UNIVERSIPt' OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 AT URBANA-GHAMPAiG 
 BOOKSTACKS
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/legendsoflibrary01nuge
 
 LEGENDS 
 
 LIBRARY AT LILIES, 
 
 LORD AND LADY THERE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMAN, 
 
 TATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1832.
 
 Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, 
 New-Street-Square.
 
 >- 
 
 CD 
 CO 
 
 A/ ^U 
 
 TO THE READER; 
 
 A WORD, BY WAY OF ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 ^ If you would place yourself just midway be- 
 tween the three seas which form the boundaries 
 
 ^ of southern England, you shall find yourself on 
 
 -5 a small knoll, covered with antique elm, wahiut, 
 and sycamore, trees, which rises out of a vale 
 famous in all time for the natural fertility of its 
 soil, and the moral virtues of its people. On 
 
 '^ this knoll, fitly called by our ancestors " the 
 
 V Heart of South Britain," stood, distant about 
 half a mile from each other, two monasteries, 
 
 ^ known by the flowery appellatives of Lilies and 
 Roses ; not unaptly setting forth a promise of 
 
 ii^ all that can recommend itself as fair and sweet 
 
 n A 2
 
 IV 
 
 unto the gentler senses. These edifices have, 
 for many centuries, been no more ; but, on the 
 site of the first mentioned of the two, standeth 
 a small mansion, of Tudor architecture, bearing 
 still its ancient name. Of the monastery little 
 memorial, beyond the name, remains ; save 
 only that under a small enclosed space, ere- 
 while its cemetery, now a wilderness of flowers, 
 the bones of the monks repose. Two lines of 
 artificial slope to the westward mark the bound- 
 aries of the pleasaunce, where they took their 
 recreation, and cultivated their lentils and fruits ; 
 and a range of thickly- walled cellar still retains 
 the same destination and office as when it 
 furnished to those holy men their more gener- 
 ous materials of refection. 
 
 What more shall be said of the mansion, or 
 of the domain, full seventy statute acres, which 
 surrounds it ? — of the herds and flocks content 
 to thrive in silence on the richness of its fields, 
 and thrive they do in wondrous measure of 
 prosperity? Nothing, — Nor much of that more
 
 gamesome troop of idling steeds, though plea- 
 sant to their master's eye, who, on its green 
 expanse, frisk and gambol out a sportive colt- 
 hood, or graze and hobble through a tranquil 
 old age, with the active and laborious honours 
 of a publick life past, but not forgotten. Little 
 shall be said of that smooth and narrow pool, 
 scarce visible amonoj the risinor shrubs which 
 belt in and shroud the grounds from the in- 
 curious wayfarer; or of such carp and tench 
 as, having 'scaped the treacherous toils of the 
 nightly plunderer, gasp and tumble on its sur- 
 face, delighting to display their golden pride in 
 the mid-day sun, before the gaze of lawful pos- 
 session. Nor shall the casual reader be led 
 carelessly and wearily to note the many sweet 
 memorials of private friendship, records of the 
 living and the dead, which, standing forth from 
 amid the lightsome glades and leafy shadows 
 around, make the place sacred to many a strong 
 aflPection. Romantick the scenery without is 
 not, and for spacious halls and gorgeous cano-
 
 VI 
 
 pies the eye may search in vain within. But for 
 the warm cheer of the Httle oak Hbrary, — for 
 the quaint carvings, the tracery of other times, 
 which abound therein, — for the aweful note of 
 the blood-hound, baying upon his midnight 
 chain, — and the pleasing melancholy of the 
 hooting owl from his hereditary chamber in the 
 roof, — and for the tunefulness of the cooing 
 wood-quests, and the morning rooks which 
 bustle and caw, and of the high winds that 
 pipe and roar, daily and nightly, through the 
 boughs, — and for the deep glossy verdure of 
 the pastures stretching forth to the brave distant 
 hills which fence the vale, — to those, who in 
 such things take delight. Lilies hath still its 
 charms. 
 
 From the fireside of the afore-mentioned 
 little oak library the following legends proceed. 
 
 G.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Page 
 Isabel ; ob, the Old Angler's Story - - i 
 The Confessioxs of a Suspicious Gentleman 51 
 The Shooting Star - - - - 92 
 
 The First Fit of the Gout, the End of Man's 
 
 Happiness - - - - -HI 
 
 The Convent in the Forest - - _ 157 
 
 The Feaste of Alle Deuiles . - - 214 
 
 The Witch - - - - - 227 
 
 The old Soldier - - . _ 293 
 
 The Odious Catholick Question - - 305
 
 ISABEL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE OLD ANGLER'S STORY. 
 
 Mine has been a long, but an uneventful, life; 
 and I should have Httle to say, and nothing of 
 any importance, were I to speak only of my- 
 self. — I have lived for many years in a close 
 retirement. I planted, with my own hands, the 
 honeysuckle at the entrance of my cottage, 
 whose hard and twisted stem is now thicker 
 than my arm, and whose fragrant blossoms 
 cluster on the summit of my highest chimney. 
 I have cultivated and outUved many succeeding 
 generations of stately holyhocks, which have 
 constantly repaid my fostering care, by lording 
 it over me and my tiny domain, during the 
 months of their short summer glory. From a 
 
 B
 
 2 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 seat which is shadowed by a mighty sycamore, 
 a seedling of my own rearing, I watch the 
 setting sun. For five-and-forty years I have 
 never travelled two miles beyond my own cot- 
 tage. I have never left its peaceful shelter for 
 a single night. It and I have grown old to- 
 gether. We are now fit only the one for the 
 other. We shall probably fall together; for 
 we bid fair to endure just so long as the neces- 
 sities of the one shall receive the assistance of 
 the other. For several summers past I have 
 patched up the flaws which the last winter's 
 frosts had left in the roof and walls of my 
 home. Not blind to this emblem of myself, I 
 hope I have duly noted the warning. My 
 little dwelling has become more picturesque, 
 and has more value in my eyes, in its pre- 
 sent state of gradual and cheerful decay, than 
 it possessed in its strength and prosperity. — 
 Time has clothed it with flowers and foliage, 
 and with rich tints of beauty which time alone 
 can bring to perfection; while every passing
 
 THE OLD ANGLER S STORY. 3 
 
 year but gives it an appearance more tranquil, 
 
 respectable, and graceful. So -w-ith its master, 
 
 may 
 
 The soul's clay mansion, shattered and decayed. 
 
 Let in the light through chinks that time hath made." 
 
 But it was not to write of myself that I be- 
 gan to write at all. I am a lone being ; — 
 perhaps, without my use in society, and cer- 
 tainly without any of importance. But I have 
 been enabled closely to watch others, who were 
 born to a widely different fate, and to manv 
 a busy calling. And, in tracing the history- of 
 the one family that has been open to mv ob- 
 servations, I think I may venture, with some- 
 thing of confidence, even from this mv deep 
 retirement, to treat of some of the affans of a 
 distant and tumultuous world. 
 
