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 HENRY ACTON 
 
 OTHER TALES.
 
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 8£3 * 
 
 v. a. 
 
 HENRY ACTON; 
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 
 
 " There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal, but unseen ; 
 Which not the dark:. -: air can damp, 
 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been/ 1 
 
 Byron. 
 " Myself this .ill share." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Are not the cabals, the local politics, of the 
 humblest village as operative in exciting the 
 passions, and in awakening the powers, of its se- 
 cluded inhabitants, as those of the highest ones 
 of a mighty state ? Do we not behold as much 
 striving for place, as much envying for advance- 
 ment, as much ambition for distinction, amidst 
 the rectors, doctors, attorneys, and corporate 
 
 VOL. I. B 

 
 2 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 bodies, of an obscure town of England, as amidst 
 the dwellers of its court and capital I Human 
 passions, bad and good, work in these less aris- 
 tocratic scenes as busily as they do with those 
 who give laws to nations, guide in holy council, 
 or pilot the helm of state intrigue. Do not ima- 
 gine that, with the inferior ranks of life, ignorance 
 generates sympathy, or seclusion produces inno- 
 cence : the causes of excitement may degenerate, 
 but passion exists with equal strength, and ope- 
 rates with equal force, in both stations ; and if 
 man, like u an angry ape," " plays such fantastic 
 tricks as make the angels weep," or, like Queen 
 Mab, " with wiles so closely bound, performs 
 such strange manoeuvres as waking reality doubt- 
 ing asks," if such things may be the living acts 
 of mortals ? we are not to deem that such acts are 
 alone the performances of the high and lofty ones 
 of the world. 
 
 The absolute nature of man's mind is the 
 same, be his station what it may. It may some- 
 times be deemed that, as the stream of existence
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 3 
 
 courses along, and borrows a peculiar shade from 
 local objects, that the tint thus given to the mind 
 has effectually changed its native hue ; remove 
 the object, and mark well if the colouring remain. 
 No ; the course of life will again discover its ori- 
 ginal shade, and in its onward current only bor- 
 row new tints from new objects; and though, 
 under such impressions, we may seem the crea- 
 tures of circumstances, and that our very nature 
 has yielded to their force, yet still, man in the ag- 
 gregate remains the same, and is governed by the 
 same passions. In prince and subject, high and 
 low, are equally disclosed man's erring state. Ma- 
 lice, envy, ambition, love of aggrandizement, work 
 not less actively amidst the crowds of metropo- 
 lises and palaces, than I have found them busy 
 in the humblest cottages, for " little things are 
 great to little men." Whilst young, we do not 
 mark these things ; the world hums gaily around 
 us, and all looks happy, — at least it did so to me ; 
 my youthful days were like a soft smiling cur- 
 rent, that glistens beneath a sunny sky, and 
 b2
 
 4 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 knows no darker shade than a summer's cloud 
 might throw. Joying in nature's loveliness, I 
 tasted no sorrow : reposing on the bright green 
 banks which hang over the glad waters of my 
 native shores, I could doze hours away, existing 
 in worlds of visionary illusion ; but many a 
 weary mile, many a watchful hour, has been past 
 over since that period of indolence was mine. 
 
 Association gives to all objects of memory 
 their value ; and few lands have ever worn a 
 dearer or lovelier charm than this my native one. 
 Many waters have I been tost over, in storm and 
 repose, but never have I given my sails with 
 such buoyancy to the winds as I was wont to do 
 in my days of boyhood. Every scene of that 
 boyhood seems but of yesterday; but as they 
 now arise before me, with what different calcu- 
 lations do I look upon them ! not that I value 
 them less, but that I rather prize them more. 
 They bore a stamp and character peculiar to 
 themselves. 
 
 A small fishing town, on the coast of Kent,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 5 
 
 was my birth-place, — its humble inhabitants my 
 only companions, : — in which spot, for many 
 years, almost wholly unmolested, they pursued 
 a course of traffic that led them to despise all 
 restraint, and bid defiance to all national law ; 
 still was each private act and individual feeling 
 directed by the strictest honour, guarded by the 
 nicest principle, though existence seemed en- 
 slaved and enjoyment sacrificed to the love of ag- 
 grandizement. Yet when in possession of the hard- 
 earned fruits of their toil, did they seem reckless 
 of all the comforts of wealth, unaltered by its 
 luxuries, and exalted above all its temptations. 
 
 In thus running back to these early scenes and 
 associates, I rather do so from their being con- 
 nected with other circumstances than as bearing 
 an interest in themselves; for though Jack Job- 
 bings and Will Venture are prized by me in all 
 their original character, yet are they, in these 
 days of the grand march of intellect, but rough 
 figures. Master Jack was none other than one 
 of the agents employed by the French govern-
 
 6 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 ment, during the late war, to carry on a traffic 
 in the guinea trade, alias gold smuggling.* The 
 risk on the side of Master Jobbings was im- 
 mense, but so was the reward; not that the 
 danger lay exclusively in the dread of discovery 
 
 * To few of my readers this mode of cheating his Ma- 
 jesty's revenue is perhaps known. At the period of this 
 tale, revolutionary France was engaged in war with nearly 
 the whole of Europe: to pay the numerous forces employed 
 to carry out her ambitious views required a circulating me- 
 dium of no small extent. To remedy the deficiency of gold 
 and silver to some degree, everything that had the sem- 
 blance of metal was, with talismanic touch, converted into 
 coin. Churches were robbed of their plate, Madonnas of their 
 embroidered robes and shrines, the loftiest towers of the 
 " church-going bells." This plunder was then consigned 
 to the melting-pot, which, after having passed through that 
 fiery ordeal, was stamped with the arms of La Belle France, 
 and, per force, passed current. All this sufficed for a time : 
 it stopped the gap at home ; but this base alloy would not 
 circulate abroad. In her exigency, she looked to her old 
 and determined enemy, England, for assistance ; and as no 
 man understands better how to profit by a neighbour's dis- 
 tress than John Bull, an illicit traffic in the exportation of 
 gold was soon set on foot by means of agents on the oppo- 
 site coasts ; one of which honest body was my friend Jack.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 7 
 
 on the part of our government, but so much was 
 entrusted to other hands, that the chief risk lay- 
 in the honesty and rectitude of the agents em- 
 ployed by Master Jobbings and Company to 
 accomplish their ends, at the head of whom 
 stood my friend, Will Venture, whom we shall 
 further see was truly worthy of the confidence 
 reposed in him. But all these things looked 
 very different to my observation then to what 
 they do now ; for the coarse manner of life of 
 those who dwelt in the humble town of Folke- 
 stone appeared neither singular nor questionable 
 to me at the early period I am speaking of. 
 What did I think, then, of harm, when I was 
 accustomed to see Jack fill his guinea-bags with 
 hundreds and thousands ? What did I think of 
 his cheating his king or defrauding the govern- 
 ment? Indeed, I doubt not, so common ap- 
 peared the practice, and so well known amongst 
 us, that I imbibed the idea that it was what all 
 the world might do. Many a night have I seen 
 Jack spread the table in his little parlour with
 
 8 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 his golden stores, and say to Will, as they shook 
 them into their canvass sacks, i( Every honest 
 man has a right to earn his bread, aye, Will V 
 " Yes, to be sure, Master Jobbings, in defiance 
 of king and taxes ; not that I don't love my king, 
 as long as he wont take the bread out of a body's 
 mouth, as one may say; and after all, you know, 
 we are all above board." " Yes, yes, Will; as 
 long as you keep the planks between you and 
 the water, we are safe enough : and I always 
 knew you for a wise man, and an honest one too, 
 Will, for our man, Mr. R., says your word is as 
 good as a yard of parchment, sealed and signed. 
 But come, lads, is all right below ?" * Never fear! 
 Will Venture is your man, in the teeth of tide 
 and wind, though he may have but a plank as 
 thick as a shilling between him and Davy's 
 locker. D — n the wind ! a man can die but 
 once." After such interviews as these, away 
 would trudge Will and his comrades with their 
 guinea-bags, and I after them to the beach, and 
 watch him stow into his little cockle-shell his
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. V 
 
 treasures, as fearlessly as he would now-a-days 
 his fishing-tackle ; but then no grand stone pier 
 obtruded on the long line of the shingly beach. 
 A few huge stones heaped together was all 
 
 the landing-place which the town of F 
 
 could boast in those days : no white-trowsered, 
 white-hatted revenue sharks sent their scowling 
 looks into each tiny bark as it went sailing on 
 the free ocean, or came dancing home after a 
 straying voyage. Sometimes, indeed, a whisper 
 would run through the town that an officer had 
 been seen lurking about ; but the officer had his 
 own reasons for giving breath to this whispering, 
 for it was generally the forerunner, through some 
 strange fatality, by which some of the shiners 
 were conveyed into his own pocket, but he, poor 
 man, knew not how the thing got there, but 
 then others did, and so all parties rested in per- 
 fect ease on the subject. 
 
 To return to Will and his guinea-bags. A 
 fearless dog he was, — as fearless a one as ever 
 pulled an oar or hoisted sail between our town 
 b3
 
 10 HENRY ACTON ; OR, 
 
 of Folkestone and Boulogne, and that is 
 saying much, for it was sometimes a trem- 
 bling sio-ht to see Will Venture put off amidst 
 the surgy and angry surf in his wee bark, and 
 then row might and main over the swelling 
 waves; to see how the slender thing would dance, 
 and toss, and dip upon the rolling swell: and 
 when all was storm and fret would we distinguish 
 the gleesome voice and whistle of Will, and watch 
 his little boat, till on the moonlit waters, " like 
 an arrow that cleaves the air, it shaved along 
 the silver path, nor left a track behind." Poor 
 Will ! I have often thought upon you and your 
 midnight voyages, when I have been wandering 
 in regions peopled by children of a strange 
 speech, and where all was strange, — their gods, 
 their very forms, beings of another link in 
 the chain of creation. Though apparently so 
 drawn off from all former associations, still has 
 neither time nor change obliterated the remem- 
 brance of the last scene in which I beheld Will 
 Venture. He had that common propensity of
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. II 
 
 our nature implanted in his heart, and few, I 
 believe, exist without it — the love of money- 
 making. Alas ! like him, do we not see man, 
 amidst the better advantages of this world, sacri- 
 ficing peace, conscience, health, — nay, even 
 soul and body, for the gain of this " one thing 
 needful." If it is the first wordly blessing of life, 
 strange to say, it is not less its bane. That all 
 seek it so earnestly, in the present constructed 
 state of society, ought scarcely to excite our 
 surprise. Money, like the charmed word of the 
 fairy tale, opens all hearts, robes vice in virtue's 
 form, — transforms deformity into beauty, vulga- 
 rity into refinement, — converts the enemy into 
 the friend. But what does poverty ?— it bars 
 all hearts, is a death-shroud of every perfection, 
 — an accursed stamp, from which mankind flee 
 as from a tainted reptile. That Will Venture, 
 then, should seek, late and early, at all risk, to 
 become rich, is no way to be wondered at. That 
 which we must call education had every way 
 tended to nourish this indigenous plant of the
 
 12 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 human mind in him; yet to him it was a severe 
 school, for Will, like many others, saw his 
 master grow rich by his exertions, — saw himself 
 a machine, while others profited by his move- 
 ments ; not that he was singular here either, or # 
 that such a system was confined to the narrow 
 limits of a smuggling gang and its striving 
 agents. Not that I would speak lowly of my 
 native town, for it was a grand corporative body, 
 with mayor, jurats, and I know not what of 
 power and privilege ; but yet, in the days of 
 Will, mayor, jurat, and all, were equally the 
 governors of as strong and trusty a band of 
 smugglers as ever tuned together. But while 
 they set the children to play, or rather the 
 slaves to work, and fattened upon their labours, 
 as rectors do on those of their curates, attorneys 
 on their clerks, and all sinecures on their depu- 
 ties, these slaves reaped little more than a suffi- 
 ciency for existence; — such is the humbug of 
 life, high and low. 
 
 Master Jobbings and Co. realized a 30 per
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 13 
 
 cent, upon the golden guineas with which they 
 trafficked ; and while certain agents of the 
 French government were paying them this. Will 
 Venture was risking his life, exposing himself 
 to the dangers of capture and imprisonment, to 
 receive a ten pounds upon the landing of a cargo 
 of three thousand guineas, the profits to Jobbings 
 and Co. being no less than 900/. But notwith- 
 standing all this, he appeared a happy fellow. 
 I have Will now before me, just prepared for 
 one of his trips. He was certainly no beauty, 
 with a huge black head, not unlike a shaggy 
 wolf dog's ; then the sharp grey eye and bristly 
 brow, the dense shade of beard, shewing through 
 a complexion something deeper than that of 
 tawny port. But still, with all this roughness, 
 shade, and feature ill put together, I never looked 
 at Will's countenance that I did not distinguish 
 honesty, happy content, and open-hearted bene- 
 volence, combined with a degree of shrewdness 
 which we do not often distinguish in the expres- 
 sion of the English. To look at Will in his
 
 14 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 waterproof boat cloak, his blue trowsers of many 
 plaits, you would have said, What a huge 
 figure ! surely the weight of these muscular 
 limbs will sink his little bark in one moment ! 
 But no ; four such fellows gaily rowed her over 
 the glad blue waters; and she has often, like a 
 thing of nought, been tempest-tost, nor moved 
 a plank beneath her heavy burthen, and wea- 
 thered that which brought death and destruction 
 to many a larger sail. Though Will was no 
 beauty, he had not wooed in vain, for he had 
 wooed and won one of the prettiest maids of fair 
 Kent ; and, as he was wont to say, <6 No place 
 like Kent for pretty lasses. As for your shires, 
 I was never amongst them, and I do not want to 
 be." Though time had somewhat touched 
 Mrs. Venture's roses, they had only been trans- 
 ferred to two or three chubby prattlers, and Susan 
 Venture was even now giving full promise of one 
 day shewing the belle of the town of Folkestone, 
 — no very mean distinction, for in no land (and 
 I have seen many) have I beheld so many bright
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 15 
 
 eyes, sunny cheeks, and lovely forms, as were 
 disclosed amongst its maidens. 
 
 My friend Will I said loved money; yet 
 that which many want who love money he 
 certainly possessed. A heart ever open to the 
 wants, the wishes of his fellow-men ; risk of 
 life was nothing to Will, if danger demanded 
 succour — for who so active in the hour of need ? 
 He was a merry fellow too, for who so full of 
 glee and fun ? Will's waggeries were like 
 a certain Irish judge's puns. No good joke 
 was ever told amongst us, but it had its origin 
 in him. He, too, like St. Paul, was " all things 
 to all men," — " wise with the wise," cun- 
 ning with the cunning; he met all men upon 
 their own footing, — the German, the French- 
 man, the Dutchman, or the Paddy; at home 
 with all ; and often were his powers called forth. 
 Paddy was his delight; he could banter back 
 his jokes, and tip him his brogue and his blar- 
 ney to a turn ; quaff his whiskey, till Pat would 
 declare, by St. Patrick, he was no Englishman
 
 16 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 at all, but a rale born native. With what plea- 
 sure of a night have I stolen down to Venture's 
 snug little chimney corner, to listen to the mar- 
 vels related by his stray visitors ! and a mug of 
 good ale and a warm hearth was always there 
 for any old friend. 
 
 While thus assembled one evening, tidings 
 came from Master Jobbings that it was blowing 
 right fair for Dunkirk. The wind was as yet 
 only fresh, but the surges were beginning to 
 look angry, and growling along the shingly 
 beach, now and then to toss up a foaming 
 breaker on the uncouth pier. The moon was 
 up, and bright in light, as now and then a 
 surly-looking cloud rolled away from her. When 
 we opened the door to take a peep at the night, 
 we found it gathering fast for a brisk squall ; the 
 long chain of high white cliffs which extended 
 away eastward were looking dark and frowning : 
 even the little row of houses which faced the 
 beach were scarcely marked in distinction from 
 the mass of those which rose behind them.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 17 
 
 The town of Folkestone is strangely built, 
 the houses standing like autumn leaves scattered 
 by the wind, dropping and crowding up a high 
 eminence, just thrown as if by accident, and, 
 like the grouping at a lord mayor's assembly, 
 good and bad huddled together, none holding 
 deference to his neighbour ; some with their 
 sides turned where the front ought to have 
 looked, some with their back to their neighbour's 
 side, others with their hall-door peeping into 
 their neighbour's yard ; houses in plenty heaped 
 together, but street there is none, for when 
 hoping to find an egress at the termination of a 
 few paces, you discover you have landed on an- 
 other mansion. To-night, cliff and building 
 seemed identified, and we again hastily entered, 
 and fastened the double door of Will's dwellino- 
 which stood immediately facing what might be 
 called the harbour, for sundry crafts and vessels 
 lay lolling at anchor there in a narrow creek, 
 whose waters at high tides nearly washed the 
 very walls of Will's dwelling; but we closed all
 
 18 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 out of sight, save the bright and blazing hearth ; 
 and soon the growling sea, the dash of the 
 fresh waters and freshening wind, became lost 
 in the loud voice of Will, or in the babel prat- 
 tle of the chubby group- of young Ventures. 
 We were all again seated, children, wife, drop- 
 per-in, — Will and myself on one side, snugly 
 sheltered by the high-backed oaken screen ; 
 Mrs. Venture was placed opposite, in all ma- 
 tronly dignity, in her easy chair; while in the 
 centre of the hollow cave-like fireplace was sta- 
 tioned the well-polished little round table; and at 
 our feet, on three-legged stools, were perched 
 the hopeful race of Will and Susan Venture. 
 Even at this distant period, when I revive the 
 remembrance of this family group, how much of 
 home and good feeling mingle with it ! The fa- 
 ther's look of pride is before me, as he stroked 
 the curly pate of rosy, blue-eyed Susan, and said, 
 " Ah, my little maid, you shall have a portion 
 yet that shall buy a bachelor as rich as Master 
 Jobbings himself, for d — n old dad, if there is a
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 19 
 
 brighter eye in all Kent — is there, mother?" 
 11 Why should there be, father ? but you forget 
 old times and Susan Major; but that was for 
 you to say, Master Venture." How far dame 
 Venture's tale of vanity might have run, must 
 still remain in doubt, for Will exclaimed, u I be- 
 lieve old Nick himself is belabouring our door ! 
 Who is there ? Is it Boney himself, with inva- 
 sion and cannonading ? Beg pardon, beg par- 
 don ; what's afloat now?" " Why, you must 
 be afloat ; so, off with that frothy mug, and 
 tackle to," replied Master Jack Jobbings, for it 
 was no less a personage ; nor was he one to be 
 slighted, so all parties were astir in a moment. 
 The brightest pewter was handed from off the 
 shelf, where many a shining one did ample jus- 
 tice to Mrs. Venture's thrifty housewifery ; even 
 the children were all now huddled into a corner, 
 and Master Jack proved alone the centre of at- 
 traction : but no wonder, in a money-loving age, 
 for Master Jobbings' wealth was computed to be
 
 20 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 something upwards of 100,000/. ; though, as I 
 now recal him in this scene, casting a cursory 
 glance at his attire, gait, or manner, one would 
 have guessed the owner was worth not above ten 
 pounds, or perhaps something less ; but we must 
 not judge of men's purses by their personal or 
 mental advantages ; for gold can gild all vulgar- 
 isms of accent or delinquency of grammar ; and 
 as for bulk, height, and breadth, Master Jobbings 
 had sufficient for any station, — something about 
 six feet, with shoulders broad enough to carry 
 some scores of his money-bags on them. As for 
 blood, his was high enough, for it was as high as 
 it could be, being all lodged in the upper de- 
 partment, the hue of the face seeming a conten- 
 tion between black and crimson, — that is, of 
 blood and bristle; eyes of most industrious con- 
 struction, at work on all sides, not being content 
 with glancing in one direction, but each peering 
 at the same time in opposite ones — no bad gift 
 for Jack, as he was ever on the look-out to gain
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 21 
 
 more on one side than was a fair bargain on 
 the other. Long years had Master Jobbings 
 wasted in measuring and weighing twopenny- 
 worths; but finding huxtering but a poor trade, 
 and not a whit more honest than smuggling, 
 though paying all proper dues to king and go- 
 vernment, he determined no longer to have re- 
 gard to such shackles, and turning his scales 
 into guinea-bags, he became the great and rich 
 Master Jack Jobbings. 
 
 The purport of this grand personage's visit to 
 the humble Will's abode, at such a late hour, 
 was soon made known. He seemed somewhat 
 ruffled — puffed and floundered about the circum- 
 scribed apartment as might a leviathan in a 
 horse-pond. " What is the matter now, Master?" 
 inquired Will. " Why, that varlet, Leach, has 
 been smelling a rat again. I thought, a week 
 back only, I had poisoned the vagabond's scent 
 with a good dose; but, zounds! Dick tells me 
 the fellow is in full chace again." " I'll muzzle 
 him, never fear. The bags are all sorted ;
 
 22 HEXRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 not one shiner shall the rascal get from out 
 them to stop his jaw with. Thevarlet! how 
 dare he be snuffing for this month to come ! I'll 
 teach him how to keep quiet." 
 
 " That's a brave fellow, Will ; and I'll be get- 
 ting a fine husband yet for little Susan there, in 
 the corner. Here's a health to you, dame Ven- 
 ture. Hush ! the pebbles do jingle a bit, too, 
 under the surf; curse those white-headed dogs." 
 
 " Never mind, Master Jobbings ; D. and Co. 
 shall see the jinglers before the tide has dried 
 her anger. But come, we must be off!" 
 
 Will put his head out of the door to recon- 
 noitre a little. " Zounds, as the Irishman says, 
 small blame to your civility, master Wind, but 
 it blows a blast that would cut your foreteeth in 
 twain." 
 
 " Close your foreteeth and your jaw too !" re- 
 plied Jobbings. " Why, man, it's right fair for 
 Dunkirk." 
 
 " Ah, so it is. Here, then, good luck be with 
 you, dame and youngsters !" 
 
 #r
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 23 
 
 Will lugged on his coat, slouched his hat, and 
 away we trudged up to Master Jobbings'. 
 
 " I doubt whether Dick will be for bearing a 
 hand over that surf to-night," remarked Will. 
 
 For a moment we stood and looked down 
 upon the shore, which was laved by a long line 
 of white and fretful foam, while all beyond was 
 dense and shadowy. The dark and straggling 
 clouds were in parts of the heavens rolling along 
 in large masses, as if in preparation for a fierce 
 combat, though the chastening moon, like a 
 spirit of peace, rode on, fleecing the edge of the 
 lowering; threateners with her silver light, shed- 
 ding a partial illumination from beneath them on 
 the rising ocean, which was now beginning to 
 reveal all the restlessness of a coming storm. All 
 matters, however, were soon arranged for their 
 departure. It was the last time I ever saw Will 
 enter his little bark. 
 
 " Should the wind be after performing her 
 promise," said Master Jobbings, (as they had 
 given the final push to the boat,) " when you
 
 24 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 get to the other side, you know Light Fly is not 
 far off, and she will soon throw you a cable 
 to haul you aboard." 
 
 " Well, well, we will see to that all in good 
 season. Now, bear a hand, my boys," said Will. 
 
 In a few minutes we saw the light skiff shoot 
 past the surgy foam ; we caught the well-known 
 whistle, in token that all was well; in one second 
 more, a slanting moon-beam showed the little 
 bark as a buoy on the broad and tossing waves, 
 and then it became lost to our sight in the dark- 
 ness of space. 
 
 w It blows tough, too/' said Jack, as he gave 
 his great-coat an additional button ; and without 
 further conversation we retired to our respective 
 homes. 
 
 Little care then was mine. A light heart ge- 
 nerally makes a sound sleeper ; but to-night I 
 could not sleep. The hurricane gust seemed as 
 if driving the very ocean on our habitation; the 
 windows rattled, and the house creaked again 
 in the blast.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 25 
 
 Will was not long absent from my thoughts, 
 
 and in the morning, by times, I was glad to hasten 
 
 down to learn tidings of him and his companions. 
 
 The wind had lulled much with the returning 
 
 tide, but things looked a little disordered after 
 
 the sharp work of the night, as does a mansion 
 
 of evening revelry on the following morning ; 
 
 but the sun soon was dancing on and brightening 
 
 the fresh waves as they came tossing and curling 
 
 along like u the hopes of early days." It was a 
 
 clear September morning ; the patches of green 
 
 sward shewed gaily amidst the rugged aspect of 
 
 our cliffs, and the mist was busily floating off the 
 
 distant hills ; many a white sail was sporting on 
 
 the wavy waters ; all on the beach shewed active 
 
 life, — some occupied in repairing their nets, 
 
 some looking to their fishing skiffs, while others 
 
 were just launching off; though many stood 
 
 there, I recognised not my friend Will amongst 
 
 them with his gieesome fun. 
 
 I could perceive much mysterious conversation 
 was going on amongst some of them — could ob- 
 vol. i. c
 
 26 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 serve a wondrous shake of the head, meaning- 
 unutterable intelligence ! I could discover, too, 
 something- of doubt and fear, an occasional 
 pointing and use of glasses, as if an acute spy- 
 ing was taking place of some interesting object 
 out at sea. Many sails were pursuing their way 
 along the pathless deep, some, in my mind, 
 perhaps to death, and others, perhaps, to peace 
 and wealth. Yet such were not the thoughts 
 which occupied Master Jobbins, — not such the 
 speculations of the group which I now joined. 
 No ! their eyes were fixed on one little speck ; 
 but that little speck was full of mighty interest, 
 for to the sapient observers it bore all just sem- 
 blance to none other than one of their prized 
 vessels, the " Fast Fly" — a very miracle of swift- 
 ness. il Will is aboard her, I dare be sworn, 
 said one ; yes, yes." Still Master Jobbings' glass 
 was fixed on the movements of Fast Fly, but 
 with a manner that plainly evinced that it was 
 not of Will Venture he was thinking. " I say, Mr. 
 Holden," — and a low conversation commenced,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLER*. 27 
 
 of which I could only catch, " Yes, yes" — " That 
 varlet" — u Clear for Dungeness" — " Leach" — 
 (i Bribe," and such broken words, so tantalizing 
 to a curious listener. But, however, I plainly 
 learnt that hints had been received that the Re- 
 venue had been on the brisk look out for Fast 
 Fly off Dungeness, the very spot to which she 
 seemed now 7 shaping her course under all sail ; 
 but of the fate of Fast Fly I cared but in- 
 differently, provided Venture was not aboard 
 her; and rinding that of him and his party all 
 were equally uninformed as myself, I retired to 
 breakfast with my uncle, who was ever ready to 
 offer comfort in times of doubt: he was the 
 rector of the parish, known to all as the good 
 Mr. Acton. Perhaps in these days, when the 
 good are so plenty and the pure so rare, Mr. 
 Acton w T ould have not done as the popular 
 preacher of a fashionable watering-place ; and 
 it would have perhaps been said, Mr. Acton 
 knew little of leading himself or guiding others 
 in the right; yet were all his doctrines scriptural, 
 c2
 
 28 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 all his thoughts peace, all his actions charity — 
 the friend of all ; merciful to the erring, severe 
 to none ; humble in all his habits, yet hospitable 
 to all who came, or needed the good man's fare. 
 Week after week had seen him enter the church 
 respected, and listened to by many an attentive 
 and loving parishioner, many of whom, like 
 himself, were now growing grey under the 
 withering hand of time ; and many, under his 
 guidance, walking the same path, were securing, 
 it is to be trusted, the same end. Now and then 
 he would lecture with some harshness such as 
 my friend Will ; tell them " theirs was a vaga- 
 bond life ; that it would lead to no right finish- 
 j no " — yet even here he hoped for better things. 
 " The war would not last much longer, — that 
 then Venture and his coadjutors would turn 
 their time to worthier pursuits.'' Whether good 
 Mr. Acton was as just in this inference as he 
 was in general has yet to be told. 
 
 Day after day did I watch with Will's friends 
 for his return — yet still no tidings ! Rumours
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 29 
 
 were afloat that the Fast Fly had anchored for 
 a couple of hours somewhere off Dungeness 
 Point ; that Leach, with some of his companions, 
 had been observed skulking about the Point 
 much at the same time, but that neither Leach 
 nor Fast Fly had been seen or heard of since. 
 But, however, these were times when saying all 
 which might be thought, or revealing all which 
 might be known, was not exactly the mode of 
 proceeding amongst the inhabitants of the 
 neighbourhood of Folkestone ; and no people 
 knew better how to keep their own council than 
 they. But, gradually, ominous and portentous 
 conjectures spread through our town. Vague 
 hints of the extraordinary disappearance of Leach 
 and two of his companions, for it was now known 
 beyond doubt that they were nowhere to be 
 found ; groups of wiseheads were constantly seen 
 reasoning and expounding the mysteries of such 
 undue proceedings ; half-breathed inuendoes of 
 treason on the part of the navigators of Fast Fly ; 
 dark hints respecting Will's honour. Will was
 
 30 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 then the first man of Folkestone who had ever 
 even had a doubt expressed respecting his 
 honour ! No, no, impossible ! He had many 
 friends — amongst the number was good Mr. 
 Acton ; they all said it would soon blow over ; his 
 honour was as bright as the brass buttons on his 
 last new Sunday coat; it was only a cloud from 
 the enemy's coast ; it would vanish at his pre- 
 sence in a moment, off such fine-wrought metal 
 as Will's honour, — aye, as fast as one's breath 
 off the best polished steel ! — such a thing must 
 not be thought of: perhaps he had got entangled 
 with some of the war-ships ; or, more dreadful 
 than all, might he not have perished in such a 
 fearful night? — But their conjectures were like 
 some high and lofty mountain, over which one 
 veil of mist has no sooner rolled away than an- 
 other comes pouring on. At last it was deter- 
 mined in mighty council, that a fresh cargo 
 should be embarked, and all due inquiry insti- 
 tuted on the opposite shores. Knowing the in- 
 finite gratification this final decree would afford
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 31 
 
 my friend Mrs. Venture, I hastened to com- 
 municate it to her. Poor Venture's habitation 
 looked solitary and deserted ; even old Growl, 
 the watch-dog and children's playfellow, lay 
 surly and snarling at the steps of the door, nor 
 greeted me with his usual hospitality, but, just 
 beating his tail on the stone, allowed me to 
 step over him ; and no noisy play told of the 
 young ones within — all was silence ! I felt an 
 uncomfortable presentiment as I lifted the latch. 
 I found Mrs. Venture, not, as usual, at her 
 thrifty housewifery ; and as I entered, no one 
 came forward to notice my approach, for poor 
 Mrs. Venture was sitting moping in one corner 
 of the fireplace, while her companion appeared 
 to know no occupation but that of tears. 
 
 " I think I have something to tell that will 
 comfort you, Mrs. Venture." 
 
 " God bless you for it, then ; for never did 
 Mary and I need it more." 
 
 " Why, they are sending off a fresh cargo to- 
 night, and tidings must be here before sunrise 
 to-morrow !"
 
 32 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 " Is that all ?" said the pretty Mary Knight, 
 who I discovered was Mrs. Venture's companion. 
 
 '* Well, now, dont take on so, Mary, for Dick 
 will be back among us yet, as handsome and as 
 merry as ever," replied Mrs. Venture. 
 
 I saw how matters stood, for Mary blushed 
 crimson. 
 
 " No, never fear, pretty Mary" — for few 
 prettier lasses might be found than Mary 
 Knight ; not that she shewed the lily and rose of 
 rustic beauty, — no veiled dame of Turkish 
 harem could boast a fairer or softer cheek and 
 brow than she ; nor Italian beauty, locks and 
 eyes of darker or brighter hue — " So, so, Mary, 
 Dick keeps his secrets ; I shall rate him well 
 when we meet." 
 
 " Ah ! when you do meet, Mr. Acton/' 
 
 " But hush," said Dame Venture, " what are 
 folks after now ? — la ! how they are bearing 
 away," and opening the door, we heard cries of 
 " They are coming ! they are coming !" 
 
 I looked at Mary Knight — she was nearly
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 33 
 
 fainting ; but in an instant more she rushed 
 from the house, pale and breathless ; we fol- 
 lowed. When we arrived at the beach it was 
 crowded, and others came running and shouting 
 along. Every employment, every occupation, 
 had given place at the joyful intelligence that 
 Fast Fly was in sight, and a motley crowd were 
 now seen along the water's edge — for all, men, 
 women, and children, had rushed out from their 
 employments. Women, with cloak in hands, 
 some even with their very culinary utensils or 
 working apparatus with them ; the men with 
 their fishing tackle or hatchets, without hats or 
 jackets, old hoblers without their crutches, and 
 children screaming for their parents or nurses, 
 unable to keep pace with the moving crowd. 
 
 Fast Fly was to be seen far out at sea, but 
 laying like a log on the cold and motionless 
 waters : her sails were set, but not a breath 
 flapped their canvass. 
 
 But, independent of all interest for Will and 
 his companions, Fast Fly herself was no insigni- 
 c3
 
 34 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 ficant object of affection. She was nominally 
 a^/ree-trader ; but all those who knew her well, 
 knew her for something- of more worth, and 
 knew her, too, for one of the loveliest and 
 swiftest vessels that ever trod the ocean. Never 
 had she approached her native harbour under 
 more peculiar circumstances. She was one who 
 was to bring tidings of those for whom prayers 
 and hopes had been hourly offered up. She 
 was also freighted with stores of increasing 
 wealth to her owners : and with all this she her- 
 self was safe ! No long-absent traveller of dis- 
 tant lands could be more welcome. Huzzas of 
 greeting echoed along the beach — flags of hand- 
 kerchiefs and aprons waved for her nearing. 
 
 " She will not make her mooring to-night,' 1 
 said one of the friendly prophets. 
 
 " Then if she does not she will have a rough 
 berth of it; for I can tell you, that though the 
 sea is now as smooth-jawed as Leach himself, 
 she's gathering a fine squall into her whistle, — 
 see yonder red ones of the west !"
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 35 
 
 " Will's in her," said another ; " there's his 
 very tack in that shift ! See how the sheet 
 swells ! — she will run into Sandgate, full swell, 
 ere another half hour." 
 
 " Hurra ! — hurra for Will !" vociferated the 
 scudding multitude. Away scampered the 
 motley group, as fast as young legs and strong 
 chests would allow them, up the hill, and away 
 over the cliff; — Mary Knight outstripped the 
 stoutest of us. With eye fixed on the vessel, 
 she seemed as if she could, with loadstone in- 
 fluence, draw it at once to anchorage, — while old 
 ones wagged on, and blew and puffed, in full 
 proof that man's breath is but mortal ! 
 
 It was not very long before a shout and loud 
 huzza gave note to the laggers behind that all 
 was well. Never did election hubbub pour forth 
 more joyful acclamations than the welcome to 
 Will Venture and Richard Major, as they leaped 
 from the little boat of the Fast Fly on the beach 
 of Sandgate. But where, now, was Mary 
 Knight ? No longer foremost of the throng, but
 
 36 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 in the very centre of the many, hiding the smiles 
 and tears which, like April showers, alternately 
 evinced the joy and fear of her innocent heart. 
 One sly look of Richard's dark eye had told her 
 that the merry glance of French lasses had been 
 shot in vain, and that his affectionate heart was 
 still all her own. 
 
