 
 whole mythology of gods and goddesses upon the ceilings 
 and walls of the principal rooms, galleries, and staircases ; 
 and the poetry of invention was tortured into endless de- 
 formities to find out new devices for emblems and portraits 
 cut in pyramidal yews and bosky shrubs. The long walks 
 were buttoned up with rows of pots of la reine Marguerite, 
 every verdant niche had its stone nymph or dryad assigned 
 to it, and every vista was closed with a sparkling fountain 
 or a classical group. Day after day heaps of ncAv things ar- 
 rived from London, and the ladies' apartments were literally 
 strewn over Avitli flirting hats, marshal gloves, Colambor 
 fans, angel-water, May-dew, and French petticoats. Sir 
 Edmund did not consent to this revolution ; he submitted 
 to it, or, rather, he tried to endure it. Guests were come, 
 and more were coming, and it was in vain to resist the 
 overwhelming tide of change. Christmas, too, was coming 
 — the traditional season of English hospitality and nici-ry- 
 making. Tlie tranquillity he loved was shaken to its 
 centre. Tliere was no repose for him in the remotest cor- 
 ners of the house. The echoes of the turmoil followed liini 
 everywhere. 
 
 On tlic nidniing succeeding the incident just related, he 
 ))eneli-!ife(l tlii'dugli a levee ol' I'oreign artists to tlie chamber 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 423 
 
 of Lady Montagu, and found her busily occupied inspecting 
 a fresh consignment of perfumes, salves, and washes. 
 
 " A rare tumult this morning, madam," he exclaimed ; 
 "when may I look for peace?" 
 
 "Well, well," replied Lady Montagu, "it' is nearly 
 over ; but positively we did require a little improvement, 
 it is so long since the place was touched. Besides," she 
 added, trying the effect of a good-natured appeal to his 
 pride, " you would not have us give a mean reception to 
 my niece. Lady Catherine, and Sir Dudley Perrot, and the 
 other court people wlio are to spend the Christmas with us ?" 
 
 " And so," retorted Sir Edmund — " and so, because 
 your niece, a maid of honour — save the mark ! — and some 
 jackdaw courtiers are about to make profligate revel in our 
 house in the solemn Christmas time, I must be scared in 
 my retirement by a hurricane of feet and tongues, as if 
 Tartarus had disgorged its demons at my gate !" 
 
 " Nay," exclaimed her ladyship, " you must be just. I 
 never murmured at the painful suppression of my own feel- 
 ings, through the long and bitter years during which the 
 friends of my youth were banished from their homes, con- 
 fiscated, and hunted like dogs. Nor do I triumph now in 
 the deliverance that has come to pass ; I only ask that we 
 may be allowed to resume our natural position. And not 
 even this for my own sake, but for the sake of others." 
 
 " Others?" said Sir Edmund. 
 
 " We have a daughter," returned Lady Montagu; " you 
 would not sacrifice her." 
 
 " I would have her in all things worthy of my name.'' 
 
 " And of our rank and wealth," added Lady Montagu. 
 
 " Rank and wealth!" he reiterated; "by what signs do 
 you judge of our rank and wealth?" 
 
424 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 " By the ample dowry 1 brought you," she replied, in a 
 tone of surprise, " and these broad lands." 
 
 The gloom darkened on his features, while he demanded, 
 " To what does this lead?" 
 
 " Have you not observed of late," she answered, hesi- 
 tatingly, "the frequent visits of Lord Nevyl?" 
 
 " Lord Nevyl !" cried Sir Edmund, in a tone of crushing 
 contempt. 
 
 "It is scarcely just," returned the fair advocate, " to 
 quarrel with his title. You received honours yourself 
 from the hand of the Protector. But, in truth, it is 
 only my own suspicion, — although I confess I think such 
 an alliance " 
 
 " Because he is a lord !" 
 
 " No, not that; but because he is every way worthy of 
 Lucy, and because his estates lie close to our own." 
 
 " And you would prudently consolidate them. Keep 
 within your own province, good housewife. It is a wise 
 and needful caution. I would have my blood spread — 
 healthily draAvn out in distant air, not bound up in close 
 deeds and tenures. Has Lucy spoken to you of this?" he 
 inquired, with a searching look. 
 
 " Never !" replied Lady Montagu. 
 
 " Nor you to her?" he demanded. 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 " Then keep your counsel locked up in your own breast. 
 We must have speech again upon this clever suspicion of 
 yours. Hearken to the din of footsteps — more visitors — 
 more lords and peacocks !" 
 
 It was as he anticipated. More visitors Avere arriving, 
 and their approach was announced by a bevy of bedizened 
 lacqueys, whose clamorous entry made a greater uproar 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 425 
 
 than tliat of their masters. Lady Catherine, through 
 whose introduction or invitation most of the court people 
 were attracted to the tranquil shades of Lynton, entered 
 the room to communicate the intelligence, just as Sir 
 Edmund had uttered his imprecation against the peacocks. 
 
 She saw he was angry, but her brilliant spirits and high 
 breeding were not to be put out by other people's ill 
 temj)er. 
 
 " They are coming, dear Lady Montagu !" she exclaimed, 
 running over, caressingly, to her aunt. 
 
 "Who?" inquired Sir Edmund, in a freezing tone of 
 discouragement; but his sour reproof was thrown away 
 upon the lively maid of honour. 
 
 "Who? Some of the choicest beaux and gallants, of 
 course; gentlemen of the privy chamber " 
 
 " And ladies of the privy chamber?" interrupted the 
 questioner. 
 
 " No — no ladies." 
 
 " Well, there's some grace in that," resumed Sir Edmund ; 
 " but if I must receive these people, pray. Lady Catherine, 
 enlighten me upon their names and qualities." 
 
 " Well, there is Mr. Giles Moreton, a poet, who has 
 written verses on his majesty's restoration, a great favourite 
 with the king ; and Mr. Plympton, remarkable for nothing 
 but his chocolate coat, lined with rose-coloured silk, and his 
 lisp ; Pettingal, a beau of the first water, who is said to con- 
 sume more carnation wash and Spanish paper than the 
 whole four women actors, boarded by Davenant, in Lin- 
 coln's Inn; and — and — Sir Dudley Perrot." 
 
 " A goodly company !" exclaimed Sir Edmund, with a 
 groan. " And who may this Dudley Perrot be?" 
 
 " Sir Dudley ! My court fool. You shall be my con- 
 
 F F 
 
42G EVENINGS AT llADDON HALL. 
 
 fessor," she added, with a malice propeiise, eliciting a still 
 deeper groan from Sir Edmund, at the ghostly office she 
 assigned him. "Sir Dudley is a lover of mine, poor 
 motley ! He is a sort of country squire — as ignorant of 
 town life as one of his own great Flemish horses, yet aping 
 it at all points, like a monkey. His father, who was in 
 some kind of trade, expended a fortune in the service of the 
 king— and so, by way of a set-off, his majesty knighted the 
 
 fool." 
 
 " A royal way of paying his majesty's debts !" ejaculated 
 
 Sir Edmund. 
 
 " But you must not suppose," continued Lady Catherine, 
 " that I invited Sir Dudley. The truth is, he followed me. 
 He follows me everywhere, like my shadow. One wants a 
 motley, you know, to play off one's humours — so we must 
 be civil to the poor, harmless popinjay. But, dear Lady 
 Montagu, you and Sir Edmund must hasten to receive 
 them ;" and she ran on, with a vivacity that fairly over- 
 threw the gravity of Sir Edmund, until she hurried them 
 both out of the room, to meet the approaching guests at 
 the door. 
 
 The three first-mentioned gentlemen made their appear- 
 ance in succession, and were received with a ceremonious 
 formality, in which the true courtesy of the host was no less 
 apparent than his puritan coldness. Sir Dudley remained 
 behind. He hung back in the avenue to adjust his sword 
 and ruffles, and to put on an elaborate periwig, which his 
 valet carried in a bandbox.* Having satisfied himself, by 
 
 * In the county of Berkshire there is an approach to one of the old 
 mansions which is still called Wig Avenue, from the circumstance of 
 being the spot where the gallants used to put on tluMr flowing wigs, 
 before they presented themselves at the house. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 427 
 
 a careful review of his person in a pocket-glass, that his 
 costume was perfect, he advanced to the house with an 
 awkward sidling air which produced infinite merriment 
 amongst the people assembled within. Even Sir Edmund 
 could hardly suppress a smile at the first glimpse of the 
 attitudes into which he managed to distort his grotesque 
 figure. 
 
 The guests had already gone forward, and Sir Edmund 
 and Lady Montagu still lingered at the entrance, when their 
 attention was attracted by the person of an aged man who 
 stood at the extremity of the terrace, apparently soliciting 
 their notice by strenuous gesticulations. Hugh Clarke, who 
 happened at the moment to be bestowing a philosophical 
 lesson on one of his hounds, ordered the ill-clad supplicant to 
 be gone about his business; when Sir Edmund, rebuking 
 the falconer's harshness, advanced, with Lady Montagu on 
 his arm, to inquire into the old man's necessities. There 
 was, at least, that one vital virtue in his republican creed, 
 that it recognised the claims of manhood in the poor, as well 
 as in the rich. 
 
 The man was an ancient pensioner who had long sub- 
 sisted on the bounty of the family, and who enjoyed a sort 
 of reputation amongst the common people for his skill in 
 casting nativities and telling fortunes — practices which 
 were at that time in high estimation even amongst the 
 educated classes. 
 
 " One word in your ears," hoarsely whispered the 
 mendicant. 
 
 " As many as you will," cried Sir Edmund, who, without 
 being what is called superstitious, desired rather to con- 
 ciliate than to provoke people of his stamp — " what fortune 
 is in the wind to-day, good Master Sachell ?" 
 
 F F 2 
 
428 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " III fortune. I came to warn you. Beware ! — beware !" 
 
 " Tut — tut. You must not alarm Lady Montagu." 
 
 " I tell you to beware, Edmund Montagu. Danger, and 
 evil, and woe hover over your house." 
 
 " What means this?" demanded Lady Montagu, flushed, 
 and not a little terrified at the strange intelligence. 
 
 " Mere fantasy," replied Sir Edmund, hastily, scowling 
 at the same time upon the prophet. 
 
 " No a living truth," uttered the mendicant, in a still 
 
 deeper voice. " You will heed my words hereafter. Be- 
 ware who comes into your house, and who goes out. 
 Beware, Edmund Montagu !" 
 
 " No more of this," cried Sir Edmund. 
 
 " As I have eyes to see, and ears to hear," persisted the 
 mendicant, " I saw and heard — not in a vision — but the 
 living " 
 
 *' The beggar's brain is crazed," exclaimed Sir Edmund, 
 fiercely, drawing Lady Montagu at the same moment to- 
 wards the house. " Begone, knave ! and practice your sor- 
 ceries elsewhere." 
 
