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 OF AN 
 
 INVALID. 
 
 Vix ea nostra voce. — Ovid. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 MDCCCXXV.
 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO 
 
 MY STORY BOOK. 
 
 As I have been insensibly led on from one Tale 
 to another, I think it necessary, once for 
 all, to observe — that I do not aspire to much 
 originality in my productions, and that I am so 
 happy, when I find any story with the stamp of 
 novelty, that my vanity sets up its crest in a 
 distinguished manner. — This, however, I con- 
 fess to be seldom the case, and the chief plea- 
 sure in my labours, is the dedication of these 
 trifles to those, who would, by their presence, 
 have obviated the necessity of writing them. 
 
 B 
 
 o '0*3 J J' ■■'J. X
 
 I INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The others are stories, which I have heard or read 
 of; and of which I only remember their general 
 outline, and filling up the rest, according to my 
 ability. In vindication of my "caco'ethes scri- 
 bendi," I attribute it to a long and painful con- 
 finement — and my pen has been the means of 
 beguiling many a long hour of its ennui and 
 uncomforts. 
 
 Conscious of the errors of my unbridled ima- 
 gination, I scarcely dare present its productions 
 — even to my kindest friends — I bear my motto 
 as my shield — " Vix ea nostra voco :" scarcely 
 do I call these things my own. My poetical 
 conclusion describes the feelings and the im- 
 pulse under which I write — and I only wish, by 
 a few words, to disarm the suspicion, which 
 may attach the origin and existence of my book, 
 to vanity — and I trust that I thus clear myself 
 from the imputation of conceit, among the very 
 few friends, to whose inspection this volume 
 will extend.
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 Henri deCourcy having finished his educa- 
 tion in Switzerland, was on the eve of his de- 
 parture for Paris. He knew Paris, and had 
 already mingled in its gaieties and dissipations. 
 Ardent and affectionate, he longed to revisit his 
 home, and again embrace his relatives. Yet he 
 was loth to go^; for the same affectionate feelings 
 suggested the struggle it would cost him, to 
 part with one, who, to him, was dearer than all 
 — and he knew how faint were their hopes of 
 ever meeting again. 
 
 Henriette d'Hermans, a young and beautiful 
 girl, had long inspired him with the tenderest 
 sentiments. She, guileless and sincere, testified 
 
 H 2
 
 4 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 the pleasure she derived from his society, with 
 that artless innocence, at once the crown and 
 shield of female perfection. She was fair, with 
 a laughing blue eye, that had attracted the 
 early admiration of Henri, whilst her amiable 
 disposition cemented his attachment. She was 
 gay and cheerful, all life, energy, and spirit, 
 and there was a fascination about her, that at- 
 tracted the admiring notice of all. But his 
 handsome countenance was clouded and serious ; 
 his smile was like the cheerless sunbeam 
 through a mist, chilling the observer rather 
 than encouraging his gaze. This was not his 
 nature ; but he knew that he was destined to 
 marry another, and that all his arguments were 
 vain asrainst the unnatural sacrifice. It was 
 the foresight of his destiny that oppressed his 
 spirits, and darkened his brow : this was the 
 frost that chilled the fresh spring-tide of ex- 
 istence ; for Henriette, Henriette alone, pos- 
 sessed his affections. She too, (for however 
 blind the little god may be, lovers are quick- 
 sighted enough upon occasion,) saw the change
 
 BRTTER LATE THAN NEVER. O 
 
 in his manner ; he was, if possible, more tender 
 than ever towards her, and she was unable to 
 account for the increasing seriousness of his 
 deportment, and watched each change of coun- 
 tenance with affectionate anxiety. Tender and 
 confiding herself, her delicate mind shrunk 
 from the idea of obtruding herself, even on his 
 reserve ; but her affectionate feelings assured 
 her, that he would explain all when necessary. 
 
 The next morning the sun shone out un- 
 clouded, and Spring already made its appear- 
 ance ; and the young leaves, heavy with dew, 
 sparkled in the sunbeams, like the smiles and 
 tears of infancy. The lovers took their accus- 
 tomed stroll on the Mont-Benon, from whence 
 the broad expanse of the lake was seen glit- 
 tering in the sun, and reflecting the peaceful 
 blue of the unclouded sky ; the opposite moun- 
 tains of the Savoy were veiled in a transparent 
 mist, that softened all their tints, till they were 
 lost in vapour. On the other side, a deep 
 ravine, wooded, and studded with saw-mills, &c. 
 erected upon a mountain-torrent, opened a small 
 vista, through which the cathedral and part of
 
 6 BHTTKR LATE THAN NEVE 11. 
 
 tlie town of Lausanne were seen beyond. The 
 view was limited by the lofty hill of Le Signal. 
 But to return, Henri was more depressed 
 than ever ; and, contrary to their usual custom, 
 they walked side by side in silence ; after some 
 time, he turned abruptly, and explained the 
 positive mandate of his father, to quit Lausanne 
 immediately. Listening to him eagerly, with 
 a countenance fraught with anguish, and her 
 blue eyes swimming in tears, fixed on his agi- 
 tated countenance, Henriette heard this painful 
 announcement : she spoke not, but the con- 
 vulsive trembling of the hands which clasped 
 his arm, indicated her deep suffering. Henri 
 paused in his discourse, for he felt the trembling 
 arm which hung on his, and looking on her, 
 burst into the bitterest exclamations of grief 
 and disappointed love : then catching the agi- 
 tated girl in his arms, he pressed her to his 
 bosom, and melted into tears. Long had they 
 wept, and silently, before poor Henriette, re- 
 gaining a portion of her self-command, re- 
 pressed her choking sobs, at length endeavoured 
 to console her beloved Henri. Stunned as she
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 7 
 
 was, by the severity of the blow which thus 
 dashed away her happiness, and despairing of 
 any future hope ; yet did this heroic girl subdue 
 her own emotions, and stifle her natural wishes, 
 for the sake of convincing him of the propriety 
 of his immediate departure. " Go, dearest 
 Henri, you owe this submission to your parents. 
 I have been living in a dream of hope, but must 
 sacrifice it to your welfare. Believe me, I love 
 you too well to detain you, at the risk of 
 drawing down upon you the anger of your 
 parents. For one instant, dear Henri, reflect ; 
 could we be happy, with the dreadful knowledge 
 that our weakness had drawn upon us your 
 father's curse ? Go, go : I am no predestinarian. 
 I have no hopes : but God will, if it be his 
 pleasure, re-unite us ; we will trust in his 
 mercy, and confide all our cares to him. Fare- 
 well, dear, my dearest Henri, do not think 
 lightly of my feelings, (and the poor girl's 
 words were scarcely audible.) If I leave vou 
 now ; but it is my duty. By remaining with 
 you, T only distract you, and may, perhap.s.
 
 8 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 lead you to a decision, which your own better 
 and cooler judgment would condemn. Oh ! 
 Henri, my dear Henri, I have loved you too 
 long, too well, in the sunshine of our days, 
 to desert or forget you in the hour of distress, 
 I am a weak girl, and just now distracted by 
 grief, and dare not remain to witness your un- 
 availing distress. Wear this ring for my sake, 
 Henri — let it remind you of this hour — of my 
 lasting affection." 
 
 She was gone before he could utter a syllable. 
 He remained in frantic despair, forming a thou- 
 sand wild projects, and then as hastily aban- 
 doned them. At length his feelings became more 
 subdued, and he reflected on the parting words 
 of the generous Henriette with calmness and 
 admiration, then gazing on the ring she had 
 given him, till his tears blinded him, he bowed 
 to his fate, and departed that day for Paris, 
 overwhelmed with grief. 
 
 It is said, that misfortunes rarely come singly ; 
 and so it proved to our poor Henriette. Her 
 father, M. d'Herinany, had a ward, vvjio would
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 9 
 
 come into a large fortune on the expiration of 
 his minority, which would happen in a few 
 months ; his father had died two years before, 
 and it had been agreed between M. de Grancy 
 and M. d'Hermans, that there should be a union 
 between their children. Leaving Henriette's 
 forlorn feelings out of the question, this young- 
 man had also his own objections to the 
 match. But a marriage de convenance is not an 
 afaive da caiir, and therefore the young people 
 had no vote in the business ; and as old d'Her- 
 mans was possessed of all the necessary docu- 
 ments, he only waited till his ward became of 
 age, to put his project into execution, and, un- 
 luckily selected this moment to declare his inten- 
 tions to the distressed Henriette. The poor girl 
 nearly sunk under her afflictions, and however 
 fixed her thoughts might be on brighter days, 
 she had neither hope nor love to cheer her. 
 
 Adolphe de Grancy, who was thus selected as 
 her future husband, was handsome and amiable. 
 — He was also susceptible. He had been brought 
 up, till (he last two years, at a school at Paris,
 
 10 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 where he contracted a strong friendship for the 
 only son of the Marquis de la Riviere — who 
 used to invite him to his house during the vaca- 
 tions. — He thus became acquainted vdth his be- 
 loved Aimee, the only daughter of the Marquis. 
 She soon loved the friend of her only brother, and 
 this attachment grew stronger and more decided 
 as they advanced in years. Adolphe, on the 
 death of his father, was sent to Lausanne, to his 
 guardian, ^and thus ^.were this affectionate pair 
 separated . 
 
 To add to Aimee's distress, her idolized bro- 
 ther died about this time, and her delicate frame 
 seemed blighted by these successive shocks, but 
 her deep and settled melancholy was attributed 
 only to the loss of her brother — whereas,there was 
 one who to her, would have replaced any other. 
 Time rolled on, and two years had nearly elapsed, 
 but Aimee was still pale and dejected. About 
 this time, her father thou«;ht he mio-ht as well 
 provide for her establishment in life, as she her- 
 self seemed at no pains to do it for herself — so 
 he made overtures to (lie de Courcys, wliich
 
 BETTEU LATE THAN NEVER. 11 
 
 they of course closed with, and Henri was thus 
 destined to become the husband of the drooping 
 Aimee, and was consequently recalled from Lau- 
 sanne. This union was rendered still more 
 desirable to the parents, by the singular circum- 
 stance of their having both embraced the pro- 
 testant faith : and as there seemed no obstacle 
 to the immediate celebration of the wedding, an 
 early day was fixed, before Henri had arrived in 
 Paris. These preparations first opened Aimee's 
 eyes to her approaching destiny. Henri struggled 
 hard to shake off the fetters which his parents 
 had provided him with, but in vain ; and he 
 found himself at last forced to submit, as he 
 was totally dependant on his father. — The 
 wretched Aimee had neither strength nor spirits 
 to resist her father's positive command ; and, as 
 they had long been acquainted, they knew, that 
 although their affections had been engaged else- 
 where, they could not but esteem and respect 
 each other. 
 
 Meanwhile, the fatal day approached — arrived 
 — and the bride was led, an unwilling victim, to
 
 12 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 the altar; and the countenance of the bride- 
 groom exhibited the traces of deep and severe 
 anxiety, but little love. They had arrived early, 
 — before the clergyman had made his appearance, 
 so, as is usual, they retired to the vestry-room 
 to enter their names in the register, which cere- 
 mony both he and Aimee performed w^ith great 
 hesitation. This preliminary accomplished, Henri 
 was listlessly perusing the names, with the 
 trembling Aimee, when, at the same instant they 
 read, coupled together, the n ames Henriette 
 d'Hermans, Adolphe de Grancy. Uttering a 
 simultaneous cry, Aimee fell fainting on the 
 floor, and he, scarcely less agitated, sunk down 
 on a seat, and buried his face in his hands. The 
 petrified clerk stood like iron between two mag- 
 nets, attracted by each, and consequently im- 
 moveable, and their respective friends crowded 
 round, in mute astonishment. 
 
 Matters were so well in train with old d'Her- 
 mans, that nothinir was wanting: but the sicma- 
 
 ' O oft 
 
 tures to some papers which were at Paris. And 
 as he had a brother resident there, he resolved
 
 BETTEVt LATE THAN NEVER. 13 
 
 that tlie marriage should take place with his 
 benediction — so they set out. Henriette trem- 
 bled at the thoughts of meeting Henri — and 
 Adolphe had his tremors too, lest he should see 
 his beloved — which, no doubt, would have shaken 
 their resolution. The old gentleman, in the 
 gaiety of his heart, saw nothing of the distress 
 around him, and rallied Henriette and Adolphe 
 on their separation — he " being bodkin,^ and his 
 joyous laugh, might have been heard far away. 
 On arriving at Paris, they proceeded to the 
 house of his brother, who received them with 
 great interest and affection — and the wedding- 
 day being fixed for the morrow, the clerk was 
 desired to register the names that night. — ^The 
 silence and mutual embarrassment of the young 
 couple before him, puzzled him, but, attributing 
 their reserve to shyness, he made no further ob- 
 servation. The next morning, they proceeded 
 with him to church, and on entering the vestry- 
 room, found it in the confused state, in which we 
 left it. 
 
 The confusion became still greater on their
 
 14 r.Krii;i! i.ATii than nk\eh. 
 
 entrance ; the several parties recognising each 
 other, occasioned fresh bursts of grief on every 
 side ; the older people remaining the perplexed 
 spectators of the tragedy. At length Hem-i, 
 stifling his emotion, advanced and said, " I 
 protest against these nuptials ;" and turning, 
 addressed himself to the Marquis de la Riviere, 
 who stood, petrified with astonishment, with 
 his shoiUders far above his ears, and his peruke 
 much incommoded by the collar of his coat, in- 
 somuch, that he was obliged to protrude his 
 head, to prevent its total desertion of its office. 
 One hand contained his snuff-box, still unclosed, 
 while the other, a little raised, hung in mid air, 
 suffering the "prise" to descend in a brown 
 shower to the floor. 
 
 " Monsieur le Marquis," said Henri, " I 
 appeal to your feelings as a father — to your 
 generosity as a friend — forbid these nuptials, as 
 you love your daughter. Look on her, as she 
 stands trembling beside you, and ask yourself 
 if you promote her happiness by her union with 
 me? Then look on me. Do I discover that
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVEK. 15 
 
 ardent fondness which a happy lover should 
 betray ? No ; I stand here, expected to pledge 
 my word that I will love none other but her ; 
 when the real and only object of my affections 
 stands before me. She, too, beholds the only 
 person in whom she can ever hope for peace. 
 If I cannot command my own affections, how can 
 I expect to gain her's ? She is your only child, 
 the prop of your declining years ; will you bar- 
 ter her happiness for the approbation of a cold- 
 hearted world ? We are, no doubt, well matched, 
 in the estimation of worldly men ; but where 
 are our hearts — are we so hardened in iniquity, 
 as to kneel in the presence of God, and vow to 
 each other a deliberate mutual falsehood ? 
 Heaven forbid. Here I stand, in the despera- 
 tion of agonised feeling, on my own defence ; 
 surely I am free to act, when mine, her 
 honour is concerned ; take your daughter, or 
 rather suffer me to act for you. I will give her 
 to Adolphe ; come forward, Adolphe, and claim 
 her as your bride ; — these two were born to love 
 eacli other. It remains with yon. Monsieur
 
 16 liKTT?:U LA'lli illAN NEVUIR. 
 
 d'Hermans, to decide the fate of your daughter. 
 Henriette, we have known and loved each other 
 long. Oh ! can we bury our feeling in oblivion — 
 nay, look up, dear Henriette ; I have loved thee 
 too long ever to become attached to another — 
 see, they relent." 
 