 Our town of Folkestone was not, in those days 
 of freedom, as now, frequented by the idle shop- 
 keepers of London and their wives, or the half- 
 pay list ; the one come to wash off the filth of 
 the city, and the other to recruit a ruined con- 
 stitution and pocket in our little town. No ; we 
 had not become, in those days of primitive sim- 
 plicity, that modern receptacle of nuisances — " a 
 watering place not far distant from the metro- 
 polis." One long sort of house, which looked 
 something resembling one of Will's old skiffs 
 turned topsy-turvy, was all of bathing-machine 
 we could boast. Here the Venuses of our town 
 attired themselves, and, with a Diana bound, 
 tost into the briny waves. Many a mischievous
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 37 
 
 source of frolic to us lads was it to watch these 
 fair Naiads of the deep, as they gambled amongst 
 its dancing waters of a summer's sunny morn- 
 ing ; but those days of innocence and simplicity 
 are no more ; the march of intellect has made 
 her a path even into our town. Yet I question 
 if vice is one jot the cooler, or virtue one jot the 
 warmer. Yes, I am sorry to say, the vanity 
 of life is growing fast into manhood in my na- 
 tive and once primitive home ; for, since my 
 return, I perceive now, forsootb, they must have 
 their horse-machines, and bathing men and 
 bathing women, all which must be supported 
 and dearly paid for. Now, little pigeon-hole 
 lodging-houses are stuffed with squalling, dis- 
 eased brats, and half-gentry, flaunting in um- 
 brella hats and in flounced-bottomed robes, 
 popping in upon your seclusion at every corner, 
 staring and gaping, wondering and conjecturing 
 who and what you can be, with all the micro- 
 scopic minutia of a country town's curiosity —
 
 38 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 that dreadful disease and typhus of the idle. 
 Then perched here, and now perched there, in 
 the full blossom of modern education, is my 
 butcher's daughter of Tooley-street, or my gro- 
 cer's wife of Highgate, sketching, or rather 
 butchering, our beautiful coast of Kent. Dear, 
 dear me, let me go back and live with poor Will 
 and Dick ! So I will again to old times and our 
 motley group, as we hied back from Sandgate, 
 buzzing and questioning Will and Dick as to 
 the wonders of their travels, for we soon learnt 
 they had sailed many a knot, and tost o'er many 
 a wave, since we had parted. But where is great 
 Master Jobbings all this time ? Alas ! little did 
 any of us ever dream of seeing so moneyed a man 
 brought so low ! Our cliffs were not composed 
 of the firmest of creation's compositions. Master 
 Jobbings, I said, was somewhat of a cumbersome 
 bulk, and not given to much speed in his move- 
 ments; but now a sort of unusual emulation 
 quickened his heavy paces, but finding the
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 39 
 
 party had far outstripped him, he betook him- 
 self to the " Lower road," as Master Jobbings 
 was not the strongest in w 7 ind ; but all would 
 not do, for he could not be quite so nimble, 
 even with the best exertions, in keeping pace 
 with the others, as he had been in converting: 
 hundreds into thousands; and he had only 
 partly proceeded on his journey, when he per- 
 ceived the objects of that journey bearing fast 
 homewards. Impatiently anxious to learn the 
 fate of certain little moneys, he determined to 
 conquer all difficulties, and mount to meet them 
 up the high paths of the cliffs, and in a woeful 
 plight did he find himself when he had ascended 
 midway ; each foot, as he placed it, notwithstand- 
 ing rough-shoeing, slipped from under poor Mas- 
 ter Jobbings ; and though few had been his false 
 steps in life, now one fatally taken was near cost- 
 ing a severe price. Vain were all his efforts to 
 obtain firm hold again; down slided the poor 
 man, scrambling, holding, floundering, and 
 kicking, catching at each tangible object within
 
 40 HEXRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 reach, whether strata or clammy mud, crumbling 
 sand, bare rock, or prickly brier, still no sub- 
 stantial footing could be gained. Coat was rent, 
 breeches, gaiters, — all equally suffered in the 
 warfare ; and w T hither was he to be borne I — 
 to nothing less delightful than a downy quag- 
 mire. He now rose lustily on a pair of sub- 
 stantial understandings; but the last was the 
 saddest plight of all, for he kept vanishing, — 
 sank far beyond his knees deep in mud. With 
 clothes all tattered and torn, and pate uncovered, 
 stood the great Master Jobbings, revealed to the 
 merry group above, who were fast advancing, in 
 jocund, merry mirth. Suddenly they halted, 
 and roars of laughter proclaimed that his woeful 
 case was known. 
 
 " Pull ahoy, Master Jobbings," vociferated 
 Will. " Is Varlet come home from his long 
 sail, and vengeanced my sins upon your back, 
 or rather body V 
 
 But all the answer they received was a waive 
 from the poor sufferer to come to his assistance.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 41 
 
 Will, as ever, was the first to volunteer. "Will 
 hastened to descend, and of course we all fol- 
 lowed Will ; and many the stumble and many 
 the laugh it afforded : but having; rescued the 
 honest trader from the quagmire, and fairly ar- 
 rived at our destination, we separated, on the 
 condition that we were all to meet at the club- 
 room at five o'clock. 
 
 In what a narrow compass is the cause of 
 years of future happiness or misery often cen- 
 tred ! One event, with master stroke, gives to 
 the future picture of life a character and a deci- 
 sion which, in blindness or in ignorance, human 
 foresight could never have conceived. Oderic 
 tells us of trees whose ripened fruit transform 
 into birds, and then take flight from their parent 
 stock. So do the promises formed for our own 
 plans of life : just when the fairy flowers of fancy 
 are budded into perfection, behold, they have 
 taken wings unto themselves, and passed away 
 from our possession. 
 
 But let us take a peep at Will and his party,
 
 42 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 seated round a blazing hearth in the club-room 
 of" The Lugger." A motley group was there. I 
 have ever remarked, that in the lower or middling 
 classes the character is more visibly delineated 
 on the countenance than in the higher and more 
 educated grades of life, originating, perhaps, 
 from the stronger restraints of civilized society 
 and acquired habits of thinking. The members 
 now assembled knew little of the one or the 
 other; natural good feeling stood in the place of 
 the first, while instinctive acuteness answered 
 the purposes of the latter. In the centre of the 
 group, in a huge carved oak chair, presided the 
 sapient and mighty Master Jobbings, quite puffed 
 up and puffed out to his full dimensions in body 
 and mind. Though repaired from his late mis- 
 haps, still something of a patch was visible on 
 the right temple ; but there was a darkness ap- 
 pertaining to the whole character of Master Job- 
 bings' phiz, so that shades were not much 
 marked on its clarety disk. Next Master Job- 
 bings sat a little, neat-built, dapper body, com-
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 43 
 
 pact, and tidy, and shrewd, with a certain 
 screwed-up exactness, giving strong contrast to 
 Master Jobbings' careless roughness ; something 
 of a Welshy smallness and cunning of eye — a 
 stamp of the profession to which he belonged ; for 
 Mr.Tape was none other than the attorney of our 
 town : but woe to their trade, or rather, woe to 
 their pocket, had not Master Jobbings and Com- 
 pany received his services. So Mr. Tape, instead 
 of, like all men of his profession, putting his 
 fingers into his neighbour's pies till they leave 
 them nothing but an empty dish, discovered, 
 that in our peaceful community, he must cook a 
 pie of his own or he would have none at all; and 
 so he did, and was, in my mind, an honester 
 man than most of his calling. If he cheated, he 
 cheated those who could afford to pay: not so 
 with others of the same class ; many an honest 
 poor man do they rob to fill the purse of a cheat- 
 ing knave — none other than their own. But no 
 rule without an exception ; and none are known 
 to pass the grave-stone of poor little Tape with
 
 44 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 " Ah ! there lies the rogue that ruined me and 
 mine." No; peace rest with the tidy man's 
 bones, as they now repose just close by the 
 wicker gate which opens into the green fields 
 that overhang our bright and smiling shores, 
 where, on one of the tall white stones, that look, 
 in the clear moonshiny nights, like spectres in 
 their winding-sheets, is recorded the fame of 
 Mr. Tape, with his race,* living and dead. But, 
 as I said, peace rest with the tidy man's bones ! 
 for even you, Dr. Gill, with that wise, dapper, 
 powdered head, could not keep the man of law 
 amongst us : but then, practice, not theory, makes 
 the doctor; and, however learned in the latter 
 poor Dr. Gill had little advantage of the former, 
 for sea breezes, mountain air, and happy tempers, 
 gave the doctor but small disturbance to his 
 nightly dreams, and barely daily occupation for 
 his bodily welfare ; but still the doctor managed 
 to look ruddy and in good condition, and it was 
 
 * The general mode of marking tomb-stones in Kent.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 45 
 
 said that many a gilded pill even the doctor him- 
 self swallowed. Certain it was, he and Master 
 Jobbings were mighty good friends ; not that 
 the doctor or any other were valued one jot the 
 more for gold or for antiquity with us; and much 
 I doubt if one held a higher station in any man's 
 mind than the other, save the good Mr. Acton ; 
 to him they looked as to a being of a superior 
 class ; but his was that indestructible superiority 
 of mind : he borrowed no weight from wealth, 
 for a few hundreds were all his possessions ; he 
 held no distinction from ancestors, for he was 
 the seventh son of a poor country parson. As 
 for titled distinction, or heraldric honours, they 
 may have heard of such things, but most proba- 
 bly they would have gone out to look at a Lord 
 as we should go to stare at a set of Indian jug- 
 glers, or a show of untamed beasts. At Folke- 
 stone, poor and rich, high and humble, had been 
 linking together, until it was a somewhat ab- 
 struse study to begin or end a genealogical tree. 
 It was only sometimes the wonder how dis-
 
 46 HEXRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 tinctions in relationship could be sufficiently 
 struck out to shew if some might become hus- 
 band and wife, for all the branches had kept 
 twining in and around till it appeared impossible 
 to point out the parent stock. 
 
 But the party assembled at the Lugger impa- 
 tiently awaited Will Venture's narrative. The last 
 comer-in had made his appearance, and a sort of 
 fidgetty pause announced that all was ready. 
 
 et Here's to your health and shiners, Master 
 Jobbings," said Will, as he quaffed a long 
 draught from a smoking beaker. 
 
 The pipe was in Master Jobbings' mouth, so 
 a mighty nod gave his thanks. 
 
 " A better night to us next week. It was but 
 tough work, and black as Snug's Hole up the 
 high cliff yonder, when we hauled ashore on those 
 
 shallow sands of . Then the ' attendez 
 
 arretez,' of your French Leaches — for they 
 have their plaguy varlets there, as foxy as 
 any one of our own friends ; but I soon taught 
 them English is not French ; that we were not
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 4/ 
 
 going to have any of their ratings — l no moun- 
 siers, no rat's game about us, but the good 
 coin — the raonnoies, the monnoies; Louis d 'or, 
 Louis d'or ! ' and we soon found that was the 
 door for us. ' Master Bone will ouvrey la porte 
 n'est pas Mounsiers.' The rogues ! they turned 
 their heads one way and their hands the other." 
 
 A jolly laugh gave Master Will further en- 
 couragement; so on he proceeded. 
 
 " We soon managed to haul ashore, and away 
 up to our friend of , where we got some- 
 thins; to wet our whistles and drv our skins. 
 Jollily we smoked our pipes, and went to bed ; 
 up, and down to Master Isaac the next morning 
 betimes. The old miser ! he is getting as tough 
 as his own beard. Old sinner ! with as many 
 lies as guineas. The rogue of a coquette ! — 
 ' We want none of de gold monish ; the marche 
 full of de gold monish,' The cunning hog- 
 hater ! Here's to your health again, Master 
 Jobbings ; and old Isaac's lies prove success to 
 your trade."
 
 48 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 " Your health, good Will Venture." 
 " So, Master Isaac thought to play his hoax 
 upon us, with his 'de grande armee.' ' In the 
 Italie, dey want the silver monish ; you get de 
 bad price for de gold monish.' Well, be it so; 
 we'll be back, and wait till the grand armee is 
 beat in de Italie ; so, bon jour, Monsieur Isaac. 
 But Isaac still kept his little black eye upon 
 us. 'No, dat wont do, neider; — no beating 
 the grand General; he de great man — de great 
 Goliath.' Come, Master Isaac, I did not rough 
 it over tide and surf to waste my breath with 
 you; come, tackle to at once, — I have a fine 
 haul. ' No, no ; you too hard,' said Isaac. 
 Well, good day, master. ■ Wait, let me see 
 what is good for de marche to give.' No, say 
 I; what is fit for de marche to receive. Down 
 with my price, or none. The oars are in again : 
 if I strike, you may melt your bells and coin 
 your pewter as you like, for de grande armee in 
 de Italie. ' But you are so difficult in de bargains,' 
 repeated the craving old Hebrew. Oui, oui,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 49 
 
 Isaac. But the bargains with us are somewhat 
 harder in their metal than your dross on this 
 side. Down with your bills at Master Jobbings' 
 price, or here goes in earnest Will Venture. ' De 
 monish, de monish/ — and his hand signed the 
 bills. Now we had got shut of de monish, the ques- 
 tion was, what were we to do with ourselves? for 
 wind and waves were fighting as hard as Master 
 Isaac will fight to leave his i monish/ when he is 
 about to embark for the other world. However, 
 we had a sight of Fast Fly at her moorings off 
 Dunkirk, and thought the best plan was to 
 make a strong tug to get under her, but it was a 
 blistering pull of it ! — ten strokes more, and we 
 should have been breakfast for the fishes ! — but 
 we got alongside of her, and they soon hauled 
 us aboard. But all was not smooth water. No 
 sooner set sail, and swelling along before the 
 wind, than one of your firing cannonaders gave 
 smoking chase after us. Odds ! but I thought 
 we were to have burly work of it : we beo-an to 
 whistle for her planks. It was a farthing rush- 
 
 VOL. 1. D
 
 50 HENRY ACTON ; OR, 
 
 light (was it not, Dick ?) between life and death ! 
 — but all hands ahoy, give her all her play, and 
 what was she but a chicken's feather. Away 
 she danced and bounded, and off like my Bill's 
 kite, and left heavy ones and combustibles for 
 another weathering; but it was not before we 
 neared Dungeness Point " 
 
 " Ah ! then it was you we saw 7 ," said Master 
 Jobbings, — " but what made you get away from 
 your moorings in such quick time ?" 
 
 "Well may you ask, Master; but a plaguy 
 squally mooring it would have been if we had 
 not," — and Dick and Will gave a hearty laugh. 
 c< Why, odds, we should have anchored in the 
 very jaws of Leach and his varlets ' — No, we 
 knew better than to fly in the teeth of such a 
 wind as that — the hungry sharks " 
 
 " What, Leach !" exclaimed a dozen voices. 
 
 "Ay, Leach himself! — and I dare swear, 
 while I was stowing the cargo, you thought I 
 was no true one, — what ! like one of your Deal 
 ones ? — No ! I am none of that sort, and that
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 51 
 
 Leach has right to know — odds ! it was rare 
 sport. What right had the fellow to be poking 
 his nose in other men's holds V 
 
 " No harm done the fellow, I hope," said 
 many voices. 
 
 M Harm ! — what harm could be done to such 
 a fresh-water lubber as that ? — only shewed him 
 a little blue water. But the winds are chattering 
 a bit out of doors, too," said Will, pausing in his 
 story. " The storm is laying to as hard as when 
 we popped Leach and his man — not overboard" — 
 
 " Will, Will, what have you done I" said 
 many breathlessly, and half rising. 
 
 " Belay that, my lads, and do not be putting 
 out so much sail. Odds, how the thunder is roar- 
 ing ! But you ask me what I have done, — why, 
 what I would do again ; and no honest man ever 
 harmed another that was not sorry for it; — what 
 did I do with the varlets ! — why, I stowed them 
 among the timbers and away off to Cornwall !" — 
 A pause for a few moments was caused ; for the 
 lightning, despite the blazing fire and candles, 
 d2
 
 52 HEXRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 illuminated the apartment, while the hail pelted 
 and spattered on the windows, and crack- 
 ling thunder only ceased, to be filled up by 
 shaking gusts of roaring wind. u My eyes! it 
 blows a few !" — and the group drew their circle 
 into a narrower compass, whilst Will was evi- 
 dently somewhat cooled in his narrative. " Let 
 me see, — ah ! I see Leach was the first to salute 
 us on our arrival at the Point, and I knew he had 
 been looking out for a squall for some time. What 
 was to be done I — nothing but a cool hand could 
 save us ! All on board were for making a sink 
 of it, and taking to our heels on terra firma. 
 1 Never shew the enemy your back,' said I; ' Will 
 can weather it, leave it to him ! Set every inch of 
 canvass, and be ready for the first breeze \\ They 
 stared a few, but still they trusted to Will Ven- 
 ture. So I jumped on land, told Leach and 
 Squib I was willing, if they would give me my 
 own price, that the cargo should be theirs, and 
 many more secrets. Odds, how they gaped ! — 
 What, Venture, you! — but the rascals were too
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLER-. 53 
 
 mannerly to say what they thought, but I gulled 
 them. Our bargain was signed and sealed, and 
 they in Fast Fly in a jiffy. Dick, do you re- 
 member how* you looked and swore when I 
 helped Master Leach with my own hands on 
 board, and said, now she is yours, gentlemen, 
 and gave them a wink to come see what treasures 
 they had to seize in the hold. The freshones, 
 down they step ; — there, there ! I will light it 
 again — as I slyly blew out the candle I was 
 holding for them. Up I got, fairly on my legs, 
 down with the hatch, barred, bolted, in a twiff, 
 and Squib and Leach snug along with the brandy 
 kegs ! — " 
 
 u What ! Squib and Leach !" — and roars of 
 laughter followed the intelligence. 
 
 i; Let us all have a cup to their health," said 
 Master Jobbings, and all filled manfully. 
 
 In the pause, a sound rang, though rather in- 
 distinct, as the thunder now gave small inter- 
 mission. 
 
 " It is a gun ! — "
 
 54 HENRY acton; OR, 
 
 " Pho, nonsense," replied some ; " go on. 
 Will." 
 
 " So I said, I fairly capsized them into the 
 hold—" 
 
 " But hark ! again — " 
 
 " Never mind, it is the wind — Will capsized 
 them" — and again the merry ones laughed — 
 " and what then ?" 
 
 " We put out before the wind right for Lands- 
 End ; and for five hours left Master Squib and 
 Leach to keep company with the rats. Odds, 
 how the fellows bellowed ! After which we 
 hauled them upon deck, and stuffed their jaws 
 with salt beef and dry biscuits, and for every 
 oath gave a joke and a laugh. I made for Pen- 
 zance direct, as I had a sister there. Our 
 voyage was a pleasant concern enough ; and 
 before I landed the chaps, I got a pretty tight 
 promise that if they found their journey back, 
 they would be very grateful to me for the harm- 
 less frolic, when I might have done them such 
 odds, considering how much I had them in
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 55 
 
 tow. So we spent a merry night at my sister's ; 
 and the next morning, Will, Fast Fly, and all, 
 were many a league on their homeward course." 
 
 " Here's a thousand healths to the brave, 
 honest Will Venture !" said Master Jobbings. 
 " Hurra for Will Venture !" again and again 
 
 vociferated the gleesome party, when the 
 
 door suddenly opened, and Mr. Acton, dripping, 
 shivering, and pale, burst into the room, with a 
 crowd of drenched followers ! All jumped up 
 as if electrified, and then stood mute and staring 
 like persons roused from a sound nap. 
 
 i( Look, look not at me !" said Mr. Acton, 
 " but every soul lend his aid. To the beach, 
 without a moment's delay ; a wretched vessel 
 is firing for relief; she is close on land, and 
 every soul must perish without immediate assist- 
 ance." 
 
 In an instant all was tumult ; — without a 
 word — without a consideration of floods from 
 heaven, the lightning, thunder, and storm, — we 
 all rushed after Mr. Acton. The way to the
 
 56 HENRY acton; or, 
 
 beach was crowded ; all impelled by the one 
 hope, the one endeavour, if in human power, to 
 save the perishing crew. What a contrast ! — 
 terror had taken possession of every heart,which, 
 a moment since, was jocund as home-bound sea- 
 man or holiday schoolboy; every countenance 
 was pallid with fear, which, a moment since, 
 was convulsed with laughter. In all my scenes 
 of life, never had I witnessed such a momen- 
 tary, such a startling change, — nor amidst 
 the elements of heaven witnessed such an 
 unmitigated storm ! The roofs of the houses 
 were shattered and given as paper to the winds ; 
 the glasses whirled and crackled about our path 
 and over our heads like dust from a sieve ; in 
 fragments and atoms they fell around us ! All 
 was roar, and glare, and sound. It seemed one 
 moment as if the winds would carry us into the 
 air ; the next, as if the lightnings of heaven 
 would blast, the thunder crush, or the floods over- 
 whelm us ! It was an awful moment ! — a mo- 
 ment, it seemed, almost of annihilation ! Yet,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLER?. 57 
 
 amidst it, one object engrossed all our thoughts, 
 all our feelings : it was a dark speck on the boiling 
 waves, scarcely distinguishable but by one faint 
 star of light sometimes visible from its main- 
 mast. It seemed to say, the light f life is here, 
 but the darkness of the grave is around ; some- 
 times, indeed, we obtained a more accurate view 
 of the vessel, as the broad flash played above 
 her and around her; then could see her dipping 
 into gulfs of unfathomed depths, to rise again 
 on mountains of foam ; each flash revealed fresh 
 havoc, — sails rent, ropes unbelayed, her spars 
 shivered, — all hastening fast to inevitable wreck ! 
 What was to be done ? Human aid seemed im- 
 possible ! No boat could live in such a sea ! 
 The ocean, as we now stood on the beach, seemed 
 raised high above its natural level ! — we trem- 
 bled when we looked on it, and turned to our- 
 selves, as wave after wave came o-ulfmo; over 
 each receding one. Earth itself seemed, to the 
 imagination, too circumscribed in compass for 
 such a liquid force; but still we stood, though 
 d3
 
 58 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 the hail beat and pelted about us like musketry ; 
 the footpaths swept away in streams of dissolv- 
 ing particles, while the winds sounded in our 
 ears like the dying moans of a hundred lions ; 
 the thunders pealed, and rocks echoed, as if a 
 legion of devils were waging war amidst the angry 
 clouds, and battling in fury with the hurricane 
 tempest. No moment of peace, — the mind and 
 senses were stunned! — But — but what was 
 sound to all that glared before our dizzy eye- 
 balls? — The heavens, at periods, resembled sheets 
 of livid fire ; yawning chasms seemed opened 
 above to disclose the very source and essence 
 of light. Again might we trace the frightful 
 lines play through the obscured heavens, as 
 if the fabled serpents of living flame were there ; 
 and then for a brief instant we could catch the 
 clear, pure moon, passing along as an angel of 
 glory amidst a world of desolation, — serene, 
 though paled by the flashing lightnings which 
 seemed to burst forth to shew every living and 
 moving object in horror and woe; then draw
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 59 
 
 back again to throw all into gloom deep as the 
 grave ! But where was that wretched thing 1 
 Did she still live amidst these contending ele- 
 ments? — Yes! our eyes were still fixed on her; 
 but what could we do? — we stood motionless, 
 powerless, with hands closed and raised in 
 prayer, in speechless helplessness. We gazed 
 and watched her every movement : — now she 
 drives before the wind — now rocks from side to 
 side ; every lashing wave toppling on and over 
 her, as if they would splinter her timbers into a 
 thousand atoms ; now she plunges nearly from 
 sight into the reeking; waters : now she seems as 
 if tossing above them, and rides high on the 
 foaming breakers, again to sink — to rock and 
 whirl upon destruction ! — but now she ap- 
 proaches, and clearly we distinguish the groans, 
 the screams, of the hapless, helpless crew ; 
 now the liohtning shews them, with out- 
 stretched arms, imploring aid from Heaven and 
 man ! — some on bended knee, some lying in 
 death-like torpor, others rushing with wild de-
 
 60 
 
 spair from one spot to the other, calling on all 
 that is dear to look but again on them ! A figure 
 we see amidst the rest, she holds her infant with 
 maniac wildness, and only asks to save her 
 child ! — but where was aid ? The faintest glim- 
 mer of hope is at once crushed by Almighty 
 power ! — a streaming line of forked fluid shoots 
 from heaven ! — it strikes the mainmast ! — it 
 shivers into a thousand pieces, and falls, in 
 blazing particles, amidst the smoking waters ! — 
 All is dark again, — the thunder rattles past, — 
 one loud, long shriek arises in agony, so shrill, 
 so piercing, man's heart's-blood curdles in his 
 veins ; suffocation is in his breath as he takes the 
 sound in all its bitterness. Mr. Acton fell on 
 his knees ; we all followed his example. Never 
 rose devotion with more fervour ; it seemed as 
 if, like incense, it had risen to heaven: — the 
 clouds opened, and the moon shone in full un- 
 broken light, — the dark speck of the wreck was 
 beneath it, nearly in close upon land, but appa- 
 rently perfectly torn to pieces ; canvass, rigging,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 61 
 
 » 
 masts, rudder, were all gone ; not a stick 
 left ; wholly dismantled, she seemed a thing 
 of death, and, drifting with the tide, every 
 moment threatened utter destruction to all her 
 crew. Were there no means to save I A hun- 
 dred schemes were proposed ; and while suggest- 
 ing them, we beheld the surges lash over her 
 deck, and sweep nearly all from their earthly 
 suffering. The sight was maddening, for the 
 storm apparently was fast subsiding. 
 
 " We must, we shall, save yet those that are 
 left," said the cheering voice of Will Venture. 
 " The next swell will break her up ; — now is our 
 moment. Will any one man the life-boat with 
 me? Come, get the cords; we shall do it, with 
 Heaven's help. Come, Dick Major." 
 
 Prayers, supplications of " No, no; death is 
 certain if you venture. — " 
 
 "Then we deserve to perish if we hesitate. 
 Now, now is the moment : an instant will launch 
 us beyond the breakers, and then we can throw 
 the ropes." 
 
 (i You will perish all — all !" Above each could
 
 62 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 I distinguish the voice of Mary Knight — " Go 
 not, go not, Richard ; you fly in Heaven's face. 
 Look — look at the breakers !" 
 
 u God is with us ; come, come. Pray — pray 
 for us, Mr. Acton. Come, Dick!" again called 
 out the well-known voice of Venture. 
 
 They enter the boat. What a moment of 
 agony ! Mary Knight was beside me ; she 
 covered her face a moment — rushed to the 
 very point of the rough pier ; there she 
 stood. We all followed : all stood mute, pale, 
 parched. Never, never shall I forget the rush 
 and tide of those brief moments. Now our 
 hearts beat again ; the sounds are heard — u The 
 surf is past !" " They near '" Then again, to 
 see the boat dip into the meeting waves ! Now 
 every voice is agonized with u They are swamped ! 
 — They are gone ! — Save ! save !" Again, all 
 is joy. "See! see! they rise!" Then, their 
 call of, " The ropes ! the ropes ! — Bear a hand ! 
 Steady ! steady !— Hold, hold back !" Then it 
 was we strained ears and sight. ki All, all is 
 well!" " Quick, quick, off!" roared the voice
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 63 
 
 of Will. What was our expectation ! Tears 
 rilled every eye; every breath was held. But 
 that moment there came a cry — such a cry ! 
 It ceased : our eyeballs stretched to that re- 
 turning ark : but the waters shewed it not to our 
 agonized gaze. 
 
 The boat had been swamped. All had 
 perished, never to mingle again with God's living 
 world. We stood, cold, powerless, looking on the 
 one fixed point. What was there I Death — death : 
 all was death, chill as the waters which closed 
 over those loved and dear ones. The winds 
 seemed hushed to our ears, the lightnings da r k- 
 ened to our sight ; but even from this torpor of 
 bitterness something yet was to rouse us. It 
 was the voice of Mary Knight. " I'll save ! — 
 I'll save ! " and with one bound she plunged 
 into the rushing waters. We looked upon 
 her struggles, and on the struggles of manv 
 amidst these battling waves : but we could not 
 save ! 
 
 Where was the wreck ? With a sudden gust
 
 64 HENRY acton; or, 
 
 she was heeled on the beach — on the dry, pebbly 
 beach. But was it not too late, for was there 
 any living within ? Yes, one lived to tell her tale 
 of suffering. It was her we had marked above 
 all others — the fond, beseeching mother; her 
 babe was still in her grasp, both secured to some 
 of the woodwork of the deck. We first endea- 
 voured to loosen the child from her arms. It 
 was then we were certain life was not quite ex- 
 tinct, for even in death she struggled, and " My 
 child! my child !" was weakly breathed forth. 
 We lifted them from the vessel, and had them 
 borne to Mr. Acton's. A few moments more 
 saw that spot which had witnessed such sad 
 sufferings, deserted, solitary, and desolate, with 
 nought to tell the melancholy story but the re- 
 mains of the wreck. 
 
 Almighty power never awakens more vivid 
 consciousness in the human mind than when 
 that power speaks in tempest and in storms, for 
 in feeling our own weakness, we turn to some 
 superior strength. Man becomes a being of sub-
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 65 
 
 dued energies; no voice of self-pride can whisper 
 then of courage, save the courage of a pious and 
 resigned mind; bodily energies have no challenge 
 to offer against such warfare — worldly distinc- 
 tions no shield for such an hour as this. It 
 humbles alike the prince and the beggar ; they 
 tremble alike in acknowledgment that both 
 equally are the subjects of some creating, self- 
 acting influence, whose commands they cannot 
 stay, and whose rule they cannot subvert. In 
 such moments, how must guilt shudder ! — how- 
 must infidelity doubt and tremble ! What are 
 they ? As sand, that would stay an angry tor- 
 rent's force — a twig, that would defy a mountain 
 gust that roots it from existence. At such pe- 
 riods, too, the appalling workings are so hidden 
 from man's finite comprehension that he rises 
 more awfully than ever a mystery to himself. 
 It is now asked, Whence art thou ? and whither 
 goest thou? Judgment rises up; reveals the 
 world in all its sinfulness and all its limitation. 
 Its final close, with the deep tinting of a Mar-
 
 66 henry acton; or, 
 
 tin's colouring, stands glaring upon the startled 
 imagination. All the terror of extermination — 
 the extermination of all this fair and earthly 
 globe — rises up before him, when the expanse 
 of sky shall be rolled away ; the clouds of air 
 dissolved; the rocks rent; the mountains con- 
 sumed, crumbled into dust; ocean loosened from 
 her bounds ; the sun robbed of his light ; the 
 moon and stars falling from their orbits, dis- 
 closing their hidden generations; sepulchres of 
 the dead unclosing their repositories ; man, 
 amidst all, standing alone imperishable ! 
 
 But I wander. To return to the mansion of 
 Mr. Acton, where we shall find the lady and 
 her child receiving all that kindness and bene- 
 volence can administer to suffering. The lady's 
 recovery for some time appeared doubtful, as not 
 only her bodily but mental powers had received 
 a shock and trial of no ordinary nature. Our 
 good friend the doctor seemed to apprehend 
 that there was little or no hope; but my kind 
 aunt, Jane Acton, though not wishing to dis-
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 67 
 
 pute the doctor's skill, differed somewhat with 
 him respecting the mode of treatment. The 
 doctor was for allowing his patient to remain in 
 a state of torpor; my aunt was for rousing her 
 by gentle means. The doctor shook his head : 
 but Miss (or Mrs. Acton, as she was usually de- 
 nominated,) attempted little argument with the 
 sapient son of Esculapius, but quietly pursued 
 her own course, and finally succeeded. 
 
 At last, the lady spoke coherently, and seemed 
 restlessly to seek around the room with her eyes 
 for some object which, apparently, she was fearful 
 to name. Jane Acton thought it would be dan- 
 gerous to bring her child immediately to her, as 
 evidently, from her not naming it, she doubted 
 much its existence. 
 
 " You wish for something," said the soft, me- 
 lancholy voice of my aunt. " Is it your sweet 
 baby ?— " 
 
 The mother spoke not; but her looks told the 
 quick feelings the bare mention of its name had 
 occasioned ; animation seemed awakened. My
 
 68 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 aunt paused a moment, and allowed the mother 
 to see from her countenance that all was not as 
 bad as she had imagined. 
 
 u Your treasure is quite safe; could you bear 
 to see it V* 
 
 * Yes ! yes !" 
 
 It was brought to her; and the tears of so 
 much unexpected joy did more than all my poor 
 friend, the doctor's, recipes; and, with the babe 
 folded in her arms, the poor exhausted mother 
 found all the relief she required in an unbroken 
 slumber. 
 
 It was now my aunt stole from her apartment 
 to give us the happy intelligence that all was 
 likely to do well. 
 
 (i Such a little cherub as the child !" said my 
 kind aunt. " It is about two or three years old ; 
 — just that golden hair you love, Henry ; — it 
 looked so dearly up in my face, and smiled — I 
 fancied it almost an angel. It spoke, but I did 
 not understand it ; it was some strange tongue 
 it spoke in."
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 69 
 
 " Jane !" 
 
 u Yes, my good brother." 
 
 u Nothing," answered my uncle, though evi- 
 dently wishing to say something; but silence 
 was again restored for some time, — and what a 
 still silence, thought I, after all that has past ! 
 The sea was only just heard, as if tired, and toss- 
 ing in exhausted strength on the shore ; the 
 winds breathing as if in drowsy sighs. In the 
 room was only heard the ticking of the house 
 clock. My aunt and uncle sat on either side 
 of the fireplace in their old-fashioned, high- 
 backed, carved chairs; — eyes closed, but evi- 
 dently not in sleep, for I could perceive strong 
 changes and workings in my uncle's counte- 
 nance as I sat watching him. Though time 
 and sorrow had done much in erasing the flush 
 and beauty of younger days, still now, as I 
 looked upon both their pale faces, I thought of 
 each, what a model for a Grecian or Roman 
 bust ! My aunt's Madonna face, shewing the 
 tintless hue of a Guido's pencil; the expression
 
 70 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 was one of melancholy subdued into resignation, 
 — of calmness, but not natural pensiveness ; a 
 darkness of overshadowing sorrow, the result 
 of an acquired tone, rather than an original 
 characteristic. My uncle reminded me of a 
 Carlo Dolce : a saint-like brow, serene and un- 
 furrowed, yet full of thought — benevolence its 
 prevailing stamp. Not less of melancholy about 
 my uncle than my good aunt, but it was not 
 of that immoveable, cold cast, for she looked a 
 thing of marble. She always struck me as re- 
 sembling a beautiful stream that had once glis- 
 tened to catch every bright reflection, but was 
 now frozen in inanimation. But at all times my 
 uncle seemed as if the world, with all its trials, 
 could not sear his heart from sympathy with its 
 sufferings, — above it, yet, from sweetness of dis- 
 position, he could not close himself from the 
 hope that he could benefit it, though to him it 
 was a thing of nought. 
 
 I sat watching and speculating on them till 
 sleep stole over me ; but it was not a sound one,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 71 
 
 for I awoke the moment I heard my uncle's 
 voice as he repeated, "Jane!" There was an 
 unusual deepness in his tone as he continued : 
 " Did you never hear a voice which resembled 
 that of the invalid ? Did you recal nothing in 
 her looks?" 
 
 " Not exactly. Whom, brother, think you 
 of?" 
 
 " Whom, sister Jane ? But it is no matter." 
 My aunt paused, looked in my uncle's face, 
 and at once caught his thought. 
 
 " Improbable ! impossible ! good brother." 
 " I tell you, Jane, I could not be deceived. 
 Go, go, and you will be assured. I heard it but 
 this moment ;" for the invalid's door had been 
 opened, and we could distinctly catch the sound 
 of her voice as she spoke to the attendant. But 
 my uncle said not another word ; he took the 
 candle up and left us. I could see his hand 
 trembled as he did so; nor was it his usual 
 manner of retiring. The dawn was far ad- 
 vanced, and, overcome with watching and fa-
 
 72 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 tigue, I sought my bed; and my aunt went 
 a^ain into the invalid's room. 
 