 The mendicant turned and moved slowly away. Lady 
 Montagu was fascinated to the spot, and continued to gaze 
 after him, while at every step, he looked back with haggard 
 emotion to reiterate the terrible warning. His receding 
 figure, tall and macilent, and clad in ominous black, pre- 
 sented to her affrighted imagination the aspect of a mes- 
 senger of fate ; and as she passed the threshold of the door, 
 the one appalling word, " Beware !" struck like a knoll upon 
 her heart. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 429 
 
 111. 
 A DRAWING-ROOM AFTER THE RESTORATION. 
 
 There is a great movement in Lynton Hall : a gathering 
 of company, a dazzling concourse of guests. Pages in rich 
 liveries fill the vestibule; and a cavalcade of coaches, most 
 of them drawn by six barbs, make a brave stir in the old 
 avenue. There is a grand reception at Lynton Hall to- 
 night, including, in addition to the visitors from court, the 
 principal gentry of the surrounding country. 
 
 The drawing-room, voluptuously decorated, and hung at 
 either extremity with purple serge, bound with gilt leather, 
 is like a scene of enchantment. A flood of light streams 
 down on all sides from innumerable painted lamps, multi- 
 plied every instant into ten thousand flashing rays, scintil- 
 lating from the jewelled costumes of the crowd. 
 
 The vast extent of the apartment affords ample space for 
 the various amusements of all. Groups of dancers occupy 
 one end, and small parties are scattered over the other, en- 
 grossed in a variety of pastimes. In one place there is a 
 constellation of bright faces gathered round a table, en- 
 joying, to their hearts' content, the merry fright of a little 
 linnet, ringing Whittington (as it was called)— the poor 
 bird being imprisoned for the purpose in a cage, on the top 
 of which were arranged a number of bells, which rang 
 Whittington as he sprang about, trying to escape from the 
 tingling music produced by his own motions. In other 
 places, gentlemen are engaged in lansquenet and ombre; 
 some are employed in the fashionable relaxation of building 
 houses with cards ; and sundry little circles are deep in lively 
 
430 EVENINGS AT IIADDO.N HALL. 
 
 games of forfeits, so much in vogue at court, especially that 
 ingenious perplexity, " I love my love witli an A,' 
 which yields so many excuses for the wit and gallantry 
 of the beaux; and that artful romp, called "Hunt the 
 Slipper." 
 
 The Lady Catherine and licr fair cousin have drawn 
 round them a crowd of gallants. Lucy Montagu is dressed 
 simply, but richly, in white satin, looped up with pearls, 
 her bright brown ringlets, Avithout any ornaments, flowing 
 in profusion over her shoulders. The maid of honour is 
 somewliat more elaborately attired in a peach-coloured 
 bodice, lavishly brocaded, fitted tightly to the shape, open 
 down the front, and fastened with brilliants, a delicate lace 
 tucker peeping over its snowy round above. She seems 
 perfectly conscious of the costliness of that sweep of lustrous 
 silk, short, full, and lavishly plaited, and those puffed sleeves, 
 gathered higli up in front with clusters of diamonds, show- 
 ing, under a fall of the finest cambric, trimmed with lace, 
 one of the daintiest arms in the world. Her dark hair 
 floats in long tresses over her bosom, and is further enhanced 
 by a garniture of diamonds, and a dazzling flutter of" heart- 
 breakers," disposed with consummate art. 
 
 Mr. Giles Moreton was paying a thousand unmeaning 
 compliments to Lady Catherine. He said that Crashaw 
 must have seen lier in a vision, when he spoke of — 
 
 " Tresses that wear 
 Jewels but to declare 
 How nuu-h themselves more precious are!" 
 
 "Nonsense!" exclaimed Lady Catherine; " never quote 
 poets to me. Tliere is not a lurking flattery in one stanza 
 that I will not match with a piece of downriglit insolence 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 4,S1 
 
 in another. Suckling settles the question at once with a 
 most honourable candour — 
 
 ' There's no such thing as that we beauty call, 
 It is mere cozenage all.' 
 
 What think you of that, Pettingal?" she added, as the 
 fop advanced with a mincing air. Beau Pettingal was 
 one of the most distinguished butterflies of his day, and 
 came out on this occasion with surpassing absurdity, in a 
 slashed suit of amber-coloured velvet, and gigantic silver 
 buttons, an enormous peruke, an immense laced steinkerk, 
 a huge sword-knot, and a profusion of ribands of various 
 colours, streaming from all available points on his breast, 
 knees, and shoulders. 
 
 "Odds life!" quoth he, aping the favourite exclama- 
 tion of his Majesty—" your ladyship is right. There is no 
 faith to be placed in poets; the only true exponents of 
 beauty are the painters." 
 
 " The alternative is questionable, Mr. Pettingal," cried 
 Lucy, " for the painter too frequently runs into the 
 extremes of grossness or affectation. He rarely ventures 
 on the ideal, without exposing his want of true taste by 
 some ludicrous exaggeration." 
 
 A simper ran through the group. Lely and Kneller 
 were the most popular of all the court flatterers — the 
 former from the luscious redundancies of his pencil, and 
 the latter from the refinement of his wit, which added a 
 personal interest to his reputation as an artist. The 
 courtiers evidently thought this judgment of Miss Mon- 
 tagu's somewhat dangerous, but Lord Nevyl, who was 
 close at her side, came gallantly to the rescue. 
 
 <' Miss Montagu's criticism is unanswerable," he ob- 
 
432 EVENINGS AT IIADDUN HALL. 
 
 served ; " take Lely for example — he is not merely wanton 
 but fantastical. He has a marvellous hand for draperies, 
 but then he seldom knows what to do with them ; and his 
 most charming nymphs are to be found reposing in brocade 
 on green hillocks, or trailing their embroidery through 
 swamps or sheep-walks." The justice of the remark was 
 irresistible, and elicited an universal titter. 
 
 While desultory conversations of this kind were going 
 forward in different parts of the room, servants were 
 moving about amongst the guests with trays of agreeable 
 beverages ; and even the most delicate of the ruffled 
 gallants paused in their badinage to sip rosa solis, 
 usquebaugh, or flip, or to linger gracefully over a tart 
 and whipt syllabub. The progress of these delectable 
 luxuries broke up, for an interval, all the little knots of 
 talkers, and gave a temporary diversion to the gentlemen, 
 who speedily became scattered over the room. 
 
 The group round Lucy and Lady Catherine was 
 gradually dispersed, even Lord Nevyl being carried away 
 by the general movement. While the cousins, thus left 
 together, were freely discussing between themselves the 
 topics suggested by the scene, they were surprised by the 
 appearance of a person Avhom they had not noticed before, 
 passing slowly through the crowd, apparently towards 
 the place where they were seated. His deportment was 
 stern and severe, while his dark and faded attire contrasted 
 strangely with the gay colours and sumptuous apparel of 
 the rest of the guests. The cousins observed his motions 
 with curiosity. 
 
 " Do you know him?" inquired Lady Catherine. 
 
 " No," answered Lucy, " he is certainly unbidden. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 433 
 
 whoever he may be, or he would never make his appear- 
 ance in such a costume." 
 
 " Yet he has the air of a gentleman," cried Lady 
 Catherine ; " a likely fellow, well-formed, almost hand- 
 some ; somewhat soiled, to be sure — a little the worse for 
 the wear, and, perhaps, for want of a change — but still 
 a gentleman." 
 
 "He comes towards us," said Lucy; "he is absolutely 
 going to speak to us." 
 
 The strange visitor approached, and, making an obei- 
 sance to Lady Catherine, addressed her in a tone of 
 perfect good breeding. " A gallant scene, fair mistress." 
 
 " For gallants, truly," replied the Lady Catherine, with 
 a slightly haughty curl of her pretty lip. 
 
 " I scarcely expected to see so rich a company in 
 Lynton," observed the stranger, after a pause, taking no 
 notice of the gentle repulse. 
 
 " You did not ? And why not, may I ask?" 
 " Why? Because," said the stranger, with a faint 
 effort at vivacity, " I thought you were all Puritans here." 
 " He evidently thinks he is addressing you," whispered 
 Lady Catherine to her cousin; " leave him to me." And 
 she raised her voice, and continued : " Puritans? You 
 are mistaken. I am a staunch royalist." 
 "You are? Amazement!" 
 
 " 1 see nothing very amazing in it," she replied ; " you 
 are a royalist, too, I presume ?" 
 
 " Yes, an unfortunate one. I have lost my estate, or, 
 
 at least, been kept out of it by my loyalty, while you " 
 
 *' While I have been preserved by my loyalty in mine," 
 she interrupted ; adding, in her own thoughts, that if it 
 
434 EVENINGS AT UADDON HALL. 
 
 would help her to a holier estate she should be still more 
 obliged to it. 
 
 The visitor gazed earnestly upon the beautiful form before 
 him. Lady Catherine was not easily subdued by earnest 
 looks, but she felt that she had never before encountered 
 an expression so thrilling as that which filled his eyes 
 while he gazed upon her. The silence that succeeded 
 perplexed her excessively, but she was opportunely relieved 
 by her court fool. Sir Dudley Perrot, who came up with 
 a jaunty leer on his face, just in time to enable her to 
 recover her composure. Sir Dudley's figure was a cari- 
 cature in itself; his glittering buckles, and pink stockings, 
 his flirting glass, and his forest of curls, and the excess of 
 tawdry jewellery and rich tissues which he had contrived 
 to collect about his person, betrayed the vulgarity of his 
 low ambition, which took delight in transcending the 
 worst taste of the tavern braggart and box-lobby fop. 
 To drown the stench of the tobacco, in which he indulged 
 to the height of the fashionable vice, he was drenched in 
 perfumes, and scented the room like a civet cat. 
 
 Interposing between the unknown visitor and Lady 
 Catherine, he stooped down to speak to her, with a 
 familiarity which was instantly punished by the uplifted 
 fan, with which she sheltered herself from his rudeness. 
 The stranger measured him from head to foot with a 
 glance of ineffable scorn, without altering his position, 
 until Sir Dudley, dismayed by so unexpected a reception, 
 slunk back into the crowd. 
 
 At this instant Sir Edmund Montagu approached. He 
 had not observed his new visitor before, and the sudden 
 apparition of a stranger so unceremoniously garbed, ex- 
 cited his astonishment. Lady Catherine, with instinctive 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 435 
 
 tact, softened the reception which she anticipated Sir 
 Edmund would have given a decayed royalist under such 
 unpropitious circumstances, by volunteering to intro- 
 duce him. 
 