 Within half a mile of mv dwellinor is a large 
 mansion, built in the style called " Elizabethan." 
 — No two of its many gable ends are of the same 
 size or form, and a fantastick variety prevails 
 amongst its crowd of high chimneys, no one 
 B 2
 
 4 ISABEL ; OR, 
 
 stack of which at all resembles another. The 
 windows are, for the most part, large and wide, 
 divided by stone mullions, and surmounted by 
 labels. But here and there, and oddly placed 
 in the dark corners and least conspicuous parts 
 of the building, are others of studied and labori- 
 ous workmanship, rich in corbels, and all 
 beautiful specimens of the florid Gothick. — On 
 the south, or garden side of the mansion, is a 
 broad stone terrace, from the centre of which 
 a descent by a flight of easy steps leads to a 
 lower terrace of smooth gravel ; and so on, by 
 three more flights of steps, down upon three 
 other terraces ; each being edged, on one side, 
 by a border of gay flowers, under a stone wall 
 of depth corresponding with the different flights 
 of steps; and thus the slight rising of the 
 ground has been disposed of in a manner which 
 well accords with the old house. — In the days 
 of its pride, this blaze of gaudy flower-garden 
 formed a rich contrast with the lawn of vivid 
 green at the foot of the lowest terrace, which
 
 is itself terminated by a brook. The road 
 which leads to the mansion follows for a little 
 way the straight line of the water, thus giving 
 the passenger a full view of the south front; then, 
 turning, with obsolete abruptness, up an avenue 
 of ancient elms, it ascends du'ectly to the en- 
 trance porch at the eastern gable. 
 
 When I first came to reside here, the man- 
 sion had for some years been unoccupied, ex- 
 cepting by a few old servants, whose easy duty 
 it had been to keep the house and pleasure- 
 grounds in constant order and repair. — The 
 property belonged to a minor, who resided 
 with his guardian, and who was afterwards un- 
 derstood to be gone upon his travels on the 
 Continent ; a custom deemed requisite, at that 
 time, to complete the education of a gentleman. 
 But he had never visited the abode of his an- 
 cestors. — No one came there ; — and it was an 
 effort of assiduous manual labour that prevented 
 the carriage-road, of which I have spoken, 
 B 3
 
 6 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 from becoming as green with weeds and grass 
 as the meadow that flanked its sides. 
 
 The brook, which shot its clear waters across 
 this meadow, is the one hnk that has connected 
 me with the rest of the world; my little 
 world has been the one family that afterwards 
 resided in the mansion I have attempted to 
 describe. — Sickly, and shy, and indolent by 
 nature, — bookish and contemplative by educa- 
 tion and habit, — what had I to wish for from 
 others, beyond what my own shelves amply pro- 
 vided me with, — the choicest sayings and ablest 
 works of the wisest men of all countries and ages ? 
 And I should seldom have left the " noble in- 
 nocent delights " of my own library and little 
 garden, had it not been for the one temptation to 
 further out-door's amusement which this brook 
 afforded me. — Like most sedentary persons, 
 the only bodily exercise I loved was the easy one 
 of angling. — My small garden was hemmed in 
 on two sides by this beautiful stream, which 
 took a sudden turn by my habitation, so that,
 
 7 
 
 with merely the slight exertion of carrying my 
 fishing-tackle a distance of about twenty paces 
 from my o^^ti door, I could enjoy the one rural 
 sport that was congenial to my taste. By 
 degrees I became more and more interested in 
 the pursuit. The love of gain had no part in 
 this; for, when I was more than usually suc- 
 cessful, I was perplexed and troubled how to 
 dispose of my booty ; and often have I restored 
 an active swinmier to his natural element, none 
 the worse for our acquamtance but for a shght 
 wound in his homy jaw, in return for the 
 mominor's amusement and exercise which his 
 
 o 
 
 capture had occasioned me. 
 
 \\Tiere the brook passed in front of the 
 mansion, it had been considerably widened and 
 deepened, and contained many a pool of deep 
 water, in which the pikes would grow to the 
 size of moderate alligators ; and with these 
 formidable opponents it became in time my 
 ambition to cope. — By degrees, therefore, I 
 lengthened my walks from my own cottage, and 
 B 4
 
 8 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 at last I got to be so inveterate an angler, that 
 hardly a day passed in spring, summer, or even 
 misty autumn, that did not show my solitary 
 figure, a patient sentinel, at its accustomed 
 spot. This accustomed spot was exactly at the 
 bottom of the broad avenue of elms, where the 
 carriage road turned up towards the house. 
 It was here that the water began to widen, and 
 there was in this place a very deep pool, softly 
 shadowed by the feathering branches of the 
 first two stately elms of the avenue, which 
 sufficiently screened my person from the wily 
 objects of my desire, and from the too piercing 
 rays of the summer sun. 
 
 It was here that I passed the greater part of 
 every tolerably fine day. My health improved 
 under the constant exposure to the free air, 
 and with the slight exertion of mind and body 
 which my employment demanded. I was not 
 always idle ; for I never omitted to put a book 
 into my fishing basket; and not unfrequently 
 have the riches of higher minds so perfectly
 
 THE OLD ANGLER S STORY. 9 
 
 engrossed every faculty of my own, that a fish 
 has died upon my hook, and been nearly nib- 
 bled from it by his former associates, ere I have 
 perceived that he was caught. A fine evening 
 has tempted me to prolong my walk on the 
 road near which I always sat. For a very few 
 paces further brought me right in front of the 
 antique mansion. Its fantastick chimneys, and 
 the points of its many gables, never showed to 
 so much advantage as in the sweet hour of 
 twilight. So thought the owl ; and she and I 
 would woo the sober beauties of the spot to- 
 gether. 
 
 Nor was the owl my only friend. The old 
 butler, or steward belonging to the mansion, 
 and who was at the head of the little establish- 
 ment of menials who resided there, in the pro- 
 tracted absence of its master, would now and 
 then stroll down the avenue, and watch my 
 sport — at first from a respectful distance ; but 
 his figure was too venerable, and his deport- 
 ment too modest, to alarm even my sensitive- 
 B 5
 
 10 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 ness, and I myself first opened a parley with 
 him. He would then stand, nothing loth, by 
 my side, and discourse on my art; for he, 
 too, had been an angler in his day. His ob- 
 servant care provided me with a wooden bench, 
 which he caused to be brought from its place 
 liigher up the avenue, and fixed on the margin 
 of the brook, for my convenience. I would re- 
 pay his gentle courtesy with the spoils of my 
 day's work, and so we went on, in a little inter- 
 change of kindness and good will. Encouraged 
 by the butler's report of my accessibility, the 
 old gardener would sometimes approach me. 
 He would bring me offerings of fruit and 
 flowers from his garden, and lament that such 
 results of his skill should be left to wither and 
 fall unseen, untasted, and, what was worse than 
 all, uncommended. 
 
 Days passed — and seasons passed — and 
 years rolled on — and°I had lived in my cottage, 
 and looked on the brook for nearly twenty years, 
 when a change, to me somewhat alarming, took
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 11 
 
 place at the mansion. Its owner, Duncan Lesly, 
 came to reside there. He had married his 
 guardian's only daughter, and he arrived with 
 his bride at the seat of his ancestors. An ox 
 was roasted whole — miniature cannon were 
 fired — the bells were set ringing — and every 
 possible noise was made that could be supposed 
 to express rustic rejoicing, congratulation, and 
 welcome. I retired within my own quiet shell, 
 and for some weeks did not venture even to 
 look forth over my chpped garden hedge. 
 