 Several days wore away in our now melan- 
 choly town, and all was cheerless and sad in our 
 hitherto blithesome abodes, — no merry groups 
 were seen idling on our pier, or at the house 
 doors, — even the laugh and play of the children 
 seemed hushed, — nor were the boats seen danc- 
 ing on the calmed and sunny waters. You 
 mio-ht observe a few lonely scattered individuals 
 moping along the shore, who betokened in their 
 gait and look that for which they were seeking; 
 some were successful ; amongst the number were 
 the friends of poor Will, Dick, Major, and Mary 
 Knight. Amid all the pomp of the proudest 
 honours given to those whom even a nation 
 might follow to the dark cold grave with 
 sorrow, with admiration, and with love, did I 
 ever behold such unfeigned heart-rending re- 
 gret, as was now disclosed by the weeping 
 silent followers of these three beings so lately 
 vivid with life, and joy, and health ! I was
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 73 
 
 young, then, and I too wept as I followed in the 
 long, sad procession; every door was closed, 
 every window shut ; nothing was visible as we 
 wound up the acclivity of the High Street but 
 numerous figures, moving along so noiselessly, 
 that the sad sob of weeping friends broke on the 
 silence hymning a requiem for the dead. The 
 black procession of poor Will Venture's funeral 
 first led the way, and I thought, as the flowers 
 were strewed by the young hands of regretting 
 mourners — they do no more for Will than he 
 was ever ready to do for them — scattering plea- 
 sure whenever in his power on their path. And 
 when I observed (I now well recal my boyish 
 thoughts) the flowering nosegays trampled be- 
 neath the feet of those who followed the white 
 pall of Dick Major and Mary Knight, I said — 
 Death ! death ! how hast thou crushed hopes 
 which were but yesterday as fresh, as gay, 
 as these trampled flowers ; but flowers, hopes, 
 alike are gone, faded. Yet why mourn those 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 74 HENKY ACTON ; OR. 
 
 gone-by unrealized expectations I Would they 
 not in their ripeness, too, like the lost blossoms, 
 have been plucked to scatter along the path of 
 decaying time, and to wither in the mortal grasp. 
 But now those young and loving ones are gone 
 to seek hopes which know no blight, and bud 
 but to ripen in eternity. 
 
 We reached the churchyard hanging high 
 above that dread element, which, in so brief a 
 period past, had worked such sad havoc, — not 
 a ruffle was on its mighty surface, — still as the 
 dead over whom we wept. The heavens, too, 
 11 looked like an ocean huno; on high," calm and 
 bright as, I trusted, was the rest of the departed 
 souls. The tears stole down the pale cheeks of 
 the venerable Mr. Acton as all was finished ; 
 the dread sound of earth on the coffin is heard 
 no more ; soon all is shut from mortal view. And 
 when again shall all meet ? — when we, like 
 them, shall be entering on a deathless world. 
 
 In silence, in sorrow, we past to our homes.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 75 
 
 from the spot, now marked by three monumental 
 stones, which, in simple truth, tell the mourn- 
 ful end of " The Gold Smugglers." 
 
 To return to my uncle. He was no longer a 
 young man ; but careless habits and a recluse 
 life had given him the appearance of having 
 seen many more years than he had really num- 
 bered. But, let his age be what it might, he 
 was past that period of life when it is supposed 
 romance of thought and feeling has been com- 
 pletely shaded, if not wholly obliterated. Yet 
 with Henry Acton it was not so. Retirement 
 from the busy and cold world had allowed 
 young impressions and young remembrances to 
 be the sole companions of declining life. Now t 
 upwards of forty, my uncle was often trans- 
 ported back to the days when he had scarcely 
 numbered twenty. That voice which on the 
 sad night of the shipwreck struck on his ear 
 had not, till now, sounded there for a period of 
 eighteen years ; yet he could not be deceived in 
 e2
 
 76 HENRY ACTON: OR, 
 
 its sweet tone. Though the name of one so 
 loved had not been breathed for nearly an 
 equal period, yet, had it been less cherished ? 
 No, though the thoughts of early days might 
 have appeared to have hung unstrung on me- 
 mory, it was alone because they were sacred 
 thin gts, — no hand dared touch them. That 
 voice which had sounded to-night bid their 
 chords give back " the song of the olden time," 
 with much of, if not all, the freshness and warmth 
 of gone-by days. The tale of Henry Acton's 
 life ran thus, and as he gave it to me him- 
 self:— 
 
 " I was the younger son (alas! what are younger 
 sons) of a very large family, seven sons and 
 one daughter, myself the seventh. My mother, 
 a good easy woman, who did all her grand- 
 mothers had done before, thought and said all 
 they had thought and said. She, like them, 
 was the wife of a clergyman ; she, like them, 
 and not like our more modern rectors' wives,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 77 
 
 had never ridden in her own coach, flounced and 
 furbelowed a fine lady ; a Countess in modes and 
 fashions, patronizing the curate and his wife 
 with not as good a grace as she would her 6 fille 
 de chambre' or husband's ' valet.' Though 
 my good mother never did these things, how 
 many do so to their shame, and in their station. 
 to their sin ; but sin and shame in this world 
 are not always companions, for often is it sin that 
 there is no shame. Of these matters, however, 
 my excellent mother knew little, for she was a 
 homely matron, a doting mother, a loving wife, 
 and a balm to all her parish. Her face was as 
 familiar to them as their church clock. She 
 was their physician in grief of mind and suffer- 
 ing: of bodv. She made clothes for her own and 
 for their children; wines, puddings, and shirts; 
 and my father saw that all went as she wished, 
 nor waiting the bidding. I never saw so happy 
 a couple ; they were the admiration of the whole 
 parish, and we came in also for our share; and 
 when of a Sunday we took our way behind my
 
 78 HENRY acton; or, 
 
 father and mother, and walked arm and arm, we 
 might sometimes hear the ambitious foretellings 
 of our village gossips. We are to be nothing in 
 degree less than Chancellors and Bishops, and my 
 lovely sister the Squire's lady, no mean honour 
 in their estimation. Oft thus we see, even while 
 tracking our steps to the house of God, poor 
 human nature will occasionally shew the earthly 
 stamp, and mingle its hopes with our best feel- 
 ings ! but, doubtless, the recording angel will 
 drop a tear on these idle wanderings of my father's 
 kind parishioners, for it all arose out of love for 
 their good pastor and happy family. He had 
 been to them a leading and protecting star. His 
 laws (for they were laws drawn from an unpol- 
 luted spring) were never disputed, for next to 
 God's laws, in our hearts, in my mother's, and 
 in the hearts of his parishioners, they were the 
 most sacred ever promulgated. He was a per- 
 fect Roman Pontiff in infallibility amongst us ; 
 but in meekness, in innocence, a very child. 
 Though my mother was certainly as submissive
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 79 
 
 as a lamb to my father's will, she still had her 
 ways of suggesting and finally putting those 
 suggestions into my father's head by repetition, 
 till they began to be part of himself, and at 
 last were looked upon, even by himself, as ori- 
 ginal. My mother was vulgar enough to be 
 somewhat superstitious, the only unladylike 
 thing I ever could spy about either her thoughts 
 or manners. Certain gossip superstitions she 
 most undoubtedly had, such as ' certain days,' 
 * certain numbers ' and their various never-failing 
 consequences ; one, for which no origin among 
 the most learned could be ascribed, but that our 
 great grandmother's mother had thought fit to 
 promulgate such a doctrine as indubitable, was 
 that I, being the seventh son, ought and should 
 be a doctor. My mother first introduced the sub- 
 ject with a laugh at her own folly. My father 
 and all laughed in earnest at such nonsense ; 
 but it was often talked of; and when William, 
 and Dick, and Charles, were to be parsons, 
 soldiers, and sailors, Harry was always to be the
 
 80 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 doctor. My father, at last, began to argue the 
 matter that I should do better for a clergy- 
 man. 
 
 tli Why, Jane, I think Harry seems to love the 
 Bible better than physic.' Her answer was : — 
 
 ({i No child loved physic, and that all children 
 loved the Bible ; it was so full of innocence like 
 themselves, like their own pure hearts,' as she 
 thought ; and did not my father think so also ? 
 that doctors did well to be Christian men ; in 
 truth, that is what they ought to be. What 
 a comfort must such be to dying sufferers ! 
 and you tell us, you know, that body and soul 
 have much dependence one on the other.' And 
 our mother would give a long quotation from 
 one of my father's best sermons to prove her 
 arguments; thus, in time, she gained her point ; 
 and poor Harry was to be a doctor. — To smell 
 physic which made him sick ! to study anatomy 
 to his hourly and momentary horror, lest some 
 mortal part should be exposed either of his 
 friend's or his own ! During this period, I lived
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 81 
 
 under a drawn sword, — to see my sister swing, 
 dreadful, — one touch on her temple was instant 
 death, — my eye was always fixed on the exact 
 spot, — then if my father rode, if he slept after 
 dinner; in short, I was always thinking of 
 what might happen every moment in the day, 
 and I was miserable, ever stealing from the study 
 of bodily disease to my poetry, my fictions, and 
 my classics. One friend I had to whom all my 
 boyish sorrows were communicated, — William 
 Broughton. He tried to weaken my prejudices, 
 but in vain ; he told my grievances to his uncle, 
 a rich old Nabob, who had become our resident 
 squire. A kinder heart than old Mr. Brough- 
 ton's seldom tenanted this earthly tabernacle. 
 He turned the subject of my sorrows over in his 
 own benevolent mind, and then transferred the 
 result to my father, — my father to my mother. 
 The offer he made was at once a talisman to the 
 gossip legion, — that I was to accompany my 
 friend William to Oxford, at the full expense of 
 the generous Nabob ; under the proviso that if 
 e 3
 
 82 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 I must have doctor's degree it must be D.D., 
 and not M.D. — To Oxford ! to the University ! — 
 that emporium of learning and science ! — Three 
 years of probation, however, were yet to be past — 
 how brief their span as they ran their delicious 
 circuit ; I lived a life in them ; I drank in 
 knowledge as a draught sweet as the waters of 
 the Nile. Oxford ! Oxford was the salt that 
 freshened anew every moment my thirst for it. 
 William sympathized in all my happiness, but 
 did not so eagerly partake of my studies. One 
 other gentle being, too, looked on, and with 
 childish innocency, smiled with joy because 
 Henry Acton was glad. She was the only 
 sister of William Broughton. The three years 
 were gone ; we had both studied under my 
 father's tuition, and he now pronounced us per- 
 fect scholars. I would linger yet on this loved 
 period of boyish existence. But the day came, 
 and Mr. Broughton's travelling carriage was at 
 the door; my father led the way ; William and 
 I followed. The valet leaped on the box ;
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 83 
 
 brothers, mother, servants, and sweet sister?, 
 stood half smiling, half weeping, on the broad 
 steps. I must confess I saw but one smile, but 
 one tear, and that bade me deem the world a 
 paradise. It was the smile — the tear — of lovely 
 Lucy Broughton. What phantoms are the 
 dreams of youth. Lucy looked, to my young 
 imagination, a cherub born to guide me on to 
 
 joy and happiness ; but enough . Our names 
 
 were enrolled on the books of Brazen Nose Col- 
 lege. A proud day in my heart, but not in 
 my appearance, for I, more than Broughton, 
 skulked and shyed, as all freshmen do, and 
 ever will do, I ween. But short was our sea- 
 son of mauvaise honte, and < Richard was him- 
 self again.' The gloss and rustle upon cap and 
 gown was not of long duration, and soon we 
 ceased to shew freshmen's badges, but like old 
 ones boasted of being Proctorized at every cor- 
 ner, quizzed new ones, and your book-worms — 
 though I was something of the latter all the time 
 myself.
 
 84 HENRY acton; or, 
 
 " My friend Broughton, possessing all that 
 wealth can procure, was not long in finding, at 
 Oxford, all men all things to him ; for with a 
 golden bait what cannot be procured at Oxford ? 
 — and whose wine parties like my friend 
 Brouo-hton's ? Then Broughton was a hand- 
 some fellow, could play flute or fiddle, and sing 
 a merry song with the best. Who gave such 
 dejewies to ladies at his elegant rooms ? Who 
 pulled a stroke-oar — who handled bat — or who 
 touched the whip for a tandem lark — like 
 Broughton? — High distinction all this! — In 
 short, it gave him the very first degree, and 
 none dare compete with him. Though I 
 shared all these benefits, as if I had been the 
 brother of my friend, still I loved my books; 
 and I loved still more to steal from all, save 
 the pictured image of one dear, treasured one ! — 
 With that to gaze on, though but a painted 
 semblance, the world seemed no longer to exist. 
 Forgotten were the gay carousals of Broughton's 
 splendid rooms, of which the very Nabob himself
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 85 
 
 appeared to have selected the furniture, — 
 ottomans and sofas overlaid with the richest 
 skins and velvets, — walls decorated with paint- 
 ings of the choicest and rarest masters, — windows 
 crowded with luxuriant flowers, — book-cases 
 adorned with splendid volumes. Yet a strange 
 medley, too, added to the variety, and motley 
 groups and sounds mingled with the merry 
 story and laugh of the thoughtless Oxonians, — 
 for dogs, from the tiny spaniel of Blenhiem 
 beauty to the Newfoundland, reposed in their 
 cushioned baskets, or on the bright flowers of 
 the Brussels carpet, — while the chatter of par- 
 rots, or the cooing of love-birds, rose in wild con- 
 cert with the scrape of fiddles, or the sounding 
 of French horns and flutes, — in disordered con- 
 fusion were seen fishing-tackle, cricket-bats, 
 carpenters' tools, scientific apparatus, guns, 
 pistols, guitars, Greek and Latin books topsy- 
 turvy, — the tout ensemble, fit image of many a 
 young frequenter's mind ; — fine materials, ill- 
 arranged, and sadly misplaced ! When casting
 
 86 HENRY ACTOX; OR, 
 
 a backward glance at these jovial hours, I some- 
 times question my own identity when I look 
 into present existence. Is it possible ! — surely I 
 must have been a being of another sphere ! — So 
 changes the summer leaf, when autumn's blast 
 has flung it, seared and sapless, on the stream of 
 time ! 
 
 " College life is but a short period in any 
 man's life, — but who does not love it ? If they 
 want sense, they have happiness. Though folly 
 shuts the sage's page but too often, worldly 
 wisdom has not yet traced her deceptive cha- 
 racters on the untainted heart; the affections 
 flow unbiassed by the whisperings of cautious 
 suspicion ; the judgment may be unmatured, 
 but so, also, are all the dark traits of evil pas- 
 sions yet unripened. Here error is the error of 
 the head, seldom the offspring of corrupted prin- 
 ciple. The world is taken as it goes, nor ques- 
 tioned if it is what it seems. The pen of expe- 
 rience is yet dry in the grasp ; it is for after years 
 to fill it with bitterness, and trace the deadly ills
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 87 
 
 man is heir to ; like one of their own light skiffs, 
 they skim along life's tide, wafted by the spring 
 zephyrs of young Hope, nor know a doubting 
 fear. Happy period ! — a period of existence in 
 w r hich, like him of Sacred writ, we long to ob- 
 tain from heaven the power that would bid the 
 chariot of light be still, and Time to stay its 
 remorseless course. 
 
 " Our last term finished, — examination past, 
 and all its horrors, — we returned home. I flew 
 into a fond father's arms ; with pride the good 
 man met and blessed me, and seemed to look on 
 me as one who was to encircle the name of 
 Acton with immortal honours ! I see now the 
 smiling faces as, one after another, they en- 
 tered my father's study, gazing at me as if my 
 new-won laurels had worked some wondrous 
 change in me. Then my next visit was to the 
 Nabob ; and there fresh joy dawned upon my 
 young heart, — the sweet, bright smile of Lucy 
 Broughton, — the fresh, pouting lip that received 
 my boyish caress, — and the half-conscious
 
 88 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 blush, that told me how dear I was ! When 
 William prest the fond girl to his affectionate 
 heart she turned not from him, but spoke her 
 congratulations. But was not the look which 
 told me how I was received dearer to me than 
 if she had uttered ten thousand ! Now it was, 
 indeed, that a consciousness dawned within 
 me of the strange, incomprehensible workings 
 of the human mind ! — the impulse that urges 
 man to cherish destruction — to nurse within his 
 breast the serpent that is to poison his every 
 earthly hour, and even while he watches the coil- 
 ing of its strength, and confesses that it is death, 
 to press it to his heart, — strange contradiction ! 
 Is it that, in loving, our own identity is lost, 
 and we live, as it were, in another's existence ? 
 — But to return. What was now to be done 
 with my friend William and myself? — why, we 
 must amuse ourselves, for some time, with the 
 oxes, birds, and fishes. William was well 
 content to remain at home, for he thought, as 
 many others thought, that Jane Acton's eyes
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 89 
 
 were as bright as stars in heaven, — her looks as 
 fresh as the freshest morn, — her step as if a 
 fairy trod the ground, — her mind as pure, and 
 her heart as light, — her voice, too, as her loving 
 father was wont to say, ' like the voice of an 
 angel in heaven/ I could not sleep if I had 
 not heard my child pour forth her hymn of 
 thanksgiving ! No one ever breathed a note while 
 lovely Jane Acton sung to us before we parted 
 for the night; as it was the last, so was it the 
 first sweet sound that came to usher in another 
 day. How, at such moments, have I seen 
 William Broughton gaze upon her saintly coun- 
 tenance, as if he worshipped a spirit of some 
 celestial realm ! — This is the humble, quiet, pale 
 Jane Acton, who now comforts me in this my 
 lonely pilgrimage of life ! — the same who has 
 been the solace of many a sorry heart, — the 
 friend, the guide of many a gay one. Who 
 loves not the gentle, subdued Jane Acton ? 
 though the flush of beauty is no more ; — the 
 smile of happiness is gone for ever; her earthly
 
 90 henry acton; or, 
 
 career is now but a lifeless life, and on she 
 travels to that goal where all her hopes and all 
 her affections are fixed for eternity. 
 
 " Time flew on — but how 1 — what shall I liken 
 myself to ? — as one who soars amidst regions 
 whose light allows not its inhabitants to distin- 
 guish an object that does not partake of its own 
 brightness ; as when, with the glow of a brilliant 
 sunset, heaven and earth become gilded and 
 illumined, — but, suddenly, that source of eternal 
 life sinks, and all is darkness ! I had madly 
 deceived myself, that in cherishing the image of 
 Lucy Broughton, I only cherished that which 
 was perfection ! — that in loving her, I only did 
 as I would have done with some ideal image 
 of all that was lovely ! — that I was but purifying 
 my nature, and that I might love on in secret 
 and blessed adoration ! I felt that I had now, 
 indeed, cruelly promised myself that which was 
 impossible — selfishly looking only into my own 
 bosom, — but may I not say, in my humility, I 
 dreamed not that one exalted above me, in all
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 91 
 
 the advantages of nature and of fortune, could 
 be bound in the same spell ? I deemed the thing 
 impossible. I looked, I reckoned not on the 
 pure virgin innocence of Lucy's unsophisticated 
 mind, but on the relative situations in which 
 we stood ; and while I had overleaped them, I 
 still thought she never would. Yet, doubtless, 
 had any one told me Lucy did not love me, 
 I should have been wretched. Had any one 
 either told me, I had wooed that love, I should 
 have said it was false. But how could it be 
 otherwise, when the softest whisper of her voice 
 was rapture to my ear ! — Vain equivocation was 
 it, then, to say, ' words had never told her how 
 dear she was, — words of love had never passed 
 my lips V Was not every moment of our lives 
 a revelation of the history of our feelings — of 
 feelings which asked no words to tell their 
 meaning and their strength ; even to the last, I 
 idly hugged the soothing deception, that I never 
 asked for or told that which my honour and 
 principle forbid me to reveal. Again do I say,
 
 92 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 vain equivocation ! — The time came, and I 
 could no longer doubt that I was dearer to Lucy 
 than all the world beside, — her own lips had 
 uttered it ! Though living in almost total se- 
 clusion, still, beauty and advantages such as 
 Lucy's were not likely, under any circumstances, 
 to remain unknown and unsought. A rival (if 
 I may so speak) came at last ! — Now — now it 
 was I felt the full madness of my ideal security. 
 I thought that to see Lucy happy and blest 
 was all I asked ! — and, in the prospects which 
 now offered themselves, had she not every right 
 to expect much ? Handsome, rich, exalted in 
 rank and in intellect, Lord Edward St. Clair 
 seemed the very individual to win Lucy 
 Broughton for a happy bride. But no ! — 
 with coldness she turned from his attention, 
 and, without a moment's hesitation, rejected 
 his affections ! 
 
 i( All wondered, almost doubted, Lucy's since- 
 rity in the rejection, save Jane; she, from the 
 beginning, knew it was folly to think it could
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 93 
 
 be otherwise ; and did I ever imagine other ? 
 How could I, watching as I did every look — 
 every movement? Did the flushing cheek, the 
 uplifted glance, the sweet cherub smile, pass 
 unmarked as I approached the dear girl ? Was 
 Lord Edward so met? Never. Loved Lucy ! such 
 innocence, such sincerity, merited a far different 
 fate! 
 
 " Lord Edward saw and read her heart; but he 
 was too noble to resent it. The morning before 
 he left us, he said to me, ' Acton, I never 
 thought to envy a fellow-creature as I envy 
 you.' 
 
 u I felt the blood rush to my temples, and I 
 turned from him as if I had not heard him. We 
 were walking together, and I stooped as if to 
 pick up something. But he took no thought of 
 my confusion; he only remembered, what he 
 deemed my happier fate. 
 
 81 ' Why,' said he, < attempt disguise to one 
 who now feels a consolation in finding the 
 affections he cannot win are placed where they
 
 94 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 will be valued as they ought. Acton, Lucy 
 Broughton loves you.' 
 
 " I answered not. An ice-bolt could not have 
 struck a more dread chill than I experienced at 
 that moment. I leaned against a tree for sup- 
 port. 
 
 u 'Acton, what I have said cannot be unknown 
 to you.' 
 
 " ' It was — it is — it never can — it never must 
 be true !' I could bear no more, and I rushed 
 from him. I hid myself from everybody, throw- 
 ing myself on a grass plat close behind a 
 small summer-house, but so as to be concealed 
 from observation. I lay in a state of deep and 
 severe suffering ; but one path was open to me. 
 What ! fly from home ! — from Lucy ! — sever 
 every link at once ! Perhaps, — and the hope 
 was consolation, — the heart may break in the 
 struggle. 
 
 " After I had remained some time in this state, 
 I heard the step of Lucy. I dared not for 
 worlds, in my present state of mind, enter before
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 95 
 
 her presence, and I could escape without being 
 seen or heard. She was weeping. I could just 
 see her; she leant her head on her hands as they 
 lay on the rustic table. Lucy in tears ! But 
 no, I moved not, so firmly was I now determined 
 what course to pursue. Her brother came in 
 to her. 
 
 " ( Lucy, love, what is the matter ? tell your 
 own William,' — and he placed his arms round 
 her, and kissed the tears from her flushed cheek. 
 ' What can it be V — for she sobbed, and spoke 
 not a word. ' What !' said her brother, trying 
 to smile, 6 has Lucy been playing the coquette? 
 Shall I call Edward back, and tell him so?' 
 
 " ' Is he gone V 
 
 " I trembled as I heard her. What ! Lucy a 
 coquette ! Impossible. 
 
 " l Then, you are sorry ?' 
 
 " s Sorry ! No, William ; Lucy can never 
 love any one !' 
 
 * ( Never, Lucy ? Yes, Lucy ; you do love 
 some one at this present moment.'
 
 96 HENRY acton; or, 
 
 « i But what— what avails that, William?' 
 
 " i What avails it, Lucy ? Why, Henry wor- 
 ships the very ground you walk on.' 
 
 " i He never told me so, William' — and the 
 blushing girl hid her face from even a brother's 
 eye. 
 
 " < I know it, Lucy ; he would not be the 
 Henry Acton we love, if he had. But come, 
 Lucy, let us hope ; for when Jane Acton is my 
 wife, we may work wonders with my uncle and 
 father ; and Jane shall be my wife before two 
 years more.' 
 
 " Lucy smiled again in her brother's face ; he 
 wiped the tears from her eyes, and they left the 
 summer-house together. I lay still, repeating, 
 1 But come, Lucy, let us hope' — yet my better 
 reason prevailed ; I said, perhaps that hope 
 may never be realized, and then Lucy's hap- 
 piness is wrecked for ever; now she is young 
 I will fly from her, and Lucy will learn to 
 forget. 
 
 " Severe — dreadfully severe — was the part I
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 97 
 
 was about to perform. I determined to go to 
 Mr. B rough ton, confess all my own weakness, 
 and then quit his kind protection, if not for 
 ever, at least as long as Lucy remained beneath 
 it. I nerved myself and went to his study. The 
 cold drops stood on my temples; my knees 
 shook under me ; I scarcely saw — I scarcely 
 drew my breath: the door of the study stood 
 open ; I was before him. He, good easy man, 
 was seated in quiet apathy in his elbow-chair ; 
 his gouty feet resting on his cushions ; fortu- 
 nately, he held a newspaper before him, so that 
 I had some moments to recover myself. 
 
 a i Harry, is that you — so Lord Edward's off. 
 Can you make it out, my boy ? — the naughty 
 girl.' How the blood rushed through my 
 veins, — I dared not answer. ■ But, Harry, my 
 boy, I was just thinking of you.' 
 
 Ci ( Of me, Sir,' scarcely able to utter the 
 words. 
 
 " ( Why, yes. Is that anything new V 
 « < No, indeed, Sir.' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 HENRY ACTON ; OR, 
 
 " ' What — what now ? But come — see, 
 should you not like this, my lad.' 
 
 w He shewed me an advertisement in the 
 paper, but the letters swam before my con- 
 fused sight. It was the advowson of a living 
 to be sold. 
 
 "'Should you like that?' he asked again, 
 looking up into my pale face. c Why, Harry, 
 boy, what's the matter ? you look like a dried 
 turnip.' 
 
 " ' Sir, I am not worthy of all this thought — 
 this kind affection.' 
 
 <i < Why— what have you done? — Debt, debt?' 
 " l No, no, Sir. Worse — ten thousand times 
 worse.' 
 
 " c What then? Seduced the chambermaid, 
 or poached on old Hogle Rigg's Manor.' 
 " ' Nothing of the sort.' 
 
 " * Then what the d 1 have you done ? 
 
 " < Dared to love the sister of William 
 Broughton, the niece of my benefactor !' 
 
 " ; Odd zounds and furies !' — and Mr.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 99 
 
 Broughton absolutely kicked the stool from his 
 gouty foot, and stood upright, facing me in a 
 state of rage I had never before witnessed. I 
 trembled and wished the room would fall and 
 crush me. ' Odd zounds and furies, you young 
 rascal, you dare tell me so to my face — dare tell 
 my niece. Now I see it all. She shall marry 
 Lord Edward.' 
 
 " ' Listen — pray listen, Mr. Broughton.' 
 " ' Odd zounds, I have listened to too much 
 already ! — love Lucy Broughton ?' 
 
 i( But I have never told her so, Mr. Brough- 
 ton. I am to blame — to blame beyond redemp- 
 tion, doubtless, in your eyes, as much as I am 
 in my own ; I came but to tell you so, that I 
 might bid farewell and thanks to the best and 
 kindest of friends. To Miss Broughton I have 
 never whispered a sound a sister might not 
 hear; and you, Mr. Broughton, are the first, and 
 shall be the last, the confession of my presump- 
 tion shall ever be made to.' He paused a mo- 
 ment, looked as if he almost doubted my statement. 
 f2
 
 100 HENRY ACTON : OR, 
 
 " ' No, no ! I never knew Henry Acton verge 
 from the strictest honour and principle — your 
 hand.' I gave him my cold hand. ' What 
 can I do, Henry V 
 
 (i But, odd zounds ! and his fury was again 
 rising ; but I checked it by saying, i What can 
 you do, Mr. Broughton ? I came not, believe 
 me, to ask what you could do — for I looked for, 
 I expected nothing. I came but to tell you how, 
 in justice to myself, I must act; for, without 
 some explanation on my part, how could I quit 
 my home, my friends.' I ceased, for I felt my 
 emotion was overcoming me. 
 
 " 4 And you must go, Henry' — and Mr. 
 Broughton seemed to forget even Lucy in the 
 thought of losing me. 
 
 " After some short, but seemingly painful ru- 
 mination, he said, ' Go, Henry, I will talk to 
 your father.' 
 
 " * Shall I not see you again, kind, best of 
 friends V I took his hand, pressed it to my 
 lips, and he said —
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 101 
 
 l< ' Yes, Henry, for I love you as my own. 
 Bat, go, now.' 
 
 " I thought I saw a tear in the good man's eye 
 as he once more looked up in my face, but the 
 door closed on me. I had done my duty, but I 
 was miserable — miserable for ever. And Lucy ! 
 was I to see her no more. I longed, yet dreaded 
 to do so, conscious that if I did, my best reso- 
 lutions must give way before her. What ! 
 never to gaze upon her — never to meet that eye 
 again. Well ! Heaven's will must be done. 
 The deep — deep despair of that moment — one 
 look at the last spot in which I beheld her. It 
 was in the summer-house — how often had I 
 read to Lucy and Jane in that spot. I arrived 
 at it, — I rested my head and hands on the very 
 table she had a few hours before wet with her 
 tears — mine now fell on it. Forgive this unmanly 
 weakness ; but when the strongest and the best 
 affections are warring with reason and judg- 
 ment, there is something dreadful in the combat. 
 The part I was now performing was no more
 
 102 HENRY ACTON ; OR, 
 
 than duty demanded ; but what a sacrifice was 
 laid on her altar. I remained for some time lost 
 to everything but the bitterness of what was 
 challenged from me. I suddenly felt the pres- 
 sure of a gentle hand on my arm, — I looked 
 up ; it was Lucy who was beside me. 
 
 " ' Henry, dear, what is the matter ? how ill 
 you look/ 
 
 " ' 111, dearest — I am not ill, but mad.' 
 
 " ' Henry, Henry,' and she burst into tears. 
 
 " I clasped her franticly to my bosom. ' For- 
 give, my best, my only love, this wild farewell — 
 it is my last' 
 
 " She looked fearfully at me. ' Henry, what 
 mean you V 
 
 u 6 We part, Lucy, never to meet on this earth 
 again. But here I swear none other but Lucy 
 shall hold a place in a heart that is breaking to 
 conceal all the cherished love it bears her.' 
 
 " ' Then, Henry, take (if we must part) — take 
 this remembrance, that Lucy makes the same 
 sacred vow.'
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 103 
 
 u ' No, Lucy — I dare not — I will not.' 
 " More we said, but they were words of fond, 
 sad sorrow. We parted, and I never again be- 
 held Lucy Broughton — never since that period 
 has her name passed my lips. If by chance it 
 has fallen on mine ear, the very life of my heart 
 would seem to rush in floods from its source. 
 Time hath robbed youth of all, all young pas- 
 sion ; — time hath seared all the fresh looks of 
 manhood ; — time hath stolen strength from the 
 mind, power and vigour from the body; — but 
 time hath never withered, never effaced such 
 affection as that I bore to Lucy. It was the 
 first dictate of affection in the untouched heart. 
 It was the first light that told me to rejoice in 
 creation — over every action, over every thought, 
 it has ever borne sway ; — it was the era of exist- 
 ence, and from it did life date its character and 
 its action. I felt it was as pure as heaven's 
 own fire, and that it would be part of the soul's 
 own essence, — would yet burn unquenched in the 
 mansions of eternity, however circumstances
 
 104 henry acton; or, 
 
 might conspire to crush its earthly consum- 
 mation. 
 
 " I met my father and family in the evening of 
 this eventful day. No allusion by words was 
 made to the conversation with Mr. Broughton, 
 but a thousand actions spoke both my good 
 mother's and father's pity for me. By the 
 prayers, the lessons he selected for the evening, 
 it was evident my considerate father did think 
 it a trial for a young heart. As he read, he 
 dwelt on the loveliness of resignation under 
 suffering ; that it was . not only necessary but 
 ever acceptable before Heaven. He taught that 
 night, with strong emphasis, that however our 
 actions may be within the limits of our own 
 control, the result of such must be left in the 
 hands of Him who alone can judge all things. 
 My father looked not at the affections of the 
 heart through the false medium of worldly 
 colouring, — judging from the pure instruction 
 derived from his own ; — as he had loved my 
 mother, and she had loved him, next to her
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 105 
 
 Creator, as the dearest object of this world, and 
 the fondest hope of the next. 
 
 " It had been proposed some time before that 
 I was to attend William on a continental tour, 
 and my father spoke of it in the course of the 
 evening as a thing I knew was to take place im- 
 mediately. ' You ought to feel highly flattered., 
 Henry, for Mr. Broughton says, he thinks you 
 are quite steady enough to take charge of William 
 on his travels ; he tells me your departure is 
 fixed for the day after to-morrow, and that L am 
 to go up to London to set you afloat. William 
 Broughton's health wants a warmer climate.' I 
 made no answer, nor did my father seem to 
 require it, for he went on talking of the route 
 we were to take. — ' You will be absent three years 
 at least, I should think, Henry.' ' Yes, Sir,' — and 
 I turned to see how poor Jane bore these tidings, 
 but she was gone. Considerate parent ! — he had 
 sent her out of the room on some excuse, for she 
 did not yet know how soon we were to quit 
 home. 
 
 f3
 
 106 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 " The sad day of departure came ; how unlike 
 the one on which we had first gone to Oxford. 
 Poor Jane, how the tears glistened in her eyes 
 every moment ! But she had hope ; I had none. 
 Three years only were named as that which was 
 to divide William and her ; he would then be 
 his own master, and every one foresaw that 
 nothing could separate him from Jane Acton. 
 
 " A few hours before our departure, Mr. B rough- 
 ton sent for me. Words, like painting skill, often 
 in vain essay to give existing reality, — its truths 
 so throw a veil over the countenance of woe 
 they might fail in portraying. No language 
 could describe my feelings at this moment. 
 I pursued my path to Broughton Hall like a 
 blinded being ; a sort of torpor pervaded all my 
 senses. I was once more in the study ; once 
 more I stood before my friend. Our leave- 
 taking was short, but all that was kind on his 
 part ; I trust, all that was grateful on mine. With 
 solemnity and seriousness he gave me his bless- 
 ing, pressed me to his bosom affectionately, and
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 107 
 
 then placed something in my hand. I looked 
 at it, but I saw not what it was, — it was a check 
 for £1000. So bewildered, so overcome was 
 I, that, for a month after, I never recalled having 
 received it, for at the very moment I did so, I 
 had heard a step approach the door ; it was the 
 step of Lucy ; it lingered a moment and then 
 stole away. c Farewell, Henry f farewell, my 
 boy !' yet I moved not ; a violent ringing of the 
 drawing-room bell seemed to rouse me. I heard 
 feet passing quick ; at last the servant entered 
 and said — 
 
 " ' Sir, Sir ! — Miss Broughton is so ill !' 
 
 " William hurried next into the room, and told 
 us he trusted it was only a fainting-fit. 
 
 u Mr. Broughton said, ' Henry, go ! go ! dear- 
 est boy !' 
 
 " I rushed from the house to my own room. 
 My mind seemed completely overthrown ; but 
 the sweet soft voice of Jane came like music to 
 beguile my wretchedness, and soothe me to rea- 
 son. We spoke not of Lucy, yet all our con-
 
 108 HENRY ACTOX; OR, 
 
 versation tended to that source which was the 
 cause of this sad separation. And as I leant on 
 one of the rustic windows, and looked out on 
 my father's blooming, neat garden, on his com- 
 fortable but small parsonage, and then beyond, 
 over nature's less circumscribed beauties, the 
 w T ide-spreading woods as they rose on either 
 side of a small valley that led on to the broad 
 expanse of the ocean, now blue beneath a 
 mid-day sun, with here and there a white sail 
 seen on its unruffled surface, I said to Jane, 
 ' What can the greatest wealth or grandeur give 
 to human beings more than these and united 
 affection. — The mind that is pure before its God 
 surely can want no more than all these blessings, 
 — shaped by his hand, — infused by his spirit. 
 Beneath this roof, Jane, is ample, not alone for 
 the comforts, but luxuries of life ; and time was 
 when it sheltered gay hearts. But what would 
 ambition say to this humble dwelling ! Ambi- 
 tion — love of worldly distinction — what art thou 
 like ? Radiant avalanches in distance reflect-
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 109 
 
 ing transcendent hues. But what composed of ? 
 Nature's coldest particles ! Is ambition frigid ? 
 It, like the fatal avalanche, when meeting 
 a touch — a sound — that strikes against it, pours 
 destruction around, — making wreck of all within 
 its influence, — overwhelming all beneath it !' 
 