 " A stranger. Sir Edmund — Sir Edmund Montagu." 
 The visitor turned full upon the host. His face had 
 undergone a sensible change. The colour forsook his 
 cheeks, and then returned, and fled again. His eyes 
 dilated, and his lips trembled. 
 
 " I bid you welcome, sir," said Sir Edmund. 
 " Welcome to Lynton ! Thank you — thank you !" re- 
 plied the visitor, in a low, agitated voice. 
 
 " Your name, sir?" inquired Sir Edmund, " I believe I 
 
 have not the honour '' 
 
 " You forget me ?" 
 " Eorget you !" echoed Sir Edmund. 
 "I am not surprised at that," continued the stranger: 
 " stranger things have happened, and stranger still may 
 happen yet." 
 
 "Do you know this gentleman?" said Sir Edmund, 
 turning to his niece. 
 
 " I do not remember," she replied, " having seen him 
 before." 
 
 The stranger moved a few paces away, out of hearing of 
 the ladies. Sir Edmund followed him, like one under the 
 influence of a spell. 
 
 " Sir Edmund Montagu," said he, " this is not a place 
 for explanations. Give me private audience, where we 
 shall be free from interruption. Alone — we must be 
 alone." 
 
 The warning which had been so mysteriously conveyed 
 to him by the old mendicant, now, for the first time, 
 
436 EVENINGS AT 11 ADDON HALL. 
 
 flashed across Sir Edmund's memory. Could this in- 
 truder be concerned in it? 
 
 " What is your business with me, that I should grant 
 this meeting ?'' he inquired, scanning the person of the 
 stranger; " I know you not." 
 
 "I am unarmed," replied the other, calmly; "you 
 perceive — a civilian, and by no means in condition to do 
 you personal mischief," he added, while a cold smile rippled 
 over his features. 
 
 "Do you threaten me, sir, in my own house?" de- 
 manded Sir Edmund, betraying the apprehensions he was 
 so anxious to conceal. 
 
 " Threaten you in your own house!" repeated the other; 
 " surrounded by your well-furnished guests and retainers — 
 a single man, without arms ! You mock me. Sir Edmund 
 Montagu. Do you refuse this interview?" 
 
 " Suppose I do ?" • 
 
 " Then you must abide the consequences. I demand a 
 private meeting, ^ov your sake, not for my own. Yoy your 
 sake. Sir Edmund," he repeated, laying increased emphasis 
 on the expression. 
 
 " For my sake! The proceeding is strange — inexpli- 
 cable. I will trust you, sir, but — " and he still hesitated 
 — " you must clear up this mystery. Follow me !" and 
 Sir Edmund went towards the door. 
 
 The stranger turned to the cousins, who Avere consider- 
 ably interested in the dumb show of the abrupt dialogue, 
 and making a graceful bow, followed Sir Edmund out of 
 the room. 
 
 Lady Catherine's wonder at this sudden retreat was 
 heightened, rather than abated, by Lucy's declaration, 
 that she never saw her lather look so agitated before. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 437 
 
 Her ladyship's curiosity was tantalized to the utmost 
 stretch of endurance, and she resolved to sift the mystery 
 as soon as the stranger returned. 
 
 The gorgeous revel did not break up until long past mid- 
 nicrht. ^LaV Catherine looked in vain through the 
 assembly for Sir Edmund or the stranger; neither ot 
 them re-appeared for the remainder of the night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. 
 
 "You forget me?" said the stranger, as he strode into 
 the old library after Sir Edmund, who, carefully closing 
 the door, motioned him to a seat. 
 
 Sir Edmund pushed aside a cresset lamp which burned 
 on the table between them, and gazed earnestly into his 
 face. " As I look at you, dim remembrances come back 
 upon me," he observed. " Be brief. We are out of the 
 reach of interruption here— your name?— your business?" 
 
 " They are one," returned the other. " My name is 
 
 Walter Stanley." 
 
 "Walter Stanley!" ejaculated Sir Edmund, with a wild 
 
 and incredulous glare. 
 
 " You have not seen me since I was a boy, and I have 
 passed through a life of hardship since. It is^ not very 
 astonishing, after all, that you should forget me." 
 
 " I recognise some resemblance in your lineaments," 
 said Sir Edmund, " but it is such as might be common to 
 many men. I will treat you with no discourtesy. Your 
 name may be Walter Stanley — there are, doubtless, a 
 
438 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 hundred "Walter Stanleys ; but the boy of whom you speak 
 is dead." 
 
 " Yet was he identified only a few days past by one of 
 your own pensioners." 
 
 " Sachell!" exclaimed Sir Edward, " he identified you? 
 A conspiracy — a base imposition. Have a care, sir, how 
 you proceed any farther in this business !" 
 
 " It was not my desire," said Stanley, " to be reco- 
 gnised by any person in this neighbourhood until I had first 
 communicated with you; but some men have quicker wits 
 than others. The mendicant knew me at a glance." 
 
 " And upon this evidence " 
 
 " No, I stand here upon legal proof. Listen to me 
 calmly. You have flung a vile imputation upon me. No 
 more of that, for my blood, long fevered by wrongs, is hot, 
 and may master my discretion. Command your passion, 
 and hear me." ' 
 
 "You sue for hearing fairly," said Sir Edmund; "but 
 still be cautious in your utterance." 
 
 " For upwards of a century. Sir Edmund Montagu, 
 Lynton Hall was the seat of the Stanleys. The armorial 
 eagle still looks down from its mural escutcheon. It is noAv 
 twelve years since they were expelled from their home, 
 from their country, and reduced to beggary." 
 
 " The hand of Heaven," interposed Sir Edmund, " smote 
 them down for tlieir sacrilegious defence of an impious 
 tyranny." 
 
 " And the hand of heaven," said Stanley, " has 
 raised them up again to re-assert their rights. Be patient, 
 and listen. My father, devoted to that cause which you 
 denounce, raised three regiments for the king ; his house, 
 ////.s" house, was thrown open to the cavaliers during the 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 439 
 
 horrors of the civil war; he woiikl have poured out his 
 heart's blood as freely as he expended his treasure in that 
 sacred service. But it was not to be. When regicide 
 crowned the last demoniac triumph of a godless rebellion, 
 my father's name was proclaimed, and his estates were 
 confiscated. He shared that destiny with others, and he 
 bore it with what resignation he might. The prolonged 
 misery of siege, and battle, and privation, had already de- 
 stroyed my mother ; there was nothing left to him in this 
 
 world but his only son, Walter Stanley, who now " 
 
 Overcome by strong emotion, the speaker covered his face 
 with his hands. Sir Edmund awaited the sequel in pro- 
 found silence. 
 
 He continued : " My father left England. He was com- 
 pelled ; his friends were numerous, but as powerless and 
 helpless as himself. It was his earnest desire that I should 
 receive an English educfltion, and he left me behind, under 
 the guardianship of one who was bound to him by many 
 ties of gratitude; and while you, Sir Edmund Montagu, 
 were in the enjoyment of my rightful inheritance, conferred 
 upon you by the Usurper, I, the heir of Lynton, was 
 doomed to the penury of a humble roof, gathering such 
 niggard knowledge as my scanty opportunities aiforded, 
 and eking out the crust of bitter poverty under a false 
 name, as if I were the son of a criminal. That was the 
 justice — that was the mercy, of Cromwell." 
 
 " It was the public necessity," exclaimed Sir Edmund, 
 " which demanded such sacrifices. You blame Cromwell 
 for cruelties which were forced upon him by the universal 
 cry of the people. Blame, rather, the tyranny of which 
 Cromwell was but the retributive avenger." 
 
 " We shall apply the argument presently," returned 
 
440 EVENINGS AT H ADDON HALL. 
 
 Stanley; "for so surely as Cromwell avenged what you 
 call the tyranny of Charles, so surely will the second 
 Charles avenge the iniquities of Cromwell. But to return 
 to my story. My guardian was poor, timid, oppressed — a 
 man of peaceful life, and unfit for the difficulties of the 
 trust which Avas reposed in him. Three months had 
 scarcely elapsed after the usurpation, when my guardian, 
 scared by frightful rumours on all sides, spread a report of 
 my death. He hoped to secure my safety by this cunning 
 stratagem, little calculating on the consequences it was 
 destined to produce. The report reached my father before 
 it was possible to communicate the explanation. The blow 
 nearly killed him. The last link of his affections was 
 snapped, and he retired from the world to bury his miseries 
 under the ascetic offices of the priesthood. Years passed 
 aAvay : he had not seen me since my childhood. All 
 inquiries after his retreat were fruitless, for he had resolved, 
 upon entering the church, to close up every avenue by 
 which he could be traced to his seclusion. At last the 
 secret was discovered through the agency of a monk who 
 had undertaken, on behalf of the royalists, to collect the 
 names of English exiles who had taken refuge in the reli- 
 gious establishments of France. He was living, but on 
 the threshold of the grave. I lost not an hour on that 
 melancholy journey. The shock was too much for his 
 enfeebled spirit; and he died in my arms, at Kheims, 
 but not," he concluded, " till he had placed in my hands 
 the evidences of my biith, and documentary proofs of mj 
 inheritance." 
 
 This communication, to whicli, circumstantial as it was. 
 Sir Edmund had listened with painful interest, was fol- 
 lowed by a long pause. Sir Edmund rose from his chair, 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 441 
 
 and paced the room in silence. At last, Stanley broke in 
 upon his gloomy reverie : 
 
 " This was my business, Sir Edmund. Shall it be 
 quietly, and, if you will permit me to say so, amicably ad- 
 justed, or must I seek other means of restitution? I come 
 here to claim my right — to enforce it, if need be." 
 
 " Mr. Stanley," replied Sir Edmund, " it was by no 
 intrigue — by no subterfuge or treachery I came into pos- 
 session of Lynton. I served the Protector — he rewarded 
 my services by a grant — an honourable, open grant. I am 
 not prepared to admit tliat such a grant would be reversed 
 by the sovereign under any circumstances; but I wave 
 that — I bow to the decrees of a higher tribunal, who, in 
 its inscrutable wisdom, seems to have brought us thus face 
 to face together under this roof. Satisfy me that your 
 claim is just. I am ready to take that course which my 
 obligations as a Christian gentleman point out, without 
 exposing you to the waste or the delays of law." 
 
 " Nobly spoken," responded Stanley, deeply affected by 
 a display of magnanimity which his habitual sense of op- 
 pression hardly led him to anticipate. 
 
 " You see me moved," observed Sir Edmund, " but do 
 not mistake me. To myself such a sacrifice, so unexpectedly 
 demanded, so wholly unlocked for, would signify little. 
 My own desires are few and simple, and enough remains 
 behind to satisfy even larger wants than mine. But this 
 touches me deeply on account of others rather than 
 myself. " 
 
 "Your daughter?" said Stanley. 
 