 There were some weighty reasons that told 
 against my future visits to my bench and the 
 pikes. First, I had no right to keep posses- 
 sion of another man's bench, and catch his fish, 
 without his permission, now that he was come 
 to look after liis own. Secondly, there had 
 been so few things in tliis world that I had ever 
 wished to do, that I never had had to ask a 
 favour in my life, and I did not like to begin to 
 do it now. And there was a thii'd reason, and 
 a better one than both the others : that very 
 B 6
 
 12 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 spot, in which I had for so many years enjoyed 
 such perfect solitude, was now, perhaps, the most 
 publick that could be chosen. The carriage 
 road, which passed it so closely, was now con- 
 tinually beset with carriages and company — 
 with equestrians and pedestrians — with every 
 thing that could most annoy a man of my re- 
 tired habits. Neighbours from all parts had to 
 pass that way, to pay their congratulatory visits 
 at the mansion. That same road led to the 
 parish church — to the village — to the farm — 
 to the dairy — to the main publick road ! — in 
 short, my bench was no longer a fitting place 
 for me ; so I reduced my thoughts to their 
 original boundaries, — caught gudgeons and 
 small fry, and was just as happy and contented 
 as before I had discovered and molested the 
 haunts of the more noble prey. 
 
 But, in spite of myself, I was doomed to face 
 the world. The old servants had mformed 
 their master, not only of my existence, but of 
 my former habits, and I was startled one morn-
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 13 
 
 ing by a visit from my new neighbour. He 
 came to request I would return to my amuse- 
 ment on his grounds ; that I would still con- 
 sider the bench as belonging solely to myself; 
 and said so much, and so obligingly, that I had 
 pledged my promise to do as he desired, before 
 I had arranged the terms in which, at the outset, 
 it had been my firm purpose to decline his 
 civiUty. What else could I do ? It was not in 
 my nature to be morose and ungracious, and 
 who would not have been influenced by the 
 mild and winning manners of Duncan Lesly ? 
 To ease all difficulties, I resolved to comply, and 
 to return to my bench and my fishing, just so 
 often as might suffice henceforward to mark 
 that I was not ungrateful for his attentive kind- 
 ness. Accordingly, I soon sacrificed myself to 
 a day of publick restraint, (as I fancied it would 
 be, ) and I shrunk as I perceived Mr. Lesly ap- 
 proaching me by the avenue. He was accom- 
 panied by a lady. I could not escape. 
 
 He presented to me his young and pretty
 
 14 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 bride; — and then he added, " Now do not 
 fancy that we mean to torment you thus every 
 day — only consent to come here as often as 
 you used to do, and we will neglect you to 
 your heart's content — only let us see you here. 
 You have enjoyed this calm spot before I, its 
 nominal owner, knew of it. You must be 
 acquainted with us too in time; but we need 
 not hurry you ; for I am come to pass the rest 
 of my life in this beautiful place. I like it so 
 much, that not a thing shall be done but to 
 keep it as it is." 
 
 I felt as if I could have thanked him both 
 audibly and eloquently ; — for my fear had been, 
 that his taste might be corrupted by the fashion 
 of the day, — which was then quite against old 
 mansions, — and I dreaded lest he should have 
 brought home with him from Italy that strange 
 rage for Roman architecture, which so ill ac- 
 cords with our soil, our atmosphere, and our 
 domestick habits. 
 
 Thus persuaded and encouraged, what could
 
 THE OLD ANGLERS STORY. lo 
 
 I do but comply? I did return again and 
 again to my bench, and I did continue to use 
 it, and consider it as my own. — My kind 
 neighbours kept their promise. They would 
 pass me, and repass me, and would not even 
 notice me, unless I seemed to court it. — They 
 let me see that I was no hinderance to them ; — 
 and it would have been difficult, indeed, for me 
 to find a grievance in this slight intercourse 
 with them. By degrees, too, the arrivals were 
 less frequent. The family was now settled in 
 its home, — I in the quiet possession of my 
 bench ; and all went on as tranquilly as even 
 my own ease-loving heart could wish ! 
 
 I soon found the benefit of this slight intro- 
 duction to the world. My ideas had become 
 obsolete. I knew not the changes that were 
 taking place even in my own land ; and, now 
 that an easy means of information offered itself, 
 I found I still was human, and still had in- 
 terests and feelings, without which man is a 
 merely selfish animal. Upon any important
 
 16 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 news, foreign or domestick, Mr. Lesly would 
 walk down to my bench, and read me passages 
 from his letters and the 4^ily papers, and 
 enlighten my mind, by his agreeable convers- 
 ation, on the affairs and topicks of the day. It 
 was impossible not to like him; he was so 
 amiable, benevolent, and unaffected. He pre- 
 sented a fair picture of a useful and domestick 
 life; and, if one may so say of any being in 
 this world, he must have been, at the time I 
 am speaking of, a really happy man ! — Within 
 the first year of his marriage, the birth of a 
 son added to his content. The second year 
 brought a daughter. I still remember the 
 thankful joyful expression of his countenance, 
 as, on both occasions, he hastened to inform 
 me himself of the glad tidings. I grieve to 
 proceed, — for I have now done with recording 
 the happiness of this worthy gentleman ! Two 
 years after this last event, the whole place was 
 thrown into consternation ; for the young wife 
 died in giving birth to a second daughter ! —
 
 17 
 
 No merry peal announced or welcomed the 
 little stranger ; but the bell tolled a sad funeral 
 knell, and marked her, from her birth, the child 
 of misfortune ! 
 
 All was now changed, and, in a few weeks, 
 Duncan Lesly left the mansion. I did not see 
 him. — His affliction was too deep to admit of 
 alleviation from aught but the lapse of time. 
 — He took with him his two elder children. 
 The infant Isabel was left under the care of a 
 skilful nurse, but remained so sickly and ten- 
 der that every succeeding day was expected to 
 terminate her slender hold on life. But still 
 the little girl Hved on, and showed a degree of 
 vigour that at length gave hopes she might 
 be spared. Medical treatment was abandoned: 
 nature was permitted to be the only guide, 
 and the free air her only medicine; and the 
 child lived and grew. 
 
 The following year I received a letter from 
 Mr. Lesly, desiring my performance of a httle 
 act of friendship. He had caused a monument
 
 18 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 of his wife to be prepared. It was now ready, 
 and he asked me to superintend the erection of 
 it in the parish church. — It had been executed 
 under his own eye by one of the first sculptors 
 of the time. The design, which was noble in 
 its extreme simplicity, was his own. On a deep 
 step, at the foot of a broken column, one female 
 figure, of the full size of life, and intended 
 to personate Religion, sat, in calm dignity. 
 Both the attitude and the execution of this 
 figure were very beautiful. The whole was of 
 spotless white marble. It was placed on one side 
 of the altar, and formed a prominent feature in 
 the venerable little church, — while it afforded to 
 the moralist a durable memorial of the'short dur- 
 ation of youth, beauty, and earthly happiness ! 
 
 In the year following, the family returned 
 to the mansion ; and the infant Isabel was, 
 for the first time, surrounded by those to 
 whom she naturally belonged. — At first, she 
 shrunk, with timid alarm, from the caresses of 
 her father, and the rough play of the children.
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 19 
 
 I had been hitherto the only stranger that had 
 noticed her ; and, as if the poor child could 
 understand the tender compassion her mo- 
 therless and deserted infancy had excited within 
 my breast, she continued to treat me as her best 
 friend. She would welcome me with a little 
 scream of joy, and never appeared so happy 
 as when her nurse brought her to my bench. 
 