 " I pass over scenes of beauty where a Divine 
 hand shewed itself in sublimity, in glory, and 
 in softness ; scenes on which classic taste had 
 stamped her immortal impress ; yielding to the 
 mind and imagination an ever-exciting interest. 
 We mingled in scenes of luxury, splendour, and 
 even, perhaps, of dissipation. Throngs of this peo- 
 pled world held intercourse with us. In Paris we 
 were courted, sought, and, we confessed, amused. 
 In Italy, doubtless, we found still more to soothe 
 and captivate, but yet we found not happiness, 
 — that thing of circumstances, not of country 
 or climate, — that which springs but from the 
 mind, and which each individual mind alone 
 can model. Two years passed thus; and what 
 then? — I followed the cherished companion —
 
 110 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 the brother of Lucy Broughton — to the grave ! 
 Decline, that smiling thief of destruction, rob- 
 bed me of my friend. As an infant's slumber, 
 death passed over him ; — but in that hour my 
 Jane's image was with him. 
 
 " c TellJane that I loved her when all other 
 earthly love was given to heaven ! Jane Acton 
 should have been, as she ever was, the chosen, 
 dearest one of her William's affection. Give 
 her, dear Henry, this last kiss from my dying- 
 lips !' 
 
 " I bent my face over my friend ; before I raised 
 my head again, he was no more. 
 
 * The forlorn, the destitute being I stood then ! 
 Twoyears more I wandered abroad, and then again 
 I found myself an inmate of good Mr. Brough- 
 ton's hospitable mansion. My own home was 
 changed, — my brothers scattered ; — my mother 
 and father still cheerful, resigned, and active. 
 Yet was it not the home of my boyhood. Was 
 it the tone of my mind, or its character, that 
 varied? — Dear Jane, the once joyous sister, a
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. Ill 
 
 shadow of herself, yet placid, uncomplaining. 
 Those who had not known her in happier hours 
 would have thought it was nature, and not mis- 
 fortune, that rendered her that still quiet being- 
 she had become. 
 
 " To Mr. Broughton I was a solace, and never 
 allowed to quit his side, He had given me a 
 valuable living, and also the small one I now 
 hold. I loved it for its situation, and it was 
 near the home of my childhood; — the inhabit- 
 ants, too, I loved; simplicity and honesty were 
 their characteristic. The great ones, and cold 
 proud ones, did not awell amongst them. I gave 
 up the rich living to my brother William, per- 
 haps for his name, — perhaps because he was a 
 husband and a father; and when good Mr. 
 Broughton had numbered his days, I came to 
 dwell here where now I trust to lay my bones. 
 
 " But where was the sister of William — 
 Lucy Broughton ? No more? Had she wedded 
 and gone to other climes ? Yes, — and if wealth, 
 distinction, beauty, splendour, are happiness,
 
 112 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 Lady Moreland is blessed indeed ! And who 
 prays she may be so more fervently than Henry 
 Acton. My tale is done." 
 
 He who told that tale is now beside the couch 
 of that Lucy Moreland, now a mother, but a 
 wife no longer. 
 
 Lucy, soon after her brother's death, had been 
 summoned, by a father's mandate, from her 
 uncle's side. Strange to say, though years had 
 been since those brothers had parted as friends, 
 they now, though in the same country, did not 
 meet. It had been said that the good Nabob 
 would willingly have won his brother's consent 
 to give Lucy to Henry Acton. Be that as it may, 
 Mr. John Broughton returned hastily to Eng- 
 land from India, sent for his daughter to Lon- 
 don, and in six weeks she was the bride of Sir 
 George Moreland, Governor of India, a man 
 whose wealth was thousands upon thousands, — 
 connexions of the first stamp, — manners of dis- 
 tinguished elegance, — and high personal advan- 
 tages. But, like Lucy's father, he was a cold,
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 113 
 
 calculating man of the world, — selfish in all his 
 feelings, proud of all his possessions. 
 
 It is doubtful if he ever loved his beautiful 
 wife ; but she was his wife, and was unrivalled 
 in loveliness. It was something to be envied 
 for. And was Lucy happy ? — but her father 
 was insensible to all her tears, — deaf to all her 
 prayers, — though carried a fainting bride from 
 the altar, yet he had willed, and succeeded, 
 and was satisfied. If a pang of remorse was 
 awakened when he looked at his suffering child, 
 he silenced it by the salvo of — li I have made an 
 enviable match for my daughter, and what rio-ht 
 has she to complain ?" Still years went on, and 
 he saw that daughter a creature of breathing 
 listlessness, — aroused from torpor by no pleasure, 
 — no sorrow. Still what then ! she moved a 
 queen in eastern splendour, — he was flattered, 
 — her husband was proud, — for them this was 
 sufficient. 
 
 Lucy had given birth to three children, but 
 they had not lived beyond infancy. One grew
 
 114 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 up to call her mother. She possessed now some- 
 thing to love — something to live for. She 
 urged and prayed to return, at least for a short 
 time, with this child to England, and as her 
 own health was rapidly declining, she obtained, 
 at last, an unwilling consent. Joyfully she en- 
 tered into rapid preparations, but before they 
 could be accomplished, she became a widow. 
 Did she mourn ? No ! — she was above affecta- 
 tion ; she had been a dutiful, an obedient wife, 
 but never a loving one. 
 
 Bidding her father adieu, she sailed for Eng- 
 land, and was the only survivor (with her child) 
 that was saved to tell the tale of the Ariadne — 
 the vessel which had been so fatally wrecked 
 on these her native shores. In the very haven 
 of that home of rest she had looked to, — where 
 in girlhood she had sported and been blest, — 
 even now was she sheltered beneath the very roof 
 of him who had been her joyous companion in 
 those halcyon days ; and who had been, amidst 
 all changing of circumstances and time, still
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 115 
 
 an object of secret, pure, and sacred remem- 
 brance, the memory of whose existence had 
 flung over every scene of life a misty and soften- 
 ing power, shedding an influence which, though 
 cherished, was undefined. 
 
 Henry Acton, though now no longer the ardent 
 lover of years gone by, was still the fond, the 
 attached, of long tried time. Though affection 
 in either heart might be less impassioned, it was 
 not less devoted, less sincere. While lingering 
 over days past, hope whispered of those yet to 
 come, — -but one after the other stole away ! Jane 
 Acton was the constant attendant of the invalid. 
 
 We all talked of happier times. The gossips, 
 too, whispered that the parson was not such an 
 old man, and that now Mr. Acton would be as 
 gay as the merriest. And then, too, some talked 
 of all the gold he would have, — for no one, they 
 said, could count Miss Lucy's wealth — Miss 
 Lucy did they say ? — but no matter; they had 
 ever argued she ought never to have been my 
 Lady Moreland. But all things were for the
 
 116 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 best; she had done her duty, and was now to be 
 rewarded. 
 
 Then her sweet, beautiful child ! she was to be 
 married, and was to live among them at B rough ton 
 Hall. Good, innocent people, what day-dreams ! 
 
 But no, my kind uncle's tale was not so to 
 run. Each day hope grew fainter, — life waned 
 and waned. Yet if the body was gradually de- 
 caying in vital strength, the pure essence of soul 
 was acquiring fresh existence. And if in youth 
 Henry Acton had first breathed a new creation 
 into the fond heart of the lovely girl, how much 
 more glorious was the light which he now 
 infused to the more matured mind. Lucy had 
 lived many years in a foreign land, and not 
 amidst thesweet devotion of Cheriton Parsonage, 
 — though religion had never slumbered in her 
 pure bosom, yet was it not that warm, vital 
 spark which led on the saintly spirit of Henry 
 Acton, — that wrapping of the soul within its 
 sacred mantle ; guarding it, as it were, from the 
 baser and lower degradation of man's nature.
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 117 
 
 These impressions had once been springing up 
 in her, but circumstances had every way tended, 
 if not to eradicate, at least to weaken them. 
 
 As earth grew dim to the sufferer's sight, my 
 uncle's heavenly teaching opened new worlds of 
 before unimaged glory ; and as he traced the 
 celestial path of peace to the eternal mansions of 
 rest, the dying Lucy almost longed to tread 
 them, feeling that he must also soon pass 
 along them. One link yet bound her to earth, 
 — it was her child, — but her latest power 
 appointed Mr. Acton her sole protector; for 
 in this respect, Sir George Moreland had given 
 her full control. She had been left guardian 
 of both her child's person and fortune. With 
 resigned trust, she now committed her to Mr. 
 Acton's care ; and said, "Jane will love the babe 
 for the memory of him to whom her days have 
 been given. Henry, your love, your affection, I can 
 never doubt." My uncle was seated beside her. 
 She turned towards him, laid her wasted and 
 fevered hand on his arm. " Doubt them not.
 
 118 HENRY ACTON; OR, 
 
 Lucy, I will be a father to her." I saw my 
 uncle's lip quiver as he endeavoured to answer. 
 The day was closing in heaven above and in 
 earth beneath ; serenity was everywhere visible ; 
 twilight was gradually stealing over sea and 
 land, yet in shadows so illumined that it re- 
 sembled more the first break of dawn than the 
 last shades of eve. A few white sails still 
 opened to the gentle breeze, and floated along 
 the hushed bosom of the ocean, — stealing their 
 homeward way like the meek sufferer that now 
 gazed on them. She was going her way to her 
 everlasting dwelling with soul not more ruffled 
 than that ocean's bosom, — with hopes, too, 
 as boundless. The faint red beams of a sinking 
 sun were slightly tinging the distant French 
 coast. They, too, imaged her last thoughts 
 as they yet lingered amidst mortality; they 
 would soon depart, and their source also would 
 rise in light amidst other regions. Now re- 
 mained but one shining star ; it was all that 
 borrowed not a character from the surrounding
 
 THE GOLD SMUGGLERS. 119 
 
 tints. That grew into brilliancy as all other 
 objects passed into shade. Lucy's bright, lan- 
 guid eye was turned up to it. 
 
 " Is it not a lovely night, Henry ? I dreamt 
 not of this cherished blessing ; amidst such a 
 scene as this to sink to rest ! I feel only as if I 
 were passing into a sweet slumber, in which I 
 am to behold visions of unspeakable glory/' 
 She paused, drew a quicker breath, and leant 
 forward as if to catch the dewy air ; a fevered 
 spot was on her cheek. " Jane, I would that 
 Emma was with us ; — wake her not, but place her 
 beside me. There, sweet innocent, — see, Henry, 
 how soft she sleeps, — death is no more, dearest, 
 best beloved. Look yonder at that starry light," 
 (with an expression of angelic holiness she again 
 raised her head;) " is it not dazzling ; or is it 
 that life has so waned that all else seems dim. 
 Thou, Henry, hast been to me, in this my last 
 dark hour, such a light. May that peace thou 
 hast poured on my soul be all thy own. 
 To have my eyes so closed, — all I so fondly
 
 120 HENRY ACTON ; OR, 
 
 loved beside me ! She pressed her lips to her 
 child's, — her eye was raised to heaven once more, 
 —her voice murmured softly as a whisper, — the 
 red spot on her cheek grew fainter, — her last 
 gaze was on him who sat beside her, — the last 
 word, " Henry, we part to meet ; farewell, 
 dearest, best." The tint of life was past; that 
 form lay a breathless corpse on the bosom in 
 which it had ever been enshrined.
 
 ANNEE OWEN; 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 " Fo thus 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
 All bonds I break between us ! — as he broke." 
 
 " A fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him that bears — " 
 
 " Then I am forgiven, quite forgiven, Annee. 
 And you will come to the village festival?" 
 
 " Yes, Frederic. Kate will not be there, 
 will she ? Kate is too good to go to dances, — 
 is she not, Frederic V 
 
 i( Indeed, I scarcely know what you call too 
 good ; but if Kate does go, what need you care." 
 
 " Well, if you say I need not care, I will not 
 do so ; but " 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 (i But what, sweetest," asked Frederic, as 
 stopping, the half-blushing, half-smiling girl 
 held down her head. Her lover pressed her to 
 say on, and then she added — 
 
 " Frederic knows how his own Annee is en- 
 vious of even the sweet flowers, the green wood, 
 and yonder shining sea, if they draw his 
 thought or eye from her." The bright, beautiful 
 Annee's hand was on the arm of her lover; her 
 dark, soft eye looked up into his countenance 
 with woman's fondest devotion. 
 
 " Then Annee has no reason to envy aught ; 
 for what claims thought or eye when thou art 
 near? and that you know." 
 
 " Yes, Frederic, I do know it ; but I ask so 
 much that I always fear it will be impossible to 
 obtain it ; yet to-day I am happy, quite as 
 happy as all aruund us." 
 
 It was a lovely spot where now these young 
 lovers stood. What is a gala meeting unless 
 heart and spirits are there to gladden its rich- 
 ness ? — what heart and spirits are to that gala
 
 THE CURSE. 123 
 
 day was now enveloping earth and sky — all so 
 melting, so softening, — and much did these 
 young lovers add to the picture — both fresh and 
 buoyant as beauty and youth can look- 
 Hope, that sunny child of spring, was with 
 them. Hope, too, robed in the light she wears 
 but once in life. It is when love first decks 
 her — when all of real which mingles with the 
 ideal is joyous — the Utopian world of young 
 imagination. Yet, even though canopied with 
 heaven's own blue, how often comes the over- 
 clouding which enshrouds the bolt that shall 
 burst to desolate and to crush. But sunshine 
 was with these happy ones to-day. 
 
 It was at the gate of the village church they 
 stood ; — the memory of other days was not 
 theirs now. As they loitered beside this heaven- 
 devoted structure, all that was robbed from the 
 present was only given to monument of the fu- 
 ture. The little simple structure was ivy- 
 wreathed ; time-marked darkness circled around 
 its tapering spire and stone-worked windows ; — 
 g 2
 
 124 ANNEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 its churchyard was one which affection had 
 decorated, and nature adorned. 
 
 It spoke nothing of gloom or despair ; — it 
 told of that which follows the dead beyond their 
 earthly incarceration ; — it told of that which 
 belongs to our never-dying essence — the de- 
 voted heart — for over many a green grassy 
 grave hung in pensive weeping the willow's fra- 
 gile branching; the rose and woodbine inter- 
 laced the iron guard that fenced from the idler's 
 careless step the stone which covered the re- 
 mains of cherished ones ; the deep purple violet 
 and many a wild flower's sweetness freshened 
 the evening's gale as it swept over that sacred 
 spot. An aged yew-tree, as if the legacy of gone- 
 by time, was there. A seat was round it, where 
 many a village gossip, I ween, had told her tale. 
 The lovers soon occupied it. Did their eyes 
 wander through the verdant vistas as they bore 
 off into the wooded glades ? or did they rest 
 upon the virgin fairness of the white sail as it 
 won its summer way along the shining path of
 
 THE CURSE. 125 
 
 the deep that lay stretching in the distance be- 
 fore them, girded by many a rocky cliff? Did 
 they trace the curving lines of the dark mimic 
 bays, whose waters fretted there in shadow, like 
 sorrow's lash, which wears the lone, sad heart of 
 many a child of suffering ? 
 
 No ! for they were now looking upon their 
 cottage home. There it nestled like a bird of 
 peace amidst its embowering shades, tellincr 
 forth, as it were, a song of a thousand endearing 
 promises of happiness, of affection. 
 
 This cottage stood a little back from the 
 churchyard — a rustic dwelling it was, of bloom 
 and beauty. The thatched pentroof projected 
 from the building, and was formed into a ve- 
 randah by gnarled trunks bound with creepers 
 of purple and crimson hues, myrtle blossoms, 
 pure and snowy as primeval life, with leaves 
 green and fresh as its expanding advance. Be- 
 neath the trellice of eglantine and rose peeped 
 out the now open casement ; the garden, too, 
 was in view, with its flower-beds, amidst their
 
 126 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 emerald setting of green sward, glittering gaudy 
 as gems of oriental preciousness. 
 
 " That is to be our home, Annee. Mrs. 
 Owen says all would go wrong if Annee was not 
 there." 
 
 " And is it not a pretty home, Frederic I 
 You speak as if you did not love to think upon 
 it as our home." 
 
 A slight pouting was visible upon that ruddy 
 lip ; a little shade gathered upon that fair brow ; 
 to one, whose observation rested not with the 
 eye of love upon the beautiful speaker, per- 
 haps at this moment the change would scarcely 
 have been marked, it was so faintly visible. 
 
 Annee Owen was decidedly handsome, yet 
 when one read the changes of those faultless 
 features, it was painful, in one so young, to 
 catch the sudden dark overshadowing which 
 flitted across them, calling up, as it were, the 
 spirit of another being ; for their darkness was as 
 appalling as the sweetness of their softness was 
 spell-binding.
 
 THE CURSE. 127 
 
 When the eye of raven shade would flash 
 and dazzle, it was with something of almost 
 madness; yet when the jetty curl of the long- 
 lash was raised, and revealed in its uplifted look 
 love or sadness, who could meet that glance of 
 Annee Owen and not confess the magic that 
 dwells in woman ; each feature bore character 
 and stamp of light and shade; no painter's pen- 
 cilling ever gave stronger in all its force. The 
 Hebe lip, which touched Elysium's nectared 
 cup, never glowed more blandly than Annee's 
 when she smiled in joy ; nor Juno's pride ever 
 curled in deeper scorn, than when Annee spoke 
 the words of bitterness. 
 
 Her cheek was ever colourless as a Magdalen's, 
 yet a hue whiter than Italian art has given that 
 pictured penitent could be seen on Annee's, 
 when emotion called back its life blood to her 
 jealous heart. 
 
 Annee Owen had ever been an only child, 
 and in latter years the darling of a widowed 
 mother's home. Her station in life was not 
 exalted, though her mind was highly cultivated,
 
 128 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 for her father had been a man of much literary 
 pursuit and high attainments. 
 
 Annee, the favourite and plaything of the 
 clergyman's family from her earliest infancy, 
 had been thrown into a circle beyond her own 
 station, — not that this had ever an influence in 
 weakening or rendering her vain or proud, — she 
 was neither, — her heart was too full of keen, vivid, 
 never-slumbering sensitiveness. She lived but 
 for those she loved, — few were the objects re- 
 flected on that mirror, but once traced on Annee's 
 affections, they became idols of worship. 
 
 To Frederic Stanley she had been affianced 
 from girlhood's earliest remembrance ; and if a 
 woman ever knew all that passion reveals of 
 fondness and adoration, Annee confessed it for 
 the handsome and amiable Frederic Stanley. 
 
 There was much of love in his breast for 
 Annee Owen, but there was also much of fear. 
 To the quiet and melancholy mind of Stanley, 
 the fitful, varying, and passionate one of Annee 
 brought painful doubts and misgivings for their 
 future peace. The unchecked glow of jealousy
 
 THE CURSE. 129 
 
 which would burst out even at " trifles light as 
 air," was to him, though a flattering, still a 
 dreaded thing. And no being ever practised 
 that strange mysterious art over the destinies of 
 a beloved one more than Annee. And strangely 
 mysterious is that passion which inthrals the 
 peace of those it loves, for that which it wounds 
 is dearer to it than aught else on earth ! 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, tells so much of our fallen 
 nature as jealousy, for nothing speaks so strong 
 of selfishness; for the thing most prized is often 
 sacrificed to our own unreasoning whim, — that 
 frenzied whim which deafens to the voice of con- 
 viction and truth, and in its mad course, over- 
 whelms all of happiness. 
 
 Though this shadow of character was around 
 her, there were spots of brightness, beautiful 
 and endearing. Save on the one point, Annee 
 was the most unselfish, the most affectionate 
 of creatures. A depth and singularity also 
 was about her that rendered her an object of 
 intense interest to those who understood her. 
 g3
 
 130 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 But that interest resembled more in its feelings 
 what the melancholy loveliness of a moon-lit 
 evening excites, rather than the young, glowing 
 fervour of early day. 
 
 She owned a mind beyond her years in 
 strength and power, for she had not yet seen 
 twenty summers. Still there was a strange 
 weakness of never-slumbering superstition in 
 all she thought or felt; but when the stupendous 
 mind of a Johnson could descend to calculate 
 upon the results of a right or left foot first touch- 
 ing a threshold, upon its influence on his des- 
 tiny, we must not regard either Stanley or 
 Annee with too much severity, when we say 
 they were superstitious. 
 
 Stanley, perhaps, felt these singular prejudices 
 of sybil gossip in a stronger or more lasting 
 degree than Annee, inasmuch as Stanley's 
 mind, though not so vivid in catching impres- 
 sions as Annee's, was one of intense feeling, 
 hidden, but not less existent. 
 
 Everything that was overshadowed, or bore
 
 THE CURSE. ]31 
 
 relation to romance, was an idol with him ; wild, 
 dark, and imaginative, weirded and unshapely 
 forms, such as told the prophecy to murdering 
 Macbeth, had ten thousand more charms for 
 him than legends of a bright and fairy land. 
 The ghostly visions of a Richard's dream mur- 
 dered not his rest, but were more familiar com- 
 panions to his picturing fancy than all the light- 
 ness of a Miranda's Ariel agent. The stronger 
 impulses of our souls are ever concealed from 
 the general eye ; for in minds of powerful feel- 
 ing, delicacy infolds them as carefully as nature 
 guards from vulgar ken the jewelled gems of 
 earth. 
 
 Annee alone wandered with him amidst these 
 caverned recesses, and robbed from thence all 
 their hidden treasures ; and livelier ones would 
 have smiled to have listened to these young 
 lovers, talking over their dreamy world of 
 strange things. 
 
 Seated beneath the aged yew, they were now 
 dwelling upon the joy which would arise, if the
 
 132 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 spirits of the dead could hold converse with the 
 living. 
 
 " Yes/' said Annee ; " how blest is it when I 
 think I see him, speak to him ; sometimes, when 
 only stars are waking, and it is all still, as I would 
 it ever were when you talk dear things of love, 
 I come and sit yonder, by my own father's 
 grave." 
 
 And she pointed to a simple sable urn, over 
 which mantled a willow of singular luxuriance. 
 
 " And is there no fear with you, Annee," 
 asked her lover. 
 
 " Fear, Frederic, no ! What could I fear in 
 the presence of a parent, and that one who has 
 cast off the garb of earth and is robed in light ; 
 at such moments I weep not over his memory. 
 I have seen him, Stanley, rise from out that 
 tomb with such angel bearing, and call on his 
 child to follow him to the glory that enshrouds 
 him above !" 
 
 A soft mild voice broke in to interrupt Annee's 
 ravings, with —
 
 THE CURSE. 133 
 
 "Annee Owen — talk not thus, save in trust 
 and humility, of mortal putting on immortality. 
 Is it for fallen creatures such as we are to 
 speak thus of sinful erring man being raised 
 above judgment and punishment ; besides, the 
 spirits of the dead walk not forth to scare the 
 living." 
 
 Annee paid not the ceremonies of greeting to 
 the pretty speaker, as she turned to answer her 
 with eye lighted and cheek paled again — 
 
 " And is it less presumption of Kate Marlow 
 to cast a shadow of doubt on the final blessed- 
 ness of Frank Owen. He who passed along 
 his career in peace and good will with all of 
 kindred, of friend, and foe. No presuming 
 righteousness was his, — no phylactery of pride 
 was his, — Kate Marlow ; and, moreover, he was 
 the loving father of the child who spoke — he 
 could not come to scare her." 
 
 Annee burst into tears, and ran impatiently 
 into the home which had once sheltered that 
 loved parent; while the little, quiet, demure
 
 134 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 Kate seated herself, apparently unmaved, by the 
 side of the agitated lover. 
 
 " I meant her no wrong, and that she will con- 
 fess ere her tears are dry. She knows I love her, 
 and that I loved her father. Heed her not, 
 Frederic ; or if you do, correct her for her future 
 peace' sake ; 'tis a goodly soil, but no one looks 
 to what is planted in it. And you, most of all, 
 Frederic, misdirect, though you cherish her ; 
 yes, you lead her to dream of strange wild things 
 which her mother's gentleness has never known 
 how to correct, which her father's far off know- 
 ledge laid foundation for; and did I not regard 
 her too dearly, I would say — I pity you, Frederic 
 Stanley." 
 
 Perhaps, unconsciously, there was more than 
 pity in the innocent blue eye, as it was lifted up 
 to express that feeling. 
 
 Still all was so regulated, so mechanical 
 about Kate, that if a warmer glow was in her 
 heart at that moment, it was as quickly called 
 back into place as it was expressed.
 
 THE CURSE. 135 
 
 Kate's whole attire and demeanour betokened 
 neatness to minutia ; everything was in keeping, 
 — the little close straw bonnet tied down with 
 the simple fawn-coloured ribbon, — the plain silk 
 gown of the same shade, with the white ker- 
 chief pinned in quaker exactness, — the braided 
 hair, — the close cap, — all told Kate's calling ; but 
 nothing of fanaticism or pride (notwithstanding 
 Annee's sarcasm) mingled with the simplicity 
 of her methodism. 
 
 It is true Kate loved to raise her voice at 
 the evening conventicle, but as she did so, her 
 spirit went with it purely and holily; though 
 Kate loved not the dance and glee of merry- 
 making, yet she turned not reprovingly from 
 them; one festival she always frequented, though 
 poor Annee trusted she would not do so this 
 year, that which was called the il village fes- 
 tival," which was kept on the first of May, in 
 Oakfield Park, in commemoration of a happy 
 tale of rejoicing. 
 
 The widow of one of the Squires of Oakfield 
 Park for many years deemed her only son was
 
 136 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 lost at sea, and thus bereaved, she mourned. 
 At last, one smiling morn, of a Mayday, a 
 
 white sail was seen to near the coast of D ; 
 
 from out that vessel, with white sail, was ob- 
 served a stranger to land, and in him was 
 recognised the now wasted and changed widow's 
 son. Then rang out the rounded peal of the 
 village church, and merriment, feasting, and 
 bonfire, told of the glad return. 
 
 The widow's tears were dried, and she bid 
 the board be spread wide and long, and music 
 and revelry called many to the feast. So 
 cherished was that day of rejoicing, that year 
 returned after year and witnessed its comme- 
 moration. 
 
 Generation had passed after generation and the 
 same festival was kept on the first of May ; for, 
 when dying, this grateful widow had left a legacy 
 to still keep up the remembrance, with command 
 that the names of all who had witnessed and 
 celebrated her happiness at the first should be 
 preserved, and the privilege handed down to all 
 their nearest of kin of attending the festival; and
 
 THE CURSE. 137 
 
 who, on this day's return, forgot their root and 
 branching ? 
 
 That gay first of May had now come again, 
 and many happy hearts were assembled in the 
 Park of Oakfield. 
 
 It was now the home and possession of Mr. 
 Lucy, the Hector of the parish. 
 
 And whose countenances so beaming in kind- 
 ness and benevolence as those of the Rector and 
 his children ? It made one glad and forget all 
 sadness to hear but the merry laugh of the glee- 
 some family; no care seemed theirs but the care 
 for others' weal; though the descendants of 
 noble, wealthy kindred, no pride was with them ; 
 with dignity, but humility, they mingled with 
 their parishioners, and, in good fellowship with 
 all grades, each knew them as each loved them. 
 The bond of Christian unity was amongst them. 
 And the good Rector, with heart and counte- 
 nance overflowing with benevolence, had his 
 smile, his jest, his kindness, for each and all. 
 
 Never was so completely displayed the full force 
 of the term — " the father of his flock" — than in
 
 138 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 Mr. Lucy ; he was like one of the noble monarchs 
 of his own Park, that might be seen spreading 
 and flourishing greenly and happily there, 
 sheltering all who sought its circuit and yielding 
 freshness to every eye that looked upon it. 
 
 This May morn, joyful tidings to each 
 anxious eye, was arrayed in sunshine. 
 
 " There's not a budding boy or girl this day 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May •" 
 
 May, that youthful prime, just what England 
 
 was, when the Maying customs and rustic 
 
 festivals of her unlettered people mantled her in 
 
 robes wove by the fairy fingers of Romance. 
 
 Her modern gigantic march in civilization, 
 
 science, and knowledge, may exalt her to a 
 
 height from which she may look down, and 
 
 from those lofty pinnacles may contemplate the 
 
 immeasurable walk she has trodden over, the 
 
 power she has compassed, the new face she has 
 
 put on ; and may not her bewildered senses 
 
 grow dizzy with the review of such startling 
 
 advancement ? May no sigh be breathed for 
 
 those gone-by times, w r hen u ignorance was
 
 THE CURSE. 139 
 
 bliss?" May not the proud steed's strength 
 be yet too mighty for the rider's skill, direct he 
 ever so wittingly ? 
 
 See what an awakening is everywhere ; from 
 the lisping child to the aged grandsire — all are 
 now roused to look on things that held place 
 of yore but amidst kingly palaces and lordly 
 dwellings, amidst divines and legislators — all 
 now stand up in our streets and in our highways, 
 and sound the voice of dictation and revelation ; 
 the trumpet of liberty and independence echoes 
 through the land, and man calls on fellow man 
 to enter the list for right and equality, at least 
 in mind. Liberty, that word of danger, — that 
 word, so glorious in its noblest use — so fearful in 
 its evil abuse ! The temple of Janus closed its 
 gates when peace smiled; opened them when 
 war frowned. Such is liberty ! it either ex- 
 cludes all of wrong:, or extends to all that is 
 destructive. 
 
 May Providence direct that impetus of 
 roused intellect and awakened knowledge,
 
 140 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 which has given a new form and a new mind 
 to the whole mass of this nation's people — for as 
 a greater light does it stand in the hemisphere 
 of creation; and may England never have to 
 look back in regret on the " olden time," as 
 age does on the days of youth and innocence, or 
 as the eye, falling on heated summer's scorched 
 ripeness, regrets May's freshness and budding. 
 
 It is to be trusted not; but who sighs not 
 over her gone romance, her day of heartiness 
 and hospitality; but all are gone; romance, 
 grown old, no longer walks our land. Romance, 
 thou fascinating child of allurement, if not the 
 offspring of usefulness, thou art the parent of 
 beauty ! and to-day the village of Oakfield 
 might have been the village of more than a 
 century back, — so full of the fun and frolic of 
 sweet Maying; but it had ever over it the im- 
 press of by-gone time, — 
 
 '* The little cot where mantling woodbine fails, 
 The village matron keeps her school." 
 
 Then its green, the playground of noisy, happy
 
 THE CURSE. 141 
 
 childhood, the occasional pasture of stray donkey 
 or cackling goose ; here the aged tree, spread- 
 ing its broad ample branches over the cir- 
 cular seat around it, where the old village 
 crony sits her down to tell her gossip marvels of 
 pixies, elves, and goblins, the wonder-working 
 cures of charmed spells : poor old soul ! fancy's 
 fictions lend her eloquence, and not, as but too 
 often now-a-days, scandal's biting tongue. 
 And here, when evening comes, comes many an 
 idle loiterer, " from labour free," to sit under 
 that aged tree, so many its years that he who 
 had numbered near a hundred seasons — the 
 Patriarch of Oakfield — remembered, when yet a 
 stripling boy, how he had sought its shelter and 
 its shade, after the heat and toil of rustic festival 
 and dance, — how, after the broad round moon 
 had risen from out the waters of yonder blue 
 sea, her beams would fall upon the taper spire 
 of the village church, and warn them that the 
 hour was fast coming when forms, white and 
 tall like it, might rise from out its wood-screened
 
 142 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 churchyard, and walk the earth to scare the 
 midnight idler. 
 
 Yes, old John was wont to tell, " that when 
 the moonlight came silvering upon that spire, 
 they used to say it looked like a ghost rising 
 from out the dark shades around it. And then 
 we used to hie us home." And he could tell 
 of the village inn, which stood, neat and clean, 
 in the little street-way, with its white post, and 
 chains, and swinging sign of a large round oak, 
 how it had opened to receive the merry-making 
 of Christmas, and May too, in all her pride of 
 Maid Marianne and Robin Hood, and the wild 
 murmuring frolic, trick, and witchery, of Holy 
 eve. 
 
 Where are they now, and those feats of 
 activity, bowling, quoits, reelpins, and the 
 hundred good old games ? — now lost and 
 gone. 
 
 The good old man who could tell of all these 
 wonders was now seated beneath the aged oak 
 on this very May morning, and he was great
 
 THE CURSE. 143 
 
 grandsire to that same Annee whom first we met 
 with her lover in Oakfield village churchyard. 
 A word he had for each as they passed along, 
 and kindly he declined the proffered offers to 
 lead him to Oakfield Park. 
 
 " My Annee will be here anon ; she would 
 be over-jealous did her old grandsire borrow 
 any other staff but his young May-queen to 
 support his slow step, — my child will soon 
 be here," and soon she was by his side. 
 
 " Ah, my young May-queen, your bonny 
 gear makes these old eyes love to look upon 
 you, — why, Flora's self is not more sweet, — thy 
 coronal, Annee, grew not beneath our changing 
 sky. Tender care has watched these flowers 
 for thee, child." 
 
 u Yes, grandsire, sweet Dora Lucy sent them 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, yes; Dora Lucy is one of her generation; 
 its stream has always run from pure old foun- 
 tains, — nothing like it. He whose return we go 
 to-day to celebrate was her, yet older, grandsire,
 
 144 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 than I am ; blessings be to him in heaven who 
 leaves to earth such branches as this — sweet 
 Dora Lucy ; yes, such good old blood, — such 
 true right hearts, — still tells us what England 
 was once, but what she will never be again. We 
 may mend now-a-days, but we shall never see 
 such good old things as we were wont to have. 
 But come, my prattle must not make me lag, 
 or they will say, Fred Stanley, my steps will not 
 last to take me to thy bridal, boy." 
 
 It is for a painter's pencil to give life to the 
 group, the pen may not, as on they passed, the 
 aged grandsire and his lovely Annee, up the 
 village street, where " devotion gives each house 
 a bough.'' 'Twas as if the past had come back, 
 guided by love and hope, to all the sweet and 
 delicious of life. 
 
 On they pass, till they reach the place of 
 meeting — it is at the village Maypole, which 
 generation on generation had seen looking 
 down upon the place. It was now garlanded 
 with wreaths of gold and silver, purple and
 
 THE CURSE. 145 
 
 rosy hues — what a fairy group are round it 
 of young and blushing life ! It was a pretty 
 pageant; each fair village girl crowned with a 
 coronal of flowers, half hid beneath snowy veils ; 
 their white dresses decorated with wreaths, each 
 carrying a tiny rod ornamented with a ring, 
 formed of the blossoming May, and a small blue 
 flag inscribed with " Welcome." 
 
 Annee was elected May-queen of the day ; 
 but she was not asked to resign her post be- 
 side her grandsire — and good John Owen, led 
 by lovely Annee, bore their steps to Oakfield 
 Park. 
 
 That aged man, with his long silver hair, 
 his old fashioned costume, his tall erect form, 
 with step and countenance time seemed to have 
 forgotten to trace its character on — for the step 
 was firm far beyond his years, the countenance 
 expressive yet, with quick thought and kindly 
 benevolence. 
 
 First went the rustic band ; then followed 
 each, two and two, up the path of the church 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 146 AXNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 lane, rich with primrose, violet, and sweet May ; 
 an arcade of green branching trees thrown across 
 made soft light, as onward trod those laughing 
 ones; and the gay harmony of music, pealing 
 bell, gleesome voice, came floating wildly, joy- 
 fully, on the scented breeze ; then in the rear 
 followed the more humble villagers, young and 
 old, in Sunday attire. 
 
 They reach the gates of the park; here a 
 new scene breaks out — awnings supported by 
 pillars decorated with flowers; beneath are 
 spread tables covered with plenty and luxury ; 
 while far off, beneath the shade of the fine old 
 oaks, are seen others groaning with more sub- 
 stantial and less delicate viands for more homely 
 guests, — but are these less partially greeted by 
 Mr. Lucy and his bright joyous family? 
 