 For a few minutes no one spoke ; but at 
 length the Marquis, recovering from his asto- 
 nishment, closed his box ; and after a vain at- 
 tempt to recruit himself with his pinch of snuff, 
 he said, " Take her, Adolphe ; I wish you 
 happy, Aimee — be so, my love, my only child ;" 
 and he wept for the son he had lost, whose 
 friend was now to become his child by adoption. 
 
 The De Courcys united in persuading the 
 haughty Marquis de Courcy to give his consent, 
 which, once obtained, old d'Hermans was easily 
 brought to part with his daughter; and the 
 ceremony was performed by his brother with 
 much solemnity. All parties embraced, and 
 united in- observing, that this unexpected and 
 happy arrangement was " BETTER LATE 
 THAN NEVER."
 
 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 It was at the close of a sultry summer's-day, 
 the sun had set, but the heat continued op- 
 pressive. I had strolled down to the beach, 
 in hopes of a fresher air. The sea, at this 
 time, was perfectly still, and the silence of 
 the hour unbroken ; except by the casual 
 splash of an oar, or a shout from the distant 
 village. It was still so light, that colours, as 
 well as forms, were distinctly reflected in the 
 water. In the offing, were a few coasting 
 vessels, with their picturesque tann'd sails ; and 
 in the bay, a Brig of war, with every stitch of 
 canvas spread to court the lingering breeze, lay 
 perfectly motionless, so that the very^ folds of 
 her idle sails preserved their form.
 
 18 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 But as the evening advanced, tlie soutliern 
 sky grevi^ dark ; a red gloom had long ap- 
 peared in that quarter, and in the increasing- 
 obscurity, flashes of lightning were distinctly 
 visible. The sea-gull, restless and noisy, circled 
 around ; and her hoarse scream foreboded astonn. 
 A breeze had sprung up with the rising tide, 
 unsettled and boisterous ; gust after gust swept 
 by, increasing in strength ; and already rose the 
 the whitening crest of the young waves before 
 the breeze ; indeed the whole scene assumed a 
 wildness, which was augmented by the contrast 
 with the early evening. 
 
 Notwithstanding the unsettled appearance of 
 the weather, many of the fishing boats had put 
 to sea. Their owners, poor fellows, were too 
 much in want of the necessaries of life to he- 
 sitate ; and, trusting to their skill, were gone to 
 secure provision for their families. I felt much 
 relieved, when I saw them return, before a breeze — 
 which was fast increasing to a strong gale. 
 Their little boats, too, that exultingly sprung 
 over the waves, and dashed off the threatening
 
 POOR BARBARA. 19 
 
 breakers from their bows, seemed eager to reach 
 
 the shore. I had fancied the distress that any 
 accident to them would occasion, till I almost 
 saw their families ; the women, weeping for a 
 husband, brother, or father; and aged parents, 
 silently bending to misfortunes, that bereft them 
 of the care and support of dutiful children. 
 
 I was roused from this melancholy train of 
 thought, by the voice of a female. It was a 
 plaintive air, and sung sweetly, though wildly; 
 and as near as I can remember, (for I listened 
 long,) the words were these: — 
 
 POOR Barbara's song. 
 
 Stay, I cannot harm thee. 
 Oh timid stranger, pause ; 
 And do not thus alarm thee, 
 Why hasten by ? because 
 
 You see poor Barbara, 
 
 Poor crazy Barbara. 
 
 When from my love estrang'd. 
 My sorrow made me sad ; 
 
 (. 2
 
 20 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 They said I was derang'd. 
 Oh ! Barbara is mad — 
 
 Poor girl — Poor Barbara — 
 
 Poor crazy Barbara ! 
 
 Men tell me that they grieve 
 To see me thus forlorn ; 
 If I their words believe. 
 Their pity turns to scorn. 
 
 They mock poor Barbara — 
 
 Poor crazy Barbara ! 
 
 These melancholy words accorded with the 
 scene. On looking round, I saw a female seated 
 on a fragment of rock, at no great distance from 
 me. On advancing, she took no notice of me ; 
 indeed I hardly think she saw me : her whole 
 attention seemed devoted to the gun-brig that 
 was beating out of the bay. There was already 
 a heavy sea on, and the storm was still increas- 
 ing. At this time, the brig, which was endea- 
 vouring to beat out of the bay, under a press of 
 sail, missed stays ; and, filling again, was com-
 
 POOR BARBARA. 21 
 
 pelled to wear, by which means she neared the 
 shore considerably. Finding her attempts to 
 beat out fruitless, she ran on to her anchorage, 
 reducing her canvas as she advanced; and, on 
 letting go her anchor, came head to wind with 
 a balanced trysail. The darkness increased ra- 
 pidly, and the storm burst heavily above us, 
 when an old fisherman passed me. A brilliant 
 flash of lightning seemed to discover my figure 
 to him, and, with rough hospitality, he offered 
 me the shelter of his humble roof. He spoke 
 soothingly to the poor girl I had been observing, 
 and she followed him home, and he told me 
 this brief, but melancholy tale : 
 
 " I have known this poor creature, your Ho- 
 nour, from her childhood ; she was the sweetest, 
 liveliest, and most affectionate thing I had ever 
 met with. I was married, and had children of 
 my own ; and very early in my life experienced 
 the agony of seeing one sweet baby after another 
 torn from me ; having lived but to win my fond- 
 ness, by the earliest smiles of infancy, before 
 disease carried them off. My poor Jenny, that
 
 22 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 was my wife, sunk under these repeated trials. 
 Not that she did not struggle hard to resign her- 
 self to the will of God : but she was a tender 
 plant. Sir; all love, innocence, and fondness; 
 and unfit to weather the storms of her adver- 
 sity. She died, leaving one little babe, about 
 ten months old ; as like her. Sir, as it was pos- 
 sible for a boy to resemble his mother. He was 
 sickly at first, like the rest; but, with God's 
 blessing and constant care, he grew stronger, 
 till he was the pride of my heart. All who knew 
 him loved him, for he was a gentle, kind-hearted 
 lad. I must tell you, Sir, that this girl, poor 
 Barbara, was an orphan ; and when my boy was 
 four years old, she being then a yearling babe, 1 
 took her home to be his playmate ; and grew so 
 fond of her, that I never could lose sight of her. 
 They grew up together, and having loved nothing 
 so well as each other from their cradles, were to 
 have been married. But, Sir, Heaven, for its 
 own inscrutable purposes, frustrates our dear- 
 est hopes; and my boy, my last, only child, 
 is in his grave! Cold as that grave, arc all this
 
 POOR BARBARA. 23 
 
 poor girl's prospects ; for, with that loved youth, 
 were all her hopes of happiness destroyed ! 
 
 " They were to have been married. Sir, as soon 
 as he completed his apprenticeship; and it 
 wanted but a few days of the time, when he was 
 pressed into the service, and carried on board a 
 tender which was cruizing in the roads. The 
 night after, a dreadful storm came on, as this 
 may be, with the wind pretty much in the 
 same quarter; and, ere long, the tender was 
 seen dismasted, and rapidly coming on shore. 
 The horror of the scene I hardly dare think on. 
 — A rising tide, wind and sea dead in shore, 
 and the most perfect darkness I ever witnessed, 
 except when the lightning shewed us the vessel 
 as clear as though it was noon-day. Sometimes, 
 after two or three very heavy seas, there might 
 be a little lull, during which her guns were dis- 
 tinctly heard. It is a dreadful thing. Sir, to 
 look on our fellow-creatures in distress, know- 
 ing that no earthly power can save them. I 
 have witnessed this, and a cold shudder creeps 
 through me at the' recollection. At last she
 
 24 POOU BARBARA. 
 
 struck, and a wild cry of united distress rent 
 the air. Another sea advanced, broke over her, 
 and the cry heard in the next pause was fainter 
 — another, and nothing but the angry moan of 
 the contending elements was heard — and, ere 
 long, the sea washed up the wreck. 
 
 " Soon after, some of our lads saw a man 
 still struggling with his fate ; and with much 
 risk and exertion brought him ashore — that man 
 was my child. I came to the spot in time to 
 see him die. Even here. Sir, I found the kind 
 mercy of Providence — I lost my boy, but it con- 
 soled me to think I saw him once again ere he 
 died, and blessed him before his eyes closed in 
 death. We laid him in his quiet grave, and my 
 neighbours were very kind to me, for I was well 
 nigh distracted with this blow. Bul^the situa- 
 tion of poor Barbara there roused me to exer- 
 tion. After this dreadful night she completely 
 lost the power of estimating her loss — she knew 
 Henry was dead, but still seemed to commune 
 with him. I have seen her look on the seat 
 which he usually occupied, and smile or weep.
 
 POOR BAKUARA. 25 
 
 as her wayward fancy prompted her, and sud- 
 denly spring away, exclaiming, ' he is dead !' 
 then rushing to his grave, would there kneel 
 and weep for hours. After these paroxysms she 
 used to be more composed. Lately she has 
 taken the fancy of wandering about the beach, 
 near the spot where he died, and acts over the 
 horrid scene with such truth and poignancy of 
 feeling, that I fear that her sufferings will de- 
 stroy her body, as well as her mind ; and, forlorn 
 as she is, I could but ill spare her, poor thing. 
 She imagines, that those who commiserate her 
 distress only mock her ; and the song you heard 
 is one of many which she has either remembered 
 or composed. Aye, Sir, that dear girl was pre- 
 sent, saw and heard all. Her Henry, God rest 
 him, perished; and from that time her mind 
 has been unsettled. Poor Henry ! — he was such 
 a son." 
 
 The unconscious girl was now perfectly calm, 
 and it seemed that her agitation, which always 
 was most violent in a sudden storm like this, 
 had exhausted her; during the first part of
 
 26 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 the old man's narrative, she had been silent, 
 but the frequent tear, or a choking sob, showed 
 her mental suffering, and when I looked at her 
 she smiled and said, " I am not mad,'' in her 
 insanity. 
 
 An increase of bustle without, and the sound 
 of many voices, and hasty steps, alarmed us, 
 and the old man observed, " I be thinking that 
 the brig yonder is in danger, for it is not the 
 best of holdino; grounds in the roads. To be 
 sure they had made a snug ship of her before 
 dark — will your Honour excuse me, I'll look 
 out." I accompanied him to the beach, where 
 a frightful scene presented itself; the first 
 burst of the storm had past, and although it still 
 looked wild, the weather was on the whole more 
 moderate ; the moon, almost as transiently as 
 the lightning, illuminated the scene at intervals, 
 and by her light I discerned, at a small distance, 
 the brig on the rocks, beyond the extent of the 
 beach. She was much sheltered by these rocks 
 from the sea, and if the weather cleared at all, 
 there was, every prospect of her being saved ; but
 
 POOR BARBARA, 2/ 
 
 on the beach, there were the remains of eleven 
 victims, who had perished in a vain attempt to 
 land. 
 
 At this moment, the old man sprang past 
 me, exclaiming, " My God ! the child — my 
 poor child." I followed him, and soon dis- 
 covered her seated, or rather prostrate, on a rock 
 which overhung the sea ; and she was plain- 
 tively calling on her Henry, when a heavy sea 
 scared her, and in recoiling, she lost her hold, 
 and was engulphed. The old man, reckless of 
 his fate, madly followed her till he too was strug- 
 gling in the breakers. In my eagerness to 
 assist him, I sprung on a fragment of rock, re- 
 cently detached from the cliff, which, from its 
 bulk, seemed secure. Having thrown a rope 
 to him, I clung to the rock, till the next sea 
 should go by. It came higher and heavier than 
 ever, and broke over the rocks. Stunned and 
 breathless, I grasped the weeds more fimily — 
 the returning sea undermined the rock, and 
 bore me with it fairly into the sea . I gasped 
 
 and struggled, and at lengtli sunk exhausted. 
 
 * * # # * #
 
 28 POOR BARBARA. 
 
 It was broad day. I had a stunned confused 
 remembrance of perils past, more like that of a 
 dream than of any actual occurrence. On 
 rising, which I found very difficult, I contrived 
 to crawl to my inn. To this moment ignorant of 
 the manner in which I had been preserved. 
 
 Being in the neighbourhood soon after, I 
 visited the spot where Henry's remains had 
 been deposited ; there was a new grave by it, 
 and Henry's seemed to have been fresh covered. 
 I have no doubt the poor old man rests there, 
 for he was lost on that dreadful night. To 
 Barbara's memory a small tablet was erected, 
 with the following 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Oh ! peace be to thee, Barbara, 
 For death, to thee, was love, 
 
 And bore thee from a troubled world. 
 To hcav'n and bliss above.
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 During the peninsular war, a regiment of 
 
 British hussars was quartered at S . Other 
 
 troops were stationed there, but their numbers 
 are not necessary to the developement of my story. 
 One fine afternoon a detachment arrived, belong- 
 ing to this regiment ; and there being no accom- 
 modation in the town, they were en bivouacke 
 outside; just under the walls of a large garden, 
 which belonged to a rich merchant and banker. 
 The young officer, under whose command the 
 party was placed, was tall and strikingly hand- 
 some ; and, when he had made all the necessary 
 arrangements for the disposition of his men, he 
 strolled under this garden wall, attracted by the 
 sound of music. At this moment the bugle of
 
 30 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 his detachment sounded, and various parties 
 appeared, looking over the wall. Shortly after, 
 a gentleman came out of a small gate, and po- 
 litely invited the officer to join his party; which 
 he of course gladly acceded to. Theodore (for 
 by this name I shall in future distinguish my 
 hero) found a large party preparing for a dance ; 
 and his hospitable invitor introduced him to his 
 daughter, Julia. Theodore was enabled to avail 
 himself of the pleasures of her conversation, by 
 his previous knowledge of the Spanish language. 
 His partner, Julia, was a beautiful girl of 
 sixteen : she had more colour, and was altoge- 
 ther fairer than the generality of her country- 
 women ; but she had the dark eloquent eye, so 
 distinguished a feature in the Spanish beauty. 
 She was of middle stature, shght, but beauti- 
 fully formed ; and was ingenuous and gentle in 
 her disposition. The evening passed rapidly in 
 her society, and the party had nearly dispersed, 
 before he had thought of retiring. A sudden 
 thunder-storm had come on, and a heavy rain 
 was still falling, when Theodore rose to depart.
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 31 
 
 Julia asked his address, hoping to see him 
 whenever he could quit his military duties. He 
 smiled, and said that a call from the garden-wall 
 would reach him at all times, for that the next 
 field was his home. Julia's look indicated her 
 solicitude ; and the immediate brightness of her 
 smile, when her father invited Theodore to re- 
 main, was not lost on him. In fact, he was 
 himself enchanted with his young partner ; and 
 could scarcely refrain from the expression of his 
 admiration; and, sending down to his Serjeant 
 to indicate his billet, he remained in the house. 
 The good old gentleman sent wine and refresh- 
 ment to the men ; and the whole party retired for 
 the night, mutually delighted with the occur- 
 rences of the day. 
 
 Theodore could not sleep — there was a new 
 sensation in his bosom, that tormented while it 
 pleased him. A mingled feeling of love, hope, 
 and a secret consciousness of the futility of his 
 wishes, deprived him of rest. So he rose with 
 the sun, and sallied forth to enjoy the freshness 
 of the morning air, proceeding to the bivouacke.
 