 "My daughter!" repeated Sir Edmund, in a voice 
 choked by emotion. " Who shall break this news to her? 
 
 G G 
 
442 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 It will crush her for ever ; reared in the lap of ease, and 
 so unfit to struggle against reverses !" 
 
 Walter Stanley's features relapsed into a suddenly grave 
 expression while Sir Edmund spoke. It had never occurred 
 to him that the recognition of his established right would 
 doom the daughter of Sir Edmund perhaps to penury. 
 
 "My position is hard," he said; "1 never contemplated 
 the issue you place before me ; nor would I willingly be the 
 cause of inflicting sorrow upon that bright and joyous 
 spirit. Is there no middle course — no compromise?" 
 
 "Compromise!" rejoined Sir Edmund, proudly ; "none. 
 Justice is whole and entire, and must not be paltered 
 with." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Stanley, " if the strange events of 
 this night, so fraught Avith import to my future life, should 
 make me bold. I have seen your daughter. Her frank- 
 ness, her kindness to me, have inspired me with an interest 
 which I dare not disregard." 
 
 " The feeling is creditable, Mr. Stanley ; but you must 
 see how impossible it is to consider such feelings. I can 
 accept no boon on her account." 
 
 " Nor would I have you. I offer none. I would rather 
 ask a boon at your bauds and at hers." 
 
 Sir Edmund smiled at the youthful generosity of the 
 speaker. 
 
 " Forgive the earnestness with which I urge my plea," 
 continued Stanley. " Your daughter has always considered 
 Lynton as her inheritance; let her still do so." 
 
 Sir Edumnd was so utterly amazed at this proposition, 
 that he almost doubted whether he had heard it correctly. 
 Stanley continued : 
 
 " I have seen her gracing with her beauty lier ])lac(' of 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 443 
 
 pi'ide and power. I came with dark tlioiights and heavy 
 misgivings into the bright assembly, of which she Avas the 
 brightest star. While fops and fribbles looked contemptu- 
 ously upon my worn doublet, she — she alone spoke freely 
 and encouragingly. Her words fell upon me like sweet 
 music. Can I, dare I, for my own advantage, even for my 
 own right, fill the heart of that gracious being with sor- 
 row?" 
 
 " Yet, Mr. Stanley," said Sir Edmund, " to that issue 
 it must come at last." 
 
 " No, no," cried Stanley, with increasing animation; " I 
 know not how to shape my thought into language. But 
 it is possible we might reconcile the difficulty with honour 
 on both sides. I oifer Lynton to your daughter, but," 
 hesitating for a moment, " not unencumbered." 
 
 " Do I understand you rightly?" demanded Sir Edmund. 
 " If Miss Montagu be free in heart, as— till this night — 
 I have been, allow me only the opportunity, grant me the 
 happiness above price, of laying my inheritance at her feet. 
 How could it be else so worthily disposed ? — and God speed 
 the wooing ! If it be otherwise — Lynton, so newly won, 
 after years of suffering, will have few charms for Walter 
 Stanley !" 
 
 It was impossible to doubt the depth and purity of the feel- 
 ing which suggested this proposal ; and Sir Edmund, alarmed 
 in his pride at so unexpected a suit from one whom he now 
 saw, for the first time, under the most unfavourable in- 
 fluences, could not but secretly respect the disinterestedness 
 of his conduct. The plan certainly offered an available 
 escape from a very serious calamity, and there was little in 
 Stanley's personal bearing, and still less in his character, 
 so far as this interview had searched and developed it, to 
 
 Cx G 2 
 
4-10 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 which, under such circumstances, he could fairly take ex- 
 ception. 
 
 "You consent?" demanded Stanley, who saw that Sir 
 Edmund was revolving all these considerations in his 
 mind. 
 
 " I make no promise for my daughter," replied the 
 other — " I can make none. But you must feel that a 
 declaration of this nature demands some pause. If my 
 daughter — but I can depend nothing on such a contingency. 
 Give me a little time for reflection, and be assured, Mr. 
 Stanley, tliat whatever may be the result, I am not insen- 
 sible to the generosity and candour with which you have 
 acted. I am harassed and exhausted. No more — but good 
 night !" 
 
 " When may I trespass on you again, Sir Edmund ?" 
 inquired Stanley. 
 
 " To-morrow," said Sir Edmund. 
 
 Stanley retired; and Avhen he closed the door, Sir Ed- 
 mund flung himself into a chair, and gave way to the dis- 
 tracting conflict of feelings which, up to that moment, he 
 liad successfully struggled to suppress. 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF ORANGE FLOWERS. 
 
 TiiR next morning l^ucy Montagu received a summons 
 to attend her father in the library. He looked worn and 
 dishevelled. The mental agony of the night liad wrought 
 a visible change, lint liis manner was more collected, and 
 even kinder tlian usual. She saw that something extra- 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 445 
 
 ordinary had happened^ little suspecting to what purpose it 
 tended. 
 
 Sir Edmund opened the communication cautiously, pre- 
 paring her slowly for the final announcement that Lynton — 
 the scene of her happiest years — was ahout to pass into the 
 hands of another. She received this intelligence with a 
 degree of fortitude that extorted his admiration. Women 
 are the best philosophers on such occasions. They submit 
 to reverses with less resistance than men; perhaps from 
 the passive resignation of their nature, perhaps from that 
 happy unconsciousness of the greater evils of life to which 
 the larger ambition of the other sex is so sensitive. In- 
 stead of murmuring at the impending misfortune, Lucy 
 Montagu had the wisdom and the tender courage to point 
 out many sources of consolation in the coming time. 
 
 The conversation naturally reverted from Lynton to its 
 new possessor. 
 
 " A man of honourable mind and generous impulses," 
 observed Sir Edmund. 
 
 " I rejoice to hear," said Lucy, " that he is so worthy 
 of his inheritance." 
 
 " And this youth," resumed Sir Edmund, " trained up 
 in adversity, with a noble heart and enlightened tastes, 
 enters upon his possessions almost as sorrowfully as we 
 shall relinquish them. His joy is turned to bitterness, 
 from the painful reflection, that in claiming his own rights 
 he inflicts unhappiness upon us — upon you^ 
 
 " Upon me /" repeated Lucy. 
 
 " I am not sm^prised at the interest he takes in j/oz/," 
 he continued ; " and that, fur your sake, he even hesitates 
 in the fulfilment of the duty he owes to himself." 
 
 " Dear father," exclaimed Lucy, " you speak in riddles !" 
 
446 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 " He saw you last night — you received liini with kind- 
 ness. The sudden contrast between your position and his, 
 and the thouglit tliat he had come like evil destiny upon 
 you to destroy that happiness which you wore so graciously, 
 have touched him deeply." 
 
 " Did he say this to you, father?" she inquired. 
 " Oh, yes !" he returned, " and a great deal more, not 
 so readily syllabled by the sullen lips of an old man like me. 
 Lucy," he added, taking her hand, and gravely watching 
 the growing flush on her cheeks, " there is a way by which 
 you can secure Lynton. This young enthusiast, Walter 
 Stanley, has spoken franldy on the subject." 
 
 " You lay a fearful responsibility upon me, father," she 
 answered. 
 
 " I cannot recall," said Sir Edmund, " a single instance 
 in which you . have forgotten your duty to me. You will 
 not forget it noAv. Walter Stanley would make you 
 mistress of Lynton." 
 
 Poor Lucy was stunned by this terrible news, and the 
 tone in Avhich it was delivered clearly implied that her 
 father expected her full acquiescence in the proposal. If 
 she ever had any intelligible doubts as to the state of her 
 feelings towards Lord Nevyl, they were now dispelled on 
 tlic instant. She tried to speak, but the attenqit only 
 rendered her confusion the more apparent. 
 
 " I know what you would say," interrupted Sir Edmund; 
 " the proposal is sudden, and Mr. Stanley is a stranger. 
 I know the plea you w^ould make — your tender age ; and, 
 perhaps, some pent-up feeling hitherto concealed in the 
 modest secrecy of youth. I feel all that — understand it; 
 but time will soften all, and reconcile you to my wishes." 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 447 
 
 " Oh, father!" exclaimed Lucy, " what can time do but 
 prolong the misery of such a union?" 
 
 " It is at least unjust to assume so much before you have 
 given Mr. Stanley an opportunity of making himself 
 known to you. How, if you misjudge him? — if hereafter 
 you should discover that you had formed a false estimate 
 of one who at least deserves a more grateful reception at 
 your hands ? You must consider these things. I will not 
 take your answer now. See Mr. Stanley; know him — 
 then let me have your resolve." 
 
 "It cannot be!" uttered Lucy, in a voice of involun- 
 tary agony. 
 
 " It must be !" rejoined her father, sternly. " You fancy 
 I cannot detect the mystery that lies coiled under all this 
 reluctance. Shall I refer the question to Lord Nevyl?" 
 
 The abruptness of this appeal to a feeling which Lucy 
 innocently believed the whole world to be ignorant of — 
 that^ delusion, so natural, so precious to the young — 
 overwhelmed her. Tears started into her eyes, and she 
 made some foolish excuse about her dress to conceal the 
 tremor of her hands. Her secret was betrayed as plainly 
 as if she had confessed it in so many words. 
 
 " We will talk no more of this at present," said Sir 
 Edmund. " We shall have ample time for reflection on 
 all sides. But take with you my parting words — that if this 
 be a sacrifice, it is made for those who are best entitled 
 to your self-devotion; for those who have nursed and 
 tended your childhood, who love you, Lucy — God alone 
 knows how fondly ! Bless my child ! No tears, no tears ; 
 but prayer — prayer for strength to do our duty !" And, 
 kissing her forehead, he led her to the door. 
 
448 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 Poor Lucy fled to her chamber, witli a heart almost 
 broken by her first, strange grief ; and when she had wept 
 until her eyes ached again with their unaccustomed anguish, 
 slie ran to seek her cousin. It was a difficult confidence, 
 too; fi^r it involved the necessity of a confession which 
 she could hardly prevail upon herself to make, even to 
 that faithful friend. 
 
 Tlie Lady Catherine was shocked at the discovery — 
 especially shocked, at finding that the visitor of the night 
 before, about Avhose business she felt so much womanly 
 curiosity, should have turned out such an exorbitant mo- 
 nopolist of the chattels of Lynton ; not content with the 
 estate, but demanding in addition the living spirit of the 
 place. She tried to banter Lucy about Lord Nevyl, and 
 a])out Walter Stanley, and invented a little romance about 
 the gallant rivalry for her hand, Ijetween Lynton Hall and 
 Nevylswood. But her sunny mirth was at fault for once. 
 It was the saddest mirth she had ever volunteered; and 
 she felt how idly her gaiety played round the drooping 
 head that rested on her bosom. Yet, in tlic midst of aU, 
 she persisted in asserting that, come what might, Sir Ed- 
 nmnd Montagu should not coerce her sweet cousin's affec- 
 tions. She was ready to answer for the firmness of Lord 
 Nevyl, at all events. 
 