 It was a good sight that group — the father 
 and grandfather in one, with all the stamp of 
 his high aristocratic bearing, yet so wholly un- 
 tainted by the bitterness of pride. Then his 
 daughter, Dora Lucy, a very joy to every eye ;
 
 THE CURSE. 147 
 
 hers was the wild bright loveliness of gipsy 
 charms — the raven eye and hair — the clear brown 
 skin through which the eloquent blood spoke, — 
 true it was, Dora Lucy was a dark beauty, but 
 what so brilliant in its full radiance as night ? 
 Then, when her soul spoke out, it was seen in eye, 
 lip, and cheek : with heart open as day to kind- 
 ness, she never past her footsteps from out her 
 father's threshold that a blessing did not fall 
 upon their track. Anne Owen she had loved 
 from her earliest knowledge of her, though sta- 
 tion in life had raised the one many grades 
 above the other. Dora was the first to step 
 forward from the family group, as they stood 
 upon the terrace which girted the old fashioned 
 pile of Oakfield Park, with its gables, high 
 chimneys, and heavy stone-work windows. It 
 was a place of the olden times, with its fish- 
 ponds, waterworks, grotesque yew-clipped de- 
 formities, grass walks, holly hedges, and trim 
 gardens, even its hospitality, — all poured out the 
 heart greetings of days gone by. 
 h2
 
 148 AXXEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 Dora stepped forward, as I said, to welcome 
 her friend Annee queen of the day; and well she 
 looked a queen, for Dora had culled the choicest 
 flowers of the conservatory to form her coronal. 
 
 Annee was led out by Mr. Lucy's eldest son, 
 and the music striking up, they commenced the 
 dance; but why did Annee's eye wander rest- 
 lessly ? Though courted, flattered, and admired, 
 still she seemed to move heartlessly on — and 
 there was mirth and merriment to gladden the 
 saddest; even the aged seemed to grow young, 
 as they sat chatting and basking in the sunshine, 
 with all their rising generation branching around 
 them. Annee Owen having finished her dance, 
 seated herself between her grandsire and Stan- 
 ley's uncle. 
 
 li Fine day, fine day, Miss Annee," said old 
 Peter Stanley, rubbing his hands — " How be 
 you, how be you ?" 
 
 " Well, thank you, Peter Stanley," and she 
 extended her pretty hand to the old gen- 
 tleman.
 
 THE CURSE. 149 
 
 What Peter's age might be, it would have 
 been difficult to define, for the face was as it 
 were one of stone, so dingy and motionless — the 
 eye, small, was set far into the socket — the brow 
 heavy, pent, and shaggy — the forehead, bald 
 and projected, was broad, flat, and ample, but 
 untraced by openness or intellect — the nose 
 thick, hooked, and marked — the mouth revealed 
 more of the characteristic trait of Peter Stanley 
 than any other feature; it was thin, close 
 pressed, and indented ; while the curved chin 
 formed a face of strongly marked outline, but 
 one without a shadow, either in expression or 
 contour, of anything pleasing or prepossessing — 
 it was cold, dead, stupid ; its variation seemed 
 a mere muscular or galvanized motion ; and yet 
 it was a face when once seen was never for- 
 gotten. Peter was something about the middle 
 size, but broad, slouching, and clumsily built ; 
 the neck short and thick; but still, as I said, 
 Peter Stanley once seen was never forgotten — 
 the manner, formation of figure, and head,
 
 150 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 remained fixed on the memory — a child's pencil 
 might have traced his portrait with living accu- 
 racy, it was one so peculiar, and yet it would 
 have given no insight into the character of the 
 man. His dress was slovenly, dirty, and un- 
 marked by date, yet out of all date — the thread- 
 bare brown coat might have been the tailoring 
 of this or any other century — the breeches, 
 fastened at the knees with long strings, hung 
 loosely and baglike about him ; to-day he wore 
 black silk stockings and shoe-buckles, and a 
 less ancient stock round his throat; altogether, 
 Peter, both in act and picturing, bore the stamp 
 of a character, — but it was difficult from the 
 outward to trace the inward man — this could 
 not have originated in his not having* strong; 
 unquenchable peculiarities. Peter was a miser ! 
 — frightfully so; the love of gold — for gold 
 itself was a very plague-spot on his soul — the 
 molten god of his waking and sleeping dreams, 
 absorbing every feeling, thought, and propensity 
 — a sort of volcano flame, bursting forth to
 
 THE CURSE. 151 
 
 desolate every object of this world, and render 
 the next a fearful hope ; — it silenced every feel- 
 ing of compassion, subdued every other passion 
 of the soul, and turned to gall every affection of 
 nature. This love of gold — it is a hideous 
 thing, and perhaps, when once finding root in 
 the mind of man, grows with greater strength 
 than any corruption that springs up there ; but 
 Peter's seemed to have been an heritage; the 
 father, like the son, had been a miser, and left 
 the toils and hoards to Peter, disinheriting 
 Frederic Stanley's father for making an impru- 
 dent marriage. Still, though he had left Peter 
 in possession of countless riches, the father had 
 no sooner breathed his last than Peter was deter- 
 mined his parent's lessons should not be lost 
 on him. 
 
 His father happening to breathe his last some 
 
 miles from his native town of D , Peter, 
 
 though ever acting as if he had no soul, had 
 still a strange pharisaical religion, and a weak 
 superstition mixed up in his composition. He
 
 152 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 was never missed from his pew, save on charit- 
 able occasions, weekdays, and Sundays, and 
 responded loudly and attentively. 
 
 His parent on his death-bed requested he 
 might be buried in the family vault at Oakfield, 
 for, with all their meanness, family pride was 
 strongly evinced both in father and son, and, 
 doubtless, they boasted a line of good old an- 
 cestors who had all been laid in this old vault ; 
 therefore Peter's parent must repose beside 
 them. The removing a corpse was an expensive 
 thing. What was to be done? The medical 
 attendant who had come from Oakfield to attend 
 Peter's father in his last moments had a car- 
 riage with him ; now could not the dead father 
 find room between the son and doctor; and most 
 urgent was Peter. 
 
 u Now doey, now doey, doctor ; he ha'n't 
 been dead three hours ; doey, doctor, no one will 
 know on it." 
 
 But the doctor was as dead to the miser's 
 prayer as the miser was to the voice of natural
 
 THE CURSE. 153 
 
 affection, therefore Peter was under the neces- 
 sity of hiring a chaise, into which was conveyed 
 the stiff corpse of his parent, and placed up 
 beside him, attired as a living father. Thus 
 
 Peter returned to his native town of D . 
 
 Was not this a being over whom the curse of 
 the love of gold had poured its consuming fire ; 
 whose mind, like the Gomorrah of old, had 
 nothing of life or beauty existing in it ; — all was 
 sterile and desolate — poorer than the poorest — 
 in the possession of thousands, nay, millions. 
 
 It was a frightful contemplation ; — that same 
 old miser, now going on in years to his last 
 reckoning, yet overlooking that final one in the 
 sordid one of the present. Young Stanley was 
 almost wholly dependent upon this uncle, and 
 was allowed to occupy a place in his counting- 
 house. Peter, nominally, was a wine-merchant, 
 but he trafficked in all and everything from 
 which he could extract a shilling profit, from a 
 pennyworth of pins to a pipe of wine. 
 
 Frederic Stanley's father had been much in- 
 h3
 
 154 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 volved, and died young, though not before he 
 had given his son the advantages of the best 
 education, intending to put him into the church. 
 His widow was left nearly unprovided ; young 
 Stanley was therefore glad to accept his uncle's 
 offer of receiving him into his countinghouse 
 in order to support his mother, as, though 
 the salary was but a slender one, his uncle 
 held out promises of making him his heir, 
 which made the many peculiarities of Peter 
 Stanley be overlooked, both by Frederic and 
 his mother, the one for the sake of her son, the 
 other for his mother's and Annee's. As long- 
 as Frederic did not ask his uncle to further with 
 his money the union of Annee and himself, 
 Peter talked over it as a very pleasant thing, to 
 take place some day or other. i( Very fond, 
 very, of the girl ; nice sort of girl enough — nice 
 girl — mighty nice girl." 
 
 And Annee, for the sake of Stanley, was 
 always attentive, bringing him little presents of 
 what she was aware he was fond, for no one
 
 THE CURSE. 155 
 
 enjoyed or loved the good things of this world 
 better than Peter, when procured at his friend's 
 expense. Such was Peter Stanley, beside 
 whom An nee was now seated. 
 
 " Where is Frederic, my child ?" asked John 
 Owen. 
 
 M I do not know," she replied, in a voice that 
 ill concealed the emotion that was trembling 
 within her breast. 
 
 " Not know, my maid ! why is he not here 
 to foot it with his bonny queen ? Ah ! yonder 
 he is coming." 
 
 Kate Marlow was on his arm; she was 
 smiling with all her own pretty gentle simpli- 
 city, as he bent down to talk with her. 
 
 " Kate is here ! I thought such fangles as 
 these to-day never lured maidens like her. Is 
 she not over sober to be mixing in the merry- 
 making of such Maying as this V 
 
 " So I thought, grandsire," said Annee, 
 .nd her lip curled, and was as pale as her cheek. 
 
 " Humph!" said old Owen; " I don't love
 
 156 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 these new fashioned lanterns, flinoino- licrht 
 only on our own steps; I like the charity that 
 benefits our neighbours as well as ourselves as 
 we walk along the dingy ways of this troubled 
 world. Kate Mar low is over bright in her own 
 eyes ; she leaves nothing but the dark side for 
 others; she is geared out more than is her wont 
 to-day," added Owen, as Kate and Stanley 
 approached them. 
 
 Kate, it is true, was attired like her other 
 young friends, save that not a shade of colour 
 was visible but the green leaves in her coronal 
 of May ; even the ring of her wand was com- 
 posed of the same. Yes, there was one other 
 flower — it was the violet's deep purple ; a bunch 
 was seen reposing on the snowy kerchief that 
 veiled a bosom fair as it was pure. 
 
 It was not the first time Annee's eye had 
 rested on them, for she had seen Stanley pre- 
 sent them ; and had they been poisoned flowers, 
 they could not have been more deadly to 
 Annee's eye, as she looked again at them.
 
 THE CURSE. 157 
 
 Kate, too, looked so feminine — so modest — a 
 very image of innocence and simplicity. Her 
 soft sweet eye, blue as heaven's own dye ; the 
 forehead so unruffled, and the sunny hair part- 
 ing in braids without study or effort across it; 
 and then she was so collected, so calm, yet so 
 little absorbed. She wore strange contrast to 
 the wild excited manner of Annee, as she said 
 to her, " Dear Annee, Frederic and I have 
 been so seeking for you." 
 
 " Indeed !" — and a withering look met the 
 placid glance of her friend. 
 
 " Yes, Annee, and do come with us, they 
 are going into the tents to dinner ; take my arm, 
 do, Annee, dear Annee," and Frederic placed 
 himself beside her as her grandsire vacated his 
 seat. 
 
 " I want not your services/' Frederic Stan- 
 ley ; Mr. Lucy comes to take me," and Annee 
 rose to meet his approach. 
 
 Though Annee laughed and talked even with 
 unwonted gaiety, yet a near observer might
 
 158 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 have seen that restless eye turning to one point 
 when she deemed herself unseen — it was where 
 Kate Marlow and Frederic Stanley were seated. 
 They appeared chatting and enjoying each 
 other's society most happily. In truth, Stanley 
 had been so piqued by Annee's manner of re- 
 ceiving his proffered attentions that he deter- 
 mined to shew his indifference by devoting 
 himself to Kate, though the very moments in 
 which they appeared most attentive to each 
 other were those in which Annee was the sub- 
 ject of conversation; both regretted her de- 
 termined jealousy. 
 
 Kate, like Annee, had been Frederic's com- 
 panion from childhood ; though towards Kate 
 Marlow he felt all a brother's affection and 
 kindness, nothing more had ever arisen within 
 him, as from his earliest recollection Annee 
 had been his affianced one. - If more had 
 ever been felt on her part, it ran like one of 
 those streams which steal beneath the shade 
 of some cavern's depth where light hath never
 
 THE CURSE. 159 
 
 looked, silent, and secret in its hidden course. 
 If it was love, it was pure as a sister's love, and 
 the altar on which it burned was called by 
 friendship's name alone; in word and thought, 
 in a sobered and apparently passionless being- 
 such as Kate Marlow, perhaps none could ever 
 have discovered more, even had it existed. She 
 received Frederic's attentions; nay, she may 
 have slightly sought them, not from the wish to 
 vex or rival Annee, for she loved her, dearly 
 loved her; but she was not blind to her errors, 
 nor was Kate ever influenced by the opinions 
 of others, even though she loved them. She 
 never did anything, to the most minute action 
 of every day, but under the conviction of doing 
 what she deemed right and fitting; she thought 
 it unjust of Annee to suspect, and she never 
 allowed her injustice or suspicions to operate 
 upon her actions. Kate, doubtless, sometimes 
 erred in her code, for she had a little, very 
 little, of the fanatic in her disposition ; had it 
 been stronger, it would have rendered her cold-
 
 160 AXXEE OWENS OR, 
 
 hearted and harsh ; through the love of doinc 
 too much, she would have fallen off in perform- 
 ing too little, — that is, she would have despised 
 and triumphed over those errors and failings in 
 others it should have been her benevolence to 
 pardon, her desire to cure. Kate seldom felt 
 harshly; she sometimes spoke unkindly; but 
 to none was Kate severe, save to herself. 
 
 The close of the evening of the festive day 
 was fast drawing on ; each group, as they had 
 danced or talked themselves into fatigue, stole 
 away. In the games gradually was shewn less 
 exertion and emulation; the laugh was less loud 
 and long; the cup remained unpledged; the 
 dancers sat them down beneath the shady 
 branchings, beside their favourite partners ; the 
 flowery coronals were fading fast on the fair 
 villagers' brows; weary childhood had played 
 itself to sleep, and lay in slumber in the pa- 
 rent's arms, or on the velvet sward ; the music 
 gave not out such merry notes, but breathed 
 in strains softened and mellowed as the atmos-
 
 THE CURSE. 161 
 
 phere through which it floated ; the crescent 
 moon and one glittering star came out and 
 looked upon the fading hushing scene of this 
 jocund day. 
 
 It was not yet as when age has past over 
 existence, but it was as when time has thrown a 
 veil around the young radiance of first hopes 
 and pleasures, whose transparency does not 
 conceal, though it shades, the things that are. 
 The tints that fall in early dawn, how often are 
 their hues sembled by the twilight of eve. 
 Youth and age may be alike in this. Youth 
 has a fearful world of sunshine before it — age 
 a world of dreaded shadows; in both, the things 
 to be can be but the hopes and fears unrealized. 
 There was something soothing in watching the 
 day's decline sinking calmly into peace. Nature 
 and man looked in sympathy — and it is seldom 
 thus. Nature is like a soulless beauty. We 
 may sympathize with nature — nature sympa- 
 thizes not with us, for the sun hides not him- 
 self in clouds because tears dim our sight.
 
 162 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 Annee sat listlessly watching the scene. In- 
 deed, I doubt whether she marked its change ; 
 — her mind remained uncalmed by its contem- 
 plation. She had retired into the shade of one 
 of the deep arcades which branched off from 
 the open space of the pleasure ground, and 
 formed an aisle of gothic gloom, delicious in 
 its holy stillness. She was just far enough 
 in the back-ground to be screened from ob- 
 servation, yet sufficiently in view to be able 
 to observe every object of busy life on the 
 green extent before her. Distance lent to the 
 music's note an ethereal tone as it floated 
 towards her; — to her it seemed coming from 
 the spheres of those favourite children of her 
 wild imagination — the inhabitants of Fairy 
 land — to Annee scarce the beings of fable. 
 Idle dreams they were; still they created around 
 her beautiful things, and seemed as if " bright 
 seraphs mixed familiarly with her, and earth 
 and stars composed a universal heaven." The 
 fleecy clouds she peopled with aerial spirits —
 
 THE CURSE. 163 
 
 there they dwelt in mansions of silver; light 
 melodious strains floated around, and there they 
 were u lulled in flowers with dance and de- 
 
 light." 
 
 Poor Annee ! thou wert one of Nature's 
 wildest but purest children; a creature of fan- 
 tasies and superstitions ; of quick impulses ; a 
 lonely bark on a sea of varying tides, but with- 
 out a rudder. 
 
 At this moment she saw Frederic approaching 
 her; she felt conscious she was wronging him by 
 her idle jealousy, yet she could not overcome 
 herself; she hastily arose and endeavoured to 
 pass from him, but her lover's step was quicker 
 than her own. " Annee," he said, li wait for 
 one moment; hear me." 
 
 " ]N~o, Frederic Stanley, no! my heart is 
 breaking. Let it break — who will weep over 
 the grave of Annee Owen ; she stands to darken 
 the light of others' footsteps — she cannot shine 
 out now, and call into life sweet and lovely 
 things, as once, bv her faintest glance,
 
 164 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 No, no ! I am a doomed one, Madge Free- 
 man said it oft; — 'tis vain, 'tis vain to tell me 
 other." She continued, as her lover essayed to 
 speak — " No ! tell me not that her dark spirit 
 has no part in knowledge with those to whom 
 power is given to dive into the deep, deep things 
 that are to be — ay, it was but yestereve her 
 voice sounded in mine ear as I knelt beside my 
 father's tomb. Yes, she told me strange, wild 
 things ; she told me soon that another grave 
 should be beside that father's — that child and 
 parent should be united, hut fearfully united." 
 
 Annee looked up at her lover; her eye was 
 dimmed with tears, and she trembled when she 
 laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Annee, dearest ! best beloved ! heed not 
 Madge; we are in the hands of Him who willeth 
 not that such as Madge should unloose the 
 sealed books of fate; the spirit breathing within 
 thy lover's heart is a surer prophet — and as it 
 worships thee, has worshipped since eye has 
 known how to gaze, since tongue has learnt
 
 THE CURSE. 165 
 
 utterance — that spirit, my own, tells me thou 
 wilt live to be mine. Annee, such love as I bear 
 thee I feel in every pulse — no, it cannot be in- 
 fused into my very existence, merely to know a 
 brief life. It must be immortal. Listen to me ; 
 here, on bended knee, let me swear it to thee — 
 turn, turn not from my adoration. Well ! well ! 
 if thou wilt not let me press this plighted hand 
 to fond, loving lips, they e'en shall touch the sod 
 where thy foot hath left its print. And thou wilt 
 not listen, thou wilt not look on me !" cried Stanley, 
 as he still, on bended knee, gazed on the half- 
 arrested form of the blushing:, trembling, but 
 self-willed girl. " And you will not ! — only one 
 look, one kind word ! Oh ! Anne ! have you 
 no heart?" 
 
 " No, no, none, Frederic ; it is broken." 
 Tears and sobs choked her utterance. Stanley 
 was by her side; his arm circled her waist. 
 " And why, why is it broken?" 
 
 " Why, Stanley, because you love me not; 
 you know it not, but you love Kate Mario w.
 
 166 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 To-day — to-day has confirmed it, has burnt the 
 conviction into my very heart's core. Honour, 
 pity, is all you can give me." 
 
 (i Love Kate Marlow, Annee ! To tell what my 
 passion is for thee I have no words, — I have no 
 images. What! when your touch, your voice, 
 your very breath, seems heaven to my whole 
 frame ; — an ecstasy, a trembling joy, such as I 
 cannot tell thee, best beloved. I can only ask 
 thee if thou knowest what it is to love. — Yes, 
 yes, I will, I must, kiss those idle tears away. 
 Look, look on me." 
 
 " You do love me, Frederic." And those 
 beaming eyes were raised to his; that fairy form 
 was encircled in her lover's arms. 
 
 " Love you — how shall I swear it to thee V 
 Another voice broke suddenly on their ears. 
 " Swear ! Swear it not to the air, it is polluted 
 by man's breath — swear it not to the moon, it 
 changes — nor to the sun, clouds are over it erst 
 night darkens it — nor let the winds carry it on 
 their wings, they visit hidden, dark, and secret
 
 THE CURSE. 167 
 
 places — nor to the floods, no, not to the floods, 
 fearful things are they — they wrap young life 
 in their angry embrace, they carry down the 
 loving form into concealed caverns of frightful 
 form! Ha! ha!" and the speaker laughed 
 wildly. " Thou wouldst not like to go into 
 those green dwellings — thou wouldst not like to 
 hear the rushing, the wild, wild roar of all be- 
 neath, and look up and see through the clear 
 element the thing of thy dotage, all bright and 
 living above ; see the lips of love prest to other 
 lips than thine own ; — then deceive not the 
 listeners, lest they revenge the wrong: ' oaths 
 are ever false,' — the sacred altar of the holy sanc- 
 tuary sees false oaths plighted at her very foot- 
 steps. I tell thee, Frederic Stanley, the miser's 
 curse is on thee if thou wed her. Annee 
 Owen, a spell shall lead thee from his threshold, — 
 the miser's gold shall never be thine : perchance 
 it shall fall to the lot of one who shall seek 
 peace but find it not." 
 
 This was uttered with strange and impressive
 
 168 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 power by the same Madge Annee had just 
 alluded to, and who had as suddenly appeared 
 as she now disappeared down the dim moonlit 
 arcade, her tall, graceful figure and gesture 
 giving full force to her mystical prophecy. 
 
 " Tremble not, dearest," said the soothing but 
 agitated voice of Stanley ; " we know Madge is 
 but a mad bewildered visionary ; there cannot 
 be, there is not, truth in what she says." 
 
 " You said not so always, Frederic; but I 
 will not grieve you more ; I will smile, I will 
 laugh even at Madge," and faintly and 
 strangely she did laugh, as she and her lover 
 bent their homeward steps. Gradually died 
 away the hum of the loitering revellers who yet 
 remained at Oakfield Park ; and when midnight 
 came, nought save the stars of heaven were 
 waking over the lovely village ; all was still as 
 the grave. It seemed as if this evening had 
 restored Annee and Frederic to each other ; and 
 they were blest as they strolled along the lanes 
 or lingered on the sequestered stile ; blest they
 
 THE CURSE. 169 
 
 were, so wildly drawn from all of common ; no 
 companions, save nature and their own hearts. 
 Sometimes might they be seen on the plank 
 bridge thrown athwart a chasm of the glen ; how 
 they loitered on its dizzy height to hearken to the 
 music-torrent beneath ! again, book in hand, 
 Stanley would read aloud some fairy legend to 
 his rapt listener, and this in bowers, fit homes 
 for sylvan elves — bowers, of which nature's self 
 had woven the tracery, rich with flowery boughs 
 of clematis, and the rosy blush of the wild rose, 
 glittering with golden bloom, and pale laburnum, 
 woodbine, violet, and primrose ; and green their 
 velvet couch. Were they not blest ? Was not 
 the atmosphere of love on all within, without? 
 its spirit was written on all; on all eye rested, 
 on all ear drank in, from the birds that sang in 
 the blue fresh air to the enamelled carpet on 
 which they trod. And thus they spoke : 
 
 " Why should we delay our bridal longer, 
 love ; my uncle will never part with his hordes . 
 every day only increases his regard for them,— 
 
 VOL. 1. I
 
 170 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 and what do we want of luxury ! Is not this 
 enough of Luxury I "What can earth or heaven 
 give us more than love : — love, that which heaven 
 itself is composed of: 'tis only in love perfection 
 is found. All is quite, quite perfect, when it 
 wraps us in its deliciousness. Art thou not 
 happy?" asked the fond lover: and blissful was 
 the ignorance that dreamed itself so. 
 
 " But. Frederic ," said Annee. 
 
 " But !" he replied ; " dearest, thou wilt not 
 answer me with but — will you, at such a mo- 
 ment, when not a doubt is with me ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I must, — not because I would not 
 joyfully say the other. My mother has few com- 
 forts, few indeed, and would her child lessen one of 
 them ! You know I have no fortune independent 
 of her ; we must not think of it yet. Frederick."' 
 
 " Yes, we must; I will again try what I can 
 do with my uncle; and besides, — are you not 
 afraid to trust me ? — Kate Marlow is an heiress.'" 
 And Stanlev looked up smiling into Annee's 
 face. She tried to smile too : but there was ever
 
 mi. CURS! 171 
 
 tngeroui even in badinages to allude 
 
 tO kale. With Amice il w.e. one of those mi 
 
 oonquerable feelingi which, when oner imbibed, 
 can never l>c wholly eradicated, however reason 
 and judgment may exert thsmselvei to prove 
 it i fallacy. 
 
 A lingering farewell did these youn" lovers 
 take as they passed thioiedi the < hurehyard , 
 and loitered at the u leker 'y.ite of OwenOOttage. 
 
 It Was eventide J repose and idleness lay mi 
 pressed on all around. The swardy graves 
 looked green and fresh ; the spiral steeple 
 
 hi. the expiring light, winch still floated 
 
 round the letting sun ; the g rasshopper chirp- d 
 
 ih, cuckoo gate out bis note from far; the 
 labourer was lolling on the bench before bia cot 
 
 hOdie, with children at his knee; the busy 
 uilr, woik in hand, sat heneath the wood- 
 
 bine porch, and gowiped with each passer-by j 
 the village musician) seated on some neighbour- 
 ing stile, with Ins flute, r^ave sweetly OUt tin' 
 wild note on the evening gale] — the scene u i
 
 172 ANXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 full of life, but life calmed, peaceful as the mind 
 entranced with the visions of hope. 
 
 iC Tis an evening," said Annee, " one could 
 wish would never end ; the air is fragrant with 
 odour ; the perfume of flowers to me seems 
 what memory of sweet things are, the extract 
 from beauty ; that memory would ever be thus 
 laden ! but it is all too beautiful — it cannot last." 
 There was something witchingly lovely in the 
 voice and eye of the pensive girl as she spoke, 
 still leaning on her lover's arm, as he lingeringly 
 held the little gate half open. 
 
 " Then stay thee yet a brief space — create yet 
 for recollection new moments of delicious excite- 
 ment—moments so exquisite, so fraught with 
 passionate adoration, that their very strength ren- 
 ders them almost painful in their excess ; let us 
 down the church lane to the village green and 
 see if thy grandsire is not there — you have not 
 seen him to-day ; — will you, love?" 
 
 li Not now, dear Frederic ; see, yonder my 
 mother waits me."
 
 THE CURSE. 173 
 
 M And must you go ?" 
 
 " Yes; for you must not ask me to stay; your 
 uncle will want you." 
 
 " How long is it to be thus that we must say 
 farewell?" said Stanley, as he pressed her hand 
 fondly in his. 
 
 u Farewell ! farewell ! dear Frederic !" and 
 the bright smiling girl turned again and gave 
 her last adieus, as her lover stood watching her 
 retreating footsteps up the little green lawn of 
 her home. 
 
 il Good night, sweet love," he said, and she 
 vanished from his eye, and he passed on to a 
 far different dwelling. It was to his uncle's, in 
 
 the town of D , a mile from the village of 
 
 Oakfield. 
 
 Strange contrast this work-a-day character of 
 life with that which feelings and romance creates. 
 Passing from one to the other may be what we 
 imagine must have fallen over the mind of the 
 first erring one, when going out of the cherub- 
 guarded Eden into the blighted wilderness of 
 his future dwelling place.
 
 174 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 His uncle's home looked more dusky and dim 
 than was even its wont, though at all times it 
 wore the aspect of a building over which time and 
 decay seemed tired of working their traces ; they 
 had done all they could do and leave it habitable ; 
 
 it stood in one of the principal streets of D , 
 
 and rose high in two pointed roofs; its front, 
 brown and smoky, interlaced with broad painted 
 wood crossings ; the second story projected far 
 over the shop windows, and its pent overhanging 
 seemed almost ready to crumble on the passen- 
 ger's head, while its long, dim, uncleaned, and 
 small paned lattice windows made darkness 
 visible within. Take it as it stood, it bore the 
 aspect of a miser's den of want and misery. 
 
 Old Stanley was on the steps of his shop door 
 in chat with a ragged boy who had just picked 
 up a penny, to which Peter laid claim, and 
 which, in fact, for a bet, had been dropped where 
 the boy had found it, and who was commis- 
 sioned to make trial of Peter's principles, by 
 asking him if the coin was his ; but it proved in 
 favour of him who betted on Peter's love of gain ;
 
 THE CURSE. 175 
 
 for he held the piece in his hand, and coaxingly 
 praised the boy with, " You be a mighty honest 
 lad ; eess, eess, that you be; just dropt it — just 
 dropt it; always mind and be an honest boy" — 
 and patting the boy on the head, he retired into 
 the shop with his nephew, first securing the piece 
 of copper in his breeches' pocket. Old Stanley 
 was too busy all the remainder of the evening with 
 his ledgers for Frederic to open on the subject 
 of Annee and himself; but he determined, on the 
 following morning, to seek him in his accustomed 
 early walks, which were generally along a tram- 
 road ; — and here, most mornings, was the miser 
 to be found, with an old soiled blue handkerchief 
 in the form of a bundle slung on his arm, con- 
 taining the tiny atoms of coal which accident had 
 let fall from the carts as they had passed along. 
 
 " Here I am, Fred ; nice coal, nice coal — 
 cook the dinner — all helps — cook the dinner — 
 better than let the tram-wheels go over it — 
 waste not, want not, eh, Fred — mighty nice 
 coal ; but, Fred, done a good thing this 
 mornino- — nice morning, nice morning'' — and a
 
 176 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 sort of muscular movement was visible on his 
 stone-like face, and more eagerness in his quick 
 abrupt voice and expressions ; for Peter ever 
 seemed afraid he should lose something by 
 allowing his ideas too many words in their dis- 
 closure. 
 
 " Early bird catch the worm ! — You be a 
 mighty fine young man, that you be— but — but — 
 I say, Fred — early bird catch the worm ! — Look, 
 look — done a good thing — early bird catch the 
 worm — eess, eess — " 
 
 And Peter shewed Stanley a five pound note 
 of a neighbouring bank. 
 
 " Met a traveller — Eess, eess — a drover man 
 — mighty good sort of a drover — in a hurry to 
 get along — wanted change. c Ay, ay,' I said, 
 4 what will you give me, Master Drover, if I 
 change it V ' Nothing, nothing.' Eess, eess — 
 likely that, eh, Fred — likely, eh, Fred — 
 
 Early bird catch the c Well, a shilling.' 
 
 1 Eess, eess, a shilling — you be a mighty 
 clever — that you be, Master Drover; here be 
 four pounds fifteen shillings, and I be willing
 
 THE CURSE. 177 
 
 to take the note — Eess, eess.' " And chuckling 
 over and over again, Peter put the money care- 
 fully into his note book. 
 
 " Clever, that, Fred; clever, Fred." 
 
 " Certainly, Sir," and Frederic Stanley thought 
 a better opportunity could not offer to touch 
 on the subject of his marriage. 
 
 i( True, true ; a nice, a mighty nice girl — 
 but hard, hard times, Fred. — Taxes, taxes 
 heavy — nice girl, but hard times — hard times. 
 Taxes, taxes, Fred." 
 
 " But with such thousands at your command, 
 uncle ; our wishes are so moderate ; and I 
 will devote all my time and exertions to 
 business." 
 
 " Eess, eess, Fred, I know you are a good boy, 
 
 but " and he went on stammering and stut- 
 
 tering in a manner so tantalizing to poor Stan- 
 ley's feelings at that moment; for he had 
 flattered himself that he had made some pro- 
 gress towards gaining his purpose. 
 
 " Eess, eess. — But let me tell you a story, 
 i3
 
 178 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 Fred — near being married myself once — a nice 
 sort of a girl — a milliner sort of girl." Ah ! 
 thought Stanley, I wish the milliner girl was at 
 the d at present. 
 
 li Eess, eess — a milliner sort of girl — got 
 out of it though, eh, Fred — good thing, as poor 
 father said, for she married afterwards — had ten 
 children — twins the first year! — Eh, eh, Fred, 
 bad, bad thing. — What should I have done, 
 poor man like me — ten children — ten — Eess, 
 eess, Fred, I be a poor man. — Father always 
 bid me not spend. ■ Don't, don't spend, Peter,' 
 he said, « like Tom Alley.' Colonel Tom Alley 
 — you know about Tom Alley — he be a great 
 man, Fred, now, with his company, and his 
 horses, and his carriage — but he be over fond 
 of making game — he be over proud — and I 
 b ant at all proud, be I, Fred V 
 
 " No, no, indeed, Sir;" — would to heaven 
 you were more so, thought Stanley to himself. 
 
 " Eess, eess, you know Tom Alley — he be 
 proud. Now he was once a-gibing and a-going
 
 THE CURSE. 179 
 
 on ; so I said, eess, eess, I will pay you off with 
 interest, Master Tom. It was a grand company 
 like, and no one knew about Tom's father — he 
 kept a hosier's shop. And so I said, ' Colonel 
 Alley, you be a mighty nice sort of a gentleman, 
 that you be, and a mighty nice boy you were 
 when you sold them stockings behind your 
 father's counter. Many a warm pair, Master Tom, 
 I have bought from ye. I always said you would 
 be a mighty clever gentleman — eess, eess, that 
 I did.' Tom did not like it — did not like it, eh, 
 eh, Fred ?" 
 
 " No, I should think not, Sir." And they had 
 now arrived at Peter's house. He soon finished 
 his frugal breakfast, and, putting his hands 
 behind his back, walked away into the shop, 
 and his nephew was left to contemplate the 
 brown grate, and its stuffing of dirty paper — 
 the darned threadbare rug, and the old china 
 ornaments, filled with faded dusty everlastings. 
 It was a homely, dingy apartment, looking on 
 the roofs of houses and their black chimneys.
 
 180 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 In front was a small paved yard, with tubs, and 
 a worn-out mop, all dimly visible through a 
 iaded green canvass blind, strained over a 
 painted frame. The room contained a few old- 
 fashioned high-backed arm-chairs, with mended 
 chintz covers ; an unpolished dining-table, with 
 small legs; an ancient sideboard, adorned with 
 two knifecases, filled with antique silver-handled 
 knives and forks, somewhat pewter-like for 
 want of chamois and plate powder. A miser- 
 able square piece of carpet covered the centre 
 of the room, on which was placed Peter's little 
 round one-legged breakfast-table, spread with the 
 breakfast equipage of the man of four millions. 
 Such beings are men — that nothing but the 
 reality seems to contradict impossibility, and 
 give fabling existence. 
 
 A blue cup and saucer, a tin tray, black tea- 
 pot and milk-jug, a basin of yellow white 
 sugar, a small coarse loaf of bread, and a couple 
 of ounces of butter, constituted the parapher- 
 nalia, and which, for many minutes after his
 
 THE CURSE. 181 
 
 uncle left the room, seemed to be the only 
 objects which met the young man's contempla- 
 tion ; but it is to he questioned if he saw one 
 article there. 
 
 • ; Xo, no, it is of no avail," at last said Stan- 
 ley, between his closed teeth. 
 
 " La ! bless ye, never take on; I'll get you a 
 bit of breakfast,'' said old Molly, Peter's house- 
 keeper, who entered to remove this cortege. 
 
 " Thank you, Molly, I breakfasted before 
 I left my mother's,' 1 said Stanley, at last roused 
 from his deep reverie. 
 
 " So you want to get married, Master Stanley, 
 but h3 wont give you anything, I be bound ; but 
 why be ye so squeamish like V said she, coming 
 up close to him. "Why not take and put together 
 as others do. Many's the one that plucks the 
 live goose, and do they fly a bit the worse for it 
 arter. It'll grow again, — it'll fledge as thick as 
 ever : and whose the wiser after you have stuffed 
 your bed and made it easy. I'll tell you a secret, 
 Fred Stanley, and I have nursed you on this
 
 182 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 old knee, when it was younger than it is now, 
 and sure I can tell what's in your heart. Pluck, 
 I say, as Tom and Phill do, and who's the 
 wiser where they get the match to light their 
 candle with. Tut, tut, I say, it's all your own 
 arter all, that's to a moral nicety. He beant as 
 sharp as you take him for, nor as sharp neither 
 as he takes himself for; and while he be look- 
 ing for a farthing, he is dropping a guinea for 
 others to catch at. Ay, ay, Master Fred, 
 it wont always do. ' Put a rogue to catch a 
 rogue;' the foxes to their cost finds there 
 are cunninger things than themselves in the 
 world." 
 