 Several years passed on, and the current of 
 time was marked by little beyond the growth 
 and improvement of the three children. The 
 tw^o elder ones were healthy and strong, and 
 nothing interrupted their progress ; but Isabel ! 
 — she seemed ever to fluctuate between sickness 
 and health — life and death. Never did a child 
 appear more to need a mother's watchful care. 
 The youngest of the three, she was the tallest 
 of all. Her frail slender form was never erect. 
 She leaned upon, or clung to, what was nearest 
 to her; and, if no support happened to be at 
 hand, she would recline upon the ground ; and 
 thus her movements were a succession of na-
 
 20 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 tural and graceful attitudes. — Yet, full of 
 youthful energy, she ever attempted to follow 
 the other children, till the exertion of a few 
 minutes would oblige her to desist. At the 
 happy hour of liberty from school-room re- 
 straint, the children would seldom fail to begin 
 their sports by racing down the avenue. The 
 two elder ones would keep abreast, — then 
 turn the corner with vigorous speed — and 
 soon be out of sight ; while Isabel, foremost 
 for the first few paces, then lagging, and soon 
 left far behind, and scarcely able to drag her 
 weary frame along, — would come, panting and 
 exhausted, to the well-known repose of my 
 bench ; and thus, in general, would end the poor 
 child's holyday. 
 
 She had now reached an age when the 
 charm of childish beauty yields to the superior 
 expression which ripening intellect bestows 
 upon the features of early youth. — Isabel had 
 now attained the twelfth year of her age. — 
 She had never possessed the radiant bloom of
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 21 
 
 healthful infancy ; but her delicacy had nothing 
 of the hue — nothing of the painful meagre- 
 ness of sickliness : her style of beauty was 
 peculiar; and some might have preferred to it 
 the dimpled sunny countenance of her sister 
 Barbara; but none who love to trace in the 
 eloquent features the workings of an ardent and 
 gifted imagination, but would have pondered 
 with delight on those of Isabel. Her large 
 eyes were of the deepest softest blue, — and 
 whether they were cast upwards and beamed 
 with animation, or, whether, half closed in 
 languor, their long dark fringes shadowed her 
 pale cheek, their expression was ever new — 
 ever beautiful. There was something angel ick in 
 her smile. What it possessed beyond the smile 
 of other children that made it so attractive, I 
 know not ; probably its sudden contrast with 
 the previous and prevalent expression of her 
 countenance, which was a little pensive, might 
 have added to its fascination. But, in my 
 opinion, all these charms gave way to the one
 
 22 ISABEL ; OR, 
 
 produced by the touching tones of her voice. 
 Often left, as she was, by the others, to her 
 own resources for amusement, she would slowly 
 stroll about the terraces, singing her nursery 
 legends and ballads, — while her clear soft tones 
 gave them a wild beauty which they could 
 never otherwise have acquired. 
 
 At this time, young Lesly was placed at 
 school. The children parted, with many tears, 
 and his absence was lamented as long as the 
 buoyant spirits of youth could afford to lament 
 any thing ; — and then, his return for holy- 
 days was anticipated, and gave a fair excuse 
 for a renewal of happiness. In this change 
 Barbara was the greatest loser. She and her 
 brother were nearest of an age, and had always 
 been close companions. While Isabel had 
 been obliged to discover many ways of be- 
 guiling her loneliness. One of these, — and I 
 hope not the least profitable one, — was her 
 constant habit of passing a part of every fine 
 day at the bench of the old Angler. I had dis-
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 23 
 
 covered iii her so vivid an imagination, and so 
 mucli innate acuteness in the Httle deductions of 
 her pure and artless judgment, that I loved to 
 lead her on to consider subjects, perhaps be- 
 yond her years, but not beyond her under- 
 standing ; and thus, unconsciously to herself, I 
 had conveyed instruction of the most solid and 
 useful nature to her young mind, under the 
 more enticing form of amusement. 
 
 But now, in the absence of all other means 
 of passing her time, Barbara was more with 
 her sister ; and she would even follow her to 
 my bench, for the slight variety that it af- 
 forded. 
 
 I had now an opportunity of studying her 
 character, if, indeed, it can be said that she 
 had any to study. She possessed a good 
 cheerful temper; but an over-ruling love of 
 frivolous and active amusements took all feeling 
 from it, and tinged it with a degree of selfish- 
 ness that possibly was the more perceptible to 
 me on account of the contrast which it formed
 
 24 ISABEL ; OR, 
 
 with the disposition of my favourite Isabel. 
 Barbara was very vain, very idle, but, when 
 she chose it, very what the world calls pleasing. 
 She loved a crowd, and, when she gave her 
 attention to any acquirement, it was sure to be 
 to something showy, and, generally, equally 
 useless. She had no vice ; but one wished 
 in vain to trace, in one so young and giddy, 
 seeds of virtues, that might ripen with her 
 growth into guards against the temptations 
 of a world towards which all her propensities 
 and all her wishes tended. I need not add 
 that, while Barbara was our companion, very 
 little instructive conversation took place at the 
 old Angler's bench. 
 
 A joyful moment approached, and one that 
 brought, not only the sisters, but Mr. Lesly 
 himself, to that bench, where he awaited the 
 arrival of his son from school. The happy boy, 
 with the haste, checked by blushing hesitation, 
 that marks an earnestness of purpose, urged his 
 father to grant him what he termed " a great
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 25 
 
 favour and kindness." He said, one boy re- 
 mained at the school, whose parents were in 
 India, and who had no friends in this country 
 with whom he could pass his holydays ; and he 
 was in consequence left alone at the school. — 
 " He is my best friend there," said young Lesly; 
 " and he looked so grave when he saw the last of 
 us come away, that I promised to beg for him to 
 come here and stay with me." The request 
 was immediately granted, and the delighted 
 boy had the gratification of despatchino- the 
 same chaise that had brought him, to fetch his 
 friend. 
 
 And now all was exultation and happiness, 
 and even Isabel had no leisure for any thing 
 but the enjojnnent of her brother's society. — 
 In a few days her strength and spirits were 
 exhausted, and she came to me for rest; for 
 nothing else, however, then; and, as soon as 
 she could return, she returned to the amuse- 
 ments of the others, which now became daily 
 less childish and better arranged. — The new 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 eomer, Mortimer, was a year older than Lesly, 
 and this advantage, together with his superiour 
 skill and knowledge, soon procured him un- 
 contested authority over the youthful circle. 
 A looker-on might easily trace, in his boyish 
 deportment, a decided love of rule ; but this, in 
 him, was united with so singularly graceful a 
 manner of enforcing obedience, that it could 
 not offend ; and, while he alone directed in all 
 their occupations, the others knew not that they 
 obeyed. He was loved, admired, looked up to 
 by them all; and this, instead of exciting any 
 feeling of jealousy in the heart of young Lesly, 
 was observed by him with pleasure, while he 
 exulted, with boyish pride, at having been the 
 first to draw the general favourite into notice. 
 
 From this time, Mortimer became like one of 
 the family, and always passed his holydays at 
 the mansion with liis friend. I must cease to 
 talk of them as boys. They now approached 
 manhood, and were placed at the same univer- 
 sity, and even in the same college; for Mor-
 
 THE OLD ANGLER S STORY. 27 
 
 timer had commumcated with his parents, and 
 had obtained from them ample means, and their 
 fiill consent, to follow his ovm wishes. Lesly 
 had chosen the law as a profession, and Morti- 
 mer, whose natural talents rendered all ac- 
 quirements easy to him alike, joined him, and 
 led the way in this pursuit as in every other. 
 Still their vacations were always passed at the 
 mansion. 
 