 Walter Stanley was punctual to his appointment. Sir 
 Ednmnd received him in the library, having previously 
 requested the presence of tlie ladies in the drawing-room. 
 Tlie meeting Avas constrained on both sides ; but it was 
 clear that Sir Edmund had kept his pledge, so far as 
 it rested witli li'misclf. It was no less clear to Walter 
 Stanley that ]\Iiss Montagu liad given an unfavourable 
 reception td his suit. \\r liad aiiti('i|>ated tliis. How 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 449 
 
 could she otherwise treat the presumption of a stranger ? 
 Still he cherished the forlorn hope that time might subdue 
 all objections. 
 
 Sir Edmund was perfectly candid upon all these points. 
 He told him that he had communicated with his daughter, 
 but that, in the surprise of so startling a proposal, it was 
 not to be expected she should be prepared with an answer. 
 His suit was at least unprejudiced ; beyond that, he could 
 say nothing for the present. 
 
 The presentation in the drawing-room of this stranger, 
 who had come to dispossess the whole family of the Mon- 
 tagus, was embarrassing enough. Stanley, whose part on 
 the occasion was, perhaps, the most difficult of all, went 
 through the trial with excellent self-possession ; and he 
 certainly looked to considerable advantage in a more cava- 
 lierly costume than that which he had displayed on the 
 preceding evening. His fine person and manly bearing 
 disarmed much of the hostility which must have been 
 involuntarily betrayed towards one of a less imposing 
 presence. 
 
 He was first presented to Lady Montagu, then to Miss 
 Montagu, then to Lady Catherine. At the last introduction, 
 he changed colour, and could hardly control the dismay 
 produced upon him by the announcement of her name. He 
 had committed an irretrievable error — he had mistaken 
 Lady Catherine Cower for her cousin. The mistake was 
 so obvious in the altered expression of his looks, and in the 
 hesitating words which faltered on his lips, that Lady 
 Catherine, with her quick instinct, saw in a glance what was 
 passing through his mind ; and, overruling all frigid forms 
 of etiquette on the sudden impulse of more generous 
 thoughts, sprang forward, and, placing her hand upon his 
 
450 EVENINGS AT n ADDON HALL. 
 
 arm, exclaimed, " Mr. Stanley, you mistook me for my 
 cousin ! It is so ? You mistook me for Miss Montagu?" 
 
 Stanley could hardly answer that it was so, with a thou- 
 sand flurried apologies, fluttering from his heart into 
 sundry broken phrases, when Lady Catherine threw herself 
 into the arms of her cousin, hiding the tears that gushed 
 for joy from her bright eyes. 
 
 It was so — and the trouble passed from the heart of Lucy. 
 But it was only a transfer of the new embarrassment, for 
 Walter Stanley did not love that gracious being less be- 
 cause she happened to be only the cousin of Lucy Montagu. 
 Nor did Lady Catherine's interest in the stranger cease 
 because he had shown so noble a spirit in the first hour of 
 his regenerated fortune. And time did in this case, what 
 time usually does when young hearts are left free to the 
 discovery of mutual feelings, — love grew upon love, and 
 was crowned in the end with its pure and enduring 
 reward. 
 
 And how ran the course of wooing wdth Lord Nevyl and 
 the fair Lucy? To say the truth. Lord Nevyl had very 
 romantic inspirations on the subject, and — if that were 
 possible — became more devoted than ever to the disin- 
 herited heiress of Lynton. There is some perplexity in 
 this wilfulness of the universal passion, which the world 
 may never be able to unravel ; but it is not less certain, on 
 that account, that there are some natures which prefer love 
 for its own sake above all human blessings, and which take 
 delight in manifesting the singleness of their devotion. Lord 
 Nevyl's heart was moulded in this graceful shape, and he 
 dowered his happy bride with all the more lavish tender- 
 ness, that she might never feci the loss of that fortune 
 whirh lie ncitlier needed iht (losired. 
 
LOVE TO THE RESCUE. 451 
 
 And Lynton Hall unci Nevylswood were once more re- 
 stored to prosperous friendship and close neighbourhood of 
 the affections, revived in younger spirits and sustained 
 with cheerier usages. Sir Edmund and Lady Montagu 
 retired upon an estate they possessed in Wales — enough 
 for their ambition, wliich now reposed, not in their own 
 future, but in that of their child. Welcome visitors were 
 they in the joyous Christmas time to their old haunts in 
 Devonshire ! 
 
 For the rest of the personages who have flitted through 
 this narrative, nothing need be said, for nobody can care 
 to trace their useless destinies. But we must add, that old 
 Sachell, the mendicant seer, was handsomely pensioned by 
 Lady Catherine Stanley, for his delightfully dismal warn- 
 ing ; that Sir Dudley Perrot fell in a duel, which he sought 
 for the sole purpose of helping up his reputation at court ; 
 and that Pettingal, the beau, expired of a carouse with 
 Buckhurst and Sedley, at the Rose Tavern, in Drury-lane. 
 
 The voice of the narrator ceased, and as he turned to 
 make obeisance to the Lady Eva, he found that she had 
 crept close to his side, where, on a low ottoman, she 
 had silently taken up a position of fixed attention. A 
 few bright tears trembled in her long lashes. She seemed 
 hardly conscious that the story was done — the last story ! 
 The whole group had insensibly drawn round her. Their 
 interest was divided between the incidents of the tale and 
 
452 EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 
 
 the fluctuating emotions so eloquently expressed in that 
 sweet face. 
 
 It ivas the last story ! The portfolio was exhausted, 
 and there was no further excuse for drawing on the 
 imagination of the assembly. Even the elastic spirits of 
 
 youth so prompt with ready resources, so unconscious of 
 
 difficulties,— failed at this trying moment. There was a 
 slight movement on the ottoman; Lady Eva had sloAvly 
 unclasped her hands, and thrown hack the rich curls 
 which fell in gi'aceful negligence over her fair shoulders. 
 She looked as if she were about to speak; her lips 
 stirred, but she was still silent. Everybody understood 
 her thoughts ; — the Birthday Kevels were over ! 
 
 The happy circle that had been so long spell-bound 
 under the enchantment of these pleasant legends, now 
 gradually broke up the silence, and gathering about the 
 fair girl, overwhelmed her with thanks and congratulations. 
 It had been a week of pure enjoyment, to be set apart 
 amongst their most delightful memories ; and they assured 
 her, that when they should have separated, as they were 
 too soon about to do, upon their several engagements of 
 duty or amusement, the recollection of the intellectual 
 pleasures of which she had been the creative spirit, would 
 linger with them gratefully through many a future year. 
 
 This Avas some consolation to the Lady Eva, at the close 
 of her Birthday Festival ; but she was for exacting a sort 
 of promise, that, when the time came round to celebrate 
 the same event again, they would re-assemble to enact a 
 similar round of votive gaieties. She would have had it a 
 life-long holiday, if she could have had her own way, little 
 dreaming of the changes tliat might hap})('ii in the interval 
 to others and to hcrsell"; tlic new ties that might be 
 
EVENINGS AT IIADDON HALL. 453 
 
 formed, the new interests that might grow up, the Wanks 
 that might fall in, the sympathies that might be weaned 
 from fiction to reality, from the regions of poetry and 
 romance to that world of living struggle, whose stern 
 experiences too often extinguish both heart and fancy! 
 Still she was not to be denied ; and so they promised her, 
 with such conditions as might be reasonably allowed on all 
 hands, that they would cheerfully attend her next sum- 
 mons, and dedicate their best efforts to renew the charms 
 which had shed such a refined fascination over these six 
 happy Evenings at Haddon Hall. 
 
 T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-strcet, Coveiit-garden. 
 
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 " The descriptions of Jerusalem, Baalbcc, and Damascus, are unusually in- 
 structive." — Court Journal. 
 
 " We place this book in the very first rank of works of its class. It is full 
 of genius, yet softened by feminine feeling and sentiment." — Britannia. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THREE YEARS IN CONSTANTINOPLE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE TURKS. 
 BY CHARLES WHITE, Esq. 
 
 DEDICATED TO LADY PONSONBV. 
 
 la 3 vols., small 8vo,, with thirty-four Illustrations from original drawings, 
 price Sis. 6d. hound. 
 
 Numerous works have heen published on the subject of Constantinople and 
 Turkey, but their pages, however ably and pleasantly written, contain little 
 correct information as to the habits and social usages of the Turkish population. 
 Brief residence, superficial inspection, and incorrect information, at second hand, 
 combined with the ignorance of the language, laws, literature, and religious influ- 
 ences, have prevented the generallity of writers from obtaining an insight into the 
 real condition of Turkish society — nay, indeed, from offering a graphic descrip- 
 tion of tlie most striking features of the vast capital of Mohammedanism. Thus, 
 it is admitted, by all who visit Constantinople, that their is no work in our lan- 
 guage to which travellers or residents, can apply for data, or for a satisfactory 
 explanation of existing institutions and practises with which they come in con- 
 tact. The object of these volumes — the fruits of minute research and laborious 
 investigation during a three years residence in the Turkish Capital, is to supply 
 the deficiency in question, and thereby to offer to the public a work which shall 
 be instructive and amusing to general readers, valuable as a book of reference, 
 and a guide, not only to travellers, but to all those who may desire to become 
 familiar with the laws, habits, and social condition, of, perhaps, the most remark- 
 able people in Europe at the present day. 
 
 EGYPT UNDER MEHEMET ALL 
 
 BY PRINCE PUCKLER MUSKAU. 
 TRANSLATED BY H. EVANS LLOYD, Esq. 
 
 In Two Vols., with Portrait, &c., price 16s. bound. 
 Orders should specify " Colbuhn's Edition — Thanslatkd by Llovd." 
 " The singular facilities which Prince Puckler Muskau enjoyed in his inter- 
 course with Mehemet Ali, afforded him advantages such as have never before 
 fallen to the lot of any traveller. We here see Mehemet Ali himself, not 
 through a distorted medium, but behind the scenes, for the Prince not only had 
 the privilege of daily and confidential intercourse with him, hut travelled 
 ttitli tiie Viceroy when he went on his lour in Upper Egypt; and the com- 
 plete unreservedness of that great man, in communicating his noble and en- 
 larged views for the people whom he governs — his accounts of his early life, are 
 deeply interesting, and are here communicated for the first time. The author 
 takes every opportunity of giving information respecting the scenery, anti- 
 quities, and the manners of the inhabitants of the countries through which he 
 passed. The J'rince then proceeded up the Nile, where he rejoined the Vice- 
 roy, and then set out on his journey to Nubia and Ethiopia. The second volume 
 is dedicated to a visit to some of the most remarkable ancient monuments 
 of those countries ; but, perha|>3 the most valuable and interesting part of 
 this volume is the account of his journey to the South, his voyage up the 
 Blue River to Dongolji and Meroe, and his journey across the Desert, during 
 which, besides personal adventures, he communicates many important parti- 
 culars respecting the kingdom of Durfour, and other countries further south 
 than Wadi-Medineh." 
 