 " This is bad advice, Molly, from one who 
 nursed me." 
 
 " Ay, so it may be ; but they thieve ; you 
 would only borrow ; and did not the people of 
 the Lord do it afore, as I heard the minister tell. 
 And there be Phill, for certain, has £20 3 000, 
 all out at interest, and when he came here he had 
 not a rag, as one might say, to cover his naked-
 
 THE CURSE. 183 
 
 ness ; but he has plenty now to hide himself 
 in." 
 
 u How can you tell that, Molly ! — if the fact, 
 why not put my uncle on his guard V 
 
 " You may as well not do it ; what's the 
 value of that to him who has four millions of 
 gold ; and I tell you, you may as well not, for our 
 master is one that thinks himself too knowing 
 to be cheated, and so would not like to find out 
 the truth to his own lowering. Never heed it, 
 never heed it ; he is rich enough for Tom and 
 Phill, and you too." 
 
 M But you surprise me, Molly, to hear my 
 uncle is robbed, of all people." 
 
 " Perhaps I do ; but think you I have lived 
 upwards of forty years under this very roof, and 
 not know more about Peter Stanley than I have 
 time to tell you ; he was not always so shut up 
 but that something besides gold found its way 
 into his heart, though that has never been out 
 of it." 
 
 " We can scarcely credit so now, Molly."
 
 184 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 (i Yet Madge Freeman could tell you other." 
 
 " Why, Molly, you are beside yourself this 
 morning ; you are wandering like Madge herself. 
 — Uncle does not even know Madge ; or, if he 
 does, it is only as a crazed creature." 
 
 li Ay, ay, but he is coming," and Molly hud- 
 dled the breakfast things away. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! master," said his shopman, Phill, 
 following him into the room — "Early bird 
 catch the worm — your note is not worth a two- 
 penny piece. Why the knowing drover drove 
 you harder than his cattle — he has taken you 
 for an old fool," for Phill was on somewhat 
 familiar terms with his master. 
 
 " Eh, eh — what, what?" said Peter, some- 
 what moved. 
 
 "Eh, eh — what, what!" repeated Phill; 
 " why that there bank has been broke this six 
 months agone." 
 
 " What, what — broke, broke — how do you 
 know — how do you know, Phill? — W T hat, 
 what?"
 
 THE CURSE. 185 
 
 u Ah! ah! Master Peter — early bird catch 
 the worm and is sometimes caught in the trap 
 himself, Master — eh, eh." 
 
 <l What, what?" — and Master Stanley put on 
 his rusty hat, and hobbled quick out with his 
 hands behind him, looking like a great dirty 
 bag, to ascertain the truth of Phill's intelligence, 
 and poor Frederick, with still baffled hopes, 
 retired to his desk. 
 
 We will now return to Annee, but we shall 
 not find her leaning on her lover's arm. No, 
 she is at the dwelling-place of Madge Freeman, 
 and many months are past over since we left 
 her at her cottage home, with looks bright and 
 loving. The trees now are dark and shadeless 
 — the torrent is full and brawling, and the sun 
 looks coyly down on its noise and anger. That 
 same stream, where we saw Annee and Frederic 
 standing above on the plank bridge, bears its 
 swift way beside the lonely dwelling of Madge, 
 which stands deep in the glen, amidst gloom 
 and shadow, and few take their path that way.
 
 186 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 Mystery had enveloped everything connected 
 with Madge; superstition had veiled her, and 
 lent interest and awe to her power. How she 
 lived and was supported no one knew, nor 
 could guess from whence she came. She was 
 acquainted with every one's movements, nay, 
 dived into the recesses of many of the hidden 
 secrets of those who visited her. Some said 
 she was connected with those prophet people 
 the gipsies, yet none were known to visit her. 
 Others looked on her with horror and trembling, 
 and deemed her spells were drawn from still 
 deeper and darker spirits than heaven sees 
 beneath her sunshine — that she held league with 
 the evil denizens of accursed places. Yet 
 Madge wronged no one, and honestly paid her 
 way. She accepted no bribe from the anxious 
 doubting lovers when she would consent to 
 open their book of fate ; but in doing this she was 
 fickle and uncertain; but with the spell and 
 charmed antidote for the sick and dying she 
 was ever ready and generous. Both in revela-
 
 THE CURSE, 187 
 
 tion and power Madge was said to work marvels, 
 and many a village lass has past down the glen 
 from Madge's abode when she has bid her trust 
 — with heart light as the warbler which carolled 
 above her head, — and yet, not less overshadowed 
 and drear is twilight, saddened with the note 
 of the lone bird of night, than the dread infused 
 by her predictions of darkness, to which none 
 could give greater force in her wild incoherent 
 burst than Madge Freeman. 
 
 Until Madge had come to dwell in her present 
 abode, her home had been amidst a place of 
 superstition and desolation — where " once stood 
 altars and groves by the green trees upon the 
 high hills," which had witnessed accursed rites 
 — where still every stream and every moss- 
 grown stone told of dire and appalling creeds, of 
 mysterious times — times over which has tided 
 century after century, with all their changes of 
 customs, religions, and laws. 
 
 Hoary monuments, historic records of that 
 which has been, are here seen, — and shew
 
 188 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 the hideousness of the spirit of that religion 
 which drew not its essence from on high — 
 sublimity, in all its frightfulness, haunts still 
 the loneliness of Dartmoor; and here it was 
 that the once lovely Catherine, now Madge 
 Freeman, grew into womanhood, and became a 
 wanderer and a bewildered outcast. When 
 storm swept over the wild moor — groaned amidst 
 the wooded heights — what an impressive picture 
 was here ; when doubtful shadows fell on the 
 dim granite forms which were strewed around, 
 like Ci fragments of an earlier world ;" or when 
 the moon shrouded her silver mantle around Ton 
 and Cromlech, standing forth like ghostly 
 spectres in their winding-sheets ; when thunder 
 echoed through the cavern's gloom, and gave an 
 earthquake's trembling to its cannon voice; when 
 lightnings flashed and glared to give darkness 
 more strength in its hideousness, there on those 
 spots where incense flame had burnt more un- 
 holy than that on Baal altars, was seen the fear- 
 less Catherine — she trembled not amidst Mist-
 
 THE CURSE. 189 
 
 man's woods or Bairdown heights. What 
 heeded she the gusty winds, as they swept 
 through the gnarled and fantastic oak grove, 
 making melancholy music, as if the bards, 
 with their harps of old, were still haunting their 
 hoary shades : and dear to her ear was the dash- 
 ing of the angry Dart, as it wended its tossing 
 way through the valley below — here in this 
 superstitious desolation her imagination's fevered 
 excitement found revelling. Though her lot 
 was cast amidst outcasts and branded felons, 
 her mind had never descended to hold commu- 
 nion or fellowship with them ; she lived a life of 
 dreams ; and when visionary fancy created aerial 
 things, and enveloped the reality of past times 
 with frightful forms, still woman's weakness 
 never started at the appalling images. The 
 ancient architectural forms of cairns, cromlechs, 
 tons, logans, and rocking stones, which were 
 strewed in gigantic masses around the concealed 
 dwelling of Catherine, assumed a character 
 which Nature nowhere else reveals, and gave 
 to the remotest past a living picture.
 
 190 AN NEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 To Catherine, young, wild, passionate, the 
 desolate region became peopled, as of old, with 
 Druidical and Baal like forms ; at the powers of 
 priestcraft and divination she started not — their 
 phantoms were as companionship — she held with 
 them unearthly communion ; the torrent's roar, 
 the groaning blast that rushed through the 
 hoary temples of Druidical worship, the aged 
 oak, and their god of idolatry — the mistletoe still 
 blooming green as of yore, amidst Christmas 
 snow, had charms for her. Catherine loved all 
 this wildness as if " it had blossomed as the rose." 
 And often at the dead hour of night might be 
 seen this singular being watching her husband's 
 return, standing beneath the shadow of these 
 granite giants, or seated on the mossy tuft of 
 some levelled trunk — here, with no light but 
 the clouded moon, no sound but the screech- 
 owl's ominous note, would she wait. 
 
 Her tale is simply told — though not what its 
 circumstances traced on her mind, — thoughts of 
 no common kind were there. If Catherine 
 worked her strange spells over others, she was
 
 THE CURSE. 191 
 
 equally the slave of them herself. She doubted 
 not herself the agent of some mysterious and 
 revealing spirits. In solitude and loneliness 
 might she be heard holding converse, as it were, 
 with the children of the creation of her visionary 
 mind. Though thus apparently unconnected 
 with the things of this life, one cherished hope 
 she had, but, like some hidden treasure buried 
 in the concealed mines of earth, no one ever 
 guessed at it, — none had an idea of the slavery 
 her existence had now later in life endured to 
 forward its realization. 
 
 Catherine was the child of shame ; her mother 
 to conceal her disgrace had past from her home, 
 deserted by her friends, abandoned by her lover. 
 She at last became the wife of one equally 
 an outcast with herself; in Lydia Morris, 
 even contamination could not wholly blight a 
 better education, much of which she imparted 
 to her child. Her husband was connected 
 with a gang of coiners; among them was one, 
 from whence he came, his name, or parentage,
 
 192 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 no one could relate. In higher stations he had 
 been — manner, intellect, personal appearance, 
 all identified him as no low-born peasant ; 
 for months together he was absent, but always 
 to return to Catherine, whom he had wedded, 
 with renewed fondness. A few months before 
 his death, he went on one of his accustomed 
 journeys and took with him his child, not yet 
 two years old, — he returned, but to breathe his 
 last in his loving Catherine's arms. No sooner 
 was he dead than Catherine deserted her 
 parents and her associates. On a waste track 
 of the glen, near Oakfield village, was a lonely 
 cottage, there she dwelt under the assumed 
 name of Madge Freeman ; desolately her days 
 seemed to wear away. She asked not for, 
 nor accepted, the simplest token of kindness; her 
 cottage door was unfastened by day and night ; 
 she was good and generous to all her poor 
 neighbours — appeared to possess ample to supply 
 her few wants, and, save for Kate Mario w 
 and Frederic Stanley, shewed no earthly fond-
 
 THE CURSE. 193 
 
 ness. Beauty still traced its character in her 
 dark eye and raven hair ; her face and form was 
 one which a Margaret of Anjou, or a Joan of 
 Arc, might have possessed, — lofty, striking, born 
 to command and subdue, bold, decisive. You 
 might have asked why she looked so old, for it 
 was not with years — the hair was untouched, the 
 forehead unwrinkled, but the cheek was sallow, 
 sunken. Her dress was a deep crimson 
 kerchief twisted round her dark arched brow, a 
 scarlet cloak, fastened round the throat, and 
 falling in thick folds below her ankles. She wore 
 a tight bodice and petticoat of brown cloth, 
 and a handkerchief of the colour of her turban. 
 She was tall to majesty, even dignified and grace- 
 ful in movement, with a voice of strong deep 
 intonations, neat to a degree in her cottage and 
 person ; but there was at times a fearful and 
 consuming fire in her aspect, that you turned 
 from with trembling ; and perhaps it was 
 there, as one evening Annee sought her cottage. 
 She was seated by the decaying embers of a 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 wood fire, the declining rays of a March sun 
 flickered through her narrow casement and 
 partially fell on the figure as she sat in an old 
 oaken chair. She was reclining back in a sort of 
 dreamy quietness when Annee Owen knocked. 
 She did not immediately answer, and Annee 
 lifted the latch. She asked, " Who requires 
 Madge V scarcely raising her eyes. 
 
 " You are well, Madge, I hope ; — I feared you 
 had been ill; — I have not seen you for some time." 
 
 " Annee Owen, though the snow is pure that 
 covers the dark path, think you I know not its 
 track — 'tis not of Madge thou comest to in- 
 quire, — 'tis of thyself thou wouldst learn tidings. 
 Why is thy eye red 1 Why is thy cheek moist ? 
 My glance has not past over thee, yet I know 
 it is so." 
 
 " It is so, Madge." 
 
 " And what can I tell you of to dry it ? Why 
 ask me to read a fate that is not written ? The 
 flow r er closes under the burning beam, but opens 
 to milder rays." 

 
 THE CURSE. 195 
 
 li But there was a time, Madge, when 
 Frederic deemed not my love too fondly shewn ; 
 and is this all the answer you give? Have you 
 again consulted my horoscope I" 
 
 " I would tell thee other had it been — look 
 yonder ; has it played false ?" Annee did look 
 through Madge's casement, and, leaning on 
 Stanley's arm, she saw Kate Marlow; he had 
 promised to spend this very evening with her 
 mother and herself. 
 
 In vain she had waited for him; and, angry 
 and wretched, she had sought Madge's divina- 
 tion, trusting to find comfort in her idle predic- 
 tions. 
 
 " Thy knowledge is but too true," said the 
 weeping girl ; " Frederic Stanley loves me no 
 longer. They are not coming in, are they V 
 
 " Coming in, maid ! no, no ; From whence 
 sounds the ringdove's note of love? is it not 
 where the greenest leaves have made the closest 
 shade ? — look on them — look on them. What 
 brings repentance to the murderer? Is it not 
 k2
 
 196 .ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 when he looks upon the blood-stained implement ? 
 Look on it, and tear the poison from your young 
 heart. See how they linger on the stile ; see 
 how he marks out the picture to please her 
 loving eye. I know what it is to love ; I know 
 what it is to have so gazed, — so to drink in pas- 
 sion." 
 
 " Madge, Madge, in mercy hush ; you will 
 drive me mad," said the poor distracted Annee." 
 " Better be mad than pitied," replied Madge, 
 a sort of fiendish joy lighting up her counte- 
 nance. ft Listen, Annee Owen. I once loved, — 
 was loved again, ay, loved as the singing bird 
 loves his mate, — loved as the parched earth loves 
 the dew, — as echo loves the sound which makes 
 it; but it was love giving back love — true as 
 imaged shadows on quiet waters. Annee, it was 
 around us as the air we breathed ; but, think 
 you, had he been false, — had he dared to turn to 
 another, — think you I would have loved him ? 
 No ! no ! I would have torn the hated thing from 
 me, though chained to my heart by the life Yein.
 
 THE CURSE. 197 
 
 No ! no ! the dagger's point should have cut it 
 asunder, — the precipice's edge should have passed 
 from my feet, — the gulf beneath should have 
 seen my mangled form ! Should I have shud- 
 dered at the water's chill embrace I Better, 
 far better, than be pressed to the heart that 
 trembles for another, whose love has turned to 
 the gall of hate. No ! no ! I would have hid 
 me there, and left my curse for him who had 
 played me false." 
 
 Pale, agonized, and silent, Annee stood fixed, 
 with staring eyes on the tall passionate figure 
 before her ; had she looked more calmly on that 
 bold wild being she would have read triumph in 
 her dark, deep glance, when she saw the influence 
 her heated exaggeration had on herself. 
 
 Annee, at last, burst into hysteric sobs, as she 
 said, * But, Madge, I have a mother, — a mother 
 who loves me, whose hope, whose life I am : how 
 she has nurtured, how she has cherished me !" 
 
 " I know it, I know it." Madge drew breath 
 a moment: she paused, and then added —
 
 198 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 " When the thunder's roar is past, our hearts' 
 terror passes with it, and heaven's sky is cleared 
 and the air refreshed ; but the dry scorching that 
 gleams day after day on the waterless desert 
 leaves it desolate and nourishless. What ! can 
 
 mother's' eye bear to watch, think you, leaf 
 fall away after leaf, sear and decay at her very 
 feet. What ! see her child trod, trampled on ! 
 No ! no !" Scorn and bitterness was in the voice 
 of Madge as she spoke. 
 
 " But, but it will all drive me mad ; and per- 
 haps — and perhaps he is not false," said Annee. 
 
 " Then love him on, but come not to me. 
 What fate has decreed, that I have divined unto 
 you, Annee Owen ; but the twilight comes to 
 darken your path, and your lover is not by your 
 side to guard your step to-night. Come, I will 
 with thee up the dark glen." 
 
 " I am not fearful, Madge ; I am too wretched 
 to be so ; good night." 
 
 i( And the sorrowing girl past quickly up the 
 cold drear path of the glen — the swollen torrent
 
 THE CURSE. 199 
 
 roared as it lashed over the masses of its rocky- 
 bed — the leafless trees rocked to the blast — the 
 moon partially came out from the recesses of 
 murky clouds ; the scene imparted a wild reck- 
 less haste to her step, a hurried excitement to 
 her feeling. She paused on the plank bridge ; 
 the light fell on the basin of waters that was 
 filled from a fall of many feet through a chasm 
 over which the bridge was flung ; 'twas smooth, 
 'twas sparkling as diamond. 
 
 " All, all is still there; it looks like a fairy's 
 couch, so calm, so deep — all else is trouble, trou- 
 ble, agitation. In agony she threw back her 
 bonnet, her hair wildly — she lent over the slender 
 fence of the bridge, looked again into the watery 
 gulf — her eye was madly bright, her cheek was 
 livid, yet a smile was on her cold white lips. 
 A strange undefined impulse seized the suffering 
 girl — a moment she paused — she started — she 
 hears a footstep — and then she is prest to her 
 lover's throbbing heart. 
 
 " What ! what would you ? Mad, deluded girl 
 as you are, still, Annee, I love, I idolize you !"
 
 200 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 " T'is false ! 'tis false, Frederic Stanley !" and 
 with a struggle she released herself from his 
 hold, and flew breathless to her home. 
 
 In vain, day after day, did Edward Stanley 
 seek for one word, for one token of affection from 
 her; she would not listen, she would not speak, 
 to him. Her mother trembled for her reason ; her 
 strength was wasting — save when she went to 
 the cottage of Madge she appeared perfectly 
 dead to everything ; and that strange woman 
 exercised a mysterious influence over her, one 
 which was destroying every happier and better 
 energy. 
 
 At last she consented to see Dora Lucy ; her 
 reasoning persuaded her to meet Stanley, and 
 they were reconciled again. 
 
 Frederic, though sincerely attached to her, 
 could not draw his mind from the recollection 
 of her the night he had seen her on the bridge ; 
 a dread, a doubt was over him ; it gave cold- 
 ness to his before warm affectionate manner ; 
 — she was but too much alive to this change, — 
 both felt they never could be what they had
 
 THE CURSE. 201 
 
 been to each other. A blight it was to their 
 once fond hearts; love was there, but it was love 
 with all its thorns ; its roses were scattered. 
 
 A painful contrast did Annee's mind, ill- 
 regulated as it was, offer, when brought for- 
 ward in review with Kate Marlow's, not that 
 Frederic Stanley loved Kate Mario w for one 
 instant with that passion which Annee still did 
 and would ever inspire him with. The hope, the 
 trust, that one day she would fall under the 
 guidance of regulated principles such as Kate's, 
 did often rise up to his anxious wishes. Though 
 feeling Annee's charms fascinating beyond his 
 power to tell or resist — a very being for a lover's 
 idolatry — sometimes the sobered mind would 
 speak of a future home, a wife, a companion ; then 
 Kate, in all her meek usefulness, in all her quiet 
 attention, her gentle cultivation, rose pre-emi- 
 nently lovely above the doubting, visionary, fond, 
 enthusiastic Annee, the child of romance and 
 passion ; to exist with the one was like dwelling 
 amidst the fresh clear air of a healthful climate ; 
 k3
 
 202 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 with the other, as amidst the burning, exhausting 
 one of a tropical fervour. 
 
 Summer was again at Oakfield; its church- 
 yard violets were blooming ; its willows waving 
 in feathery greenness; another summer was sil- 
 vering the head of the aged John Owen ; another 
 summer was spared to the increase of Peter 
 Stanley's hoards. And they were both seated 
 beneath that ancient yew tree where first we 
 met Annee Owen and her lover. Time seemed 
 to have robbed nothing from John's strength, 
 and it had added much to Peter's stores. 
 
 " Peter was merry to-day." 
 
 " Eess, eess, John. 1 will tell you a story 
 about poor Neddy — a mighty nice lad is Neddy 
 — does many jobs for old Molly — old Molly is 
 getting into years — eess, eess — a mighty funny 
 story " 
 
 " Well, Master Peter, what may it be?" 
 
 " Why — why — it be a mighty funny story : 
 you know, Master John, Fred Stanley is a very 
 nice lad, that he be ; and he knows I be fond of
 
 THE CURSE. 203 
 
 a bit of delicacy — so he takes his gun — he be a 
 good shot, that he be — and I love a bit of game, 
 that I do — so he brings me a nice woodcock, a 
 nice woodcock it was — so I thought of a Sunday 
 I would have it all ready like when I come 
 back from Oakfield church. Molly is mighty 
 old, and poorly like — so I said, Molly, go you 
 to bed, and Neddy will cook the woodcock : 
 but somehow the sermon was overlong, and I 
 stepped in to taste a drop of your ale — mighty 
 good ale that be of yours, Master Owen — eess, 
 eess, that it be. What, what think did Master 
 Neddy — he got famishing, and, and la ! Master 
 John, you'll laugh — and 'fore I came home, he 
 took the cock off the spit and eat it, eess, eess,. 
 every crumb." 
 
 " The young rascal," said John Owen ; «•' what 
 did you do to him ?" 
 
 " Eess, eess, I pisoned him." 
 
 " Poisoned him!" all his listeners exclaimed. 
 
 " Eess, eess," and one of Peter's muscular 
 changes was visible on his features. u Eess
 
 204 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 eess; when I came back, there he was at 
 the doctor's, flinging like and kicking. ' I be 
 a dead man, I be a dead man,' Neddy cried ; 
 ' Lord, Master Peter, forgive me ; I drank the 
 pison in the big bottle, every drop of it.' What ! 
 what! could not you spell, Neddy; it was all 
 written big on it — eess, eess, he be pisoned — 
 he be pisoned — eess, eess." And even old 
 Peter shook again with laughter, while his audi- 
 tors stared at him. u Eess, eess, Neddy, you 
 be pisoned — kick and fling. What, what 
 made ye touch the big bottle, and eat the cock ? 
 8 Why, Master Peter, I eat the woodcock, and 
 then I drank the pison for fear, and now I be 
 come to the doctor, for I be afraid to die, in- 
 deed I be.' Eess, eess, but you beant pisoned ; 
 but you be drunk, for I knew you would be 
 meddling with the big bottle, so I wrote ' pison' 
 on it. Eess, eess, doctor, it be only mighty 
 nice port wine; it be fifty years old; eess, 
 eess, be mighty nice port wine, it be fifty years 
 in father's cellar."
 
 THE CURSE. 205 
 
 And the many villagers who were sauntering 
 about the church were all gathered to hear 
 Peter's tale. Annee joined her grandsire, but she 
 scarcely smiled ; she looked pale and wearied. 
 
 " And where is Fred, Mistress Annee — eess, 
 eess, it be a mighty bad sort of a thing that 
 place he goes to with Kate Marlow — the church, 
 the good old church is the place; those metho- 
 dist men be always begging r ( Doey give us some- 
 thing for books ' they do come and ask me, ' doey 
 now, Master Peter.' — Eess, eess, I never gives 
 my money for charity to others — father always 
 said to me, ' Peter, do your own charity, do your 
 own charity yourself' — eess, eess, father always 
 said that." 
 
 " I think, indeed/' replied John Owen, " the 
 church is the place. See how beautiful it is to 
 see that good man, our rector ; there he is now, 
 coming along with all those fine children and 
 grandchildren, and his good smiling face — he 
 that has learnt to be a parson since he was a child 
 — and see how good humoured and how humble
 
 206 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 like he speaks to one and bows to another ; Hea- 
 ven will bless such a good man as that. Come, 
 Annee, your arm, — what takes Fred Stanley to 
 that conventicle V added old Owen, somewhat 
 pettishly; u it is that Kate Marlow; I thought 
 you were to go to Dartmoor church with him." 
 
 " So I was; I will wait for him, and will 
 leave you at the church door." 
 
 She did so, and then turned back, not to wait 
 for her lover, but to bend her steps to the cot- 
 tage of Madge. 
 
 The evening previous to this, Stanley had 
 uttered words (which from him appeared harsh 
 and unkind) on her unjust suspicions of Kate, 
 and had expressed a wish that she resembled 
 her in principles and gentleness : but they had 
 parted friends, and he was to come over and 
 take her to church in the evening. On his way 
 he met Kate, who told him she had just seen 
 Madge, and that Annee had directed her, if she 
 saw him, to say she was not going to church, 
 for Mrs. Owen was not at all well.
 
 THE CURSE. 207 
 
 '* So, Frederic, do come with me," said Kate, 
 fi over to the Hill chapel ; it is so lonely in the 
 evening that I am afraid to return by myself; 
 and I do so long to go to hear Mr. Dodd, he 
 preaches so beautifully ; and he is such a holy, 
 good man, one believes all he tells them. Come, 
 you seem unhappy ; nothing comforts one like 
 godly and righteous words." 
 
 He went : — on their way they met Madge. 
 
 " Tell Annee, if you see her, that I am gone 
 to the Hill chapel, but shall come up to see 
 how her mother is in the evening when I 
 return." 
 
 " Fear me not," said Madge. 
 
 And long after they had passed on, Frederic 
 and Kate saw her on the brow of a hill following 
 them with her eye. 
 
 " How I wish," said Kate, u I could infuse 
 something like belief into poor Madge's mind. 
 I have strove hard to do it, poor deluded being. 
 I wonder who she can be; though her love to 
 me is strangely affectionate, she never tells me
 
 208 ANNEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 of her former life, but for hours does she talk 
 over her husband. She has his picture, beau- 
 tifully painted, and such a handsome man, 
 almost too handsome for a husband ; he would 
 make one look upon the creature with heart too 
 fond ; he would draw one from heaven to 
 earth." 
 
 " You might know such a one, Kate ; — you 
 could never love anything earthly too fervently." 
 
 " Think you so, Frederic Stanley? — I trust 
 not." 
 
 6C I should say, certainly not ; all your pas- 
 sions and feelings are so under command." 
 
 " But, Stanley, it is the deepest brook that 
 wears the calmest surface." 
 
 For a moment Stanley looked at her; her 
 eye fell — her cheek crimsoned ; and did the 
 tiny hand that rested on his arm tremble ? — but 
 in an instant she was herself again. 
 
 • " We spoke of Madge. I said I wished I 
 could lead her into the paths of peace and 
 grace."
 
 THE CURSE. 209 
 
 " If any could, I am sure you could ; she 
 seems to worship you as a being too good to be 
 loved." 
 
 " Yes; her love is great; and, strange to say, 
 with all this unseemliness about her, still, do you 
 know, Frederic, I love her. I love to go down 
 to her cottage, and read and sing to her ; she 
 says it makes her happy — it makes her better. 
 She often wishes to cast my nativity, and tell 
 my fortune, but such things are a sin before 
 God. Our fate is in his hand, and we have 
 only to submit in patience and humility." 
 
 " You may say so, and not yet have been 
 exercised ; you are a very happy person, Kate." 
 
 " Perhaps I am so — doubtless ought to be — 
 but sinVill dwell in the heart, and where sin is, 
 peace cannot be." 
 
 u But you, Kate, seem the most blameless 
 of human beings." 
 
 ie That cannot be: for humble I cannot be ; 
 thy present words joy me too much, Frederic 
 Stanley, to leave me so. My feet are on their
 
 210 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 way to the house of God, but my heart drinks 
 in man's praise as sweet music, and is not that 
 sin, Frederic." A blush was on Kate's cheek, 
 a light was in her eye, and a tremulous tone 
 was slightly visible in her soft gentle voice ; but 
 if Kate knew they were there, she would have 
 had it otherwise if she could. 
 
 " Kate, methinks thou art over severe to 
 thyself; thou wouldst be what thou nearly art, 
 which is, perfect in thy holiness." 
 
 " Cease, Frederic; let us talk of better things 
 than my poor self, as we take our steps, as I said 
 before, to the house of God." 
 
 And perhaps Stanley was glad to turn the 
 subject, for how different was her meek pure 
 converse to his Annee's. 
 
 They returned home after the chapel service 
 was finished, and of course the first place Stan- 
 ley went to was Owen cottage. 
 
 He inquired for Mrs. Owen, — Mrs. Owen 
 was out and very well, — had been very well all 
 day.
 
 THE CURSE. 211 
 
 Was Miss Owen with her ? — No ; they had 
 not seen her since just before church; her 
 mother and grandsire had returned and gone 
 out together after the service. — Did the servant 
 know which way Miss Owen had gone? 
 " She believed towards the glen." 
 Strange thoughts rushed over the mind of 
 Frederic Stanley — he trembled from head to 
 foot; the servant stared, but he was uncon- 
 scious, and, turning quickly away, he passed 
 onwards in the direction of the glen. Deeming 
 she might have gone to Madge's, he rather ran 
 than walked there ; he did not pass the plank 
 bridge, it was the longest way, and his throat 
 felt parched till he had heard tidings of her. 
 It was at a moment like this he felt how madly 
 he loved the fond, jealous girl. Pale, panting, 
 he reached Madge's cottage; breathlessly he 
 enters — it is deserted — a glove and handkerchief 
 are on the table ; fear rises into horror ; he took 
 them, he pressed them to his lips. Where, 
 where could she be ? He recalled her manner,
 
 212 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 her look, her incoherency , of the previous eveni ng. 
 iC Where, where can she be?" — and he uttered 
 it aloud. Madly he flew on — he remembered 
 her on that dread night on the plank bridge — 
 a nameless horror burnt within him — his pulse 
 beat quick — his limbs trembled. Why, why 
 could he not fly to the spot which was before his 
 glazed sight ? — on, on he went. 
 
 " Annee, Annee, my own loving Annee." — 
 Recklessly he rushed up the glen, and never 
 paused to question the phantom which led 
 him on. 
 
 li Oh ! my God !" — as he drew breath, and 
 said, " Shall I never reach it?" — he bounds 
 over the last stile — he sees the bridge rising as 
 if hung in air — he hears the roar of the tor- 
 rent — he is on the plank bridge — he looks down 
 the dizzy chasm — the waters go dancing down 
 in the sun — the light branches dip into the 
 smooth basin below — the birds sing over head — 
 the blue sky is clear — the sabbath hum of 
 quietness is over all — but where, where is Annee ?
 
 THE CURSE. 213 
 
 His fears are false. — Not here — not here. He 
 sees a figure amidst the trees — he flies forward, 
 but it is not Annee — it is Madge — " Tell me, 
 tell me — where, where is she?" 
 
 " Where ! Frederic Stanley !" — and oh the 
 glaring eye of that woman ; it was terrible to 
 look on — " Ask me not where — 'tis none of my 
 work — 'tis the devil's, 'tis the devil's ! Yon- 
 der, yonder." She pointed to an open book — 
 it was a holy book. He took it up — his sight 
 was dizzy, yet he took it up — he read the 
 marked passage — it was the 109th Psalm — 
 every line was a curse — a curse. On the mar- 
 gin was pencilled — 
 
 " For Frederic Stanley. Seek me in the 
 gulphing flood, and thou shalt find thy victim — 
 Annee Owen." He made a rush towards the 
 stream — he was held back, and then fell sense- 
 less on the ground. 
 
 When his eyes opened, it was not to look upon 
 the gleams of a setting sun — it was not to hear 
 the bird's singing note — the water's murmur —
 
 214 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 or to feel the cool evening air. No, no ; it was to 
 look upon the corpse of his loved Annee. How 
 could he look upon it, yet have sight to be- 
 hold it ? 
 
 There it lay on the fresh green grass — stiff — 
 cold — lifeless; — yet even in death how beauti- 
 ful. He gazed upon it — laughed wildly — raised 
 it in his arms — wrung the long, long black 
 hair — kissed the icy lips — chafed the deathly 
 hand — then cried aloud that she breathed. 
 He looked up, and he beheld the living eyes 
 of Madge, flaring like balls of fire on him ; — 
 they were frightfully bright. 
 
 (t Ah ! ah ! fiend ! fiend ! it is thou, it is thou 
 that hast done the deed !" 
 
 " Tis false ! — yet I could have done it for the 
 hate I bore that dead thing. / did it not, 
 Frederic Stanley. It was not my hand, but the 
 hand of destiny, and thou shalt live to bless 
 that destiny." 
 
 " Begone, begone ! — why, why stand you 
 there — perhaps she is not dead."
 
 THE CURSE. 215 
 
 "What wouldst thou — has she not curst 
 thee?" 
 
 " 'Tis false, she loved me to the last/' and 
 again he pressed her cold lips, and the big tears 
 rolled down his colourless cheeks. And thus, 
 while another hour was passing, was Stanley 
 alone, for Madge was gone. 
 
 And when they came, they found him stupid, 
 calm, almost motionless, but still holding the 
 lifeless body, and he was led from the spot as if 
 an infant. The silence of that woe was more 
 speaking than sigh or groan — it was a bitter 
 sight. 
 
 The parent's eye looked not on her dead 
 child: delirium for days followed the intelli- 
 gence. But there w r ere two who leant over that 
 cold form, and words may not paint their 
 anguish. One was that aged man, his silver 
 hair fell on her deathly cheek ; he knelt beside 
 her — he rested her very brow. To see tears dim 
 eyes that for more than ninety years had looked 
 on sorrow, was a harrowing thing; — they fell hot
 
 216 AXXEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 and large from those old eyes upon the cold, 
 cold cheek that felt them not. The darling of 
 his life— the soul that bound him to earth ; even 
 life itself — was gone from him, though he still 
 walked the earth. It was a sight, indeed, to 
 make the angels weep — that hoary man kneeling 
 by his dead lost child. 
 
 Then was there another; she who never 
 seemed moved now broke forth in unchecked 
 agonizing lamentations; it seemed as if feeling 
 had been pent up from infancy to burst out at 
 this moment; even the voice of prayer, that 
 was ever breathing its soothing from her lips, 
 was now silenced in the agony of grief. 
 
 u Sister, friend, companion — lovely, lovely 
 Annee — speak, speak to me" — she would utter 
 again and again; but all was vain, — what could 
 call her back to life ? A green grass grave is 
 seen beside that drooping willow and sable urn, 
 where Annee, fresh with youth and devoted 
 affection, was wont to kneel at a parent's grave ; 
 — all that tells of Annee Owen is her name on
 
 THE CURSE. 217 
 
 that sable urn. Violets bloom beside her grave, 
 and fond affection drops many a tear to her 
 unhappy fate. It is not alone the tears which 
 water this grave that tell how Kate loved 
 her friend. Her love is shewn in days and 
 months of ceaseless attention to the mother 
 and grandsire of her she weeps so young ; for 
 who is that pale, sad girl, who for after years 
 smooths the pillows of the couch of Annee's 
 mother, and kneels and prays beside it ? — who 
 leads that grandsire, now blind with grief and 
 time, to sit in the warm sunshine beneath the 
 aged oak of the village green ? It is the meek, 
 quiet Kate Marlow. 
 
 And whither is he gone — the anathematized ? 
 — the curse, like a fiend, hunting his footsteps, 
 as a burning plague-spot on his brain. Does 
 his step touch the holy church's threshold? — 
 in trembling it draws back, lest the harrowing 
 sound of its words meet his ear. Thinks he of 
 a domestic home ? Shall not its venom distil 
 poison there ? 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 ANNEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 Years went on, and found Frederic Stanley- 
 was a wanderer in strange and unchristian lands, 
 but change could brings no change to him. In 
 dreams, his own terrible voice would wake him 
 as he would cry aloud, — " My Annee, my 
 dearest Annee, close the book — close the book !" 
 Did nature spread her glories before him ? All 
 spoke of Annee — the stream, the trees, the 
 flowers, the green grass. That curse blasted 
 all — turned all to ashes; phantom like, it be- 
 came the madness of his brain. 
 