 32 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 On his return he met Jnha, looking as fresh, 
 and still lovelier, than the morning, culling the 
 flowers, still heavy with the night's rain. After 
 strolling about the grounds, she led the way to 
 a small apartment, where a regular breakfast was 
 laid out. The room was perfumed with the rose 
 and orange bloom, and beautiful flowers orna- 
 mented the apartment. There were a few well- 
 chosen books, chiefly French and Spanish ; draw- 
 ino-s decorated the walls, and the windows opened 
 to the garden, and were shaded by the clematis 
 and jessamine, from the ardent intrusion of the 
 sun. This of course became a favourite resort 
 in the heat of the day, and the young couple 
 were inseparable. Her father doated on her — 
 he had long lost his wife, and that child was the 
 only dehght of his advanced age. Her happi- 
 ness was his only care ; and he liked Theodore 
 for his numerous attentions to himself, and his 
 perfect manners soon attached him very sincerely 
 to his interests. 
 
 It was reported that the regiment was to march, 
 and poor Theodore's spirits visibly declined. The
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 33 
 
 affectionate Julia, who now made no secret of 
 her attachment, endeavoured to cheer him ; but, 
 at last, the idea of his departure broke on her 
 like a thunder-bolt ; she became grave and si- 
 lent — her music and pencil were neglected, and 
 her beautiful eyes were always dimmed in tears. 
 In one of their rambles, Theodore, who had 
 long avowed his passion, urged her to fly with 
 him; and, to do him justice, with the solemn 
 intentioji of marrying her immediately. Julia 
 wept arid trembled ; she hesitated, and timidly 
 said, " think of my dear father, Theodore;" 
 and, breaking into a paroxysm of distress, sunk 
 on his breast. Theodore's generous feelings at 
 once checked his suit. He had too long respected 
 the old man to give him so severe a pang, and 
 he made no further allusion to his request. 
 
 The order at lens^th arrived, and Theodore 
 was to march the next day. Their despair may 
 easily be imagined — and when he took leave of 
 his hospitable friend, he wept like a child — 
 while Julia's father declared, his sorrow at los- 
 ing him was equal to parting with a child. 
 
 D
 
 34 THEODOKE AND JULIA. 
 
 Julia and he rambled about the grounds the 
 whole night, and Theodore solemnly plighted 
 his vows with her in the face of Heaven, promis-, 
 ing to return soon, and claim her as his bride, 
 on the first opportunity. At this moment, his 
 bugle called him to his post ; and after a long 
 and tender parting, he tore himself from her, 
 leaving her insensible in the arms of her attend- 
 ant. 
 
 Day broke, and Theodore was gone. Julia 
 rose early from her sleepless couch, and entered 
 the little boudoir where they had passed so many 
 happy hours. His drawings lay on the table — 
 the marks in her books were placed there by him. 
 The rose he had given to her the day before was 
 there, faded and drooping ; and Theodore was 
 gone. There was not a walk or a plant that did 
 not recall him to her memory : and in all the 
 listlessness of sorrow, she returned to the house, 
 and, meeting her father, wept silently on his 
 bosom. This affectionate parent hung over his 
 drooping child ; and, pressing her to his heart, 
 endeavoured, by the kindness of his love, to
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 35 
 
 soothe her distress. The generous JuUa saw 
 and appreciated her father's intention, and with 
 him, subdued her emotions : but her pale cheek 
 and trembling lip shewed that her sorrow in 
 secret was unabated. She declined daily, and 
 her anxious father anticipated a fearful result, 
 from her blighted afflictions. He did not blame 
 Theodore; his conduct had proved that he would 
 never have quitted her but at the call of duty, 
 and his thoughts and hopes still rested on him. 
 Some weeks had elapsed, and Juha became 
 more and more delicate. 
 
 One day, the news arrived that there had been 
 
 a severe action, in which the Hussars had 
 
 borne a conspicuous share ; and that, although 
 the enemy had been repulsed, the British were 
 again retiring upon the frontier. Shortly after, 
 that is, in a few days, some of the wounded 
 
 arrived at S , in detachments: amonost 
 
 others, a few from the Hussars. This 
 
 news had been of course concealed from Juha; 
 and her father was as usual sitting; with her. 
 
 when she suddenly started, exclaiming, " It is 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 there's Theodore's bugle:" and the event proved 
 her assertion. 
 
 It was a wild, stormy night, when this detach- 
 ment arrived at S , and, owing to the late- 
 ness of the hour, these unfortunate men were 
 long exposed to the fury of the elements, before 
 there were any means of finding an asylum. 
 Julia instantly sent to enquire after her beloved 
 Theodore — and her messenger returned, bring- 
 ing with him Theodore, severely wounded, wet, 
 and almost insensible, from fatigue. Julia's 
 courage rose with the emergency : she neither 
 wept nor gave way to any useless lamentations j 
 but he was immediately borne to her own room, 
 which she said was all ready ; and from that 
 moment, in spite of constant exertion and fa- 
 tigue, she recovered her health, and seldom left 
 the couch of her suffering Theodore. He had 
 known her from the first; and, although too 
 much exhausted to speak, he followed her with 
 his eyes, and, when she spoke to him, smiled 
 faintly on her. That smile trembled on his lip, 
 contending witli the spasm of bitter agony.
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 37 
 
 From that hour he began to recover, and in a 
 few weeks he was able to rise and crawl into the 
 adjoining boudoir — -and they of course renewed 
 all their little occupations and studies. One 
 beautiful morning, Theodore rose earlier than 
 usual, and proceeded to the room; and, as Julia 
 was out gathering fresh flowers and fruit for 
 her patient, according to her daily custom ; he 
 employed himself in turning over the leaves of 
 her portfolio; and his attention was soon at- 
 tracted by a few stanzas in Spanish, written by 
 her, and evidently since his departure. He after- 
 wards translated them, although, of course, 
 much of their original spirit and beauty was 
 lost. 
 
 Altho' I lov'd thee, to a crime, 
 Alas ! I could not love thee less : 
 
 And now, thy memory will be 
 
 My balm, when poignant woes oppress. 
 
 How often have I turn'd from thee. 
 Sadly resolv'd at least to shun ; 
 
 Yet ere I fled, have paused to gaze — 
 Seen thee, and been again undone.
 
 38 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 Once I dared, dear Theodore, with thee 
 The cup of earthly bliss to sip ; 
 
 But, ah ! an envious fate arose. 
 And dash'd the goblet from my lip. 
 
 It was a strange fatality 
 
 That bound my erring soul to thine ; 
 Still, unknown links of magic pow'r. 
 
 To thee this tortur'd heart confine. 
 
 But thou hast left me, Theodore — 
 Alas ! thy duty bade thee fly. 
 
 So, when thou urg'd my flight with thee. 
 It was my duty to deny. 
 
 Oh ! that, ere this, the yawning tomb 
 Had clos'd o'er me, to hide my shame — 
 
 Ere yet the world's opprobrium 
 
 Could stamp disgrace upon my name. 
 
 Ere thou, my Theodore, had won 
 
 My love, and charm'd my heart away ; 
 
 While yet my pride, in loving thee. 
 In purity maintain'd its sway.
 
 THEODORE AND JULIA. 39 
 
 But now I am an abject thing, 
 
 A wand'rer from the paths of peace. 
 
 The victim, more of love than sin — 
 Which love with life alone will cease. 
 
 Theodore was standing with this paper in his 
 hand, when JuUa returned. " My own JuUa," 
 he exclaimed, " I now go to perform my pro- 
 mise; I am nearly recovered, and probably shall 
 soon have to return to head-quarters — ^but I 
 never will return without you. Too long have 
 I deferred my sacred promise. I confess, that 
 a selfish fear of losing you, and thus destroying 
 our present enjoyment, has repressed my better 
 feelings ; but now, Julia, I am resolved to brave 
 my fate, and will seek your father." He clasped 
 her to his heart, then abruptly left her, trem- 
 bling and alarmed. 
 
 He found her father, and in a hurried man- 
 ner declared his wishes, and concealed nothing 
 in his narrative. This good man was at first 
 astonished and perplexed: he had seen how 
 much both were attached, but was hardly pre-
 
 40 THEODORE AND JULIA. 
 
 pared to give so hasty a consent. But Julia now 
 entered the room, and all his severities and 
 scruples vanished. Mingling his tears w^ith 
 theirs, he bent over them, and murmured his 
 consent and blessing. I need not add, that 
 they were married immediately. As Theodore 
 had to return to his regiment, her father was 
 sure that Julia would accompany him, and was 
 therefore less resigned, at their departure. 
 
 Through all his campaigns, she fondly shared 
 his dangers and pleasures ; until, at the peace, 
 he returned through Spain, to revisit his aged 
 father-in-law. Who, after some time, set out 
 with his children, to pass the remainder of his 
 days in peace with them.
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER, 
 
 OFF THE land's END. 
 
 I WAS once cruizing about with a friend, on 
 board of a fine little cutter, with a crew of 
 four men and a boy. It was a beautiful after- 
 noon ; we had smooth water, and a pleasant 
 breeze, so that the day passed cheerfully by. 
 The man, however, to whose care we had en- 
 trusted ourselves, wore an aspect of ceaseless 
 care ; and as he watched the fluttering vane, 
 at the mast-head, he anxiously shook his head, 
 and observed that the wind " had backed agin 
 the sun all day." The wind died away, and for 
 some time we lay perfectly motionless ; for, as I 
 before observed, there was no sea. While we
 
 42 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 
 
 were at dinner, which was served on deck, the 
 sails flapped suddenly, and the glasses moved 
 on the companion ; the old man shook his head 
 again, observing, that there was " a swell 
 getting up." The sun had just set; but instead 
 of its gold and crimson rays, a pale straw- 
 coloured halo indicated a change of weather. 
 Various little currents of air, called cat's-paws 
 by seamen, sprung up from all points of the 
 compass, and died away as suddenly. The 
 master now employed the crew in taking in the 
 gaff and jib- topsails, stopping the former to 
 the masthead ; our crossjack-yard, too, was 
 lowered, and squared by the lifts and braces ; 
 while he himself cleared the reef-pendants of 
 the mainsail, and hooked on the reef-tackles to 
 the boom. During the time we had been en- 
 gaged in observing the celerity with which all 
 these manoeuvres were executed, the sky had 
 become obscured. I do not remember having 
 observed any particular cloud before, but now 
 the whole heaven presented one uniform grey 
 mass of cloud. A little cockUng on the sur-
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 43 
 
 face of the swell, which was consideraTale, indi- 
 cated the approach of a breeze ; and the master 
 at once double reefed the mainsail, and shifted 
 her jib. The deck was clear from all incum- 
 brance, the skylights and boats properly secured, 
 and the binnacles lighted. Our foresheets were 
 still to windward, and the helm, of course, 
 down ; still not a breath of wind reached us. 
 I was astonished at the composure of the men 
 in this anxious moment, who were coiling the 
 tackle-falls, &c. with perfect neatness ; and the 
 vessel was as trim as on a gala day. 
 
 As was expected, the gale came on at once ; 
 and the cutter lay down, till the water was up 
 to the coamings of her hatches. " Let draw," 
 was the only word uttered by our taciturn 
 master, as he grasped the tiller, to shift his 
 helm. The little vessel began to move, and 
 recovered herself directly. " Flatten in that 
 jibsheet, and come aft to the mainsheet," was 
 the next command ; and the little cutter now 
 seemed to fly ; the spray flew from her bows, 
 and was borne by the gale to her crosstrees ;
 
 44 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 
 
 but she was dry and stiff'. The wind freshened, 
 and the sea rose rapidly, and heavy rain set in. 
 Still I was unwiUing to go below. The dark- 
 ness was now palpable, and the howling of the 
 wind derived new horrors from this circum- 
 stance. The light from the binnacle cast a 
 gleam on the anxious face of our master, whose 
 eyes were alternately fixed on the compass and 
 the after-leach of his mainsail, by which he 
 judged how well his vessel lay up to the wind. 
 This was the only perceptible light. A heavy 
 squall now came on ; " Peak and throat hal- 
 yards away there— Hook on the reeftackles. — In 
 two reefs — Go forward, Tom, and ease off that 
 jibsheet — Are those reefs in?" " Ready,** was 
 the brief reply ; " Hoist away then — Now get 
 another pull on the peak." The next process 
 was to reef her running bowsprit, and set a 
 smaller jib, which was promptly done; still he 
 seemed to think his jib was not well set, by the 
 question, " Isyourbobstay wellsetup?" — "Yes, 
 Sir." — *' Sweat the jib, then," which implied, 
 another pull on the jib purchase.
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 45 
 
 The sea was rather short, and the boom and 
 bowsprit alternately dipped. Our master now 
 warned us that he was going about ; " We 
 must make short boards of it to-night ;" this 
 hint was succeeded by, " Ready about;" — "All 
 ready. Sir;" — "Helm's a-lee — Tend thejibsheet 
 — Let draw — Aft all, and belay ;" and the little 
 cutter was dashing away on the other tack. It 
 was now past midnight; the rain and dark- 
 ness continued ; the gale seamed hardly to have 
 come to its strength, and he now seemed to 
 have more trouble in steering her. " Haul 
 down the foresail," and the hanks rattled on 
 the stay, as the wet sail came down ; she 
 seemed easier than before. " Light before the 
 beam," and looking in that direction, a light 
 was occasionally seen on the top of a sea ; or, 
 when we were on the rise, it appeared to set 
 like a star in the waves. " Show a light for- 
 ward," and a lantern was promptly attached to 
 the weather shrouds, " Look out;"— " Aye, 
 aye," were incessantly repeated, till the vessel 
 passed astern of us. She was a large brig.
 
 46 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 
 
 running before the wind ; having lost her main- 
 mast, and showing only the goosewings of her 
 foresail. She seemed hardly under command, 
 and was out of sight in a few minutes. " Is 
 the fid clear ?"—" Yes, Sir;"—" Clear the top- 
 rope and lower away — Now sheepshank the 
 shrouds and backstays — Spring away, you boy, 
 and gather in the slack of the topmast-stay." 
 The sea was now longer, and the cutter rose 
 easier, of course ; but in the squalls, the spoon- 
 drift almost blinded us, if we ventured to look 
 to windward. 
 
 It was just dawn, when the shrill voice of the 
 boy was heard, but indistinctly. " Sing out, 
 young one;"—" Sail on the weather-bow;" — 
 " What's she like?"—" She's teeth, but what 
 she is, I can't see ; she's coming end on ;" 
 — " Spring your luff. Sir," said Tom, " keep her 
 away." 
 
 " Now, Sir, luff, luff; she sees us, and gives 
 us the wind — She's an eighteen, bark rigged." 
 She passed close to leeward of us ; the officer
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 47 
 
 on deck wished to speak us, but we were both 
 going too fast through the water. A crash 
 occurred at this moment, and the mainsail came 
 thundering down, supported only by the peak 
 halyards,. Our friend was as imperturbable as 
 ever; " Foresheets to windward, and hoist away 
 the sail; ease off the jibsheet;" and, putting 
 her helm down, the cutter was hove-to in a 
 tremendous sea — sometimes she came up to the 
 wind, and her jib shivered with a deafening 
 noise ; then, falling off again, a sea would catch 
 her on the bow, and cover her with spray. In 
 the meantime, Tom had gone up to the mast- 
 head, and as speedily returning, reported the 
 eyebolt of the upper throat halyard-block was 
 gone. Sending the boy for a thimble, he 
 proceeded to splice two eyes, one in each end 
 of a piece of strong rope ; and seizing in the 
 thimble, he soon attached a laniard to one eye, 
 and sprung aloft, where he securely lashed it to 
 the masthead. The people on deck were, in tiie 
 meantime, employed in overhauling the fall of 
 the tackle ; and the block was soon hoisted up.
 