MR. COLBUUN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF AN OFFICER, 
 
 IN THE SERVICE OF RUNJEET SINGH. 
 
 BY MAJOR H. M. L. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Bengal Artillery, British Resident at the Court of Nepaul, and late Assistant 
 
 to the Political Agent in charge of British Relations with Lahore. 
 
 2 vols., small 8vo., price 21s. bound. 
 
 " These volumes resemble ' Anastasius' in general design. The adventures 
 of a sohlier of fortune are made the medium of conveying to the reader spirited 
 descriptions and faithful portraiture, while there is sufficient connexion and 
 incident in the narrative to give it the interest of a fiction. The country of the 
 Punjaub, the character of Runjeet and his ministers, and the disposition and 
 habits of the natives are forcibly delineated. The ' Adventures' themselves are 
 boldly told, and have a lively air of reality. In its mingling of fact with romance 
 the book is one of the most successful of its class." — Britannia. 
 
 REVELATIONS OF RUSSIA; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS AND HIS EMPIRE IN 1844. 
 BY AN ENGLISH RESIDENT. 
 
 Second Edition, 2 vols., small 8vo., with Illustrations, price 24s. bound. 
 
 "This is the most complete and perfect work that has ever been published 
 on Russia. Of the authenticity of the details and the general truth of the 
 statements in these volumes, we entertain no shadow of dovibx:'— Foreign 
 Quarterly Beview. 
 
 MY ADVENTURES. 
 
 BY COLONEL MONTGOMERY MAXWELL, K.H., 
 
 Commanding the 36th Regiment. 
 
 Dedicated to Major-General Sir Neil Douglas, K.C.B. and K.C.H., Com- 
 manding Her Majesty's Forces in Scotland. 
 
 2 vols., small 8vo., with Portraits, price 21s. bound. 
 
 " This work is, for the most part, a transcript from the journal kept by Colonel 
 Maxwell, and to that may be attributed the rich and racy spirit that pervades 
 it. It was Colonel Maxwell 's fortune to become acquainted with remarkable 
 personages, to play a part in ludicrous dramas, to mix in odd societies. 
 Like a light-hearted son of Mars, he seems to have stopped at nothing that 
 offered, and like a glib disciple of Mercury, he tells all he said, sa»v, or did, 
 with an elegant nonchalance, perfectly original. In bis personal sketches Colonel 
 Maxwell is very felicitous. Murat and his Court, the Princess Charlotte of 
 Wales and her suite, and Napoleon and his Court, then at Elba — these, and in- 
 deed most of the extraordinary characters who at that period were to be encoun- 
 tered in that quarter of the world, are etched with rare skill." — Morning Post. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 A JOURNEY OVERLAND FROM INDIA 
 ACROSS THE DESERT; 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 SKETCHES OF ADEN, THE RED SEA, LOWER EGYPT, 
 MALTA, SICILY, AND ITALY. 
 
 BY MAJOR AND MRS. GEORGE DARBY GRIFFITH. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo., with 21 Illustrations. Price 21s. bound. 
 ""We cordially commend this work to the patronage and perusal of all who 
 desire to be informed of all that is necessary to be known of the countries 
 through which the traveller passes in proceeding to India by the overland route. 
 To ladies who contemplate undertaking the Journey to India by the overland 
 route, the descriptions of the country, and the instructions and cautions supplied 
 by this work will be really valuable. The former will prepare the mind for 
 viewing the scenes through which they will pass with advantage ; while the latter 
 will furnish a guide as to what is necessary to be provided for the journey, and 
 a guard against many annoyances which may be avoided, or at least mitigated 
 by foresight." — Globe. 
 
 A WINTER IN ITALY. 
 
 BY MRS. ASHTON YATES. 
 
 2 vols., small 8vo., 21s. bound. 
 
 *' These volumes should be read by every body who takes an interest in the 
 scenes they so graphically describe." — Chronicle. 
 
 " Mrs. Ashton Yates has published other journeyings and records of travel of 
 considerable liveliness and interest. The volumes before us are not less agree- 
 able reading. The book is instructive as well as pleasant. Reading and obser- 
 vation are nicely blended in it, and the writer gives us every evidence of a tasteful 
 and accomplished woman." — Examiner. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 BABYLONIAN PRINCESS, 
 
 MARIA THERESA ASMAR, 
 
 Daughter of Emir Abdallah Asmar. 
 
 From her Birth, amid the Ruins of Ninevah, in 1804, to her Arrival in England, 
 in 1842. Written by Herself, and translated into English ; 
 
 Containing a Narrative of the Persecutions and Destruction of her Family, on 
 account of their adherence to the Christian Faith ; of the Scenes she has wit- 
 nessed and the Trials she has experienced during her Residence in Mesopotamia, 
 Jerusalem, MounlLcbanon, Kurdistan, Ispahan, Teheran, and Schiraz; together 
 with an Account of her Travels in Italy, France, England, &;c. 
 DEDICATED, I5Y PERMISSION, TO HER MAJESTY THE Ql'EEN DOWAGER. 
 2 vols., small 8vo., with Portrait. Trice 21s. bound. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 In 2 vols. 8vo., with Portrait, 28s. bound. 
 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 SOPHIA DOROTHEA, 
 
 CONSORT OF GEORGE I., KING OF ENGLAND AND ELEC- 
 TOR OF HANOVER ; 
 
 With Notices of the following Illustrious Personages, her Relatives:— 
 George William, Duke of Zelle George II., King of England— 
 
 —HER Father. Son. 
 
 Eleanore, Duchess of Zelle— her Caroline, Consort of George 11. 
 
 Mother _Daughter-in-Law. 
 
 Ernest Augustus, Elector of Frederick William, King of Prus- 
 
 Hanover— Father-in-Law. sia— Son-in-Law. 
 
 Sophia, Electoress of Hanover— The Margravine of Bayreuth- 
 
 Mother-in-Law. Grand.daughter. 
 
 George I., King of England— Frederick the Great— Grandson. 
 
 Husband. Antony Ulrick, Duke of Wol- 
 
 SoPHiA Dorothea, Queen of Prus- fenbuttel— Cousin. 
 
 SIA — Daughter. ' 
 
 To<-ether with many other distinguished persons, including Augustus, 
 Elector of Saxony and King of Poland; the Duchess of Kendal ; the Coun- 
 tess Platen; Countess Darlington; Countess of Walsingham ; Aurora, 
 Countess Kdnigsmark ; Philip Dormer, the celebrated Earl ot Chesterfield ; 
 Count Konigsmark; Baron Bothmar ; Count Bernstorf ; and Count Platen. 
 
 It is scarcelv possible to find an historical name of greater interest than 
 that of the wife of the first prince of the House of Brunswick who succeeded 
 to the British throne ; yet the story of her life and fate has hitherto been 
 almost unknown in this country, inconsequence of the strenuous endeavours 
 of her persecutors to involve their chief incidents in an impenetrable mys- 
 tery Speculations respecting her, however, have almost been as numerous 
 as those which comprise all that can be learned of her celebrated contem- 
 porary " the Iron Mask," whose history possesses a remarkable resemblance 
 to her own. All we have been allowed to become acquainted with amounts 
 to little more than a knowledge of her marriage with her cousin, ot her pre- 
 sumed illicit passion for Count Konigsmark, and of her imprisonment for 
 life, by her husband, in an obscure castle in his German dominions. Oare- 
 ful research, however, into the archives of Zelle, and among MSS. in pri- 
 vate collections, has now brought to light the whole of the singular history 
 of this hapless princess, in which her wrongs and her sufferings till her 
 death after thirty-two years' incarceration, are brought forward, in a picture 
 of court life in the last century, to the extraordinary features ot which no 
 imagination can do justice. It will not be the least recommendation of this 
 highly interesting work, that a great portion of the materials are from the 
 pen of this illustrious lady, and comprise Autograph Letters and other 
 nanei- with a Diary of conversations of herself and intimate friends, with 
 the most celebrated personages of the courts of Hanover, Zelle, and ^^ ol- 
 fenbiittel. 
 
MR. COLBURISJ'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 LADY HESTER STANHOPE, 
 
 AS RELATED BY HERSELF, 
 IN CONVERSATIONS WITH HER PHYSICIAN, 
 
 COMPRISING HER OPINIONS, AND ANECDOTES, OF THE MOST 
 REMARKABLE PERSONS OF HER TIME. 
 
 3 vols, small 8vo., with Portraits, price 31s. 6d. bound. 
 
 These memoirs must interest all classes of readers. Throughout the whole 
 of the brilliant period of the life of her uncle, Mr. Pitt, Lady Hester Stanhop3 
 Cwho was the partner of his secret counsels) was drawn into daily intercourse 
 with the most remarkable people of the age — statesmen, wits, diplomatists, 
 men of letters and science, women of fashion and celebrity, and all the mem- 
 bers of the royal family, with whom she was upon terms of familiar intimacy- 
 Her great knowledge of human character enabled her to form the most accu- 
 rate opinions concerning these distinguished persons, and her prodigious me- 
 mory, unimpaired to the last, laid up a store of personal recollections an I 
 illustrative anecdotes, such as no other individual ever possessed the means 
 of accumulating. Her conversations preserved in these memoirs are no less 
 admirable for freshness and racinuss of style, than for the singular and strik- 
 ing interest of the matter. The private life of Mr. Pitt— his domestic clia- 
 racter and habits — liithcrto altogether imknown, are here brought to light by 
 the only individual who was admitted to liis unreserved confidence, and who 
 alone understood the true elements of his nature. When Lady Hester Stan- 
 hope abandoned her own country for ever, and buried herself in the solitudes 
 of Mount Lebanon, the novelty of her positi(Mi, the marvellous authority she 
 obtained, and the masculine vigour slie displayed, attracted to a remote anl 
 solitary retreat in Syria, the curiosity of Europe, and rendered her an object 
 of universal interest. 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, Publisher, Great Marlborough-street, London. 
 
STANDARD WORKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY MR. COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE HISTORY OF "THE FRENCH REVOLUTION." 
 THE ONLY AUTHORIZED ENGLISH EDITION. 
 
 NOW IN COURSE OF PUBLICATION, 
 
 Jn Volumes, price 5s. each, embellished with Portraits. 
 