 Time was likewise making its customary 
 changes there ; gaining with sure but stealthy 
 strides upon those who would fain be blind to 
 its advances, but exulting in its march and 
 making visible its touch upon the young. — 
 They were now our compeers in most things, 
 — oui' superiors in many, — our inferiors in 
 nothing, save in that maturer wisdom which 
 we (when we are frank enough to ovm it) 
 would gladly barter for those advantages which 
 are the accompaniments of the inexperience of 
 youth. No change took place in my habits. 
 Still did I fish in the brook, and observe the 
 c 2
 
 28 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 while all that was passing within those con- 
 fined limits which bounded my intercourse with 
 the world. 
 
 It had been for some time evident that an 
 attachment subsisted between Mortimer and 
 the eldest sister of his friend. Nothing could 
 be more natural, or more to be expected ; and 
 I knew that the good father had not exposed 
 his daughter to the probable result of an inti- 
 macy with a remarkably handsome and attrac- 
 tive young man, without having at the same 
 time prepared his own mind to consent to their 
 future union. 
 
 When I say that a mutual attachment sub- 
 sisted between the two, I purposely guard 
 myself from speaking in warmer terms of that 
 which I could perceive deserved no warmer 
 a description. It may be deemed presumptuous 
 in me, (an old bachelor, and one who had 
 never earned for himself a right to speak on 
 the subject by any experience of his own,) thus 
 to decide upon a point so delicate. But let it
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 29 
 
 be considered that, although Uttle versed in the 
 ways of lining man, I yet had gathered sure 
 knowledge of the heart of man, from a source 
 that cannot fail, — the experience of ages and 
 of sages. That master painter of the human 
 passions — he who could track them through all 
 their ^^iadings, and, ever guided by truth and 
 nature, draw them from their most secret 
 ambush, — he had been my great instructor. 
 Taught by " sweetest Shakspeare," I had 
 been able to note upon how slight found- 
 ation the preference, of wliich I have spoken, 
 rested. 
 
 Mr. Lesly had foreseen that his kindness to 
 Mortimer miorht lead to a marriage with one of 
 his daughters ; but, alas ! the wisest of us 
 are but short-sighted, and Mr. Lesly could 
 not foresee, neither had he the most distant 
 apprehension of what I early became aware of, 
 and with feelings of the keenest alarm. — Isabel 
 loved Mortimer. Yes, I may say " love," in 
 speaking of the ardent and pure affection that 
 c 3
 
 30 ISABEL ; OR, 
 
 filled the heart of one so prone to tenderness : 
 so incapable of a slight or frivolous impression. 
 Unobserved by him, — unconsciously to herself, 
 Isabel loved Mortimer, and had loved him 
 from childhood. It was the early beginning of 
 this feeling that had screened it from all eyes 
 but mine. It had grown with her growth so 
 naturally and so gracefully, that what had been 
 seen, and acknowledged, and approved, as a 
 childish and sisterly fondness, had ripened into 
 what it was, without requiring or receiving any 
 change in its outward expression. The gentle 
 girl was now again often at my bench. She 
 knew not *why she loved its solitude, and her 
 kind heart fancied it was in friendship for the 
 old angler that she sought it, and that she 
 passed the hours when there in melancholy 
 silence ! 
 
 The following winter, the mansion became a 
 scene of unusual gaiety. His family was now 
 grown up, (for even Isabel was seventeen,) and 
 Mr. Lesly made sacrifice of his own tastes, and
 
 31 
 
 much of his comfort, to bring his children 
 more acquainted with a world in which each 
 might so soon be called upon to take a part. 
 He gave diimers, dances, and suppers, and the 
 old mansion was crowded with company. I 
 only heard of these things ; for I had ensconsed 
 myself within my own chimney nook, and had 
 put away my rod and line till spring. But 
 now, for a wonder, I wished to hurry time. I 
 longed for spring, that I might return to my 
 bench, and discover the progress of aifairs 
 within the mansion. The first days of April 
 saw me at my post. I had not long to wait ; 
 my dear Isabel had been watchmg for me, and 
 was as impatient to impart her news as I was 
 to receive it. A good sign, I fancied, and I 
 thought the poor child's heart seemed hghter. 
 Barbara was on the point of marriage, and not 
 
 with Mortimer ! Sir Charles D , with 
 
 whom young Lesly had become acquainted at 
 
 college, had been invited to the mansion. He 
 
 had come for a few days, and had remained 
 
 c 4.
 
 32 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 as many months. Struck with Barbara's 
 sprightliness and beauty, he was soon her de- 
 clared admirer. Sir Charles was young — and 
 rich — and gay — and extravagant; her vanity 
 was flattered — and her silly fancy caught — 
 and his offer was accepted. 
 
 I had now frequent opportunities of observ- 
 ing the actors in the strange scene that was 
 passing. Mortimer had been absent for some 
 weeks. He now returned, and I could per- 
 ceive that his presence caused a struggle in the 
 bosom of Barbara. — Yes ! she had sacrificed 
 her i^al happiness to the vain love of show 
 and glitter ; and of what the world calls plea- 
 sure. Her heart was Mortimer's somewhat 
 more than I had fancied ; and, even now, if he 
 had taken a very little pains to improve the 
 preference, her earliest affection might have 
 triumphed. But Mortimer was one who re- 
 quired some great excitement to induce him to 
 take pains. Hitherto success had crowned his 
 views, with hardly an effort on his part. He
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 33 
 
 expected the blessings of life to offer themselves 
 unsought for ; and, although he liked Barbara, 
 and was mortified and piqued when he found 
 she had decided in favour of another, still 
 there was nothing in her character that could 
 operate strongly upon his affections, and he 
 took pleasiu^e in showing that the disappoint- 
 ment did not materially affect his happiness. 
 Barbara's pride was touched, and, although, in 
 my opinion, time might still have worked a 
 change, time could not be allowed. The mar- 
 riage day had been fixed, and there was nothing 
 to delay it. Mortimer concealed his feelings, 
 whatever they were, by a feigned call to Lon- 
 don on business relating to his absent family, 
 and left the mansion the day before the cere- 
 mony took place. 
 
 As he departed, both the fair sisters issued 
 with him from the porch, and all came down 
 the avenue together. Mortimer led his horse 
 with one hand, while Barbara hung upon his 
 other arm; and Isabel, the neglected Isabel, 
 c 5
 
 34- ISABEL ; OR, 
 
 she who most required support, as usual, re- 
 ceived none, and followed alone. It was a 
 strange parting, and took place under an at- 
 tempted disguise of feelings on all sides. But 
 I could read the hearts of all. In Barbara's, 
 early affection for Mortimer was much revived 
 by the thought of parting, and caused a pang 
 which had 7io^ no business there. But in that 
 same heart there was so much of vanity, of 
 worldliness, that it could not afford to suffer, 
 and she repelled the emotion with a show of 
 gaiety, neither natural, nor becoming. Morti- 
 mer was not behind in his outward expression 
 of unconcern, and, with more of sarcasm than 
 kindness, he talked of her marriage, and offered 
 his wishes for her happiness. I could hear all 
 as they passed me. " I am grieved I cannot 
 stay, Barbara," he said ; "I should have liked 
 so much to dance at your wedding." And, 
 suddenly looking back over his shoulder as he 
 spoke, he added, " and Isabel too; she will be 
 married ere I return." — " Oh no ! indeed no \ "
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 35 
 
 cried Isabel, with vehemence, as she quickened 
 her pace towards him. But her answer was 
 unheeded ; the appeal had been accidental — mo- 
 mentary, and the two frivolous beings were 
 now laughing at some new sally. The poor 
 mortified girl stood still for a few seconds, 
 gazing after them with a slight waving of her 
 drooping head. Tlien, retracing the few steps 
 she had advanced beyond the avenue, she cast 
 herself upon my bench, and wept long and 
 bitterly. 
 