 48 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 
 
 and hooked on as before. " Bring her to the 
 winch, and up with her — so — Belay every inch 
 of that — In jibsheet — there — don't come up 
 any — Down with the foresail," and the httle 
 cutter was under way in a moment. I was de- 
 lighted with the calmness of the master, and 
 the readiness of the seamen, in all these little 
 occurrences. The sun had now risen, but the 
 rain being still heavy, the morning view was 
 gloomy enough ; the sea run long and high, 
 — what seamen call an overgrown sea ; and the 
 rapidity of the waves was astonishing. During 
 the night, the little vessel had passed the Long- 
 ships, and we were well out of the chops of the 
 channel ; we had not seen the lights, nor was 
 our neighbourhood to them alluded to. But 
 our experienced pilot had known all this. He 
 now gave up the helm to Tom, with the direc- 
 tion, " Keep her full; there's no needs to put 
 out the wind's eye this tack ;" and wrapping 
 himself up in a huge boat-cloak, he was soon 
 asleep under the weather quarter, with a swab 
 
 * A mop used in cleaning the deck. 
 
 *
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 49 
 
 to prevent him from fetching away. Another 
 man, and the boy were asleep below; and the 
 fourth was seated on the windlass, with a fold 
 of the foresail to keep off the spray, cutting 
 up meat and vegetables for their morning's 
 repast- It was still blowmg hard ; and havmg 
 no desire to turn in, I remained on deck, and 
 watched the angry billows. I was delighted 
 with the certainty with which the little cutter 
 luffed, as she rose to the waves ; there was 
 a grace, a nonchalance, (if I may use the term, 
 and a seaman will understand my meaning,) in 
 the inclination of her bow, as she neared the 
 wind on the crest of a wave ; and paused deli- 
 berately, before she plunged rapidly into the 
 valley of waters beneath. 
 
 There is no situation in which a man suffers 
 more, than at sea, when he does suffer; and there 
 are no miseries which bystanders, (of sound 
 stomachs,) are less liable to pity. Groans, 
 tears, and convulsive agony, are unnoticed ; or 
 perhaps, by way of comfort, they will say, 
 •' What, sick ! well, never mind, you'll get used 
 
 £
 
 50 ni(;ht scene in a south-wester. 
 
 to it," — or, " I was so, when I first went to 
 sea," — As if this could console you for the most 
 acute suffering there is. Who, that is thoroughly 
 sea sick, is not perfectly reckless of danger, or 
 indeed existence ? 1 speak by experience, for 
 " I was so when I first went to sea ;" yet I had 
 left my friend, groaning and retching, the whole 
 of this wild night. To be sure, I could have 
 been of no earthly use to him, and early in the 
 night, he had retired to his birth ; where he lay 
 on his back, not daring to move, uttering 
 various ejaculations — " Ha — no — there — oh! — 
 oh goodness — that'll do — oh — worse — there's a 
 roll — I shall die—" (or, at least, " be exces- 
 sively sick,") thought I, as I left him ; for it 
 does not agree with me to be a spectator on 
 these occasions. Indeed, I am always sick in a 
 packet ; where 1 once saw a strange scene — 
 seventy sick people on board the Medusa steam 
 packet, between Boulogne and Dover, besides 
 carriages and their respective crews. The leeside 
 of the vessel was speedily thronged, for there 
 was a heavy gale of wind with rain, and a fair
 
 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 51 
 
 specimen of a channel sea. The deck was 
 floored with people, and a sporting youth ob- 
 served, in answer to this, that they were Jioored 
 too. But not only to leeward, the weather 
 side was crowded with candidates, " Now, Sir, 
 have you done? this here lady's very bad," 
 and so on. The steward and mate running 
 about the vessel to windward, vociferating, 
 " Ye're to windward, ladies and gentlemen — • 
 hang well over ;" or a gentle whisper, " Lower 
 "ye're head. Ma'am, pray do — you're to windward 
 of that ere gemman mth the bald head — con- 
 sider the wind." The poor man lost his hat 
 and wig together, in a fruitless exertion, after 
 
 hours of sea sickness. But enough of this. 
 
 At noon our gale abated, and the weather 
 cleared. The master awoke : and after a hearty 
 meal, and, I confess, I wanted no persuasion to 
 follow his example, he again took the helm. 
 " Richard," said I to my friend, " will you 
 eat?" " Yeugh," was all the answer he could 
 make. We now shook out our reefs, and set 
 the foresail, and another jib. However, poor 
 
 e2
 
 52 NIGHT SCENE IN A SOUTH-WESTER. 
 
 Richard was so anxious to get ashore, that the 
 cutter was put about, and we swayed up the 
 yard to get the squaresail upon her, and were 
 not long in running into St. Ives. 
 
 I have never derived so much pleasure from 
 any thing, as these little excursions. — I glory in 
 the hardihood which is displayed in real sea- 
 manship.
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 [This Story is founded on an event which happened some years 
 ago at Paris. The real account of which may be found in a 
 French work, entitled " Causes Celebres."] 
 
 Jean Jaqu es Millecu was aman of penurious 
 habits, and originally poor. By cautious specu- 
 lation, however, he had realized a large fortune ; 
 when his sister died, leaving him sole guardian 
 of her husband's son, by a former wife, Lorenzo 
 de Valencourt, who, at that time, was about ten 
 years of age ; and also of a little girl, about 
 two years younger, his niece. This child had a 
 large fortune settled on lier. Years rolled away ; 
 and Millecu, by dint of perseverance, grew very
 
 54 ROSALIE. 
 
 rich, and, of course, more eager than ever in his 
 speculations. 
 
 Lorenzo de Valencourt was at this time a fine 
 youth, in his one and twentieth year, and had 
 been presented with a commission in a regi- 
 ment of the Hne, ordered abroad on immediate 
 service. Brought up with Rosahe, he hardly 
 knew how fondly he loved her, until this imme- 
 diate order for his departure opened his eyes. 
 His bosom burned with the pride of his new 
 career, while his heart swelled at the bare idea 
 of leaving Rosalie ; and she, when he told her 
 of his appointment, wished him joy from her 
 heart, yet burst into tears as she spoke. There 
 is no language more readily acquired, or more 
 easily understood, than that of love ; and each, 
 at that moment, without any declaration, knew 
 they loved. This knowledge, while it added to 
 their distress at parting, was a balm to them 
 after the sad hour of separation; and they 
 parted with fond assurances of constancy, and 
 hopes of future happiness. Lorenzo found hope 
 springing up in his bosom, in the agony of
 
 K O S A L I E . 55 
 
 departure, while the affectionate girl, blinded 
 with her tears, stood at the window, waving her 
 handkerchief, long after Lorenzo was out of 
 sight, and then turned to weep at his absence, 
 and pray for his safe return. 
 
 Shortly after Lorenzo's departure, Millecu 
 received a letter from an old associate in the 
 paths of gain ; who had made an enormous for- 
 tune abroad, and was returning to his native 
 country, to enjoy the fruits of his speculations. 
 On his arrival, he proceeded to his friend, Mil- 
 lecu, who received him with open arms, and in 
 a few days a match was talked of between them, 
 and Rosalie was doomed to become the bride of 
 this old beau, whose years were only outnum- 
 bered by his louis d'or. 
 
 Behold him in his new character of a gay 
 and ardent lover, dressed " a quatre epingles," 
 and incessant in his attentions. With the 
 punctuality of an old man of business, at a cer- 
 tain hour he might be seen strutting out of his 
 superb hotel, and directing his steps towards 
 the mansion of his belle. Imagine a man, who
 
 56 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 certainly never could have boasted of beauty ; 
 and now^ twisted, knotted, and wrinkled into an 
 old man of sixty-eight years and more ; adorned 
 with a smart peruke, and a coat of the most 
 vivid green, with a collar so high and stiff, (in 
 those days denominated a " hot curl,") that 
 his little pig-tail stuck out at right angles from 
 his neck, which was encased with folds of rich 
 India muslins, with worked corners ; tied in a 
 manner to present ends without end, fluttering 
 in the breeze. A white damask waistcoat, 
 ornamented and embroidered in gold, black silk 
 inexpressibles, white stockings, and a large 
 square-toed description of pump completed his 
 attire. 
 
 He carried his hat in his hand, when walking 
 down the shady sides of the streets, carefully 
 putting it on when he crossed the sunny re- 
 gions. His other hand balanced a gold-headed 
 cane, between the fore-finger and thumb ; and 
 thus he proceeded, with a mincing step, down 
 the street, daintily smiling to himself, and 
 evidently discoursing with internal satisfaction.
 
 ROSALIE. 57 
 
 A few paces short of the door he would pause, 
 to adjust the various ends of his cravat ; although 
 perhaps the less ostensible reason might be the 
 recruitino; of his wind after his walk, as he was 
 a " decided case of liver." His knock at the 
 door could not be mistaken ; and he entered the 
 house with a smile for the servant, consequen- 
 tial, yet benign. 
 
 But how is poor Rosahe ? In a " marriage 
 de convenance," love has but little to say. In 
 fact, being a matter of business, he is generally 
 very properly excluded ; for he frequently makes 
 but a bad bargain, and is not very apt to make 
 the best of it. So Rosalie was not consulted ; 
 and she was told one unlucky day, that every 
 thing was ready, and that the marriage would 
 take place the following Thursday ; and as ab- 
 ruptly left to her meditations on the subject. 
 She, poor girl, knew she loved Lorenzo; and 
 her little heart threatened to break at the bare 
 thought of loving another ; and Monsieur St. 
 Louis certainly never occurred to her as that 
 other. She pined like a delicate flower.
 
 58 ROSALIE. 
 
 during the absence of a fostering sun. Day.i 
 after day her health declined, and, all unsus- 
 picious of her complaint, St. Louis lavished r 
 his detested assiduities ; and played the lover to 
 perfection. He talked of " ma pauvre Rosalie, 
 elle est d'une sante si delicate ; que I'aniour 
 meme I'a beaucoup change." One evening, a 
 sudden faintness came over her, and before her 
 maid could render her the least assistance, she 
 swooned. After various attempts to restore 
 animation, without success, the doctors de- 
 spaired ; and when some hours had elapsed, 
 finding the extremities already cold, they pro- 
 nounced her dead. According to the custom of 
 the country, she was carried to the church, pre- 
 vious to the last rites. 
 
 Lorenzo had been in Spain but a short time, 
 before his regiment was in action ; and he re- 
 ceived so severe a wound, that the surgeon of 
 the regiment declared that his native air, and 
 proper care, might save him ; but that, situated 
 as they were, he had no chance of cure ; so his 
 colonel gave him leave to return to Paris. On
 
 ROSALIE. o9 
 
 his arrival, he passed the church he had so 
 often frequented with RosaUe ; and he entered, 
 to breathe a prayer of thanksgiving for his 
 return, in which Rosahe and her vi^elfare 
 were most predominant. Observing prepara- 
 tions for a funeral, his curiosity led him to the 
 bier, and he beheld — Rosalie! Stunned by the 
 severity of this blow, he sunk to the ground, 
 and was for some time insensible. Recovering, 
 he advanced to the corpse, and in speechless 
 agony gazed on her pallid features. A scalding 
 tear rolled down his cheek, and fell on hers — 
 then bending over her, he pressed his lips on 
 her fair temple, and started. He thought she 
 moved — "Ah! no," he said, " she has perished 
 like a tender flower, that, nourished by the 
 warmth of an early spring, having burst out in 
 single loveliness, lives through the sunny day ; 
 but the evening frost nips the fair promise of its 
 lovely bloom. O, Rosalie! I survive to weep 
 over thy loved remains. Thus will I renew my 
 
 vows of constancy — thine, ever thine !" Again 
 he started — " Does she live, or have my fever'd
 
 60 ROSALIE. 
 
 kisses warmed, for the instant, her cold Ups? 
 Ah ! see — there is a hectic still upon her cheek, 
 like the first blush of morning through the grey 
 mist of summer — speak to me, look on me, 
 Rosalie ! — tis I, Lorenzo calls — surely she 
 lives !" 
 
 Rosalie was in fact not dead. Worn out 
 with the despair her approaching marriage occa- 
 sioned, she had gradually declined, until nature 
 became too weak for the continued struggle. 
 She sunk into a trance; and in that state, being 
 conveyed to the church, the freshness of the air 
 contributed to accelerate her revival. 
 
 At the time Lorenzo entered the church, she 
 was recovering from her stupor. Tenderly he 
 watched her returning colour, and the increas- 
 ing strength of her breathing ; until, by a smile 
 of returning consciousness, she dispelled his 
 anxiety. It was no time for useless converse, 
 and how to secure her from her guardian, was 
 the immediate subject of their consultation. 
 At length it was resolved that she should fly 
 with him ; and, after their marriage, claim her
 
 ROSALIE. 61 
 
 fortune from Old Millecu, and defy his utmost 
 anger. 
 
 We left Monsieur St. Louis ardent, I had 
 almost said doting, in his love. When he heard 
 of the supposed fatal event, he shed a few tears ; 
 at least his face was carefully concealed in his 
 cambric handkerchief for a very decent period, 
 when he rushed speechless from the house. I 
 cannot but think that in this, at least, he was 
 sincere ; for, at the best of times, he was a man 
 of few words, and scrupulous as to outward 
 forms and customs. From that day he walked 
 about in a fresh suit of black, with jet buckles 
 in his shoes ; and the powder was shaken out of 
 his wig, till the very curls looked disconsolate. 
 In this garb he might be seen " in attitudes" 
 on the benches in the Boulevards, and other 
 public places ; reckless of the passing crowd, 
 and musino- on his losses. Millecu was a man 
 too much devoted to the charms of gold, to 
 regret the event which considerably increased 
 his wealth ; and in a few days renewed his spe- 
 culations with his usual activity, and of course
 
 62 ROSALIE. 
 
 lost no time in making use of his newly-acquir- 
 ed wealth. 
 
 What must have been his consternation at the 
 mysterious disappearance of the body, especi- 
 ally as he had no thought of Lorenzo, and none 
 had seen the removal. In fact, he had lately 
 heard that Lorenzo was mortally wounded in 
 his first engagement. The cup of his ruin 
 seemed complete, when he received a summons 
 to appear before a Juge de Paix, to answer the 
 demands on the estate of the late Rosalie de 
 Valencourt ; made by Lorenzo de Valencourt, 
 her nearest of kin. This citation he was com- 
 pelled to obey. Trembling and agitated, he 
 sought his friend St. Louis, to consult with him 
 as to the best means of meeting the claims on 
 this estate. Not finding him he returned home, 
 perplexed and undecided. 
 
 In the meantime St. Louis wandered about 
 Paris ; brightening up when he got without the 
 circle of his acquaintance, as he then threw off 
 his tragic face and air. Returning rather late 
 one evening from an obscure cafe which he fre-
 
 ROSALIE. 63 
 
 quented, to his horror, he met RosaUe and Lo- 
 renzo. They paused — passed him — vanished — 
 and he rushed homewards, petrified with ideas 
 of wandering spirits, &c. Each cracking of the 
 wainscot, or a casual foot over-head, seemed 
 the precursor of some horrible apparition; and 
 he dared not extinguish his candle on retiring 
 to his bed-room. His attendant thought that his 
 master must either be very drunk, or that his 
 little wits had gone wool-gathering. The night 
 passed, and his terrors were unabated ; and he 
 dared not stir out in the morning, until Millecu, 
 full of his business, called and dragged him, 
 unwilling enough, to the house of the Juge de 
 Paix. 
 