 M. A. THIERS' HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CONSULATE AND THE EMPIRE 
 
 OF 
 
 FRANCE UNDER NAPOLEON. 
 
 TRANSLATED, AVITH THE SANCTION AND APPROVAL OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 BY D. FORBES CAMPBELL, ESQ. 
 
 The period embraced by this work forms decidedly the most important 
 era in the History of Modern Times. On the quahfications of the author 
 it would be superfluous to descant. If the eminent talents of M, Thiers, 
 as a Statesman, were not well known to the whole world, the merits of his 
 preliminary " History of the French Revolution" would irresistibly claim 
 the public favour in behalf of this new production of his accomplished 
 mind, which becomes invested with a deeper importance to us the nearer 
 the history approaches to our own times, and the more British interests 
 are involved in the events which it records. 
 
 Having filled, at different times, the high offices of Minister of the Inte- 
 rior, of Finance, of Foreign Affairs, and President of the Council, M. 
 Thiers has enjoyed facilities beyond the reach of every other biographer of 
 Napoleon, for procuring, from exclusive and authentic sources, the choicest 
 materials for his present work. As guardian of the archives of the state, 
 he had access to diplomatic papers and other documents of the highest im- 
 portance, hitherto known only to a privileged few, and the publication of 
 which cannot fail to produce a great sensation. , , , . ^ 
 
 From private sources M. Thiers has also derived much valuable informa- 
 tion. Many interesting Memoirs, Diaries, and Letters— all hitherto un- 
 published, and most of them destined, for political reasons, to remain so— 
 have been placed at his disposal; while all the leading characters of the Em- 
 pire, who were alive when the author undertook the present history, have 
 supplied Mm with a mass of incidents and anecdotes which have never be- 
 fore appeared in print, and the accuracy and value of which may be inferred 
 from the fact of these parties having been themselves eye-witnesses of, or 
 actors in, the great events of the period. • , • 
 
 * * To prevent disappointment, the Public are requested to be particular in 
 giving their Orders for "Colburn's AUTHORIZED EDITION, Translated by 
 D. Forbes Campbell," 
 
MK. COLBURN'S standard WORKS. 
 
 Now in course of Publication, in Four Parts, Price 10s. 6d. each, (three of 
 which are now ready,) beautifully printed in double columns, 
 
 HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE LANDED GENTEY; 
 
 A 
 
 GENEALOGICAL AND HERALDIC DICTIONARY 
 
 THE WHOLE OF THE LANDED GENTRY, OR UNTITLED ARISTO- 
 CRACY OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND. 
 
 BY JOHN BURKE, ESQ., 
 
 ACTHOR OF THE "PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE;" 
 AND 
 
 JOHN BERNARD BURKE, ESQ., 
 
 OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW. 
 
 This important work has been undertaken as a companion to Mr. Burke's 
 popular " Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the United Kingdom," 
 and upon a similar plan, in order that the two pul)lications may embrace the 
 whole body of the British Peerage, Baronetage, and Gentry, and may furnish 
 such a mass of authentic information, in regard to all the principal families in 
 the kingdom, as has never before been brought together. 
 
 It relates to the Untitled Families of rank, as the " Peerage and Baronetage" 
 does to the Titled, and forms, in fact, a Peerage of the Untitled Aristocracy. It 
 embraces the xvhoh of the Landed Interest. 
 
 The Landed Gentry of England are so closely connected with the stirring 
 records of its eventful history, that some acquaintance with them is a matter 
 of necessity with the historical student, the speculator in politics, and the curious 
 in topographical and antiquarian lore ; and even the very spirit of ordinary 
 curiosity will prompt to a desire to trace the origin and progress of those 
 families whose influence pervades the towns and villages of our land. This 
 work, abounding in interesting anecdote, and displaying deep research, must 
 rank among the first class of those publications which elucidate, or connect 
 themselves with, the annals of our country. It is, therefore, a most necessary' 
 companion to the "Peerage and Baronetage," and indispensable to the library 
 of every gentleman. 
 
 " A work which contains curious information, nowhere else to be found, and 
 to which even professional genealogists may refer with advantage." — Quarterly 
 Review. 
 
 *,* It is particularly requested that all Communications intended for this 
 work may be sent without delay, to the publisher, in order to ensure their 
 appearance in proper alphabetical order. 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT ISIARLBOROUGn-STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Agents : For Scotland — Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh ; for Ireland — John 
 
 Gumming, Dublin. Orders received by all Booksellers. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S standard WORKS. 
 
 DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO HER MAJESTY. 
 
 Now in course of Publication, embellished with Portraits, in elegant volumes, 
 small 8vo., price 10s. Cd. each, bound ; either of which may be had separately, 
 
 LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND, 
 
 FROM THE NORMAN CONQUEST, 
 
 WITH ANECDOTES OF THEIR COURTS ; 
 
 Now first published frona Official Records and other Authentic Documents, 
 private as well as public. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " These volumes have the fascination of a romance united to the inte- 
 grity of history." — Times. 
 
 " A most vahiable and entertaining work." — Chronicle. 
 
 ** This interesting and well-written work, in which the severe truth of 
 history takes almost the wiidness of romance, will constitute a valuable ad- 
 dition to our biographical literature." — Morning Herald. 
 
 " A valuable contribution to historical knowledge, to young persons 
 especially. It contains a mass of every kind of historical matter of interest, 
 which industry and research could collect. We have derived much enter- 
 tainment and instruction from the work." — AUiencBum. 
 
 " The execution of this work is equal to the conception. Great pains have 
 been taken to make it both interesting and valuable."-— liVeraz-j/ Gazette. 
 
 This elegant work, in which we have every thing connected with the 
 biographies of our female sovereigns, is one of the highest merit, and of 
 perrnanent interest, evincing great learning, research, judgment, and taste." 
 — Dispatch. 
 
 " Authentic memoirs of our English Queens is a work which has been 
 much wanted, and Miss Strickland has spared neither labour nor research 
 to complete this attractive work in an efficient manner." — Sun. 
 
 " A charming work — full of interest, at once serious and pleasing." — 
 Monsieur Guizot. 
 
 " This work is written by a lady of considerable learning, indefatigable 
 industry, and careful judgment. All these qualifications for a biographer 
 and historian she has brought to bear upon the subject of her volumes, and 
 from them has resulted a narrative interesting to all, and more particularly 
 interesting to that portion of the community to whom the more refined 
 researches of literature afford pleasure and instruction. The whole work 
 should be read, and no doubt will be read by all who are auxious for infor- 
 mation. It is a lucid arrangement of facts, derived from authentic sources, ex- 
 hibiting a combination of industry, learning, judgment, and impartiality, not 
 often met with in biographers of crowned heads." — Times. ( Third Notice.) 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH-STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Agents: for Scotland— Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh; for Ireland— John 
 
 Gumming, Dublin. Orders received by all Booksellers. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S standard WORKS. 
 
 MISS BURNEY'S DIARY. 
 
 Now in course of publication, in elegant small 8vo. volumes, price 10s. dd. eacli, a 
 New and Revised Editions of Vols. I. to V. are now ready; Vol. VI. is in 
 the press, 
 
 THE DIARY AND LETTERS 
 
 Of 
 
 MADAME D'ARBLAY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EVELINA," "CECILIA," &c., &c. 
 
 IXCLTTDrSG THE PERIOD OF HER 
 
 RESIDENCE AT THE COURT OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE. 
 EDITED BY HER NIECE. 
 
 CRITICAL OPINIONS. 
 
 " Madame D' Arblay lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before 
 she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the de- 
 parted. All those whom we have been accustomed to revere as intellectual 
 patriarchs seemed children when compared with her ; for Burke had sat up 
 all night to read her writings, and Johnson had pronounced her superior to 
 lielduig, when Rogers was still a schoolboy, and Southey still in petticoats. 
 Her Diary is written in her earliest and best manner; in true woman's 
 English, clear, natural, and lively. It ought to be consulted by every person 
 who wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our 
 nanners. The account which she gives of the king's illness will, we think, 
 be more valued by the historians of a future age than any equal portions of 
 Pepys' or Evelyn's Diaries." — Edinburgh lievieiv. 
 
 " This publication will take its place in the libraries beside Walpole and 
 Boswell." — Literary Gazette, 
 
 " In our minds this delightful Diary has been the most agreeable variety 
 of the season. Miss Burney's first volume ought to be placed beside Bos- 
 well's ' Life,' to which it forms an excellent supplement." — Times. 
 
 " A work unequalled in literary and social value by any thing else of a 
 similar kind in the language." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 " This work may be considered a kind of supplement to Bosweirs Life of 
 Johnson. It is a beautiful picture of society as it existed in manners, taste, 
 and literature, in the early period of the reign of George the Third, drawn 
 by a pencil as vivid and brilliant as that of any of the celebrated persons 
 who composed the circle." — Messenger. 
 
 " A publication of much interest and value." — Chronicle. 
 
 " Miss Burney's Diary, sparkling with wit, teeming with lively anecdote, 
 and delectable gossip, and full of sound and discreet views of persons and 
 things, will be perused with interest by all classes of readers." — Post. 
 
 " A valuable addition to tlie literature of our country." — Age. 
 
 " We know not when we l)ave been so delighted with a book as with 
 Miss Burney's Diary. Every page teems with interest." — IVeehly Chronicle. 
 
 HENRY C O L B U R N, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT ISIARLBOROUCill-STREET, LONDON. 
 Aeents- for Scotland, Bell and Bradfiitc. Kdinburgli; for Ireland, John Gumming:, 
 
 Dublin. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S standard WORKS. 
 
 DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO H. E. H. PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 Now in course of Publication, in about Four Volumes, 8vo., price 15s. each, to 
 range with the Wellington Dispatches. (Vols. I., II., and III. are now ready.) 
 
 THE LETTERS AND DISPATCHES 
 
 OF 
 
 ADMIRAL LORD VISCOUNT NELSON. 
 
 EDITED BY SIR HARRIS NICOLAS, G.C.M.G. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " We were rejoiced at the announcement of the intended publication of Lord 
 Nelson's Letters and Dispatches, and we confess that we have not been disap- 
 pointed by the editor's performance of his task. This collection promises to be 
 the most genuine and true portrait of a great public character which the world 
 has ever seen."— Times. 
 
 " The Letters of Nelson, just given to the public by the industry of Sir Har- 
 ris Nicolas, will hereafter be the manual of the sailor, as the sister service has 
 found a guide in the Dispatches of the Duke of Wellington. All that was to be 
 expected from the well-known talent of the Editor, united to an enthusiasm for 
 his hero, which has carried him triumphantly through the extraordinary labour of 
 investigating and ascertaining every fact in the slightest degree bearing upon his 
 subject, is to be found in this volume, in which, from the beginning to the end, 
 by a continued series of letters, Nelson is made his own historian." — Blackwood's 
 Magazine. 
 