 We must now let time pass on for two whole 
 years, for I have little to narrate that took 
 place during that period. Isabel was left 
 alone with her father. She was now com- 
 paratively happy; for who shall determine how 
 faint a ray of hope may suffice to tranquiUize a 
 lovins: heart : or bv how many wavs, and how 
 few reasonable, it may contrive to enter ? Bar- 
 bara and Sir Charles lived much in London. 
 Young Lesly was studying the law with assi- 
 'duity at the Temple ; and, although he did it 
 c 6
 
 36 ISiiBEL ; OR, 
 
 more for occupation than with a view of making 
 it a profession, Mortimer still followed his 
 friend. During all this time none of them had 
 returned to the mansion. What then gave hope 
 to my dear Isabel ? Why, Mortimer was still 
 unmarried — his early friend was still his dearest 
 friend and chief companion, and she never re- 
 ceived a letter from her brother, and seldom 
 from her sister, that did not tell of Mortimer. 
 He was still like one of the family. 
 
 At length, both young men returned together 
 to the mansion, to the home and the scenes of 
 their careless boyish days, to their father and 
 friend, and to the affectionate, but hitherto 
 neglected, companion of their youth. I marked 
 her radiant smile, — her beaming eye, — the 
 visible heaving of her bosom, when she awaited 
 their arrival at the usual place. A slight cloud 
 passed for a moment across her brow, and told 
 me that the recollection of her last parting 
 with Mortimer, on that same spot, had forced 
 itself, unbidden, to her mind. She paused for
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 37- 
 
 an instant, as if irresolute, whether to return 
 or stay. I pointed to where they were even 
 then approaching, and she ran to meet them. 
 
 I will be brief. Mortimer was ?iot blind ; he 
 was 7Wt insensible; a very few days proved it: 
 a few weeks passed; and he, who had been so 
 long the chosen of her heart, became her pas- 
 sionate lover — her betrothed husband. And 
 now did I, — even I, forgive him his former 
 caprice; for now every succeeding day ap- 
 peared to render him more worthy the affection 
 of my gentle Isabel. Each day added to the 
 bloom upon her cheek, and to her beauty ; for 
 each day brought happiness, and happiness 
 brought health. Her slender form scarce 
 seemed to touch the ground as she glided 
 down the terraces with her lover and her bro- 
 ther. Her grateful heart could read the deep 
 sympathy of mine, and she came every day to 
 pass an hour with the friend of her infancy. 
 She would sit near me on the grass between 
 the two young men, and plan a future life of
 
 38 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 innocence, of usefulness, of peace ! Mortimer 
 appeared now first to be aware of the excel- 
 lencies of this highly-gifted girl, and suddenly 
 alive to the attractions of her uncommon 
 beauty. He would fix his dark eye upon her 
 as she sat, with an expression of wondering 
 and admiring tenderness that I had hitherto 
 believed him incapable of feeling. All selfish 
 objects seemed to be cast aside, and he would 
 even forget to display the rare advantages he 
 had himself derived from nature and from edu- 
 cation, and would only strive to draw forth to 
 observation that mine of riches, which had lain 
 so long unheeded and unsearched for by him, 
 in the pure and cultivated mind of Isabel. He 
 hung over her lovely form in ecstasy — he 
 dwelt with fond approval upon every word she 
 uttered. 
 
 Young Lesly was obliged to return to his 
 labours at the Temple ; and, at the joint re- 
 quest of the two friends, an early day was fixed 
 for the marriage, that it might take place be-
 
 39 
 
 fore his departure. Mortimer and Isabel were 
 to reside at the mansion. Sir Charles and 
 Barbara were absent on a tour. They were 
 expected home about this time ; and letters had 
 been despatched to meet them on their return 
 at their London residence. These letters 
 would at the same time inform Barbara of her 
 sister's intended marriage, and in^Hite her to 
 attend it; but her arrival was neither expected 
 nor waited for. 
 
 The solemn service was begun ; a deep and re- 
 spectful silence reigned throughout the crowded 
 church, broken only by the impressive tones of 
 the minister, as he repeated the opening ex- 
 hortation. A sudden stir, attended with some 
 confusion, took place at the great door of the 
 church. A female figure rushed up the aile 
 with frantic energy; her arms extended, and 
 uttering a piteous scream. It was Barbara ! — 
 She reached the altar — she clung to the 
 horror-stricken bridegroom. " Oh, Mortimer ! " 
 she cried, " spare, at least, one sister. Let one
 
 40 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 victim suffice; bring not disgrace and misery 
 upon both ! " and she fell exhausted and faint- 
 ing upon the steps of the altar. 
 
 The scene that followed may possibly be ima- 
 gined, it cannot be described by my weak pen. 
 Indeed I can but imperfectly recall what took 
 place upon this awful interruption of the mar- 
 riage ceremony. The church was soon cleared ; 
 but how the insensible Barbara was removed — 
 what happened to the astounded father, I could 
 not even at the time have said. I was riveted to 
 the spot where I had stood. I had chosen one 
 aloof from the crowd, and when I recovered 
 the power of motion and observation, and looked 
 around me, the church seemed empty. I re- 
 solved to quit it too, to seek the shelter of my 
 own home, and wait, in anxiety, but with pa- 
 tience, the solution of the mystery, the con- 
 firmation of my fears. 
 
 As I crossed the aile, my eyes turned me- 
 chanically towards that altar which had just 
 been the scene of so much confusion and alarm.
 
 THE OLD ANGLERS STORY. 41 
 
 It was not quite deserted ; Isabel, — the so lately 
 blooming, happy, Isabel ! — she was there — 
 in her white bridal robes — her arms crossed 
 upon her bosom, and paler than the pale roses 
 that still crowned her head ; there did she stand 
 beside her mother's monument — still — motion- 
 less as the marble figure at its base. 
 
 I could not leave her so; and yet I dreaded 
 to approach, when the slight noise I made in 
 passing roused her from her state of abstraction. 
 The poor girl threw out her arms towards me in 
 a supplicating attitude. " ^\^lathas happened?" 
 she exclaimed, wildly. " I feel it is some great 
 misfortune ; but what, I know not. — Oh ! " 
 she continued, " friend of my infancy, do not 
 you too desert me ; but follow those who left 
 me here, and bring me tidings of my fate. — 
 And Mortimer," she added, claspmg her hands 
 in a sort of agony, " tell Mortimer, that I 
 await him here ! " 
 
 I left the church, and with what poor haste I 
 could command, I set forward to obey her
 
 42 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 wishes. When I reached the mansion, more 
 than an hour must have elapsed since the com- 
 mencement of the scene I have in part described. 
 All was in confusion at the house, and with 
 difficulty I pierced the throng of officious 
 neighbours and servants, who were pressing 
 round the suffering father. At last, I saw 
 him, but I dared not break in upon the feelings 
 of that moment. He hunff over the still insen- 
 sible Barbara, for, though she was restored to 
 animation, she remained in strong hystericks. 
 The words she uttered were incoherent ; but, 
 alas ! they sufficiently disclosed the sad secret 
 of her guilt ! The name of Mortimer was 
 ever on her lips, and it was hard to judge from 
 her disjointed sentences, whether remorse for 
 the breach of her marriage vow, or love for 
 the partner of her crime, or anger, or jealousy, 
 had most actuated her in her late publick dis- 
 closure of her disgrace. But oh ! this was not 
 all the misery of that heavy hour. 
 