 Summoning his utmost firmness, Millecu en- 
 tered the room with the terrified St. Louis ; who, 
 pausing at the door, exclaimed, " There they 
 are — there they are." Millecu was short- 
 sighted, nearly to blindness ; and did not per- 
 ceive Lorenzo and Rosalie close by the judge, 
 till they advanced, and requested his blessing. 
 Oveijoyed to find that his sins were so lightly
 
 64 ROSALIE. 
 
 visited, he gladly bestowed it ; and all parties 
 returned to his house, more happy than they 
 quitted it. St. Louis declaring that he was 
 quite cured of his love ; and that the beautiful 
 Rosalie should inherit his estates at his death : 
 observing at the same time, that even his age 
 could still afford him the chance of benefiting 
 others, whose happiness he had once so nearly 
 marr'd.
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 1 HAD been abroad lor some years; and was on 
 the point of returning to England, when I re- 
 ceived a letter from an intimate friend, to 
 inform me of the death of his wife ; and in- 
 treating me to call on him, on my return to 
 England. Being detained by illness at Paris, for 
 above two months after the receipt of his letter, 
 I was hardly surprised to find a pressing invi- 
 tation, waiting my arrival at Dover. My friend 
 wrote under great agitation of mind, and the 
 recurrence in every line to the awful visitation, 
 to which he declared he should die a victim, 
 hastened my departure for Holme Park. 
 
 I arrived in time for dinner, and was much 
 .shocked at the wild and forlorn appearance of 
 
 r
 
 66 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 my liiend. I endeavoured, during the evening, 
 to withdraw his attention from the griefs which 
 seemed to overwhehu him ; but every attempt 
 was vain. He instantly relapsed into a reverie ; 
 and what particularly struck me at this time, 
 was an evident nervous propensity to relate 
 what pressed on his mind, which constantly 
 came to his lips, and was as constantly avoided. 
 Bedtime arrived, and although he was languid 
 and drowsy, it required all my eloquence to 
 persuade him to retire to rest. 
 
 At breakfast, the next morning, he was, if 
 any thing, more nervous and agitated than 
 before. Having nothing to detain me in Eng- 
 land, I proposed an excursion on the continent, 
 as a means of recruiting his spirits ; and, ob- 
 serving that he was quite passive, I decided 
 for him, and ordered post-horses for Dover. 
 Mr. Winfred said I to his man, " Put up some 
 clothes for your master, above all, plenty of 
 shirts, &c. for we shall be absent for some time." 
 Looking round, I saw my friend pale, and 
 nearly fainting, however, he struggled against
 
 THK SOMNAMBULIST. 67 
 
 this weakness, and observing that he was 
 better, he left the room. 
 
 Albeit, in my peculiar line, I will not ex- 
 patiate on the various effects of a gale of wind 
 from the westward, and a heavy channel sea, 
 on seventy-two sick passengers on board his Ma- 
 jesty's steam-packet Spitfire. What with smoke, 
 rain, sickness, &.C. we all found four hours a 
 very long while. I really pitied several re- 
 spectable, prudish, middle-aged ladies, who, 
 extended powerless on the wet deck, vainly 
 invoked the assistance of their equally neces- 
 sitous companions, only ** to settle their things," 
 which had certainly much neglected their office. 
 Suffice it to say, that in four hours we arrived 
 safely at Calais. To see the shore was one 
 thing, but to land was a separate and difficult 
 affair. Crowds of Poissardes, Pilots, Polissons, 
 &,c. all speaking together; and mustachioed 
 Douaniers, formed a wall that was impenetrable ; 
 and the poor sick passengers were obliged to 
 wait for a more favourable opportunity. 
 
 At last we landed, and went to the Douanne 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 to see after our luggage. My poor i'riend, who 
 was sick as well as irritable, was much annoyed 
 by a remark of one of the searchers. " Par 
 example, ce Monsieur ne manquera pas des 
 chemises," elicited by the strict attention which 
 Mr.Winfrid had paid to my advice. We lost 
 no time in supping and going to bed. In the 
 morning, my friend, was in better spirits, and 
 even proposed a walk to the pier ; where we saw 
 the impression, in brass, of Louis XVIII's foot, 
 which I cannot recommend as a model of the 
 " human" foot " divine ;" but I can easily 
 suppose it exact. " Tel que vous le voyez ;" there 
 it is, with a pillar, to commemorate the event of 
 his landing. We inspected the port, and in 
 returning, I pointed out to my companion the re- 
 volving hghthouse on the church tower, which 
 is to be seen from Dover ; and last, (not least,) 
 the bill of Les Freres-Dessin, and our postil- 
 lion's jack-boots, both of which must be seen, 
 not described. OftVe rolled to Paris, and from 
 thence to Marseilles ; which I cannot pass over 
 in silence, on account of its peculiar beauty.
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 69 
 
 and the interest 1 naturalli/ took in that great 
 tjea-port, during a residence of some months. 
 
 Marseilles is divided into the old and new 
 town ; in the latter of which, are some fine 
 streets and walks. Enterins; from the Porte- 
 d'-Aix, the vista is of great length, and planted 
 with trees ; the street, or rather, carriage-ways, 
 being on both sides, with a broad gravel walk in 
 the centre. The Canebiere, a fine, broad, short 
 street, leads directly to the Port, crowded with 
 vessels of every nation. This street is at right 
 angles with the first. There are walks in dif- 
 ferent parts of the town called allees, of which 
 the Alice Meihlan is the finest. Out of the 
 town, there is a botanical garden, but nothing 
 worth recording. 
 
 The town is /strongly fortified towards the 
 sea ; having the Chateau de Notre Dame de la 
 Garde, on the sunnnit of a lofty hill, v»hich rears 
 its rocky head and sides far above the town : 
 the mouth of the harbour is protected by two 
 ports, called St. Jean and St. Nicolas, and 
 batteries a flour d'e;ui. Just outside, on a
 
 70 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 rocky head, called La tete de Maune, is another 
 battery, under which the Ionia, eighteen gun- 
 brig, was lost in 1823. About two or three 
 miles out from this head, are three islands, 
 strongly fortified. The principal fortification is 
 the Chateau d'lf, where vessels perform their 
 quarantine. They are constructing a break- 
 water for their protection, which is to connect 
 two of the islands. The view of this bay, with 
 its wall of hills and mountains is magnificent, 
 especially of a clear evening at sun-set, when all 
 seaward is liquid gold, and the mountains and 
 coast violet and the richest red. I dare not 
 say more of it, as all description, however good, 
 can convey but a little of its splendour to the 
 reader. From the Point de la Couronne, to 
 Cap Croissette, the bay extends eighteen 
 miles. 
 
 The Port is bustling and amusing ; the various 
 costumes, the different vessels, boats, porters, 
 custom-house officers, promenaders, idlers, and 
 merchants, render it a most lively spectacle. 
 There, may be seen a slovenly sentry, carrying
 
 ^^ 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 his musket, as if lie intended to enfilade the 
 port ; with huge mustachios, ragged and dirty. 
 In the service of the douane, he is placed 
 there to prevent the smoking of tobacco, and 
 the landing goods sans permis, &c. yet he 
 usually finds a " camarade," to give him a whiff 
 from his pipe, idly leaning against the post, 
 which supports a notice to this effect : " II est 
 defendu de fiiiner le tabac ici." In another 
 place, groups of idlers are seen playing -at cup 
 and ball, (grown children,) and whose occu- 
 pation is to watch the cheeses- roll on shore, 
 from the decks of some sturdy Dutch galliot, 
 or picking up the uiiburnt ends of segars. 
 Further on, a French quarrel — all noise and 
 bloodless ; the non-combatants dragged away 
 by their respective friends, and becoming more 
 savage and noisy, as the possibility of an en- 
 counter diminishes. I remember (soit dit en 
 parenthcse) an adventure which once happened 
 to me in this very port. I had been to watch 
 the setting sun from the rampart, and staid till 
 it was nearly dark ; returning by the port, I
 
 72 THE SOMNAMI5ULIST. 
 
 passed a cabaret, out of which rushed a liaggard 
 fellow, incessantly screaming, " Au secours, au 
 secours on va m'assommer," and getting be- 
 hind me, he seized me round the waist, and thus 
 protected, boldly faced his enemy, uttering 
 volumes of abuse. The other rushed on, with 
 his eyes shut, like a mad bull, having a long 
 piece of rusty iron in his hand, with which he 
 vowed to exterminate my hero ; and suiting the 
 action to the word, he struck out ; (thanks to 
 the instructions of poor Shaw, the lifeguards- 
 man) I remembered how tender the back of a 
 clenched hand is, and fortunately struck his ; 
 the iron flew into the water, about ten feet 
 behind him ; and, on my assuring my friend I 
 would not leave him, I was liberated, and knocked 
 him down. I did not like my situation, as 
 there was a crowd, and I heard s'acre Angiois, 
 ces maudits Got dams, &c. However, as I did 
 not strike him whoi dovm, and did not return 
 his abuse, but waited an opportunity to pro- 
 ceed on my way, his courage revived ; and he 
 struck the man, who prevented his meditated
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 73 
 
 attack upon myself; on which the scale of 
 approbation became favourable to me ; and 
 when he was in the act of striking-, I again 
 succeeded in knocking him backwards into the 
 water, and Vive I'Anglois — Bravi mon brave — 
 Joli Gargon 9a, was the cry. Glad to get off 
 so easily, I turned to my friend, who wanted to 
 kiss me in his gratitude, and wished him good 
 evening, and " a ca, salut la compagnie," 
 brouffht me clear off. These scenes occur con- 
 stantly, and render it unpleasant. The peace 
 was just concluded with the Spaniards, and 
 Spanish refuges were to be seen in every 
 corner, muffled up in cloaks, collecting in groups 
 to curse the soil they trod on ; and lament their 
 hapless country's destiny. 
 
 But all this is foreign to my story. We 
 retraced our steps, and returned to England, 
 my friend having recovered his spirits and good 
 looks ; but I sometimes perceived irritation 
 about him. " Pray, my dear fellow," said I 
 very innocently one day, whenmy blanchisseussc 
 had every week sent me home my clean things
 
 74 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 minus a portion of the quantity entrusted to her 
 care, " How many shirts a week do you lose ?" 
 " Pshaw — how can you talk such nonsense — 
 how can I tell ?" was his flippant answer ; — A la 
 bonheur; but I did not quite know why this 
 should make him so cross. 
 
 We proceeded immediately to Holme Park, 
 and being tired with our journey, retired early 
 to bed. The next morning, my friend appeared 
 very unwell, but I seemed to take no notice, 
 and he said nothing. After breakfast, we took 
 a stroll in the garden, in which there was a 
 part which his late wife claimed as her own ; and 
 the gardener had positive orders never to allow 
 it to be touched. " Ah!" said my friend, 
 " the moles are at work here ;" I observed that 
 they were gone, as the mould was firm and 
 unbroken; but he pointed out a fresh place. 
 The day passed heavily, and at night he seemed 
 to hesitate about going to bed. " Harry," said 
 T to him, " you're a devilish odd fellow, to sit 
 nodding there all night, and not go to bed." 
 He was, in fact, always drowsy after dinner,
 
 THE SOIMNAMBULIST. 75 
 
 and never woke up thoroughly. At last we went 
 to roost, 
 
 I was called early, by the desire of poor 
 Harry, who told me he had passed a wretched 
 night, and that he felt ill and feverish ; I saw 
 something oppressed him, but I left him to de- 
 cide for himself. In the evening, he said sud- 
 denly, " You will laugh at me, I know ; and 
 in fact what I am now going to relate is, prima 
 facie, too ridiculous for credence — yet it is very 
 true. I returned here after my wife's luneral — 
 (she died in town, you know,) and was low and 
 wretched. Two months before, thought I, she 
 was, with my assistance, cultivating that very 
 spot where we were yesterday ; and, — well I 
 went to bed, and I soon fell asleep. Conceive 
 my horror, the next morning I woke — without a 
 shirt, * Wilfred,' said I to my valet, ' did you 
 put out a shirt for me last night?' he said yes, 
 and that he had taken away the other in the 
 morning, I was confounded — I dreaded the 
 next night — it came — I went to bed — and rose 
 in the mornino- — shirtless !
 
 76 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 " Seriously affected by this, I hardly dared go 
 
 to bed ; but when there, I fell asleep, and •' ' 
 
 no shirt in the morning. I then endeavoured 
 to watch ; but, spite of every endeavour, I slept, 
 and was — " sans every thing" in the morning.' 
 It went on till we got to Calais, where this 
 visitation ceased. Nor did it ever happen until 
 our return here, when I went to bed in my usual 
 attire, and woke as I tell you. If this is to go 
 on, it will kill me ; besides, I really have not 
 means to afford the consumption ; I have already 
 lost fifty of these necessary garments." 
 
 This was beyond a joke ; and comforting him 
 as well as I could, I sat up with him, deter- 
 mined to watch myself, and discover, if possible, 
 the occasion of this mystery. I had watched 
 for some hours, and Henry was fast asleep ; 
 when by degrees, the lights seemed to burn 
 more clearly ; and hearing a noise, I turned, and 
 saw various disembodied shirts prowling about 
 t'lc room, turning their armless sleeves round 
 each other's collars, and so on, till they quietly 
 waltzed out of the room into their respective
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 77 
 
 drawers ; and the noise of their closing portals 
 awoke me. It was daylight, and Henry was 
 still sleeping profoundly. Convinced of his 
 security, I turned down the bed-clothes from 
 his shoulder, and found him— shirtless. 
 
 I was now puzzled beyond measure, and al- 
 most suspected that I had really seen his sl/irl 
 waltzing off; and I examined the drawers, but 
 they were locked, so that it could not have gone 
 there. But where was it? It was certainly 
 gone. But where ? How ? To use a very com- 
 mon French expression of ignorance, " Ali ! 
 je ne vous dirai pas." 
 
 He awoke, poor fellow, frantic ; and I told 
 him fairly, I had not slept till near three in the 
 morning, and then only till sunrise, (about a 
 quarter past four,) but his shirt was gone. As 
 I really thought him dying, I agreed to watch 
 again the next night ; and took a long nap dur- 
 ing the day, to be better prepared. I watched 
 anxiously. About two o'clock Henry rose, fast 
 asleep, but with his eyes wide open. He went 
 to his study, which was the next room, and had
 
 78 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 a glass door, which opened to the garden ; he 
 unbolted it, opened it, and walked out. I, of 
 course, followed him. He proceeded to the tool- 
 house, selected a spade, and, recrossing the lawn, 
 he dug a hole in the part of the garden, for- 
 merly called his wife's own garden ; and deli- 
 berately stripping off his only garment, buried 
 it in the hole, and replaced the spade in the 
 shed, after filling in the earth. He returned, 
 Joseph like, to bed. He was, of course, frantic 
 and shirtless when he awoke ; but I persuaded 
 him to take a walk, saying, that it would abate 
 the fever on him. I led him to the spot ; and 
 seeing two fresh mole heaps, I vowed I would 
 dig him out ; I went for a spade, and dug out 
 a shirt ! ! ! and calling the gardener, he dug out 
 fifty more ! ! in various stages of decomposition. 
 I need not add, that my friend recovered his 
 health and spirits, so that his linen was no 
 longer so great a drain upon his purse.
 