 Many years passed over. John Owen num- 
 bered the last of his days ; and Peter too was 
 gathered to his fathers. In the funeral of each 
 mio-ht be read their life. The flowers and bee- 
 
 o 
 
 hives had their mourning on,* and every eye its 
 tear, when good old John Owen died. But for 
 Peter Stanley not one wept — not a voice cried, 
 God forgive, God bless his soul, — but sounds 
 harsh, nay worse, told how he had lived. A 
 
 * A custom in Devonshire to put crape on the hives and 
 flowers at the death of a much respected person.
 
 THE CURSE. 219 
 
 blessing he had never bestowed — no blessing did 
 he receive ; hooting and hissing were his death- 
 knell. Paid menials walked beside his hearse, 
 but not one sorrowing friend. His nephew 
 and heir was a wanderer, a mourning stranger, 
 in foreign lands; no kindred was left to claim 
 his heritage. " He had heaped up riches," and 
 none of his own remained to possess them ; — 
 " he could not tell who should gather them." A 
 speaking end was that old hoarding man's. 
 Was it on .him the curse had fallen ? — was 
 the stranger only left to " spoil his labour ?" As 
 " he delighted not in blessing, was it far from 
 him?" — his generation, was it blotted out? or 
 did they seek bread in "desolate places"? 
 Perhaps so ; for years past over and his mil- 
 lions were still in abeyance. Frederic Stanley 
 was not returned; no tidings of the wanderer 
 came from distant lands; nor since the day 
 which had seen the green sward pressed on the 
 lifeless remains of her who in her dying agony 
 had cursed him, was he seen or heard of, save 
 l2
 
 220 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 some wondrous marvels of him and Madge were 
 whispered about, for both had alike been lost 
 to sight. Gossiping said much, but truth cer- 
 tainly revealed not the track of his miserable 
 footsteps. Besides his parent there was another 
 whose tears never ceased to weep his absence, 
 whose prayers hushed not even when midnight 
 silence was around her ; he seemed all that 
 drew her thoughts from heaven to earth ; — she 
 fulfilled her rules of life, but her spirit was not 
 of this world. 
 
 It was the dead hour of night, and the cold 
 u round moon " looked upon a land wrapped in 
 a winding-sheet of snow. The leafless white 
 branches drooped over the chill scene, forming 
 in their deep recesses very sepulchres of sad- 
 ness and death-like loneliness. Even the drear 
 bird of night hid herself from the chillness, and 
 hushed her note to silence ; all was so motion- 
 less, so fixed, that nature, beneath that pale,
 
 THE CURSE. 221 
 
 shining moon, looked as if a world of sculptured 
 work — so unbreathing, so marble-like — not a 
 sound broke on the listening ear of midnight. 
 And Kate Marlow had been watching for hours 
 beside the sick bed of Madge Freeman. 
 
 A few years had worked hard on Madge ; 
 but where, from Annee's death till now, she 
 had sheltered, no one ever knew. On the 
 morning of this night she had written to be- 
 seech Kate to come to her, appointing a lone 
 deserted cottage, much deeper in the glen than 
 her former abode, as the place of meeting. 
 
 u I have marvellous, vital, but no longer 
 unholy, revelations to make unto thee, beloved. 
 Come, witness what the outpourings of thy 
 godly words have done in bringing healing to 
 the penitent soul of the dying Madge." 
 
 Kate delayed not; perhaps the fate of her 
 loved lost, early friend, was about to be dis- 
 closed ; perhaps she had not cursed him. 
 
 And without a guide Kate took her path up 
 the now trackless glen ; and hopes, which had
 
 222 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 lone lain dormant for Annee and for Frederic 
 Stanley, were called forth. With quick and 
 light step she went. 
 
 When arrived, she found Madge alone, and 
 stretched upon a wretched bed. She was sick 
 and faint; her eye had lost its wild lustre; her 
 cheek was even more sunk and sallow than 
 formerly ; the raven hair was white as silver. 
 A radiance suddenly past over her exhausted 
 countenance as she first beheld Kate, and then 
 as suddenly vanished, and left it wan and 
 haggard. She took Kate's hand, and pressed 
 it to her dry, pale lips. 
 
 " You are cold, Madge ; I have brought you 
 a cordial ; — it is a long time past since you visited 
 our land." 
 
 " Thou art an angel, and she ought to be 
 blessed that calls thee child. My eye is dim, 
 sweet Kate, but thy voice is pleasant to my 
 heart ; though I am as ' the shadow of a dark 
 rock in a weary land/ yet thy voice, Kate, to 
 mine ear, is like the heavenly choir that sang
 
 THE CURSE. 223 
 
 their promises to the watching shepherds of 
 Bethlehem." 
 
 " It makes me rejoice, dear Madge, to hear 
 you thus speak." 
 
 (< Yes, my child, thou first told me of salva- 
 tion — thou first told me that there was repent- 
 ance for a sinner, to be bought by bitter 
 tears drawn from the deep wells of the inmost 
 soul ; I would have said, but for thee, beloved, 
 that no eye had seen me. My sins and my 
 wickednesses have haunted me as a fierce lion. 
 He is wise who can remove mountains, and they 
 know it not — that shaketh the earth, that 
 maketh its pillars tremble — so has the soul of 
 Madge been subdued ; I trust she has been for- 
 given, though her sins were as scarlet." 
 
 " What dread thing art thou about to shew 
 unto me V asked the trembling Kate. " Canst 
 thou throw any light upon my friend's sad end ? 
 didst thou instigate her to the deed ? didst thou 
 murder her?" 
 
 " No, Kate, no — I did not murder her with 
 my hands." Madge paused, and took breath.
 
 224 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 " Not with thy hands !" repeated the scarce 
 articulate accent of Kate. s * What, what mean 
 you ?" 
 
 " That I did it even with words, deeper, 
 deadlier than the poison of asps — Heaven ! Hea- 
 ven ! hear my prayer for forgiveness !" and 
 fervent seemed that prayer. 
 
 " Honey was on my lips, Kate, but gall 
 was in my heart; but it was for thee, for 
 thee." 
 
 " For me, Madge ; put not on a burden too 
 heavy for my weary steps to stand under." 
 
 But Madge was too weak to speak more; she 
 had fainted, and in a state of torpor she lay for 
 hours trying hours for Kate, far distant from 
 human aid at this lone hour of night! She 
 prayed, she sung, for perchance that voice which 
 Madse said she loved might rouse her. How 
 holily arose that saintly sound on the dead 
 hush. But Kate's breath came quick — her heart 
 throbbed; she raised her head; she looked up 
 through the window — what was there standing 
 bptween her and the li<rht of the cold round
 
 THE CURSE. 225 
 
 moon ? She shuddered — again she looked — was 
 it a spectre I — no ! it was a living thing — the foot 
 approaches — the latch is lifted. 
 
 " Kate ! Kate !" the figure said, " Time 
 sears the face, the figure — but the voice, the 
 voice that has once thrilled the heart with rap- 
 ture — never." 
 
 " Stanley ! Frederic Stanley ! Speak, speak 
 again. Oh ! tell, tell Kate Marlow she dreams 
 not ; tell, tell her she is not mad — oh ! oh ! this 
 is too much joy as she gazed up into his face — 
 touched his arms. Say thou art indeed the 
 living, breathing Frederic Stanley, the dear 
 friend of my youth — yes, yes, thou art." 
 
 "Yes, Kate, yes; I am that wretched crea- 
 ture." 
 
 " I see it, I know it, I feel it; let me not 
 doubt it again." She gazed intently into his 
 face, and Madge and all the world was forgotten. 
 " And you will not go from us, you will abide 
 with us — yes, you will. Frederic ! Frederic ! 
 forgive this unwomanly greeting ; but to see 
 l3
 
 226 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 thee once again, to know thee living, is too 
 much joy for poor Kate Marlow ;" and tears re- 
 leased her bursting heart. 
 
 " Kate Marlow still ! and why ? Do I guess 
 aright?'' 
 
 " Yes, you knew it could not be other, Fre- 
 deric Stanley." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought me so — and thou 
 wilt not curse me — thou wilt not leave me deso- 
 late, scorn, deride me. It was not till this 
 moment I felt that anything above, below, could 
 love me. And you love me, Kate ?" 
 
 " Love you, Frederic Stanley ! Ask me not ; say 
 it not; for I should 1 know not what I say." 
 
 " Only say thou wilt not curse me." 
 
 " What voice is that which calls me from the 
 dead?" asked Madge, rising up and staring 
 round her as if her eye-balls would start from 
 their sockets. " Is it Frederic Stanley ? is it my 
 father's heir that calls on me to behold his 
 riches ? I care not for gold ; I care not for gold 
 for myself; but give it, give it to my child; but
 
 THE CURSE. 227 
 
 with it give thy love ; that — that is the precious 
 thing to her virgin heart, beyond all the gold of 
 the earth." 
 
 At the voice of Madge, Stanley's whole frame 
 quivered, as in vehemence he exclaimed, " Has 
 not justice avenged her wrong? Why art thou 
 spared? — why art thou spared, thou wicked 
 one I" 
 
 " Why am I spared ? Ask that meek child of 
 the earth ; the rod for the wicked is in the hand 
 of the Lord, and shall He not be avenged? 
 Shall not the humble be exalted ? shall not the 
 penitent be forgiven ? Yes, listen, and tremble 
 to learn who speaks to thee." And a dazzle and 
 a blaze lighted every feature of Madge's before 
 wan face, as she raised herself in her bed. 
 " Kate Marlow, Kate Marlow T , thou art the child 
 
 of — of 1 " and she drew forth the picture 
 
 of her husband. " Yes, yes, of him thou hast for 
 hours looked upon — yes, yes, I was the w 7 edded, 
 wedded wife of Conran — yes, he was the hus- 
 band of my first, of my only adoration. Look
 
 228 ANNEE OWEN ; OR, 
 
 not so pale on me, my child — doubt it not ; 
 these big tears must tell thee that I am thy 
 mother — they have never fallen since I laid 
 him in the cold earth. Look not incredulous 
 — I will tell thee all, and then thou wilt give 
 me my thy tears of affection — I know, I know 
 thou wilt. Start not, Frederic Stanley — my 
 mother was the injured, the wronged Lydia 
 Marlow of thy sordid uncle's lawless passion. 
 Doubt it not, I am but too truly the blasted, 
 blighted offspring of that unsanctified con- 
 nexion," — and she held up a small packet. 
 But she spoke words to the deaf; Kate lay 
 senseless in the arms of Stanley. In vain he 
 told her, her expiring mother asked but for one 
 word of love — she could not speak it. 
 
 " Frederic Stanley, listen to a dying mother's 
 prayer — give her one earthly moment of joy. 
 Wilt thou wed my child ? — wilt thou ?" 
 
 " I will be the husband of Kate Marlow, be 
 she thy child or not, if she will wed me, the 
 cursed one."
 
 THE CURSE. 229 
 
 " Blessed, blessed sound j she has loved thee 
 from childhood — loves, loves thee as I loved 
 Conran. Cherish, cherish her as he cherished 
 her mother. Blessed, blessed moment — my 
 child ! child of my husband ! pray, pray for me, 
 a dying penitent;" and Catherine Conran was a 
 breathless corpse. 
 
 The truth of Madge's statements were proved 
 beyond denial. Kate Marlow had been brought 
 by her father to Oakfield, and her aunt con- 
 sented to take charge of her, provided her 
 mother never asked to see her or be made 
 known to her. Conran too well knew what his 
 child would be exposed to, to refuse these con- 
 ditions. It was a dreadful sacrifice on the part 
 of Catherine, for she doted on her child ; and 
 on her husband's death, determined to reside in 
 the neighbourhood, but to abide by her promise, 
 which she faithfully did till this her dying hour. 
 Her husband left her far above want; and 
 under the assumed name of Madge Freeman, 
 she rented the cottage in the glen, where she
 
 230 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 lived till Annee's awful end, when, fearful she 
 might involve her child, she quitted it for a 
 more distant home, at the same time never 
 losing sio'ht of Kate Marlow. 
 
 When she first came to reside in the glen, 
 Annee Owen and Frederic were but children ; 
 but she saw how they were circumstanced at 
 one glance. To see her child united to Stanley 
 became the whole aim and end of her existence ; 
 and, watching the jealous disposition of Annee, 
 she determined to work upon that as a means to 
 obtain her ends in severing Frederic from her. 
 That the fatal termination which occurred was 
 her aim or wish, we will not say ; but be that 
 as it may, to her alone the final result is attri- 
 butable. So completely had she worked on the 
 poor deluded Annee's mind and feelings on that 
 dread twenty -first of June, that, in a frenzy of 
 high-wrought angry madness and jealousy, she 
 rushed to the awful spot, paused a moment with 
 the holy book in her hand, stung to agony at 
 her lover's supposed falsity, marked the dire
 
 THE CURSE. 231 
 
 token of her dying spirit on its pages, and then 
 plunged into the overwhelming gulf beneath. 
 
 And Frederic Stanley was returned. He who 
 had looked upon himself as a marked and 
 branded being returned to a heritage, not of 
 thousands, but millions. He might now set 
 up golden idols, and behold what worshippers 
 would follow his footsteps ; but there were seeds 
 of sorrow within his breast that even all this 
 vaunted influence and power could not scorch 
 up; they would grow amidst all, and bear the 
 fruit of care and wretchedness. Amidst splen- 
 dour, luxury, and ease, he lived ; charity in pro- 
 fusion was ever flowing from his hand ; bene- 
 volence was ever breathing in his heart ; intel- 
 lectual cultivation employed his hours; but the 
 curse was written in his heart and in his brain, 
 though the soothing affection of the sweet, 
 gentle, loving, and beloved Kate, was devotedly 
 offering every moment of life to calm and quench 
 its burning character. 
 
 " We will not stay us here, my love, when
 
 232 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 we are wedded," said he, a few days previous 
 to their splendid nuptials, for Stanley thought 
 as his uncle had hoarded, so ought he to spend 
 unsparingly. 
 
 " No, dear Frederic, not if you wish it other ; 
 to be with thee, to comfort thee, and pray with 
 thee as I have prayed for thee in thy absence, is 
 all thy Kate asks." 
 
 " And thou hast prayed for me when I dared 
 not do so for myself." 
 
 " Yes, Frederic ; when every eye was closed 
 I have thought of thee, and asked for that peace 
 I could not find, for my heart was with thee ; 
 and in prayer, if I felt not peace, I felt security, 
 for I said, He that listens unto that prayer is 
 looking, watching over thee." 
 
 " How, dearest Kate, with all this fondness 
 within thy heart, didst thou never, in happier 
 days, let one little word of its intensity fall from 
 thee?" 
 
 " Why, Frederic, because I loved thee 
 dearer than I loved myself. I would not pain
 
 THE CURSE. 233 
 
 you by letting you deem you could blight the 
 happiness of the companion of your childhood — 
 of one I knew you ever loved with a brother's 
 tenderness." 
 
 u And did it not torture thee, gentle one, so 
 to conceal?" 
 
 " Torture me ! I shudder now to think how 
 I trembled then lest a word, a look, should 
 have betrayed my unmaidenly, because un- 
 wished, unsought love." 
 
 " Yet there was a look, nay, a word, that 
 has been with me in thy recollection — it was on 
 that Sunday, — yes, Kate, I cherished it, though 
 my heart was hers, all hers ; but I must love 
 thee, — I must be all I ought to be to one so 
 pure, so excellent." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Frederic, I doubt you not, — I con- 
 fide all in thy truth. I know thou wilt treasure 
 thy wife's tenderness — I will yet chasten every 
 sorrow — I will be to thee such a fond, devoted, 
 loving wife." 
 
 And wedded, they went their way in splen-
 
 234 ANNEE OWEN; OR, 
 
 dour from their native village, blest with all that 
 wealth can give — wealth possessed, not to hoard, 
 but to bestow. 
 
 Was the twenty-first of June forgotten ? No ! 
 flattery, gratitude, love, not even the cherub 
 smile of infancy, could win the heart to obli- 
 vion; to look on that at intervals was madness. 
 Even Kate's strong mind sometimes dwelt upon 
 the dreadful thing ; for what if on the children 
 as well as on the parent perchance might fall 
 the legacy of that dire curse, — what if on them 
 too it became a realized prophecy — how then 
 thousand times dearer did those dear ones be- 
 come; how she watched, how she cherished 
 them ! There were hours when Kate was su- 
 premely blest as wife and mother; but others 
 were fearful ones — when the dark spirit was 
 around her husband. At last it worked its evil 
 influence, and Kate was left a mourning widow. 
 Of her grief we will not discourse. But it was 
 yet for the curse to work a still deeper impress 
 on her mind.
 
 THE CURSE. 235 
 
 At Stanley's dying hour he said, " Take me to 
 the last home of my forefathers — lay my ashes 
 with theirs, sweet loving wife." It was many 
 miles distant. The funeral reached the village ; 
 it was Sunday, and evening service was per- 
 forming. The hearse stopped at the church - 
 gate. The clock struck four — four, the hour of 
 Annee's dreadful death — now fifteen years ago. 
 Many within that holy place shuddered as they 
 heard its sound. Still more wondrous, the 109th 
 Psalm, in its ordinary course, was falling from 
 the lips of good Mr. Lucy and those of his 
 parishioners at the very moment. They all knew 
 whom the hearse bore within it — and they 
 remembered The Curse. 
 
 N.B. — The chief facts of this tale are founded 
 on a circumstance related by Polwhele, par- 
 ticularly this latter one, for, says he — 
 
 " Observe a strange coincidence of circum- 
 stances; for while the body lay in the church,
 
 236 ANNEE OWEN; OR, THE CURSE. 
 
 to the astonishment of all the congregation, who 
 knew that the 109th Psalm had caused his 
 death, that very psalm came to be read in the 
 ordinary course. Against this event there was 
 more than sixty to one. And that his funeral 
 should also happen on a Sunday, at four o'clock 
 in the afternoon, exactly corresponding to the 
 time in which the girl destroyed herself, is 
 another remarkable occurrence.' 5
 
 AGNES DORVILLE; 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 " But this was taught me by the dove — 
 To die, and know no second love." 
 
 " Leila ! each thought was only thine, 
 My good, nay guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 My hope on high — my all below, 
 Earth holds no other like to thee ; 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me." 
 
 " This is meed a fine old English place," said 
 Selina Dorville, as her mother and herself 
 stopped opposite to an ancient gothic gateway, 
 opening on a shadowy avenue of massive and 
 embowering elm, skirted by thick underwood, 
 which led to a mansion of aristocratic magnifi- 
 cence ; but its path was now grassy and un- 
 packed, and all told of rankness and neglect,
 
 238 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 silence, and solitude — the tomb of departed ones. 
 Nothing broke its stillness save the noisy in- 
 habitants of its lofty shades — the rook's hoarse, 
 ceaseless note knelling all Nature's softer chime. 
 " I wonder," continued Selina, " if Davenant 
 can tell us aught of those who have lived here?" 
 — a brightening blush welcoming his approach, 
 for he was the happy suitor of the fair Selina 
 Dorville. " 
 
 " Few can, I think, Selina," replied her 
 mother, with a voice and countenance of sad- 
 ness, " give you any information of its former 
 dwellers. It is a sorrowing tale ; perhaps you 
 may learn it one day — but not now. Davenant, 
 I am sure, knows nought about it." 
 
 " How I wish to learn something of it ; it 
 must have been ages since this old house has 
 been inhabited." 
 
 " Not so long a period, either, has elapsed," 
 replied Mrs. Dorville. " It has seen many a 
 gay and festive scene within my knowledge." 
 
 " Your knowledge, mamma ! Why you did
 
 FIRST LOVE. 239 
 
 not mention ever having passed any time in this 
 part of Kent." 
 
 " Because, my dear child, 1 zvould, and I 
 would not, wish to remember much and all 
 connected with this place. I wished, yet 
 dreaded to visit it once again. Your father's 
 feelino-s would not have allowed him to have 
 done so, I know. All its recollections, like itself, 
 are but a shadow of what they once were. We 
 will ask to see the pictures. There were many 
 choice ones amongst the selection — two, to me, 
 of the deepest interest." 
 
 " Then you knew those well who lived here ? 
 Did I ever know them ?" 
 
 " Doubtless, in childhood you may have 
 heard their names. You did not leave India 
 till you were six or seven, did you ?" 
 
 " I was just seven when papa placed me 
 under Madam Bruyere's care, at St. Omer. 
 He told me of some relations, but I forget their 
 names — are these the same V 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I did not know your father
 
 240 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 then, at least only by name. To-day you will 
 look on a picture, love it love it, dearer than 
 you love me — carry its remembrance away with 
 you, and dwell on the remembrance as on that 
 of a dear lost parent !" 
 
 " You will point it out to me ?" 
 
 " I doubt not but your own feelings will do 
 that, — but no more, my child." And Mrs. 
 Dorville lingered behind, while Selina walked 
 silently on ; though leaning on the arm of her 
 lover, she was but thinking of the 'picture. 
 
 " How I long to look at the picture, Charles." 
 
 " Let me remember," replied he ; " I heard 
 something about a picture the last time I was 
 here. The place is sadly fallen into decay 
 since ; it is nothing but brambles and ruin. I 
 heard something, too, about a fishing-lodge — a 
 dreadful tale — it was all connected with a 
 Countess St. Aubin, whose picture was con- 
 cealed by a curtain. It is now four years since 
 I was here." 
 
 " Can that be the picture mamma alludes to?
 
 FIRST LOVE. 241 
 
 Did you ever hear that mamma was connected 
 with the St. Aubins?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard it from others, but never 
 from herself. Had not your father a sister ?" 
 
 " Yes, that is true ; I do remember, when a 
 child, having received a letter from an aunt — 
 but that was not the name. Is it not very odd 
 that neither papa or mamma should ever have 
 spoken of the St. Aubins?" 
 
 "Very strange indeed!" replied Davenant, 
 and on they proceeded without further remark. 
 
 Mr. Dorville, the father of Selina, had 
 married young ; and after a few months' stav 
 in England, sailed for India with his wife. 
 She did not live long, and dying, left this one 
 daughter at the age of seven. He brought 
 his child to England, who was then placed 
 abroad for her education; but before he a^ain 
 left England for India, he was united to his 
 present wife. Mrs. Dorville was soon obliged 
 to return to her native country on account of 
 her health, and since that period Selina 
 
 VOL. I. m
 
 242 AGNES DORVILLE ; OR, 
 
 Dorville had resided with her stepmother, to 
 whom she was devotedly attached. 
 
 Selina was to be shortly married to Charles 
 Davenant — a young man possessed of many 
 personal advantages — his fortune ample, and 
 his station high. They only waited Mr. 
 Dorville's arrival in England, who was daily 
 expected from India. Mrs. Dorville had long 
 wished to visit this spot, and deeming the young 
 lovers would much prefer the fair scenery of 
 
 K to the smoky streets of London, the 
 
 party had come down to M for a few 
 
 days. 
 
 Davenant was quickly ^dispatched to Lord St. 
 Aubin's agent, to apply for permission to view 
 the interior of the mansion ; as, since the family 
 had quitted St. Aubin, the house had been 
 closed against all intruders; but Mrs, Dorville's 
 name at once gained the desired permission. 
 
 The party, having passed through the gate 
 and along the neglected approach, were now 
 arrived at the noble mansion. Moss was on its
 
 FIRST LOVE. 243 
 
 steps — the hinges of its portals were rusty — its 
 windows dim and dusty, with damp and cobweb. 
 Davenant pulled the bell; its wire was stiff, 
 and its sound was heard as it echoed hollowly 
 through halls unoccupied and tenantless. 
 
 There is no loneliness like the loneliness of 
 desertion ; and the whole party, though they 
 spoke not, felt that some hidden sympathy of 
 intense interest united them. Footsteps came, 
 sounding their melancholy way. Slowly and 
 with difficulty bolt and bar were removed. The 
 doors were opened, and they stood within the 
 lofty dome of that princely hall. It was cold 
 and chilling. 
 
 As they entered, Selina's eye turned to look 
 at her mother, whose countenance was painfully 
 agitated, and more particularly so when greeted 
 by the housekeeper, who was a most interesting 
 object. Her dress, demeanor, her whole appear- 
 ance, at once took you back considerably be- 
 yond half a century. The white silver hair 
 <turned up, in full bow, under a high, close, 
 m 2
 
 244 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 lace cap, whose whiteness was only rivalled by 
 the kerchief that was crossed over her chest, 
 and fastened under her equally snowy apron ; 
 her gown, like everything pertaining to her, 
 was not after the modern march of intellect ; it 
 was plaited full into a long tight back, and 
 open in front ; its material was of thick black 
 silk, hung with all the fulness of a hoop; the 
 sleeves, perfectly shaped to the arm, descended 
 just below the elbow, and were finished with 
 ruffles. A pair of black mittens, high-heel 
 pointed shoes, and by her side a small bunch of 
 keys, completed her costume. 
 
 The countenance had been one of much 
 beauty, and though time might have marked, 
 it was far from destroying it. A peachy bloom 
 was still on the cheek, a fairness on the wrinkled 
 brow, a clearness in the hazel eye — that keen 
 eye was now fixed on the party. 
 
 A glance passed between her and Mrs. Dor- 
 ville, and the latter placed her finger on her lip, 
 and whatever Mrs. Moore, for that was the
 
 FIRST LOVE. 245 
 
 housekeeper's name, was about to say was in- 
 stantly silenced. 
 
 Davenant handed her the permission, and 
 she took it with a low courtesy, as she replied, 
 " Had you not received this, I scarcely think I 
 could have said nay to your admittance for the 
 sake of this young lady; not that I mean to 
 flatter you, sweet lady, but you are so like one 
 blessed spirit that was as fresh and as beautiful as 
 yourself the first time I ever laid eyes on her." 
 And before she proceeded, she looked round, 
 evidently to observe if Mrs. Dorville was within 
 hearing ; but she had separated from them the 
 moment the party had entered, and Mrs. Moore 
 continued : — 
 
 " I could tell you how happy we were all the 
 dav the Countess came to preside over us, like a 
 queen so beautiful, yet she was as meek and 
 gentle as a lamb ! And my lord, too, with his 
 fine proud walk, worshipping the lovely ladv 
 his wife: they looked both like real nobles of 
 the land, so dignified and humble! On this
 
 246 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 very spot," as the old woman stood against one 
 of the fine white marble pillars of the hall, — 
 " yes, — we were all ranged to welcome my 
 lord and my lady." And her eye proudly 
 glanced round the spacious walls, which were 
 still ornamented with old-fashioned portraits, 
 and many a now rusty implement of war and 
 sport. 
 
 " Yes," she continued ; " I was just here at 
 the head, for i" was my lady's housekeeper 
 then ; it is a long day since ; I was not young 
 then ; but she was very young, and a flower she 
 was — none like her, so full of bloom. My very 
 heart was in my mouth to tell her how I re- 
 spected her. Dear, loved lady!" and the old 
 woman brushed a tear from her eye. 
 
 " This lovely lady was Countess of St. Au- 
 bin?" asked Selina. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; she was his wife." 
 
 " Is she alive ?" 
 
 " Alive !" And Mrs. Moore crossed her 
 hands on her bosom, and looked on high, as
 
 FIRST LOVE. 247 
 
 she added, — u Hopes in a merciful Father, I 
 trust that she is long since gathered to her last 
 blessed home. Peace be with that sweet spirit !" 
 and there was something sadly touching in 
 her voice and face as she spoke it. 
 
 " But I would wish to tell you more, fair 
 lady, for you are like her, but not so beautiful. 
 Shall I say how she passed before us all the 
 first day she entered these portals as our mis- 
 tress ! How she blushed, and smiled, and 
 spoke to all some pretty thing. ' Ah, Mrs. 
 Moore, always be as you have been, and I shall 
 only be too fortunate in having one so trusty in 
 my service ; and I only hope all under your 
 direction will know how to value your worth as 
 my lord and self do.' She then laughed, and 
 said something of my old-fashioned dress. 
 ' How I should wish we might all follow its 
 style !' And she, smiling like an angel wife, 
 addressed my lord by his name, saying, i Do 
 you not think it very becoming?' And he 
 looked at her, sweet innocence, as much as to
 
 248 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 say, ' What can be so pretty as yourself?' 
 But she was a happy wife then; she was scarce 
 twenty, but yet she bore herself so lofty, she 
 might have ruled the world. And our eyes 
 and hearts followed her, as, leaning on her 
 handsome lord, she bowed to us, and went 
 into the grand saloon yonder." 
 
 " Is her picture here?" asked Selina. 
 
 " Yes; her first likeness is in the gallery." 
 
 And impatiently they followed Mrs. Moore. 
 They passed on, but Selina's eye rested not a 
 moment ; though shewn on all sides the wild 
 romance of a Salvator, the strength of a Rem- 
 brandt, and the enchantment of a Claude, 
 she only sought the picture of the Countess. 
 
 " This is it," said Charles. 
 
 " It is indeed, Sir," and the old woman's eye 
 glistened as she gazed upon it, with all the 
 faithful affection of a devoted servant. w And 
 like it is, the first time I ever saw her, but not 
 like her the last time. Never did I so love 
 my good lord, even in his youth, as I did the
 
 FIRST LOVE. 249 
 
 day he ordered it to be put back. Heaven re- 
 ward him for it \" 
 
 " Put back! — why, was it ever removed?" 
 said Selina. 
 
 But Mrs. Moore was annoyed with herself 
 for having said so much. " Yes, yes," — she 
 continued hastily, and then went on about its 
 resemblance. " Just like her; those same dim- 
 ples and the same pretty naughty eye, — all so 
 smiling/' 
 
 The picture was one of a very young being, 
 and the execution was exquisite; so blended, so 
 luxuriant, yet softened in all its hues and lines, 
 it seemed starting and speaking to you from out 
 the canvass ; every tint harmonizing with the 
 youthful representation. It was of one just 
 verging into girlhood; fresh as the first opening 
 of a rosebud, ere even the breath of summer has 
 passed over it, or touched its bloom. The 
 figure, perhaps, was sufficiently embonpoint to 
 make you £ U ess the age was more than might 
 have been deemed from the countenance. And, 
 M 3
 
 250 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 perhaps, the fine modelled bust rather too formed 
 and full for a face of almost cherub infancy. The 
 hair was of the deepest shade of brown, falling 
 about the throat and head in rich wild curls, 
 as if just blown aside by a sunny breeze, or 
 disordered in a game of romps, for the whole 
 character of the picture bore the stamp of 
 coquettish frolic; — yet, oh ! not altogether. 
 Though the countenance was rather one of 
 Grecian softness, yet in the upper lines — that 
 is, the forehead and brow, you might read sense, 
 integrity, and superiority ; a spirit to dare, and a 
 firmness to support. To a near observer, too, 
 I think a little pride was evident in the short 
 curled lip, as it was now painted, scarcely touch- 
 ing the full ruddy one beneath. 
 
 " How beautifully it pouts above that dimpled 
 chin !" said Selina to Charles; " does it not 
 seem to be smiling in blissful ignorance of this 
 world, and all its sorrow and sadness?" 
 
 The painter had just caught the mouth's ex- 
 pression at a moment when you imagined the
 
 FIRST LOVE. 251 
 
 lovely being was about to utter some coquet- 
 tish playfulness; for the well-set eye, large, 
 and of that undefined deep shade of grey, 
 seemed laughing at the merry thought as it 
 came. 
 
 " How one could worship that joyous crea- 
 ture," said Charles; " and what an unstudied 
 carelessness in the dress." 
 
 A frock of white muslin was drawn round the 
 dazzling fairness of the bust, while the dimpling 
 shoulder had rather escaped from its bondage. 
 A broad belt of blue ribbon, half unfastened, 
 hung from her side. A scarf of the same colour, 
 and a small gipsy bonnet were held in one 
 pretty hand ; the other rested on a marble 
 slab, upon which had been thrown a profusion of 
 luxuriant flowers. 
 
 u How I long," said Selina, " to watch 
 that rosy cheek changing, as I am sure it was 
 wont to do. It is just that transparent com- 
 plexion you imagine, varying with every emo-
 
 252 AGNES DORYILLE; OR, 
 
 u Yes ; and I have seen it as white as the 
 marble table on which her flowers are strewed,"' 
 said Mrs. Moore. 
 
 " Then she lived to be unhappy," said Selina ; 
 " but she must have been happy when that pic- 
 ture was taken." 
 
 (i It was taken from a copy," replied Mrs. 
 Moore, and her face reddened slightly as she 
 spoke. " It was done before I knew my lady." 
 
 " Before she was married V 
 
 " Only one year." 
 
 '' What, — the copy, or the original likeness of 
 the lady?" said Charles. 
 
 (i The likeness, the likeness ;" and Mrs. 
 Moore again hurried on. 
 
 They quitted the gallery, and passed into a 
 small room. It had evidently been the favoured 
 retreat of some gifted one — woman spoke in every 
 arrangement. The domed ceiling, exquisitely 
 painted, told its classic tale ; nor less the mel- 
 lowed tints of the storied windows. The fair 
 Daina stood, half veiled, gazing on her own
 
 FIRST LOVE. 253 
 
 bright form in waters of trembling light, sur- 
 rounded by nymphs and shades of living beauty. 
 Many more were there ;- — but the splendour of 
 the rich pink and silver furniture; the instru- 
 ments of music and carved boxes of ivory and 
 inlaid woods; the thousand little bijouteries and 
 the superb cabinets filled with all the best authors 
 of modern languages, and lighter works in cases 
 of ebony ; and even the view from out the 
 windows passed almost unnoticed ; they opened 
 on what had been a flower garden ; — weeds and 
 grass, long and withered, now o'erran it. This 
 sloped down to a rippling stream, which trickled 
 through a little rustic glade, where the choicest 
 shrubs were still blooming wildly luxuriant. For 
 a moment Selina looked out of the window. 
 '' What a pily this should run to waste." 
 " It was my lord's commands," said Mrs. 
 Moore ; " that no flowers should ever grow again 
 there, as my lady could not look on them." 
 " And why not?" 
 But Selina was interrupted by Charles.
 
 254 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 " Here, Selina ; this is the picture that had 
 the curtain over it." 
 
 And when she turned to it, everything else 
 was unheeded. It was the only one in the 
 Toom ; its subject was evidently a family group. 
 In the back ground was the figure of an ex- 
 treme handsome man in the very prime of man- 
 hood; the eye was of the darkest blue, the jetty 
 lash lending a deeper shade to its somewhat 
 wild and energetic expression; that expression 
 was now softened into fondness, for he was 
 gazing on the objects of his dearest affections. 
 The brow was broad, open, and fair — fairer 
 from the contrast of the clear bright brown of 
 the cheek and the rich clustering of the raven 
 hair. The contour of head was fully dis- 
 played by the folding collar which partially 
 exposed the throat, and gave to the whole figure 
 an attitude and character — a fine model for 
 a Roman senator — but in his home of love ; he 
 was now gazing on a fair wife and blooming 
 family.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 255 
 
 " Surely ! surely ! — it is — yet it cannot be the 
 same." 
 
 Though but a picture, Selina could have 
 wept the change. 
 
 " Is this the Countess St. Aubin I" 
 
 " She was the wife of that Lord," replied 
 Mrs. Moore. 
 
 " And those sweet children V asked Selina. 
 
 * Lord St. Aubin's." 
 
 The boy, a fine, dark-eyed little fellow, seated 
 at the lady's feet, was fondling a small Blen- 
 heim. The little girl was leaning on her 
 mother's knee, gazing pensively up into her 
 face, though scarcely more than an infant. 
 
 " How changed, how sad ! — Is it not, Charles ? 
 It could not have been wrought by time." 
 
 " Time, — no ; this was painted when the 
 lady was only five and twenty. Not more 
 than ten years between this and that same 
 lady you admired in the gallery," said Mrs. 
 Moore. 
 