 Mortimer had left the church with a haste
 
 THE OLD angler's STORY. 43 
 
 and suddenness that made his departure un- 
 known to all but one, unseen by all save one, 
 under whose keen scrutinizmg gaze his own 
 eye sunk, and his whole frame trembled ! The 
 injured brother, the betrayed friend, had 
 watched him closely, and he had marked, and 
 closely followed upon, his steps. Lesly had 
 unfortunately passed his own servant in the 
 crowd, and had despatched him for his pistols. 
 With too ready a duty, he had been obeyed, 
 and the servant returned just as the young men 
 met at the village inn. It was said, and I believe 
 it to be true, that Mortimer endeavoured stre- 
 nuously to avoid the other ; that he said some- 
 thing about explanation, and another time. 
 But the irritation of Lesly's mind closed it 
 against all reason — all patience. He called 
 Mortimer villain — base seducer — coward ! 
 He obhged him to take his stand. Then, per- 
 ceiving by the direction of the pistol that he 
 would not take aim, the mad young man 
 stepped suddenly up to hun, and striking down
 
 44? ISABEL; OR, 
 
 the other's arm, a sort of scuffle ensued. Mor- 
 timer's pistol went off by accident, and its 
 contents were lodged in the body of the un- 
 fortunate brother ! 
 
 And Mortimer, alas ! he had never learnt 
 the art of controuling his own strong impulses ; 
 on the contrary, a course of self-love and self- 
 indulgence had ill prepared him for the 
 horrors of that moment. The desolation he 
 had brought upon others, doubtless, had its 
 share in the sad catalogue of distracting re- 
 collections that must have crowded upon his 
 brain. There was no time for reflection; in 
 another moment he would have been surround- 
 ed. Lesly's pistol lay at his feet upon the 
 
 ground. 1 cannot proceed, — but there is 
 
 no need, — the dreadful result must have been 
 anticipated. Yes ! the guilty and miserable 
 young man died by his own hand ! 
 
 I received the mournful intelligence as I left 
 the mansion. I met the lifeless bodies of the 
 poor victims in the avenue as I returned to the
 
 THE OLD ANGLER S STORY. 45 
 
 church. Yes; it was my sad part to be the 
 messenger of irremediable woe, to the one 
 being whom I loved with an affection as strong 
 as if it had been paternal. 
 
 Isabel was still at the foot of her mother's 
 monument ; but she had clung to the marble 
 figure for support : her pale cheek rested on its 
 shoulder, and her eye seemed to follow the finger 
 of the statue as it pointed upwards to that 
 heaven, which alone could restore her to peace. 
 Even in my deep concern I paused to gaze 
 with admiration on the group. Isabel moved 
 towards me : " Tell me at once," she said; '' I 
 can bear it now. I see — I see, my awn dream 
 of joy is over ; but oh ! if possible, say, they 
 are not guilty ! " With breathless impatience 
 she paused for my reply, while her look seemed 
 to penetrate my inmost thoughts. " You have 
 a father," I replied, my ot^ti voice trembling 
 with agitation, " you have still a duty to per- 
 form, for you have a father ! " — " Have I 
 nothing else?" she asked, slowly and fear-
 
 46 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 fully. — " Dear child," I could only answer, 
 while my gushing tears prepared her for the 
 rest, ** pray that you may still, even at this 
 hour, have him ; — bow to the rod, and come 
 with me." 
 
 She did bow to the rod, and a murmur never 
 passed her lips, although her trials lasted as 
 long as any thing was left to her that could 
 prove a source of additional suffering. She 
 saw the consummation of her sister's disgrace. 
 Sir Charles procured a divorce, and his 
 wretched wife was exposed, and then aban- 
 doned to the cold world's scorn. What be- 
 came of her, and where she dwelt, none of her 
 family could discover. The unhappy father 
 never rose from the bed to which he had been 
 carried on that fatal day that deprived him of 
 his son, and of all his remaining comfort. Isabel 
 watched him, nursed him to the last. He died, 
 blessing the filial hand that had alleviated, al- 
 though it could not heal, his grief. And Isabel 
 is left alone ; and she too is dropping into the
 
 THE OLD ANGLER S STORY. 47 
 
 grave, but slowly — silently ! At the pensive 
 evening hour, her tall thin form is sometimes 
 seen upon the now neglected terraces. She 
 used to reach the lowest, then the next ; but 
 now, she seldom descends the steps of the first, 
 and, when she does, she requires a hand to sup- 
 port her weak frame back again. She receives 
 me kindly, affectionately ; but I seldom break 
 in upon her sorrow; for, oh ! I feel, that 
 
 " The first bringer of unwelcome news 
 
 Hath but a losing ofBce, — and his tongue 
 Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, 
 Eemembered tolling a departing friend." 
 
 Thus have I seen the end of all this love- 
 liness, this excellence. Tlius have the busy 
 fates of others flitted, like a troubled dream, 
 across my long, steady, path of life. Tlie 
 child of habit, like others of my kind, still 
 do I wander forth to my accustomed haunts; 
 still do I sit at times upon my bench, watching 
 the sparkling waters as they 
 
 " Glide, like happiness, away ! "
 
 48 ISABEL; OR, 
 
 They still reflect the same bright heavens. 
 But oh ! for the friends that are gone ! gone 
 like the clouds of a storm, whose dawn and 
 progress I have so often marked ; first, as little 
 silvery specks upon the vast expanse, then 
 gaining rapidly in size — beauty — splendour, 
 reaching their full growth and glory, but to 
 burst ! — then vanishing, and leaving the wide 
 range blue and tranquil as before, and without 
 a trace of their short and turbulent existence ! 
 Yes ; the past appears to me a troubled dream, 
 which, as often happens with a wild fancy of 
 the mind as the body slowly puts on its powers 
 after sleep, may still in a manner be prolonged, 
 and which blends itself so strangely with reality 
 we are some time in doubt which part of it is 
 true, and which is fiction ; what of it is gone, 
 and what is still enacting. 
 
 The association of ideas, caused by the pre- 
 sence of tangible objects and the scenery 
 around, has often power to restore the past in 
 colours almost vivid as the truth. I stroll upon
 
 49 
 
 the road, the twiliorht veils the neglected 
 state of the once blooming terraces. I catch 
 upon the breeze the distant voices of jo}'- 
 ous village children at their play. I start, 
 and for an instant listen for the sweeter tones 
 of those who used to gambol there. I have 
 recourse to reading, once my solace; my eye 
 falls on a passage well known for its grandeur, 
 or its soft tenderness. I seek the look so 
 wont to glisten at its beauties. The page re- 
 tains the fold, — the margin bears the mark of 
 that rare discernment which once could double 
 my delight by sharing it. Now, I only may 
 remember what I once enjoyed ! 
 