 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Not long ago, it was my misfortune to be con- 
 fined to my room for some time, by a very severe 
 accident; during which time I was much re- 
 duced by bleeding, low diet, and lowering me- 
 dicines. My neiTes had for some days been 
 strangely affected, and the irritation about my 
 head and temples was at times scarcely endur- 
 able. The least noise or surprise agitated me, 
 till my limbs trembled ; and towards night the 
 symptoms always increased. The dark yellow 
 London fogs added to the gloom of my mind — 
 in short, I was fairly be-devil'd. 
 
 One evening, after a day, a long day of pain, 
 a carriage drew up to the door of my hotel, and
 
 80 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the bustle and confusion below announced a fresh 
 arrival. Hitherto the apartment over mine had 
 been untenanted, but, alas! the arrival was 
 ushered up; and, after a while, trunks and 
 other things were carried up : and it being then 
 near twelve o'clock, I retired to bed, taking a 
 strong opiate, in the hopes of obtaining a night's 
 rest. 
 
 I was soon settled, that is, I soon retired to 
 bed, delighted at the thoughts of a quiet night. 
 But the gentleman over-head began to move, 
 and I could not avoid listening. He is a middle- 
 aged man, thought I, by his step — he had a 
 bad cough, but he coughed cautiously, and with 
 temper, like a man long inured to the vexations 
 of the world — yes, he is a middle-aged man. 
 
 At regular intervals, and with great delibera- 
 tion, he hemmed, coughed, blew his nose deci- 
 dedly, and then rang his bell firmly : then, re- 
 turning to his seat, was quiet, till another re- 
 volving period excited him to his avocations. 
 Suddenly, with a start, he rose and rang his 
 bell ; and he slowly and pedantically, more than
 
 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 81 
 
 affectedly, exclaimed, " Way tar — a — chamber- 
 candle. He is a methodical man too." 
 
 A sentiment of pity now arose in my breast. 
 His bed-room was over mine; and, for a long- 
 while, I heard him pace his chamber with agi- 
 tated steps. He is a man of sorrow then — ^Poor 
 fellow, I wish I could console him. I will not 
 deny that there lurked with this wish, an idea, 
 that, were my friend consoled, 1 should have 
 some chance of sleep; which, with this man's 
 peripatetic tribulation, I had no prospect of. 
 Atlast I really grew fever'd and ill. What is 
 he about? — he drew his bed-curtains — que le 
 •bon Dieu soit beni pour ca — he is getting into 
 bed, thought I. He hemmed, times out of 
 number — coughed, poked at the fire patiently, 
 but still with agitation — then stalked across the 
 room— by the sound, I should guess that, at 
 this moment, he had but one slipper on. He 
 rung his bell strongly. What does he want? — 
 is he ill? — but he opened his door, and calmly 
 called for " some wawm wawtar," and shut his 
 door forcibly. Now this is a prig, who cares 
 
 G
 
 82 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN 
 
 only for himself— a cold-blooded fellow, that 
 would be benefited by the extra pulsations of 
 my heated temples — for I grew fretful. 
 
 Poke, poke at the fire — then he seemed to be 
 arranging the furniture — bang went a table on 
 its squeaking castors against the wainscot — 
 thump went a chair on the floor — then he with- 
 drew the bed-curtains pettishly, and traversed 
 the room again, in pursuit of a refractory chair; 
 which, remaining conveniently in no possible 
 place, was at last forcibly ejected, and confined 
 in a small inner apartment. Next, he sneezed 
 violently and loudly — Ha! he is catching cold; 
 that's all he will get for over-heating himself, 
 and fevering me. 
 
 A light sleepy step, a startling knock, and 
 " the water, if you please. Sir." — " Is it quite 
 wawm?" enquired he. His earnest queries con- 
 cerning dry sheets, &c. were satisfied by Mrs. 
 Grillon herself, by solemn asseverations, affirma- 
 tive of that fact. The door closed, and he was 
 off" again, double quick time, full of energy. 
 He has eaten too much supper, (after supper walk
 
 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 83 
 
 a mile, &c.) — I should not have cared had he 
 walked thirty, any where else — there is no saying, 
 indeed, where I did not wish him, except where 
 he was. But " as all good things," and. Hea- 
 ven be praised, bad things too, " have an end," 
 this o;entleman drew his curtains, and, I thoug-ht, 
 was at roost; when, all of a sudden, thump, 
 both heels on the floor — out of bed jumped my 
 hero — quelle mouche te pique — [ mournfully eja- 
 culated. Rake, rake at the fire. Ah! this comes 
 of you're being at such pains to light it. Sir. 
 I now saw the whole thing — his fire was of 
 course composed of coal dust, rather moist, and 
 a few sticks — et puis — rien^-Volumes of smoke 
 increased his cough, and the cold made him 
 sneeze; now that he was well tucked up — the 
 fire burnt up — and he was compelled, (" good" 
 methodical " man," I cannot call him easy,) to 
 jump up and destroy all he had been at such 
 pains to accomplish, like many a wise man be- 
 fore him. But now the fire would burn; and at 
 last, when he had raked out the fire from the 
 ^*ate, the coals lay flaming on the hearth — as I 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 
 
 have seen a refractory child, expelled from its 
 little society, still giggle on the stool of repent- 
 ance. But his patience (where was mine?) was 
 at last exhausted; and he poured torrents of 
 water on the flames, and retreated to his nest — 
 (what a bore for the housemaid, thought I). 
 All was now at rest, except my poor nervous 
 
 frame — I could not sleep at all. Hark! 
 
 What an odd noise what is it? 
 
 jVIy middle-aged, methodical gentleman, is in a 
 fit — but he woke, hemmed long, and unsuccess- 
 fully; then, changing his mode of attack, sub- 
 dued his enemy. This man, thought I, should 
 be proceeded against as an unlicensed hawker. 
 Finding it in vain to expect a nap, I amused 
 myself in figuring the man. I decided, from 
 all that had passed, that he was middle-aged, 
 methodical, and a prig. But now, to give " the 
 very form," he has a long nose, from its tone, 
 and two large feet attached to two thin lono- 
 legs, for his feet always sounded as too large for 
 his shanks. His hair, probably sandy, straight, 
 well cut, combed, and brushed into a relVactorv
 
 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 85 
 
 sheaf on the top of his head, that provokingly 
 falls raggedly on either side. His bad teeth are 
 well cleaned — his hands white, with long fingers, 
 well-paired nails, long and very convex, with 
 the serai-lune carefully exposed; a few white 
 spots on the lucky fingers, and a sallow face. 
 
 It now became necessary to dress him. So I 
 selected for his attire, some veiy clean linen, a 
 neckcloth folded over a pad, and ill tied . The 
 black coat (for I was sure of his profession) 
 well brushed, but looking fatigued with its long 
 services; a very low collar to the same, exhibit- 
 ing an equal proportion of neckcloth on the back 
 of his neck, with the part under his chin — his 
 kerseymere waistcoat advancing in years, and 
 his inexpressibles very light grey, and cousin- 
 germansto the species denominated " tighfs," — 
 of course fleecy hosiery at this time of year, and 
 at his time of life. 
 
 Thus did I dress him, before he had well got 
 into his first sleep ; which was rather hard on 
 him, after the desperate struggles it had cost 
 him, to divest himself of their fetters. In re-
 
 86 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 
 
 venge, his loud and continued snoring afforded 
 me fresh cause for restlessness, and foretold his 
 waking hour. 
 
 He is a punctual man, thought I, as I heard 
 him thump both heels on the floor, and yawning 
 audibly, at eight o'clock precisely. He hemmed, 
 coughed, blew his nose, stirred the fire, when a 
 sneezing fit awoke him, and he set out on his 
 travels — (oh ! what a practical edition of " le voy- 
 age au tour de ma chambre,") — hemmed again, 
 and, &c. What a vile habit — then rung, and 
 called for " wawm wawtar." His shoes had a 
 most clerical creak : I am sure that man, for the 
 last thirty years, always began with the same 
 article of dress, never altering his mode of enter- 
 ing his habiliments. He rung the bell again, 
 but did not open the door, when the waiter an- 
 swered. Way tar, break-fast. — Tea, coffee, or 
 
 chocolate? I — take — tea. Green or black. 
 
 Sir? Black. — Rolls, toast, eggs, ham, beef 
 roast and boiled, nice tongue, Sir? Boil me — 
 an egg. — One egg. Sir? One. — Hard or soft. 
 Sir? Three minutes and — a — half. Toast
 
 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 87 
 
 dry or buttered ? Dry, with butter. — At what 
 time, Sir? Nine. This man hves by rule, 
 and is wound up for his day's work ; I wish 
 they would put him in order, or let him run 
 down. 
 
 The clock struck nine; and as the bar and 
 passage to the kitchen is under my apartment, 
 1 heard, " Come, be alive there, the hum for 
 the gentleman on the second floor — run you and 
 get his hegg — he's a waiting — I've got the 
 toast." 
 
 At eleven o'clock a plain gig drew up to the 
 door; a steady horse, plain groom, and very 
 plain master ; who bounced first into my room. 
 '* I beg pardon. Sir." I bowed him out, and 
 in his confusion he left my door wide open. 1 
 had just rung for breakfast. Presently I heard 
 the waiter say, '* I wish you good day, Sar;" 
 so I looked out. Down came my hero, dressed 
 as I described him, only really in "the lean and 
 slipper'd pantaloon," and "his hose a world too 
 wide for his shrunk shanks" — and with a smart 
 blue and red modern stufl' cloak on his arm — He
 
 88 THE SPARE-GENTLEMAN. 
 
 was pale, thin, and what I fancied him; but I 
 saw very little further than his nose, the passage 
 was so dark. 
 
 " Waiter, who is the gentleman above?" — 
 " Can't say, Sir; T only came here last night. 
 The gentleman is a stranger in the house, and 
 has no servant, so we doan't know his name — 
 he's a spare, middle-aged man, forty, or there- 
 abouts — seemingly in the church ." He returned 
 no more, and I never could find out who the 
 Spare Gentleman was.
 
 TALE OF A PRIEST. 
 
 In the progress of a tour that I made some years 
 ago in Switzerland, I stopped at a chalet, at 
 the foot of the Col de Bonne Homme, for refresh- 
 ment. It was a wet, cold day, and I had still 
 eight hours walk to Contamines, where I intended 
 to sleep, therefore I was anxious to set out; but 
 an old Priest, whom I had found on my arrival, 
 persuaded me to wait, and share his omelette. 
 
 During its preparation and consumption, ray 
 old host chattered away; and by degrees the 
 conversation turned upon superstition and super- 
 natural occurrences. He evidently had a tale 
 to relate; and \ Jialwd till I fairly tickled )m/ I rout 
 to my hand, and he began a verbose narrative, 
 in ihesc words:
 
 90 TALK OF A PRIEST. 
 
 The mind, voyez vous, Monsieur, is formed 
 by nature for a social intercourse and rational 
 communion with others; and, of course, loses 
 much of its power by ^seclusion. The train of 
 unpleasant ideas, which spring up in the se- 
 cluded imagination, become heated, until they 
 ripen in the gloom of melancholy and supersti- 
 tion; and the weakened understanding is no 
 longer able to discover the truth or fallacy of 
 these nervous thoughts. After a time, these 
 imaginary horrors become, as it were, embodied. 
 
 A mind, however free, naturally, from these 
 gloomy ideas, soon allows them to take root, 
 and supports them while they destroy it; and a 
 mere trifle will, if repeated, become " confir- 
 mation strong, as proof of holy writ." " Selon 
 votre Shakspere." I was in my youth a wit- 
 ness of the truth of these facts, from a singular 
 and ridiculous experiment, although it had 
 nearly ended fatally. It was this : Two medical 
 students, of the university of which 1 was a 
 member, were amicably disputing concerning 
 the power of imagination, not only in increasing,
 
 TALE OF A PRIEST. 91 
 
 but being the primary cause of any corporeal 
 disease, an apprehension of which dwelt at all 
 on the mind. They were, of course, each bi- 
 gotted to his own opinion, until the youngest 
 offered to decide it by a wager, that he would 
 adduce proof, to substantiate his theory. It 
 was agreed to, and he named the porter of our 
 college as his victim. Simon Bach was a fine 
 stout, healthy fellow, of five-and-twenty, and 
 of a careless disposition, perfectly free from pre- 
 sentiment, &c. On going out, the young stu- 
 dent said to him, " Well, Simon, how are you ?" 
 " Quite well. Sir." — "Indeed! you don't look 
 well;" and passed on. He repeated his enqui- 
 ries, with the same remark, whenever he met 
 him. At length he looked pale, and somewhat 
 thin. " Well, Simon, how are you?" — " Why, 
 Sir, I don't know; but I think am not quite 
 well — nothing particular — but odd feels about 
 me, and am thinner." " Poor fellow," said the 
 student; and walked on. The poor fellow orrew 
 worse, till at last he fell into a slow fever ; and 
 the other student acknowledged that he had lost
 
 92 TALE Ol A PRIEST. 
 
 his wager. Our successful debater now took an 
 opposite course. " Well, Simon, I will not ask 
 you how you are, you look much better" — and 
 so on, till the man recovered his health. 
 
 " Mais, voila notre omelette, mettons nous a 
 table ; il me semble que c'est de la veritable eau 
 de vielabas;" pointing to my flask. I soon 
 finished my meal; and, regretting the shortness 
 of our acquaintance, I took my leave of the old 
 man ; who, pulling out of his pocket a quantity 
 of papers, selected a bundle, which he gave me 
 to amuse me in my journey; and, with a tender 
 embrace, we parted.
 
 THE TALE. 
 
 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM ! 
 
 Many years ago, a young German student, of 
 the name of Engelharte, who was of retired 
 habits, and constantly devoted to reading, was, 
 as usual, in the library of the college. Accident- 
 ally he opened a musty manuscript, which, by 
 its date, convinced him that it was the work of 
 one of the early fathers of the Catholic faith. 
 The singularity of its title, " Enquirij into (lie 
 iiaiure and veritable existence of siipeniatiira/ 
 ripparitio)is," induced him to take the work 
 home with him, as a kind of holiday amuse- 
 ment : for, to him, the Latin text was as his 
 mother-tongue ; and his knowledge of the 
 Greek, Hebrew, and other languages, rendered 
 their perusal, to him, a recreation; whereas, 
 we all know by experience, to how many it is 
 death.
 
 94 THE CLOISTEU PHANTOM. 
 
 From this work he was led on to the study of 
 others ; and, at last, his over-heated imagination 
 gave ample credit to the most palpable absur- 
 dities. He had been in the habit of going, at 
 all hours, to the library ; the college having given 
 him a private key, as a reward for his steadiness 
 and abilities. One windy night he was, as 
 usual, deep in the horrors of some supernatural 
 narrative, when he discovered that he had not 
 the last volume of the work that he was reading ; 
 and the sequel of the story, which now absorbed 
 his faculties, was in the next volume ; so re- 
 luctantly he set out through the cloister, to the 
 library. In going, the wind howled fearfully, 
 till his heart almost failed him, and momentary 
 flashes of a pale moon, through the hurrying 
 clouds, made him more timid than ever; he 
 felt a kind of instinctive warning of the neigh- 
 bourhood of some wandering spirit. However, 
 he arrived safely in the library, and hastily 
 snatching up the object of his wishes, retired. 
 In closing the door, the lantern fell, and 
 the light was, of course, extinguished. His
 
 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM. 96 
 
 tremor was now redoubled ; and, with a beating- 
 heart, he groped his way along the dusky 
 cloisters. Pour comble, the moon was now 
 completely concealed by heavy clouds. At the 
 last turning of the cloister, a lamp was sus- 
 pended ; which, agitated by the tempest, swung 
 backwards and forwards, and its light seemed 
 to have forgotten its office, in its vibrations, and 
 a faint flickering gleam, was all that denoted its 
 existence. 
 