 " Sir Harris Nicolas has imposed a great obligation upon the country by this 
 l»ublication. The collection is a model in its kind. The family that shall want 
 this book must be ungrateful to the memory of Nelson." — Standard. 
 
 " This Publication, in its idea and execution, is very honourable to all 
 engaged in it. Sir Harris Nicolas has entered on his worthy task in the best 
 possible spirit. Nor will it be possible to imagine, when completed, a nobler 
 national trophy. There is no warrior or statesman in our history, from Alfred 
 downwards, of whom England has so many reasons to be proud, as Nelson. 
 This Collection is enriched with Letters hitherto unprinted, to an extent the most 
 sanguine could hardly have looked for." — Examiner. 
 
 " Had we such collections as the present important publication in sufficient 
 abundance, the history of the past might be rewritten, with its anomalies re- 
 conciled, and its blanks supplied." — Athenceuni. 
 
 " The Dispatches of Nelson will range side by side with those of Wellington. 
 Englishmen will associate their heroic deeds, and point their sons to these kin- 
 dred works as the best memorials of their services." — Globe. 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH-STREET, LONDON. 
 
MR. COLBURN S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 CHEAP LIBRARY OF ENTERTAINMENT. 
 
 Elegantly bound in Sixteen Volumes, price only G.s\ each, (any of which may be 
 had separately,) printed uniformly with liyron and Scott, and beautifully em- 
 bellished with the Portraits of the Authors, and other Engravings, by the 
 Findens and other eminent Artists, 
 
 COLBURN'S STANDARD NOVELS; 
 
 A SELECT COLLECTION OF 
 
 Cfje beat fflOorfeo of Jpiciion 
 
 OF THE MOST DISTINGUISHED ENGLISH WRITERS, WHICH CANNOT BE 
 
 PROCURED IN ANY OTHER COLLECTION, 
 
 No composition of inferior or ephemeral character will be admitted into this 
 
 collection; but those works alone which have received the stamp of unequivocal 
 
 public approbation, and which maybe read from time to time, with still recurring 
 
 pleasure and profit, will constitute the Series. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER's PELHAM. 
 SIR E. L. BULWEr's DISOWNED. 
 SIR E. L. BULWER's DEVEREUX. 
 
 MR. WARD 8 TREMAINE. 
 
 MR. sMrrn's brambletye HotJSE. 
 
 MR. smith's ZILLAU. 
 
 MR. lister's GRANBY. 
 
 LADY morgan's o'dONNEL. 
 
 LADY morgan's FLORENCE MACARTHY. 
 
 CAPT. BIARRYAT's FRANK MILDMAY. 
 
 MR. hook's GURNEY MARRIED. 
 
 MR. HOOK S SAYINGS AND DOINGS. 
 
 (First Series) ; comprisini; Dauvers, The 
 Friend of the Family, Mertoii, &c. 
 MR. hook's SAYINGS AND DOINGS. 
 
 (Secojid Series) ; comprising tlie Suther- 
 lands, the Man of Many Friends, Doubts 
 and Fears, and Passion and Principle. 
 MR. hook's SAY'INGS AND DOINGS. 
 
 (Third Series) ; comprising Cousin Wil- 
 liam and Gervase Skinner. 
 MR. JAMES's RICHELIEU. 
 MR, GLEIg's CHELSEA PENSIONERS. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " ' Colburn's Standard Novelists' presents a series of those works of fiction 
 that have most tended, with the writings of Sir Walter Scott, to elevate this 
 description of literature. This publication presents a concentration of imagina- 
 tive genius." — Globe. 
 
 "This collection continues to realise the most sanguine expectations of that 
 large class of readers who, with ourselves, were anxious to have all the best 
 modern works of tiction brought out on the plan which Mr. Colburn has so 
 judiciously adopted, and in which elegance and economy are so happily com- 
 bined." — Sunclai/ Times: 
 
 " A truly popular undertaking. The series so got up and embellished, and 
 so cheap, must extend the fame even of the author of ' relham.' " — Literary 
 Gazelle. 
 
 " We earnestly press this cheap and elegant publication of Mr. Colburn's on 
 the notice of our readers, under a sincere conviction that we are doing them a 
 service." — Scolsman. 
 
 " Thousands, and tens of tiioussnds, will patronise this undertaking." 
 
 " What an admirable opportunity is hero presented to such as are about to 
 form a select library of fiction !" — Sun. 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT MAKLBOROUGII-STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Agents: for Scotland, Bell and Hradfute, Edinburgh; for Ireland, John Gum- 
 ming, Dublin. Orders received by all Booksellers. 
 
MR. COLBURN'S STANDARD WORKS. 
 
 PERSONAL MEMOIRS OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Preparing for Publication, beautifully printed, in demy 8vo., and embel- 
 lished with Portraits, 
 
 LIVES OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 BY THOMAS ROSCOE, ESQ. 
 
 While History is occupied with the public deeds of the great and the 
 mighty of the earth, and with the consequences which result from them, it is 
 the province of Biograpliy to explore the peculiarities of individual dispo- 
 sition, character, and way of thinking; to study the influence of external 
 circumstances upon these; to search out the real motives of actions; to fol- 
 low its subject into the privacy of domestic and social life; and to draw a 
 faithful picture alike of his virtues and his vices, his excellences and his 
 failings, his passion, propensities, and eccentricities, — in short, of every 
 trait by which he is distinguislied from the rest of mankind. 
 
 The reader of observation need scarcely be reminded how often trivial 
 circumstances and expressions afford a clearer insight into the real motives, 
 views, characters, and dispositions of men than could ever be obtained from 
 the mere consideration of their public conduct: hence the sagacious bio- 
 grapher, extending his researches to minute details, may chance to discover 
 trutlis which elude the eye of the historian, content with the great outlines 
 of general facts. 
 
 The "Lives of the Kings of England," written with such impressions, 
 must therefore prove a valuable auxiliary to those readers who, fond of 
 tracing effects up to their true causes, are desirous of ascertaining the real 
 share contributed by each of the British Sovereigns to those results which 
 have conferred on our country and nation their present proud pre-eminence 
 in power, prosperity, freedom, and glory. To such as seek amusement 
 only, tliey cannot fail to be equally acceptable, as a connected record of 
 sayings and doings of personages, many of them ranking foremost as models 
 of chivalry, and most enjoying the highest renown among the politicians 
 and the warriors of their own time. Tlie series commences with the 
 Norman Conquest, when History begins to shake off the legends which 
 cling to her when narrating the lives of even tlie most eminent of the 
 Anglo-Saxon monarchs, and which are still strikingly exemplified in tlie 
 sculptured frieze in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, in Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 It may not be improper to remark that the work will form an almost 
 necessary companion and complement to tliat in which the " Lives of the 
 Queens of England" are related by the felicitious pen of Miss Agnes 
 Strickland, with the peculiar grace of her own sex and the vigour of the 
 other. 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH-STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Agents: for Scotland, Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh; for Ireland, John 
 
 Gumming, Dublin. Orders received by all booksellers. 
 
MH. COLBURN S STANDARD WOEK^. 
 
 In 1 vol. 8vo. (comprising as much matter as twenty ordinary volumes), with 
 upwards of 1500 Engravings of the Arms, &c., price 38s. bound, 
 
 BURKE'S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE. 
 
 AN ENTIRELY NEW EDITION FOR 1845. 
 
 Materially Improved throughout, from the Personal Communications of the 
 Nobility, &c., and 
 
 CONTAINING ALL THE NEW CREATIONS. 
 
 10 
 
 11 
 
 1. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 2. THE ROVAL FAMILY. 
 
 3. THE KINGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 4. THE HOUSE OF GUELPH. 
 
 5. THE MINISTERS OF THE CROWN. 
 
 6. SCALE OF PRECEDENCE. 
 
 7. DICTIONARY; INCLUDING THE 
 PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE OF 
 ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRE- 
 LAND. 
 
 8. SPIRITUAL LORDS. 
 
 9. FOREIGN NOBLEMEN; SUBJECTS 
 BY BIRTH OF THE BRITISH 
 CROWN. 
 
 PEERAGES CLAIMED AND BE- 
 FORE THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 
 SURNAMES OF PEERS AND 
 PEERESSES, WITH HEIRS AP- 
 PARENT AND PRESUMPTIVE. 
 
 CONTENTS: 
 
 I 12. COURTESY TITLES OF ELDEST 
 SONS. 
 
 13. DAUGHTERS OF PEERS MARRIED 
 TO COMMONERS. 
 
 14. PEERAGES OF THE THREE KING- 
 DOMS COLLECTIVELY IN ORDER 
 OF PRECEDENCE. 
 
 l.'j. BARONETS IN ORDER OF PRE- 
 CEDENCE. 
 
 10. PRIVY COUNCILS OF ENGLAND 
 AND IRELAND. 
 
 17. ORDERS OF KNIGHTHOOD— GAR- 
 TER —THISTLE— ST. PATRICK — 
 BATH — ST. MICHAEL AND ST. 
 GEORGE— GUELPHIC. 
 
 18. KNIGHTS BACHELORS. 
 
 I'J. MOTTOES TRANSLATED. 
 
 "'Mr. Burke's Peerage and Baronetage' is the most complete, the most 
 convenient, and the cheapest work of the kind ever offered to the pubUc." — 
 Sun. 
 
 " Tlie New Edition of 'Mr. Burke's Peerage and Baronetage for 1845,' just 
 published, is certainly the most perfect and comprehensive Encyclopanlia of 
 personal and national history ever given to the public ; combining surprising 
 accuracy and important information with the greatest brevity and clearness, 
 and exhibiting, in a condensed and lucid form, the lives and achievements of 
 the many eminent men Avho have shed lustre on tlie roll of our nobility, from 
 the steel-clad Barons of Crescy and Agincourt, to the heroes of Blcnlieim and 
 Waterloo. This new edition has evidently undergone tlie most searching re- 
 vision, several of the lineages have been rewritten — all remodtllcd .ind im- 
 proved — and the introduction of much interesting matter, referential to the 
 baronets and the collateral branches, renders the impression far more valuable 
 than any of the former ones. Indeed, there is not a name connected with peer 
 or baronet, that is not displayed in its i)ages, and yet by tlie judicious plan 
 that has been adopted, the bulk of the volu ne is not increased." — Glude. 
 
 HENRY C O L B U R N, PUBLISHER, 
 
 13, GREAT IMARLBOROL'CII STIIEET, LONDON. 
 
 Agents : for Scotland, Bell and Bradfute. Edinburgh ; for Ireland, John 
 
 Cumming, Dublin. Orders received by all booksellers. 
 
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