 " Yet of that other picture, what is left but
 
 256 AGSES dorville; OR, 
 
 the fine open brow and outline of Grecian 
 beauty. Can it be the fashion and style of 
 dress V 
 
 For in this, the lady was presented quite 
 in the old English costume, save the hair, 
 which hung in flowing ringlets on either side 
 of the face, and strayed on the still dimpled 
 snowy shoulder. The full girlish figure was 
 now rounded into womanhood, which the 
 somewhat exposed mode of attire tended 
 rather to display than conceal. A velvet band, 
 fastened with a brilliant, encircled the swan-like 
 throat of alabaster, — to which was suspended 
 a cross of gold and precious gems. A rich 
 black velvet, ornamented with pearls, and 
 tassels of the same, hung from the long pointed 
 stomacher. The dress, falling off on either side, 
 was richly trimmed with blond, and shewed the 
 robe of white satin beneath. The sleeves came 
 tight below the elbow, and then fell off with full 
 frillings of the same lace, displaying beneath 
 them the rounded arm and rich armlets. But the
 
 FIRST LOVE. 257 
 
 chains of pearly whiteness were not as tintless 
 as the lady's cheek. Still the mouth was three, 
 saying, " Do you remember the Hebe girl of 
 fifteen?" Though smiling, it seemed to be 
 more in pity than in joy, to be more a reflec- 
 tion of what had been than what was — a smile 
 that told of coming calm or past brightness. 
 That eye, so large and expressive, was now 
 fixed tenderly on her children, but it was sadly 
 changed — no coquettish archery was there ; all 
 was gone. More of love and softness, perhaps, 
 was visible, but it was shadowed with melan- 
 choly. It told of subdued feeling, — of a hope- 
 less, a blighted heart. 
 
 " It makes me wretched," said Selina ; 
 " something cruel must have worked such a 
 change. How I should like to learn the tale 
 of your life, you lovely creature," and she turned 
 her tearful eves on Mrs. Moore. 
 
 " Your mother, lady, could tell you more 
 than I can." 
 
 The party now looked round the room ; — 
 everything spoke of domestic happiness ; but
 
 258 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 evidently that domestic link had been severed 
 suddenly, painfully. 
 
 On a beautiful little table of mosaic, richly 
 ornamented with gold, were strewed all the 
 materials for work ; — Selina looked at them. 
 
 " Do not touch them, lady," said Mrs. 
 Moore. 
 
 " Were they the Countess's ?" 
 
 " I suppose so. His Lordship ordered all to 
 remain as you see." 
 
 Some fair hand had been embroidering a 
 frock for a child ; the needle and work were 
 there as if but placed there yesterday, save that 
 dust and time had stained their freshness. 
 A book, too, turned on its leaves and open, was 
 beside them. It was a volume of Milton. The 
 very seat remained just as it had been left, with 
 its footstool in front. It was a magnificent 
 Grecian lounge of pink satin damask. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Moore ; " my Lord's first 
 command was, that not a hand was to touch that 
 table. It is dusty now, but she will never come 
 to order it otherwise." There is something
 
 FIRST LOVE. 259 
 
 speaking in such objects as these — a voice of 
 the dead to the living. 
 
 Selina's eye was rivetted on them, when Mrs. 
 Moore's niece entered, and told them the other 
 lady had fainted. Selina hastened to her 
 mother, and found indeed that she had fainted. 
 It was immediately opposite to the picture of 
 Lady St. Aubin in the gallery. 
 
 Some hours elapsed before Mrs. Dorville was 
 sufficiently recovered to return to the inn, though 
 the carriage had been sent for to convey her 
 back. She made no allusions to the cause of 
 her illness, and of course Selina was silent on 
 the subject ; but before she quitted St. Aubin, 
 she had some private conversation with Mrs. 
 Moore. 
 
 Mrs. Dorville's mind seemed composed, but 
 old Mrs. Moore was apparently much more 
 flurried and agitated ; but yet it was as if the 
 feeling arose from pleasure rather than pain; 
 and with many blessings from the old lady, they 
 bid adieu to St. Aubin Hall and its pictures;
 
 260 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 but not to their memory. That pale, pensive face 
 was still with Selina, — so angelic, so subdued. 
 And then that noble, proud man, pouring a very 
 world of fondness on the group ; the father and 
 the husband imaged so dotingly in that ex- 
 pressive eye; the bland benevolence of that 
 half smile; the stamp of regality on that high 
 brow, embodying all of pleasing, and all of 
 distinguishing greatness, both of mind and 
 heart. 
 
 " He is a person who could never have 
 thought a lowering thing; never have felt an 
 evil one," said Selina to Davenant, as they were 
 sitting the next morning talking over the pictures ; 
 " and do you know, Charles, mamma asked 
 me if I was disappointed in the picture of that 
 lovely woman. No, indeed, I told her ; she was 
 a very dream to me. ' Yes,' mamma replied ; 
 ' so has she been to me many a year back ; but 
 
 in weeping — in but, no matter — God's will 
 
 must be done. Her misfortunes were worked 
 by one who ever darkly stepped in with over-
 
 FIRST LOVE. 261 
 
 shadowing vengeance between her and bright- 
 ness.' " Selina paused a moment, and then 
 added, " But what can it all mean? She is cer- 
 tainly dead ; do you not think so, Charles I But 
 hark ! what is that noise? — mamma has fallen. 
 Did you not hear her scream ?" and Selina 
 rushed out of the room and was up stairs in an 
 instant. Mrs. Dorville had fallen from her seat, 
 and a letter was laying beside her. She could 
 not speak for some time. At last she recovered, 
 and informed Selina that the sudden intelli- 
 gence which that letter contained must take her 
 to Clifton without an hour's delay. Its con- 
 tents were of the most painful nature; but she 
 trusted her father would meet them there, as he 
 was now arrived at P . 
 
 We will now leave Selina, her mother, and 
 Davenant, to pursue their journey to Clifton, 
 and look over the events of many years, till 
 their history shall bring us back to the already 
 related period of the tale. 
 
 Perhaps the best opening to this sad narra-
 
 262 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 tive will be a letter which displays the earliest 
 infancy of that joyous one of whom it tells, and 
 from whence her first impressions drew their 
 birth — those first impressions which, with us all, 
 neither time nor tide can efface. On an un- 
 spotted surface are they graven, yet after ones, 
 darker and deeper, can never erase them. 
 
 This letter had been penned some years prior 
 to the time of the opening of this tale, but 
 long; after most circumstances related in it had 
 occurred. It was as follows : — 
 
 " Dearest Ellen, 
 
 li I shall be with thee quickly, best beloved ; 
 returned once more to my native England. 
 I spend but a few hours at this once happy 
 home. What a tide of recollections does it bring 
 back — to be again under that roof, in that very 
 room in which I have so often beheld my angel 
 sister. Well do I recall the companions of 
 those glad hours while she was yet a lisping 
 child. But where is now their place ? They
 
 FIRST LOVE. 263 
 
 are before me as in days gone by — the inno- 
 cent group ! It was in the nursery I loved to 
 look upon them when assembled to offer up their 
 little prayers. A doting fond mother, then 
 young and interesting, formed the striking cha- 
 racter in the picture. Two smiling cherubs 
 just verging into boyhood knelt on either side 
 as she sat in an old carved high-back chair, 
 dressed in such neat, matronly, quiet attire, so in 
 keeping with all she looked and all she thought. 
 One infant girl lay half reclining in her lap — 
 you best know who that was, dearest — while 
 the blooming sunny face of my dear naughty 
 little sister was seen between those of her boys, 
 Clarance even then looking on her with his soft 
 radiant countenance as if he loved her best 
 of any. 
 
 " I now in memory hear the tender voice of 
 childhood breathing forth its evening prayer. 
 I see the small clasped hands raised to Heaven, 
 the very flush yet on the cheek from the last de- 
 layed romps. The scattered playthings and
 
 264 AGNES DORVILLE; OR. 
 
 books — all — all are before me. Why does the 
 world, why does time, brush all this bloom and 
 freshness from the forms and souls of young 
 life ? How often, when looking upon this 
 sort of budding infancy, have I thought — 
 why do you not remain thus for ever ? And 
 while listening to the lisping prayer, I have 
 almost imagined an angel spirit pouring forth 
 its incense. It seemed a prayer unmixed, as 
 all other earthly prayers should be, with earthly 
 feelings, selfish views, and worldly hopes. It 
 was as morning freshness. But to return to 
 the last evening I ever spent thus. 
 
 u The last of many a laughing, playful kiss 
 had been given, the murmur of joyous voices 
 was hushed, and the parent of those cherub 
 boys was beside me in the study of her hus- 
 band. The purport of my last visit was, on 
 that fatal night, as you know, to leave my 
 sister, an orphan girl, to the care of Ellen 
 Stewart, as my destiny was about to take me to 
 India. With delight she received the charge.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 265 
 
 With full undoubting confidence of happiness 
 I left her to such a guardian. 
 
 ft Little does the mind dive into the secret 
 sources from whence the great mischiefs arise, 
 which, like the many concealed workings of 
 the bodily frame, undermine the constitution of 
 human peace. All lies hidden, till it is too late 
 to find a remedy in the discovery. The disease 
 has touched vitality, and we are become its 
 victim ere we are conscious of its existence. 
 Few or none would have looked upon this my 
 plan for my sister's happiness, and have fore- 
 seen anything but good arising from it. Yet 
 was the seal of destiny now stamping its im- 
 press of care and affliction on the story of my 
 sister's life. When I look back to the cha- 
 racter of her to whose care I intrusted her — how 
 fitted for such a task! — when I reflect how 
 steadily she bore her course amid storms and 
 troubled seas, how did I admire and respect her ! 
 Yet, to an every-day observer, Ellen Stewart 
 was nothing out of the common, — nothing to give 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 an idea of such strength of mind, such unde- 
 viating rectitude, as was hers. No high tone 
 of sentiment, no apparent decision, no powerful 
 depth of thought ; but there was a meekness of 
 temper, an unslumbering spirit of purity, which 
 rendered her a character almost perfect in every 
 action. But what avails it now ! You knew her 
 even better than I did. Would that Agnes had 
 never quitted Ellen's humble roof! — would that 
 no proud offers had been laid at her feet ! Let 
 me, let me not think of what might have 
 been, lest, when I look at what is, it drive 
 me mad. 
 
 (i Farewell ! best beloved ! 
 
 " Yours, ever, 
 
 <( Henry Dorville." 
 
 Is it that I love to cherish the remembrance 
 of that life I am about to trace, and give it, as 
 it were, existence again in words ? No — it is 
 that, though the world is still shadowed to me,
 
 FIRST LOVE. 267 
 
 one faint hope glimmer in the distance — that 
 those loved eyes which shall weep over the sor- 
 rows and errors of her they must condemn may 
 still breathe a prayer for her pardon ; may still, 
 perhaps, offer a palliation for feelings which, 
 though existing, were never wilfully encouraged 
 or willingly indulged. Though I myself will 
 not say they sprung from ignorance, yet I will 
 say they first originated in innocence. It was 
 not the encouraging, but the doubting their sta- 
 bility that rendered their growth so undermining 
 to every hope of happiness, — the happiness, not 
 alone of self, but of all that bore affinity to 
 self. 
 
 But while I ask the prayers and palliations 
 of those dear ones, yet may a deeper and more 
 beneficial result spring up in their young minds. 
 Let not the proudest, the purest, rest in confi- 
 dence, while one fibre, however fine, however 
 delicate, remains, to militate against those 
 affections which ought to be wholly, solely 
 given, where they have once been pledged. 
 n2
 
 268 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 And let that pledge never, never be given 
 but under the one unpolluted impression, sincere 
 undivided devotedness. 
 
 The fatal error of too many in early life is, 
 acting under the momentary instigation of 
 doubt or hasty conclusion, accepting that which 
 is alone the result of wounded feelings as the 
 offspring of facts; and thus decision is made 
 long ere feeling is cooled sufficiently to allow 
 judgment to examine, and then we wander on, 
 perhaps wilfully blind that all is misty around 
 us — and not till it is too late do we perceive 
 that in that very shade and cloud is the blight 
 which is to destroy all it falls on. 
 
 Sentiment, like philosophy, is a dangerous 
 refiner ; though the evil in one case originates 
 from the knowledge of truth, in the other, from 
 questioning it. But the result of such refine- 
 ment is equally dangerous, for the heart that 
 once admits feelings it would vainly define 
 under denominations of its own creation will at 
 length discover they must all end in conviction,
 
 FIRST LOVE. 269 
 
 as fatal as the philosophy which begins by 
 doubting truth, and terminates in infidelity. 
 
 There is something indescribably dear in 
 our first home, where we learn the thousand 
 harmless and treasured secrets attached to that 
 first dear abode, which never leave us, however 
 happy, however realized, our fondest hopes in 
 the after one of life. How often do we find 
 ourselves referring to that home as to a treasure 
 lost, never to be possessed again on earth. This 
 is a something which, perhaps, partakes of that 
 immortal and universal feeling which lives in- 
 stinctively alike in the breast of Christian and 
 heathen — the looking to an abiding home, even 
 beyond this earthly tabernacle. 
 
 However cultivated or uncultivated, still 
 Nature wakes the whisperings within us of that 
 blessed eternal home — a home whose colouring 
 and hues borrows its stamp and character from 
 the hand that executes, rather than from what 
 that everlasting one shall be. 
 
 Doubtless, even the Christian mind has a
 
 270 AGXES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 dreamy picturing of that future world, not 
 wholly divested of earthly affections and earthly 
 associations, affections and associations which 
 ever go back to that first home of infancy and 
 innocency, — there, where earliest knowledge is 
 first imbibed ; where the heart is awakened into 
 existence; where life, day after day, unfolds, 
 brightly, sweetly as some rosebud which gra- 
 dually opens each tender leaf, and seems to hail 
 every ray of Heaven's glorious light as it ex- 
 pands in the sunshine of summer. 
 
 Shall I bear on, and still hold this emblem, 
 and tell, when scarce full blown, how each leaf 
 purples, withers, and is scattered to expire ? 
 No ; rather let me go back and tell of those who 
 constituted this my Eden home. 
 
 If it be necessary to have kindred ties, to know 
 their strength, I could never have joyed in them 
 in early life. One recollection I had of a being 
 cfood and kind ; it was but a recollection, and 
 even the word brother conveyed something to 
 my mind scarcely understood. But if, when a
 
 FIRST LOVE. 271 
 
 child loves a parent with devotion, the obedience 
 which the most exalted veneration can excite, 
 which the most tender gratitude can awaken, 
 be evinced — if to feel their wishes your com- 
 mands, their pleasure your happiness, — if to 
 cling to them with every fibre of your heart as 
 the clustering tendrils of a plant around the 
 trunk which nourishes its existence, be the 
 child's love of a parent, mine must have been 
 that for Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 I said I knew a brother's name but in recol- 
 lection; but did ever fondest sister treasure a 
 brother's or sister's love as I did that of Edward 
 and Ellen Stewart's. Was not their home my 
 home? their joy, their sorrow, my joy, my 
 sorrow ? 
 
 And must I not write of another's fondness ? 
 Yes; I will disguise nothing. I will tell how 
 from very infancy Clarance Stewart shared every 
 childish sport, every young instruction; how 
 his manly spirit entered into every girlish folly 
 and fancy, and humoured every idle whim.
 
 272 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 Wrong or right, Clarance Stewart was ever the 
 champion of Agnes Dorville, 
 
 If in disgrace, Clarance would steal to her 
 side, and bring smiles with him. Was any- 
 thing to be selected, Clarance was the first to 
 bring the choicest to Agnes. A difficult task to 
 be got over, Clarance was with Agnes, and 
 its difficulty was conquered or forgotten. In 
 the dance, in the game, Clarance was ever 
 her partner. For her he would climb every 
 tree to bring her its fruits ; lead her pony, or 
 walk by her side through the wild woods, or 
 along the meadows, and pluck every sweet 
 flower for her nosegay. 
 
 Then in her garden, not a weed was there. 
 When of a summer's eve we would assemble 
 together in a favourite bower, or sit on the 
 grassy slope of the cottage, even then would 
 Clarance shew that none were so dear as Agnes 
 Dorville, for he was by her side. Her taste 
 alone decided his song, and no hand but his 
 must touch the guitar while Agnes' voice was
 
 FIRST LOVE. 273 
 
 beard. Did boyish temper ever rise, Agnes 
 had but to smile, and all was calm a^ain. Did 
 his pencil trace a form, Agnes seemed to breathe 
 in it. Was a book to be read, Agnes must 
 approve, or it could possess no charm. 
 
 But how shall I tell of all this wild, fond 
 devotion ? It will be to tell of every moment 
 from infancy to girlhood — from the moment we 
 met till we parted. But what name, what 
 definition, had it in my mind ; it was regarded 
 by all as the mere union of kindred — as a bro- 
 ther's love, as a sister's fondness. 
 
 YV hy was the curtain dropped to shew at once 
 the fiction of that which, while looking on, I 
 dreamed to be a dear reality ! Is it not with a 
 painful consciousness that we turn from mere 
 theatrical delusion, and with excited and sub- 
 dued feelings, walk back and mingle with the 
 world's heartless ways ? What, then, must be 
 our sufferings when we find it is no mere tale 
 we have been acting — that we must act it no 
 longer — must sever from all and every link 
 n3
 
 274 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 which has made the soul glad — must be a crea- 
 ture of another world — all that has been must 
 never be again. Yet this change speaks not 
 in its full force when first opened upon us, 
 but like those poisons which, by slowly destroy- 
 ing vitality, render every breath of life a pang, 
 gradually tortures and consumes us. 
 
 Think not that all this reasoning arose in my 
 young mind — that these were the thoughts of 
 the passing moments ; — no ; they had not yet 
 risen to damp my buoyant spirits; — no; it was 
 not till I had mingled with what is called the 
 world that I discovered how little I had gained, 
 and how much I had lost. 
 
 The period was, alas ! now approaching that 
 was about to shew me all this. A connexion of 
 my father's, a gay, fashionable widow, had lately 
 married her own two daughters to her full satis- 
 faction. Whether it was having so well suc- 
 ceeded in this grand ambition of her heart that 
 she wished for another object to exercise her 
 powers on, I know not; or whether she thought
 
 FIRST LOVE. 275 
 
 it necessary to have some excuse for still 
 visiting the haunts of pleasure and festivity, 
 and wished to make me her tool, I am equally 
 at a loss to guess ; but for fourteen years I had 
 remained even in ignorance of Mrs. Elton or her 
 relationship, when suddenly we received a letter 
 from her addressed to Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart had not only heard of, but had 
 known her slightly in her early days ; but still 
 she was somewhat surprised at the purport of 
 her letter. 
 
 Some months previous to the receipt of Mrs. 
 Elton's letter, some distant connexions, by 
 
 accident, visiting the town of W , near 
 
 which we resided, paid me a visit. Mrs. 
 Stewart begged them to honour her with their 
 company for some short period, which they did. 
 I cannot say, I either understood or admired 
 them. 
 
 They talked of London, of balls, of titles, 
 and of dress. For me they professed wonderful 
 approval, raved of what they called my superior
 
 276 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 beauty, and expressed astonishment at my 
 accomplishments and manners. Where in 
 
 W could I have learnt such skill in music 
 
 — my voice, too, so modulated ! my sketches, 
 so finished ! 
 
 " Clarance and myself," replied the gentle 
 Mrs. Stewart, " have been Agnes' sole in- 
 structors." 
 
 " What ! the son now at home ?" asked Miss 
 Dorville. 
 
 " No," replied Ellen ; " one twice as hand- 
 some as Edward ; but he is at Oxford." 
 
 " Mr. Stewart is quite handsome enough," 
 replied Mrs. Dorville. 
 
 " Perhaps you will see Clarance; he returns 
 to-day or to-morrow," said Ellen. 
 
 Mrs. Dorville answered, with a sneer which 
 I then little understood, but could not but per- 
 ceive — 
 
 " Too handsome for a young lady's in- 
 structor. We must have Agnes in London. 
 She looks just cut out for a countess."
 
 FIRST LOVE. 277 
 
 " Will that insure her happiness/' said Mrs. 
 Stewart ; " if it will, may you be one, my pretty 
 Agnes," and Mrs. Stewart threw back my 
 curls and kissed my brow. 
 
 " No — if I do not live with you all, I am 
 sure it will not." 
 
 At this moment we heard busy and glad 
 voices, and a quick step. I leaped from the 
 stool on which I was seated at Mrs. Stewart's 
 feet. I felt my face glow with joy, as I clapped 
 my hands, and ran to the stairs. 
 
 " 'Tis Clarance's step, Ellen, Ellen" — and 
 I was down stairs, happy above all that I was 
 the one to give and receive the first welcome. 
 Even now I can recall the look of contempt and 
 anger on Mrs. Dorville's countenance, as I looked 
 up the stairs, and saw the party all descending. 
 
 Never had Clarance appeared so handsome, 
 or to greater advantage, as with friendly greet- 
 ing he advanced towards Mrs. and Miss Dorville 
 on hearing their names. They certainly did 
 look as if they also thought him a great deal
 
 278 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 handsomer than Edward ; still, in the expres- 
 sion of Mrs. Dorville's face there was some- 
 thing I could not bear to look upon. 
 
 I saw her eye upon me in particular, as I 
 stood delighted by Clarance's side, with Ellen 
 asking him a thousand questions, and telling 
 him as many nothings, to which, however, he 
 was listening with joyous and happy smiles. 
 One remark he made, and then it was I again 
 saw Mrs. Dorville's evil eye upon us. 
 
 " Why, Agnes, dear, I believe you mean to 
 outgrow me. Is she not nearly as tall as I 
 am, Ellen ?" 
 
 " No, Clarance, not as tall as you," I 
 replied ; " you must be a great deal taller than 
 me. I should wish you to be tall." 
 
 I know not if it was Mrs. Dorville's evil 
 glance that made me blush, as soon as I had 
 said this, but I felt my cheeks crimsoned, and 
 I saw, too, that Clarance perceived it — but Mrs. 
 Dorville and her daughter had passed on to the 
 porch.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 279 
 
 We remained in the hall — I was near an 
 open window, and hearing the name of Clarance, 
 I listened, as I heard Miss Dorville say — 
 
 " Mamma, did you ever see any one half so 
 elegant — so perfectly handsome?" 
 
 " So much the worse." 
 
 " So much the worse ! — what can she mean V 
 and I really, for the first time in my life, felt 
 what it was to dislike a fellow-creature. Little 
 did I know what a train of thought had been 
 awakened in Mrs. Dorville's mind, and had 
 given rise to this observation, or that I was in 
 any way connected with it, and still less that 
 from the simple circumstances of this day my 
 future life was to take its shade. 
 
 In a few days after these apparently trifling 
 events, Mrs. Dorville took her leave. To me 
 she was all affection — to Mrs. Stewart and her 
 family, proud and cold. 
 
 Anna Dorville evinced great regret at her 
 departure. We laughed, and told Clarance it 
 was all for him. Indeed, could w 7 e have looked
 
 280 AGXES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 into futurity, we might have seen it was indeed 
 all for him. But we soon returned to our 
 own dear ways, as we called them, and as 
 Clarance was now to be at home for the whole 
 long vacation, Ellen and I were perfect in our 
 happiness. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart, left very young a widow, 
 had taken a small cottage in the neighbour- 
 hood of Malvern, and lived in the most secluded 
 retirement. Her children and myself, her sole 
 and only thought — save the clergyman of the 
 parish, and a few humbler neighbours. I had 
 never, till now, been in the society of strangers, 
 nor had the specimen I had seen in Mrs. 
 Dorville in the least excited my wishes to 
 increase my knowledge of the world beyond 
 the limits of Copsewood cottage. 
 
 Such blissful ignorance was not to be my 
 lot — and the day came in which the tide of my 
 life was to take its ebb — destiny had opened 
 her book, and misery and suffering claimed me 
 as her own.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 281 
 
 Mrs. Dorville, on returning to London, went 
 immediately on a visit to her sister, Mrs. Elton, 
 and, while loud in my praises, was not backward 
 in giving her own colouring to Mrs. Stewart, 
 and what she denominated her speculations. 
 She advised Mrs. Elton, as my brother's 
 nearest connexion, to do something to over- 
 throw them ; as she said, with the beauty and 
 fortune I had claim to, I should not be allowed 
 to humble my family by a low connexion, when 
 I might exalt it by a lofty one, if properly 
 introduced. 
 
 Mrs. Elton, a proud, worldly, and artful 
 woman, instantly caught at the seeming ad- 
 vantage and wrote to my brother, but knowing 
 his devotion to Mrs. Stewart, concealed the 
 unkind comments of Mrs. Dorville ; she merely 
 stated the advantages which would arise to 
 me from her introduction to society, as Mrs. 
 Stewart's habits were so retired that I was 
 kept in perfect seclusion, and that she, Mrs. 
 Elton, was sure Mrs. Stewart, from her own
 
 282 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 good judgment, would admit the necessity and 
 benefit of sparing me for a brief time. My 
 brother's answer was favourable to her wishes, 
 provided they met Mrs. Stewart's consent ; and 
 on the receipt of this communication, Mrs. Elton 
 wrote immediately to Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 Her letter was guarded ; evidently written by 
 one who judged others by the standard of her 
 own character. But Mrs. Stewart weighed 
 only my advantage; her own feelings were 
 never allowed to have the slightest influence ; 
 and with pain she acknowledged that the 
 sacrifice must be made, as it was for my be- 
 nefit ; and so far from murmuring, endeavoured 
 to make me look upon it with the same resig- 
 nation. 
 
 6t If, dearest Agnes, you continue to love our 
 humble happy home, after you have tried Mrs. 
 Elton's, so opposite in splendour and amuse- 
 ment, we shall rejoice to have you amongst us 
 again. It is a dangerous and gay vortex, Agnes, 
 you are about to enter on, and with attractions
 
 FIRST LOVE. 283 
 
 which render it still more so ; but I know my 
 Agnes for a sweet ffirl." 
 
 The tears were in the mild eyes of clear Mrs. 
 Stewart, and she could not restrain them when 
 she remembered what would be the feelings of 
 her children. 
 
 " The poor boys and Ellen ! " she could 
 
 say no more, but pressing me for a moment 
 fondly to her heart, she hastily left the room. 
 
 I sat down, and never knew what sorrow 
 was till now. I will write to my brother, be- 
 seeching him not to leave this dear, dear spot. 
 In an instant I seemed to love every object I 
 looked upon. What ! shall I be separated from 
 the home of my childhood — from Ellen, Edward, 
 and Clarance ? and dwelling on that last name, 
 I sat still holding Mrs. Elton's letter in my 
 hands. It ran thus : 
 
 " Dear Madam, 
 
 fc Fearing till now Agnes had been too young 
 to be taken, even for a temporary period, from
 
 284 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 such a guardian as Mrs. Stewart, I had delayed 
 writing to Mr. Dorville to request he would 
 allow me to have the happiness of introducing 
 her; but even this should not have been pre- 
 sumed upon, had I not been perfectly aware of 
 your habits of life, and that they opened little 
 opportunity to Agnes of seeing the world, which 
 I have no doubt you agree with Mr. Dor- 
 ville and myself in deeming advisable she 
 should do. 
 
 " Mrs. Dorville, my sister, who has recently 
 had the pleasure of seeing Agnes, tells me 
 she is beautiful, elegant, and accomplished — 
 amiable we cannot doubt. Mrs. Stewart has 
 been her preceptress. 
 
 u If her removal meets your approval, which 
 Mr. Dorville seems every way anxious it should 
 do, we will finally arrange that in another 
 week. I shall have the happiness of sending 
 my carriage and servants for her. 
 
 " I understand she has some young compa- 
 nions. I trust they will not grieve too keenly for
 
 FIRST LOVE. 285 
 
 the loss and separation they must naturally 
 sustain. 
 
 i( With a thousand affectionate kindnesses to 
 my sweet cousin, and every respect for yourself 
 and family, 
 
 " I remain, dear madam, 
 
 u Your obliged, 
 
 " Anna Elton." 
 
 I was young in years and wisdom ; but still 
 in this letter, even to my inexperience, some- 
 thing of heart was wanting ; nothing of the 
 sincere, open, simple Mrs. Stewart. I knew 
 little of deception or art ; but this letter, for the 
 first time, seemed to give me an idea of what 
 worldly deception was. On one word my eye 
 did rest again and again, and of it I thought 
 what trifles serve to create and awaken cha- 
 racter, and open to our knowledge the recesses 
 of the human heart, revealing hidden sympa- 
 thies and undiscovered powers.
 
 286 AGNES DORYILLE; OR, 
 
 If, from childhood, we could dive into the 
 depths of our own minds, and watch the first 
 breathings of all their various and new develop- 
 ments, we should behold the origin of their 
 earliest existence springing from impressions 
 apparently as insignificant as the smallest atoms, 
 which, condensed and united, form the great 
 mass of mighty creation. 
 
 But to return. My eye, I said, rested on 
 one word, — it was that of "beautiful;" and 
 what was the question it suggested; it was, 
 whether Clarance Stewart thought me so. 
 
 Perhaps this was the first time I had ever 
 paused to reflect upon what he thought of me. 
 Ever finding myself the first object of his atten- 
 tion and regard, I had been too happy, too 
 blessed, to question from whence sprung that 
 attention and regard, and this was the first 
 moment my heart had ever throbbed with a 
 doubt of what extent the feelings were which 
 he bore towards me. Not that now I analyzed 
 them ; I only felt that I wished Clarance thought
 
 FIRST LOVE. 287 
 
 me beautiful. The value put upon his estimate 
 of me appeared ten thousand times more va- 
 luable than all the world had to offer — the joys 
 of my now humble home more than all its splen- 
 dours — the dear approval of its companions to 
 be prized above all its flattery. 
 
 But a sickening presentiment now whis- 
 pered, that from it and them I was about to be 
 severed. It was the most painful moment I had 
 ever experienced. I sobbed bitterly — I threw 
 my face on my closed hands, and laid them on 
 the table. I heard the light, buoyant step of 
 Clarance close to me, but I could not raise up 
 my head and look into his smiling eyes as I was 
 wont to do whenever he approached. 
 
 I felt my cheek warm, and my pulse beat 
 quick. It was the first conscious throb of love, 
 and never to the same measure for another has 
 it beat. In a moment he was in the chair be- 
 side me — his arm was round me. 
 
 " Agnes !" 
 
 Years are gone and passed, yet the tone of 
 that voice can never be forgotten.
 
 288 agxes dorville; or, 
 
 I raised my head ; we neither of us spoke, but 
 from that period we felt we were all the world 
 to each other. Amidst revelry and song, splen- 
 dour and beauty, in sorrow and in trial, in 
 solitude and meditation, has that moment come 
 before me, absorbing all feeling but the recol- 
 lection of itself. 
 
 We asked not each other if we loved; we 
 felt that that would break a spell which had 
 nothing on earth to compare to its charm. 
 
 It was that love which one alone can excite — 
 it dwells in the soul through life, — it is that 
 spirit of love which shall gladden even Heaven's 
 paradise — for one only can it be felt. Few 
 have power to infuse it — few have capability to 
 know it. 
 
 The gladness of those joyous moments now 
 do I recall to the minutest point. The expres- 
 sion, attitude, the trembling touch of his hand 
 as we sat together; and then that voice of 
 music as he again pronounced my name — its 
 very tone breathed adoration ! That face so 
 beautiful, so softened, yet so impassioned !
 
 FIRST LOVE. 289 
 
 Could I give you but an image of Clarance 
 Stewart at this period, you would pardon my 
 girlish devotion as I now was beside him. 
 So faultless, so wholly divested of all those 
 imperfections of person, of manner, of disposi- 
 tion, which we find so often jarring, even on the 
 most blind affection; but you contemplated the 
 character of Clarance, and what trait startled 
 or made you doubt? you associated daily, 
 hourly, with Clarance, and were you not drawn 
 still closer to him by that quick, unselfish man- 
 ner ? the eye rested on that countenance, and 
 read no fault in it; while the heart, to which it 
 spoke of love, found all its fondest hopes re- 
 flected there. Eyes of that hue which, while 
 they gazed on you, borrowed a richer tint 
 from the depths of impassioned feeling, yet so 
 changing that you might find no colour to give 
 their shade a name. 
 
 Clarance at this time was scarcely twenty, 
 and though nothing of unmanliness was on 
 the brow, yet, as I now recal that face, it was 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 AGNES DORVILLE; OR, 
 
 one more of saintly perfection than of earthly- 
 character. The rich clustering hair; the com- 
 plexion, that flushed and paled with every 
 emotion; then the suffusion of his smile, not 
 the gladdening of the mere mouth — it was a 
 perfect illumination of every feature. A tone, 
 a word, a note of exqaisite music, may give a 
 joyous thrill, — his smile could give more than 
 all this ; but it must have been felt, and then 
 it would have been known to be how much 
 more ! 
 
 And am I the Agnes who sat by Clarance 
 Stewart, and thus trembled beneath the emo- 
 tions of that hour ? Yet, when I look at what 
 I am, what I then was, I doubt my own iden- 
 tity, question the possibility of previous exis- 
 tence, and its connexion with reality. But let 
 me hasten on to tell how I lived, — not to forget 
 all, but to fly from its too intoxicating recol- 
 lection. I was unfaithful to myself, but never 
 to Clarance Stewart. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart, in answering Mrs. Elton's
 
 FIRST LOVE. 291 
 
 letter, requested a reprieve of one month ; at 
 the end of which period, she promised to accom- 
 pany me herself to London. 
 
 What a month of mingled feeling was this ! 
 The joy of Clarance and myself, while together, 
 seemed untouched. But he said, the moment 
 I was out of his sight he should feel as if our 
 separation had already taken place, and he was 
 miserable. It were as if he had never loved 
 me till now, so intense was the adoration of his 
 looks and words ; — his eye or his step never 
 turned from me. He drew like an artist, and 
 now all his powers were directed to trace that 
 resemblance which lived in his heart, — to have 
 it ever present to his view. 
 
 I, too, must carry the images, of all these 
 dear ones of my fondest regards away with me. 
 Clarance must execute the group. The scene 
 was chosen. It was the favourite summer- 
 house. Ellen on a rustic bench at its 
 entrance, her guitar suspended from her pretty 
 shoulder with a ribbon bright as her own laugh-
 
 292 AGNES dorville; or, 
 
 ing eyes. Edward, then a fine manly fel- 
 low, with a countenance full of sincerity and 
 truth, stood in the background leaning on his 
 gun. Mrs. Stewart, with her soft benevolent 
 looks, was placed at the table. She held a 
 book in her hand ; but her regards, full of affec- 
 tion, were bent on myself as I reclined at her 
 feet. Clarance's favourite Blenheim was in my 
 lap, and though I fondled the faithful creature, 
 it appeared only to watch its master sketching 
 the group. I remember well, — I seized the 
 pencil from his hand as he traced himself. 
 
 " Clarance, you are not vain enough ; I must 
 finish this figure, shall I not ?" 
 
 The beaming look that returned answer to 
 my request ! it surely gave inspiration to my 
 pencil, for canvass never shewed a form of 
 more perfection. Even though the artist, I 
 stood enraptured, delighted at my own powers. 
 Yet all declared I had not flattered, as they 
 looked from it to Clarance, while he stood 
 fixedly gazing at her whose hand had traced it.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 293 
 
 The feelings that were beating at these moments 
 at the heart of Clarance Stewart will ever irra- 
 diate even the plainest with beauties all their 
 own. The sketch was finished too soon, and 
 so were my joyous days — such unalloyed ones 
 have never since been possessed by me. 
 
 I left the dear sweet home of my childhood ; 
 my little bark was driven from the smooth 
 sunny waters on which it had sported in peaceful 
 sail for fifteen halcyon summers; the stormy 
 ocean of the world was before me, and with sad 
 sorrowing I went forth to battle with its shifting 
 tides and surgy waves. Why could I not 
 have moored it in that placid harbour for 
 ever, and have been blessed w r ith a lot which 
 queens might envy — the love of those we 
 love? 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 T. C. Savill, Printer, 107, St. Martin's Lane, Charing Cross.
 
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