 Conceive the horror of the student, at meet- 
 ing a veiled figure, who, seizing him by the arm, 
 said, " No — not to-night, it is too late ; we'll 
 meet to-morrow night, at this hour, to part no 
 more. — Think of me." At this awful moment 
 the clock struck one! "Fare thee well," it 
 added, " till this hour to-morrow night," 
 and disappeared, leaving Engelharte breathless 
 with terror. After some time, how he knew 
 not, he found himself at home, with a host of 
 M. Ds. about him, who, from his terrified ap- 
 pearance and vague expressions, conceived that 
 his midnight studies liad brought on a fever,
 
 96 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM. 
 
 and that he was delirious ; the rather, as the 
 bedmaker of the apartment stated, that he 
 found Engelharte on his bed, more deeply 
 agitated than he had been since. 
 
 But, by degrees he became calm and coherent ; 
 and distinctly repeated the awful warning he had 
 received. To all the consolation and incredulity 
 which was expressed, he turned a deaf ear, and 
 prepared himself quietly for his last hour. They 
 advanced the clock two hours to deceive him ; 
 but all their efforts were vain ; the strongest 
 cordials were of no power with him, and the 
 evening advanced without any hope ; on the 
 contrary, the poor fellow seemed to decline 
 rapidly. When the clock struck one, he said 
 faintly, " You do not deceive me. That clock is 
 wrong, I have two hours to live ; and all I re- 
 quest is, that I may die in peace. They offered 
 him a draught, to quench the thirst of which he 
 incessantly complained. In this the physician 
 had mingled a strong narcotic ; but it seemed 
 to take no effect. Midnight had really past — 
 " Set open the door, that I may hear the
 
 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM. 97 
 
 chimes." When the third quarter had struck, 
 he took leave of all his friends, thanking the 
 physician for his care ; and as the clock struck 
 one — he was dead asleep. 
 
 Leaving him to the care of his nurse, we will 
 follow the amiable physician in his researches 
 to fathom the mystery ; which the next morning 
 thus elucidated. 
 
 Another student, who had long been attached 
 to the only daughter of one of the professors of 
 the college, had latterly Ijeen forbidden her 
 society ; with a view of breaking off so disad- 
 vantageous an alliance. But the young people 
 were too much enamoured of each other to 
 brook the restraint, and had arranged frequent 
 meetings at the cloister lamp. Before long, it 
 was arranged between them to elude the vigi- 
 lance of her parents, by an elopement ; and that 
 identical night had been fixed upon for her 
 escape ; but circumstances had occurred which 
 rendered it necessary that she should postpone 
 her departure, until the following evening, or 
 rather morning, — at the hour of one. 
 
 u
 
 98 THE CLOISIER PHANTOM. 
 
 Punctual to his appointment, her lover had 
 arrived at that hour, unconscious of any hin- 
 drance, but hearing a man's footstep, he retired. 
 At this moment she came out, and doubting 
 nothing, on seeing a student, she followed him 
 into the gloom, and addressed him hastily ; in 
 her agitation forgetting to raise her veil. Petri- 
 fied, he returned no answer ; but she hearing- 
 deep sighs, and even gasping, attributed them 
 to the check of his darling hopes. Her lover 
 advanced at this moment ; on hearing whose 
 steps, she darted away with the rapidity of 
 lightning; and, as she did not appear, he ima- 
 gined that she had been prevented from coming : 
 as he was too sure of her attachment to fear 
 any other cause. Hearing deep groans, he pro- 
 ceeded to the spot, and having recognised En- 
 gel-Harte, he raised him, and supported him, 
 almost senseless, to his chambers ; when, laying 
 him on his bed, he left him in an apparent slum- 
 ber, and thought merely that he was very drunk. 
 His elopement, next evening, afforded a clue 
 to the mystery, and the fugitives were pursued.
 
 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM. 99 
 
 Being already married, they returned volun- 
 tarily, and confirmed the conjectures of the 
 physician. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Engel-Harte slumbered on, 
 his colour returned, his breathing became regu- 
 lar, and his pulse abated ; and, after a sleep of 
 many hours, he awoke refreshed, and seemed 
 rather to look on the scene which had alarmed 
 him as a dream, than any actual occurrence. 
 When, however, his strength returned, the 
 physician explained the whole thing to him ; 
 and, from that moment, he abjured the perusal 
 of the trash which had misled him ; and, fol- 
 lowing the natural bent of his abilities, became 
 a most distinguished literary character, and a 
 decided recusant of his former chimeras. 
 
 Reader ! the history of that lover and his 
 beloved is a tale of horror too ! but one which I 
 will not divulge. No ! — locked up in my own 
 breast will their sorrows descend to the tomb, 
 with me ; and the world will be saved the know- 
 ledge of distress, which could only agitate, 
 without amusing or instructing their minds. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE CLOISTER PHANTOM. 
 
 That lover was myself — and my beloved- 
 
 Fare thee well ! may such horrors as it has 
 been my lot to witness, never agitate your 
 peaceful breast. It is not that there was any 
 supernatural horrors, but that, in spite of the 
 evils I have received at the hands of men, I am 
 still philanthropist enough to conceal a tale, 
 which would reflect so dishonourably on my 
 fellow-Christians. I am an humble shepherd 
 in the ways of peace, and at peace with my 
 enemies, the world, and myself. I will still 
 labour on in my lowly condition, convinced, 
 that with a quiet mind, and useful avocation, 
 imaginary terrors will never incommode me.
 
 SPARSA. 
 
 Vix ea nostra voco. — Ovid.
 
 ON THE CESSION OF PARGA. 
 
 Their hour was come — Parga no more 
 Stood free; encircled by slavery. 
 Unconquer'd, they quitted her shore. 
 Victims of Regal knavery. 
 With the trees their fathers planted. 
 They raised a funeral pile ; 
 Their hearts with agony panted, 
 As they swore no foe should defile 
 The bones of their dead ; who died — 
 Free as the soil which gave them birth. 
 And they wept: for to them was denied 
 A free grave in their parent earth. 
 But ere many had gone, arose 
 The long-stifled sob of despair; 
 And curses, loud utter 'd, on those 
 Who could such a ruin prepare.
 
 104 ON THE CESSION Ol PARGA. 
 
 There was one old man, ere he turn'd 
 To embark on the rippling wave ; 
 Who look'd on the trees as they burn'd, 
 Consumino; the bones of their brave: 
 And dash'd off a tear from his cheek ; 
 It sprung as he glanc'd on his home. 
 Distracted, he scarcely could speak. 
 But he wish'd that pile was his tomb. 
 With one sudden effort he sought 
 To check the wild tide of his heart, 
 In vain. For, distracting the thought — 
 From Home, Friends, and Country to part. 
 Yet thus to that desolate town 
 He utter'd his broken farewell ; 
 And still on his brow hung a frown — 
 'Twas a veil o'er the tears that fell. 
 
 Farewell, Parga ! Last of the Free : 
 Farewell to thy desolate shore. 
 
 Alas ! tis th' Imperial decree. 
 That Freedom dwell with thee no more.
 
 ON THE CESSION Ol PARGA. 105 
 
 Full well have we fought in thy cause ; 
 
 Like our fathers, valiant and free ; 
 Till Tyranny trampled the laws 
 
 Of thy freedom — in slavery. 
 
 There was not a man that would bend 
 
 His neck to the yoke of a slave ; 
 But each stood in arms to the end, 
 
 For Liberty, hopelessly brave. 
 
 Oh ! sad were thy Heroes, to see 
 The Land of their Fathers enslav'd ; 
 
 And their standard of Liberty 
 
 Torn down from the shrine where it wav'd. 
 
 Men, grey in the fulness of years, 
 
 To the Virgin knelt in despair ; 
 And Infancy, bathed in tears. 
 
 For Liberty, murmur'd a prayer. 
 
 Our resolute youths stood around. 
 Too proud to yield to their sorrow : 
 
 Girls, bending their eyes to the ground. 
 Silently wept for the morrow.
 
 106 ON THE CESSION OF PARGA. 
 
 Behold it! we fly from our home, 
 And leave it a prey to the foe; 
 
 Wc cheerlessly leave it, to roam 
 O'er the world, and die in our woe. 
 
 Oh ! what could our valour avail? 
 
 'Twas a foe we never had seen — 
 And Freedom could never prevail. 
 
 Where Liberty never had been. 
 
 On, ye slaves. No longer delay ; 
 
 On, there are none to oppose ye. 
 Advance, then, to seize on your prey ; 
 
 Tis Parga — no longer the free. 
 
 Oh ! sec ye that quivering blaze? 
 
 Her last spark of Freedom is there. 
 But think on our curse as ye gaze, 
 
 And of Grecian vengeance beware. 
 
 ^&^ 
 
 Tremble, ye tow'rs ; they approach 
 In the pomp of martial array. 
 
 Ye houses deserted, reproach 
 
 The pride which our victors display.
 
 ON THK CESSION OF PARGA. 107 
 
 Victors ! Then are we subdu'd ? 
 
 By them was our destiny seal'd? 
 By Victors, whom oft we pursued, 
 
 When, vanquish'd, they fled from the field ? 
 
 No. Sold by a Junta's decree. 
 
 To a Despot's sovereign sway ; 
 Our arms had no power to free 
 
 Our Homes — nor this ruin delay. 
 
 He turn'd to the boat on the shore. 
 Waiting there to waft him away; 
 There was not a sound, but the roar 
 Of the fretful sea in the bay. 
 The sigh of the waves retiring. 
 Struck full on the chord of his grief; 
 And he saw those flames expiring, 
 Ere his sorrow obtain'd relief. 
 'Tis over — and he is the last 
 To fly from the ruin around. 
 Heart-broken with all that had past. 
 No hope for the future they found ;
 
 108 ON THE CESSION OF PARGA. 
 
 And recklessly sailing away, 
 Till the coast was veil'd from their sight ; 
 Still gazing, they fervently pray. 
 That they might not outlive the night.
 
 109 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SEA, IN A CALM. 
 
 Oh ! there are eyes that look on thee. 
 As bright, and dearer far to me. 
 Sweet Moon — and from thy silver'd sphere 
 I feel their gaze reflected here. 
 
 Aye, when I think they turn to thee, 
 I know that look was meant for me. 
 And, in thy dewy light, perceive 
 The tear drops, of the Love I leave. 
 
 Reflect to her, each look from me. 
 Each glance is her's, tho' rais'd to thee; 
 And tell her of the secret tear. 
 Such thoughts of her excited here.
 
 10 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A LADY COMPARING HER 
 FRIENDS TO THE CLOUDS IN A STORM. 
 
 'TwERE unkind all your friends to compare 
 To clouds that arc borne on the air : 
 For those vapours, swift passing away, 
 Can be but the friends of a day.
 
 Ill 
 
 SCENE AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 The roar of the battle had ceas'd, 
 And all was as still as the grave : 
 Full many a spirit, releas'd. 
 
 To Heav'n exultingly rose ; 
 
 Seeking there that blissful repose, 
 Reserv'd for the Holy and Brave. 
 
 They slept on the field they had won ; 
 'Twas wet with the blood of their foes : 
 The corpses of those, who had run 
 
 Their earthly career, lay around. 
 
 The living and dead on the ground 
 Were mingled, in ghastly repose. 
 
 The Moon shed a beautiful light 
 O'er this, tho' a desolate scene : 
 And softly a breeze, thro' the night, 
 
 Sigh'd, refreshing their feverish limbs. 
 
 Ah ! see, where so Ughtly it skims 
 O'er the spring, there's blood to be seen.
 
 112 SCENE AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 The Moon's lucid orb is reflected : 
 But red, like a meteor flame — 
 For, even there, is detected 
 
 The blood-tide of carnage and war. 
 
 Oh ! Conquest — if splendid thy car, 
 Terrific the road to thy fame. 
 
 They slept on the field, all but one, 
 Who wander'd unceasingly there. 
 O'er mounds of the dead — she alone 
 
 Gaz'd on their death-stiffen'd faces, 
 
 Eagerly seeking the traces 
 Of features she lov'd — in despair. 
 
 She wept not, nor utter'd a cry. 
 When she found him gory and dead : 
 She breath'd not a plaint, nor a sigh. 
 But she look'd up to Heav'n ; and then 
 To her Lover turn'd fondly again. 
 And wash'd off the blood from his head.
 
 113 
 
 On his lips there still was a smile. 
 That in death triumphantly reign'd : 
 So calmly he lay ; that awhile, 
 Tho' conscious her Lover had died. 
 She tenderly watch'd by his side ; 
 And hung o'er the corse that remain'd. 
 
 Ah ! she was not form'd to endure 
 A scene so bewild'ring as this. 
 There was not one comfort to lure 
 
 Her mind from its utter despair. 
 
 But slowly she knelt, with her hair 
 Loose floating about her, to kiss 
 
 The lip of her Lover — her own 
 Grew lifeless and chill. Ere she fell 
 On his breast, her spirit had flown ; 
 
 And over the Moon was a cloud ; 
 
 Rain fell, like tears, on her shroud 
 The night breezes — sigh'd a farewell.
 
 114 
 
 THE SOUVENIR. 
 
 When Pleasure courts the mind, 
 Or Beauty charms the eye; 
 When Music sweetly proves 
 The Spell of Harmony — 
 
 Oh ! then forget me not. 
 
 Should Anguish cause a sigh, 
 Or Grief provoke a tear; 
 Should Care, or deep Regrets, 
 Disturb, or anxious Fear — 
 
 Oh ! then forget me not. 
 
 Oh ! bid me share in all; 
 Let me thy Partner be 
 In Joy or Grief alike — 
 And then I'll prove to thee — 
 
 That I forget thee not.
 
 115 
 
 " Trifles make the sum of human things. 
 
 Some would smile and call it a trifle, 
 Thy dearly-priz'd gift of to-day ; 
 
 Yet there's not a gem in the world 
 Would tempt me to give it away. 
 
 'Twill ever recall to my mind. 
 
 The moment that brought it to me : 
 
 Aye, 'twill be the record of times — 
 Gone by — that were passed with thee. 
 
 The Eye that beholds it must close ; 
 
 The Heart that it presses, decay : 
 But still will thy " Trifle" remain 
 
 In the Tomb that covers my clay. 
 
 I 2
 
 116 
 
 " Haret lateri lethulis arundo." 
 
 To weep — without a hope 
 To soothe a secret pain ; 
 To wish — yet ever find 
 The fondest wishes vain ; 
 To think — yet shun the thought 
 So painful, dear, and brief; 
 To speak — when utterance 
 Alas ! gives no relief ; 
 To wake from scenes of peace. 
 Yet find fresh cause to weep ; • 
 To dream — when sorrow mars 
 The calm repose of sleep ; 
 To feel a wish to break 
 From some enchanting spell ; 
 To fly — yet ling'ring turn ; 
 Are sorrows none can tell.
 
 117 
 
 Written in answer to some lines, written by the 
 late Duchess of St. Albans, accompanying a 
 present of a golden butterjiy ; atid comparing 
 the joys of its freedom to her painful con- 
 finement. 
 
 Why when thou think'st of sorrows here. 
 Regret thy life's uncertain date ? 
 
 Ah ! why to this devote a tear ? 
 Forgetful of thy future state. 
 
 Thy virtues. Piety and Love, 
 
 Eternity of life will gain ; 
 Then let these hopes of bliss above, 
 
 Sustain thee in this hour of pain.
 
 118 
 
 REPONSE DU PAPILLON. 
 
 Though freely I in pleasure stray. 
 And sip each sweet before me ; 
 
 A few short hours close my day. 
 Nor will the g-rave restore me. 
 
 o 
 
 Though yet with me, life's early day 
 Hath dawned, by care unshrouded ; 
 
 Ah ! who can tell its ev'ning ray 
 Will pass away unclouded ?
 
 119 
 
 LINES ON THE AKVERON, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE SPOT. 
 
 Tumultuous from her icy cave. 
 The Arveron rolls her rapid wave ; 
 Her angry torrent strives in vain, 
 A calmer, smoother bed to gain ; 
 Contending with the stream and spray. 
 Till e'en the rocks be worn away. 
 To thee, O man, this troubled scene 
 Is readily applied. For e'en 
 In infancy thy toils begin. 
 The cause of all thy trouble, sin. 
 Nor cease they, till thy weary day 
 By care and grief be worn away.
 
 120 
 
 EPISTLE TO PERFIDA. 
 
 Say, are those hours gone for ever? 
 Are all my love-born fancies vain ? 
 And can'st thou thus in coolness sever 
 Each promise of Fidelity ? 
 Say, is thy love for ever flown ? 
 Oh ! am I then forgotten now ? 
 That Love which once so brilliant shone 
 On him who loved thee and adored. 
 Ah, yes, 'tis o'er ; each sacred vow. 
 Each plighted word : Ah, both are gone. 
 Once, all truth and tenderness — now 
 So faithless and unkind. Alas ! 
 Alas ! thy treachery is plain : 
 Thy truant love hath quitted me.
 
 EPISTLE TO PERl'IBA. 121 
 
 Then fare thee well — but ah, what pain 
 
 To lose an object so belov'd. 
 
 This was thy love to hold till death. 
 
 This that returned sacred warmth 
 
 Of fond affection ! was one breath 
 
 Doom'd to declare — and to deny ? 
 
 For shame ; thou could'st not think it joy 
 
 To break a heart by thee beguil'd. 
 
 Or think my love was but a toy 
 
 Sought, gained, and thrown unheeded by. 
 
 'Twas soon at least for thee to change. 
 
 To break each promise of thy love. 
 
 To crush each fond idea — derange 
 
 Each hope of love or bliss with thee. 
 
 Was it for this thou own'd'st thy love ? 
 
 And sigh'd each thought then felt by thee ? 
 
 Aye, felt by thee ? Oh, powers above 
 
 Forgive this wanton perfidy. 
 
 Say, why deceive me ? why avow 
 
 A love so faintly known to thee ? 
 
 Or, if you lov'd me not, allow 
 
 Such hopes, such tender love to spring ?
 
 122 EPISTLK TO PERFIDA. 
 
 Or, why then blast them carelessly ? 
 Unmindful of the pain you gave. 
 Why make me wander cheerlessly 
 A martyr to thy vanity ? 
 Oh, should one tear unbidden start 
 In sorrow for thy broken vow. 
 Check not that monitor — thy heart 
 Must one day mourn its treachery.
 
 123 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wild was the grief thy absence excited. 
 Sweet Love, when you left me alone ; 
 The hours of our meeting had flown. 
 
 The bud of my hopes it was blighted. 
 
 Dull and dreary my days pass without thee. 
 For thou wast my only delight : 
 And sleeplessly throughout the night, 
 
 I still fancy thy spirit about me. 
 
 Oh ! thou wast to me, a vision of Hght, 
 Which broke through the cloud of my day ; 
 A vision too lovely to stay. 
 
 Like thehghtning flash, transient and bright.
 
 124 
 
 SONG. 
 
 For we noted not time when together, 
 And hours flew like moments away ; 
 Ere we met, the slightest delay 
 
 Made us fear we were parted for ever. 
 
 We are told that hope cheers us in sadness, 
 Depriv'd of all, that we find 
 Hope still is the friend of mankind — 
 
 Ah ! to me without thee, hope were madness.
 
 125 
 
 TO LUCINDA. 
 
 LuciNDA, how pure was the vow, 
 That my fondness devoted to thee ; 
 
 And (in seeming) how warm, you'll allow 
 Was th' affection expressed for me. 
 
 But it past like a meteor flame, 
 That leaves not a vestige behind ; 
 
 To call thine esteem would be shame 
 To the love of a gen'rous mind. 
 
 Now adieu, fair deceiver, 'tis o'er, 
 Though injur'd, I will not upbraid ; 
 
 Thy unkindness is thought of no more. 
 Thy treachery pardoned, false maid.
 
 126 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 WRITTEN AT ETON. 
 
 'Tis Eve. Sweet, tranquil hour of blest repose, 
 Welcome, Oh welcome to the care-worn mind ! 
 In thy soft hour do mourners find relief. 
 And grief is soothed into tranquillity. 
 There is a deep serenity and peace, 
 A gentle quiet in thy parting smile. 
 That telleth of divinity above. 
 Till stubborn guilt dissolves in penitence. 
 
 Oh ! Evening, sweet evening 
 
 *- * # # * *
 
 127 
 
 INSANITY. 
 
 WRITTEN AT ETON. 
 
 She is not always so. 
 
 Reason's bright light will glimmer for a while. 
 Until the cloud of her Insanity- 
 Absorbs the cheering ray, and casts a mist 
 Upon her mind's fair prospect. But in truth, 
 There is a wildness in her air and speech. 
 Even in her calmest mood, a vacancy, 
 That shows the fretful fever of her brain : 
 And when discoursing clearly. Insanity 
 
 Usurps the throne of reason. * * 
 
 * * # * # * *
 
 128 
 
 TO 
 
 Oh ! what is Friendship but a name ? 
 When amongst friends, one word of blame. 
 One trifling word, can break that tie 
 Of nothingness and vanity. 
 Beheve me, since the idea of hate. 
 Such warmth of friendship can abate. 
 As in thy fond affection glows — 
 Who to call Friend, God only knows.
 
 129 
 
 THE RUIN. 
 
 Yon broken wall, and turret grey, 
 Where now the mantling ivy creeps ; 
 
 Once spread around, with princely sway, 
 Its power from these craggy steeps. 
 
 That hall once rung n\ revehy ; 
 
 Goblets bright the hours beguil'd ; 
 Whilst light and loud the jest went by. 
 
 The merry laugh'd, the graver smiled, 
 
 But, ah ! that festive hour is gone ; 
 
 A dead, drear silence reigns around ; 
 Rank weeds grow on the wall, each stone 
 
 Hangs drooping o'er the parent ground ,
 
 130 THE RUIN. 
 
 The roof is gone, one ruin'd arch. 
 And crumbhng walls alone appear ; 
 
 Save the tall beech and tapering larch. 
 Which flourish in luxuriance there.
 
 131 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Go — on thy pamper'd couch reclin'd. 
 
 In luxury to rest. 
 Sleep on ; lest conscience call to nund 
 
 The past, or in thy breast 
 Awaken feelings of despair. 
 
 That thou wast false to lue. 
 Oh, when thou swearest trutli, beware— 
 
 Thy conscience will belie thee ; 
 
 * should thy falsehood win the fair, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Plunge in the vortex of the world, 
 
 And free thy mind from care ; 
 Where vice her banner hath unfurl'd — 
 
 Go, seek oblivion there. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 'Tis vain ; regret will still appear, 
 
 And crush thy vanity. 
 Conscience, e'en now, excites thy fear, 
 
 And thou must think of me. 
 Aye — who can still thy guilty mind ? 
 
 Or hush that voice within ? 
 What punishment is so refin'd 
 
 As consciousness of sin ? 
 When pain and sickness lay thee low, 
 
 Think on thy perfidy. 
 When death shall strike the fatal blow. 
 
 Then — then remember me. 
 Yet, should thy tears in anguish flow. 
 
 For her betray'd by thee, 
 I'll bless thee, and forgive * * 
 
 ^ # # # #
 
 ]33 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 I s there no cause for tears, as well as smiles, 
 Since thus another year hath glided by ? 
 Have these short days of our uncertain life, 
 Dawn'd and clos'd in that unsullied comfort, i 
 That we can greet the new year joyfully ? 
 To many, what eventful scenes have borne 
 These fleeting months, to vex their anxious 
 
 minds. 
 How many, that had welcomed the birth 
 Of this past year, ne'er liv'd to see it close — 
 Whose wishes, breath'd in pure affection. 
 Then told the fervent hopes of their kind love ;
 
 134 THOVKiHTS. 
 
 When, beaming still in painful suftering, 
 Their eyes convey 'd those wishes to the heart. 
 Which strong emotion check'd in utterance. 
 
 tF w ^ ^p ^ ^ ^ 
 
 How sickly dawns the morn, to those who 
 
 watch 
 Some well-lov'd sufl 'rer, on the bed of pain ; 
 Whose ling'ring spirit, though it still remains. 
 Prepares its flight, yet pauses, loth to go. 
 Still gleams the taper near the curtain'd couch, 
 But scarce, with all its light, dispels the 
 
 gloom. 
 How coldly strike the sounds of active life. 
 Upon the harass'd mind. The nervous wish 
 That springs, excited by this solemn scene. 
 To check that mirth, so reckless of our woe — 
 
 To pray — without a word to frame the thought ; 
 To feel the gnawing wish to weep, without a 
 
 tear 
 To clear the sight, or ease the burning eye ; 
 As if the fever'd brain had dried the source.
 
 THOUGHTS. 135 
 
 Oh ! this is agony beyond relief : 
 
 For, when the sainted spirit soars on high, 
 
 The stunning weight of our confirmed grief 
 
 Blunts the keen sense of feeling, and prepares 
 
 The mind to bear its woe resignedly ; 
 
 And anxious thoughts, for those around, excite 
 
 A wish to struggle still * * * 
 
 Oh, what a world is this ! My infancy 
 Pass'd by in tears, and smiles of peace ; 
 Then, every trifle was a treasure, 
 And e'en my little cares a lullaby. 
 But ah ! how soon I found that sorrow 
 Grew with my growth, and sad experience 
 Taught me that the brightest prospects faded. 
 E'en Hope, that like a sunbeam from above. 
 Shone through the veil of still increasing woes, 
 Deceiv'd, nor gave the bliss she feign'd so well. 
 Oh, rather in Lethean waters steep 
 Thy faculties, than trust to specious hopes ; 
 They lure and please thee, while th' enchant- 
 ment lasts, 
 But that gone, then breaks the heart forsaken.
 
 136 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Who, that can think or feel, would wish for 
 
 years ? 
 Who, that can love, would wish to live, and see 
 Each dear and loving spirit pass away ? 
 And yet there is a tie that holds us still ; 
 Some fond regret for those we dying leave ; 
 Some cherish'd passion, strong in death, that 
 
 binds 
 Our wishes still on earth, when all the soui 
 Is fix'd on heaven. * * # 
 
 SJt* ^ ^ TT ^ * 
 
 3p TT "W tP *W ^ 
 
 How warm, at all times, is a mother's love. 
 When gilded pleasures crown thy happy hours. 
 When cares increase, or stem adversity. 
 Seek in her love alone, the balm of peace. 
 E'en when the unfeeling world condemns, her 
 
 arms 
 Are open still to her unhappy child. 
 How dearly are our smiles in infancy 
 Gain'd by a mother's fond anxieties. 
 Who, but herself, can understand the cry 
 Of her young babe, or soothe its little pains ;
 
 THOUGHTS. 137 
 
 Prompt to avert each threaten'd ill, or watch 
 Each symptom of approaching pain ; how well 
 She tends her pining child, until her care 
 Restores its health — her own * * 
 
 # w * * * *
 
 138 
 
 THOUGHTS ON A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis the sunshine of morning is brightest. 
 Ere the tempest at noontide arise ; 
 
 Oh ! 'tis in youth the spirit is lightest, 
 Ere its vision of happiness flies. 
 
 When the sky is so clear, who thinks of a storm ? 
 
 Balmy the air, and glowing the light ; 
 And who, when the sunshine of fancy is warm. 
 
 Thinks of aught but the present delight ? 
 
 Oh ! ephemeral insect, gaudy and vain ; 
 
 With the sun that illumines thy day. 
 Thou wilt fade from the view, nor charm us 
 again — 
 
 Ere to-morrow thy form will decay.
 
 THOUGHTS ON A BUTTERFLY. 139 
 
 Then flutter awhile in thy crimson array, 
 In the light spread each brilliant hue ; 
 
 Go — sport on the breeze ; for the^'oys of thy day, 
 Like its hours, are fleeting and few. 
 
 Yet trust not the gale — it will bear thee away 
 From the sweets of each favorite flow'r ; 
 
 Return, ere the sighs, which now charm thee, 
 betray — 
 They are wanton, and change with the hour. 
 
 And what will avail thee, thy pinion of down. 
 In the whirlwind, or pitiless rain ? 
 
 When even that glittering Heaven shall frown ; 
 Thou wilt strive — when resistance is vain.
 
 140 
 
 TO 
 
 Be kind to one who never wrote for fame ; 
 Who thus, tho' prompted by no vain conceit. 
 Presumes to write ; nay more, to print his work. 
 In gentle mood, with admonition mild. 
 Reprove the errors of his humble muse. 
 Bethink thee, that a frail and tender plant. 
 Most needs thy fost'ring hand ; and if the 
 
 knife 
 Be used. Experience should direct the blade. 
 And prune each wand'ring shoot, whose useless 
 
 growth 
 Exhausts the parent stock. Deal thus with 
 
 me.
 
 TO 141 
 
 'Tis true, I'm no exotic, yet the breath 
 Of criticism, would be as winter frosts, 
 And check the budding of incipient song ; 
 When the warm sunshine of approving smiles. 
 Would raise that bud to full maturity. 
 No doubt my wish is to amuse — myself — 
 Or, at the most, a friend or two beside. 
 For various moods, the serious and the gay. 
 By turns inspire my heedless pen ; since I, 
 Wayward and wild, could never brook restraint. 
 There are some lines, which, from my inmost 
 
 heart. 
 Spring to the praise of all I dearly prize. 
 But written words are cold, and freeze the 
 
 thought ; 
 There is a dash of sadness, too, in some — 
 For I, though young, have seen adversity. 
 Oh ! sorrow leaves a stain indelible. 
 On the fair tablets of our memory. 
 Write what you will thereon, of mirth and joy, 
 Still will the mark appear, and soil the leaf. 
 Yet, fond Remembrance too, in glowing tints 
 Prevails, in Memory's varied page ;
 
 142 
 
 TO 
 
 To give a milder tone to anguish past, 
 
 And e'en thro' sorrows envious blot pervades- 
 
 * # * # * # # 
 
 * * * * # # # 
 
 My wish was to amuse — but should I fail. 
 And the priz'd boon of pleasing be denied — 
 Oh ! close the book in silence — do not chide. 
 
 F I N i -S . .
 
 LONDON: 
 
 IBOTSON AND TALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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