 I look toward the avenue; my eye, now 
 dimmed by age, would penetrate its gentle 
 srloom. Fain would I court some recollection 
 of my happier days, when that fair walk was 
 peopled by the springing restless forms of 
 3'outh and joy. Alas, alas ! the mind's busy 
 limner plies its too rapid aid ; it paints of some 
 the mangled lifeless bodies ; — the funeral pro- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 ISABEL, ETC. 
 
 cessions of them all ! For sad relief I seek 
 their tombs — for there the havock ended ! 
 
 And I am, at the close of my long life, even 
 as I was when it began — alone and friendless : 
 for these pages will not become publick till she, 
 the weary one, of whom they chiefly treat, shall 
 be at rest. 
 
 L.
 
 51 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 L'homme se pipe. Montaigne. 
 
 Arrived at that period of life, when a man 
 can no longer deceive even himself by the af- 
 fectation of a long cherished youth, but, how- 
 ever reluctantlv, is fain to enter, y^-iffored, and 
 the worse for wear, into the army of elderly 
 gentlemen, I have undertaken a bitter task. In 
 this hard moment, my situation and feelings are 
 like those of a naughty urchin who has, by 
 penance, to repair his past misconduct, and re- 
 gain the confidence and favour of his superiours. 
 Like him, I see a new life, with all its respon- 
 sibilities, opening before me. Hope animates 
 us both : him with the earnest of plum cakes, 
 D 2 
 
 UBRARt 
 
 uKivosmr OF itUMOB
 
 52 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 and other indigestibles, the meed of future con- 
 trition and amendment; me with the prospect 
 of sweets metaphorical, — peace of mind, and 
 respectabihty, which my youth knew not how 
 to store up, but which my old age must now 
 compound out of new materials, and at the ex- 
 pence of a great and signal sacrifice. And 
 now, — (uncertain health, chronick rheumatism, 
 and a marvellous weakness in the lower limbs, 
 notwithstanding,) I start for the prize of late 
 sought happiness, with, I believe, more ardour 
 than the child who may reasonably calculate 
 upon being on better terms with time in the 
 race. " My gentle fine is this." To write my 
 history, to expose my faults to censure, and, 
 what is harder yet, my absurdities to ridicule, 
 — to bow to the infliction I have wantonly 
 drawn upon myself, and, (like my fellow- victim, 
 the bellowing urchin,) to proclaim in my an- 
 guish that I am rightly served. 
 
 I include no one in any share of the blame 
 Ayith myself. I do not even plead as an excuse
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GEXTLEMANc 53 
 
 that I derived from nature the vice which, like 
 a baneful web, has wound itself round my 
 habits and my existence. But this I say, and 
 with truth, that I remember not the moment 
 when I was free from it. From the earliest 
 dawn of my imperfect and misguided reason, 
 suspicion gave a colouring of its o%m to all my 
 actions, and to all my thoughts. I suspected, 
 in turns, and all together, attendants, teachers, 
 and playmates. The joyous frank-heartedness 
 of infancy is a bright and beauteous figure of 
 imagination, of which I never had experience. 
 
 — The strong affections of youth I never felt. 
 The confiding warmth of manly friendship was 
 a thing I often desired, but could not compre- 
 hend. I had no friend, and I deserved none. 
 
 — For, though I never wished to injure any 
 one, still I was in a state of active and ceaseless 
 warfare with the rest of my species, from a 
 belief that all who belonged to it wished to 
 injure me. Under such a delusion, how was I 
 to entertain a generous passion, or excite one ? 
 
 D 3
 
 54 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 Love is the perfection of confiding friendship. 
 I have already said enough to show that I was 
 totally incapable of it ; and to marriage I looked 
 with a repugnance comparable only to that with 
 which a cautious capitalist would regard a pro. 
 posal made to him of a large advance without 
 any but personal, and very precarious, security. 
 I contemplated with great alarm so wilful a risk 
 of contentment and happiness as the com- 
 mitting of it to the custody of another, whom 
 I might, too late, discover to have, all along, 
 differed from me as essentially in views, and dis- 
 position, as in sex. 
 
 From this reasoning my mind naturally pro- 
 ceeded to a conclusion, not very uncommon, I 
 believe, with less confirmed fools than myself. 
 I was decidedly of opinion that every un- 
 married woman had designs upon me; and, 
 worst of all, that those designs were, as the 
 saying is, " honourable." For I knew myself 
 to be a capital match. By dint of fearing to be 
 the dupe of others, I always effectually bubbled
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 55 
 
 myself. I was in possession of a large landed 
 estate, besides considerable funded property : 
 and, as is usual when a man is jealous of letting 
 even his nearest connections know his income, 
 I was unceasingly mortified by hearing it po- 
 pularly represented as being much greater than 
 it really was. I bent the whole force of my 
 mind to vanquish the supposed conspiracies of 
 virgins in their teens and their tys. Nor did I 
 fear only the league formed by them with those 
 experienced parental allies on whom nature 
 imposes the sacred duty of planning and con- 
 ducting their operations against the oppressed 
 sex to which I belong ; but, if some over- 
 persuaded mother, merely out of an overflow- 
 ing solicitude for the fine arts, ever permitted 
 the picture of her lovely daughter to grace the 
 exhibition-room at Somerset House, for the 
 kind purpose of adding to the fame of the first 
 portrait-painter in the world, I instantly sus- 
 pected the President of the Royal Academy of 
 having become a fellow-conspirator with her 
 
 D 4
 
 56 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 against me; and, if ever the Morning Post, 
 
 much against the known wish of Mrs. , 
 
 paid a deserved tribute of commendation to 
 the personal appearance of her darhng in 
 her quadrille dress, I instantly believed that 
 enlightened and respectable journal to have 
 been suborned by that simple-minded and truly 
 fashionable lady, into fitting out, in partnership 
 with her, a joint letter of marque to capture 
 and destroy my fortune and happiness. Fur- 
 thermore, if the young lady herself, or any 
 young lady, were commonly civil to me, I re- 
 sented such conduct highly, and lost no time in 
 showing, by some signal act of repulse, that 
 her purpose was observed, and had failed. Did 
 she take the opposite part ? — I considered her 
 only as giving effect to a still deeper artifice, 
 and piqued myself on announcing to her that 
 her ambush had been detected, and that her 
 shafts had fallen blunted from the impene- 
 trable hide of the bear at whom she had aimed 
 them.
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 57 
 
 In these skirmishes with society my worldly 
 sagacity received several severe mortifications. 
 
 I had a younger brother once, a guileless 
 fellow, who thought, in his simplicity, that the 
 end of all wisdom was to secure happiness, and 
 that, on the whole, a greater share of it belonged 
 to one, who, from thinking a little too well of the 
 world, is sometimes deceived, than to one, who, 
 from thinking a great deal too ill of the world, 
 has through life to eat the bread of carefulness, 
 seasoned with this bitter experience, that, in a 
 pitched battle between a sly man and sly man- 
 kind, the odds are always awefully against the 
 contentious unit. 
 
 He would have loved me, if I had permitted 
 him, and was always ready to forgive, and 
 prone to forget, my injustice. He is dead ! 
 Peace be with him, even as he loved peace and 
 wished it to others. — His lot was truly happy; 
 for he died young ; beloved of all whose love 
 was worth the having ; and was spared the grief 
 of witnessing the consummation of his brother's 
 D 5
 
 58 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 disgrace, or of ever knowing the bitterness of 
 those tears with which I must have craved his 
 pardon, had he Uved, and which I now offer as 
 a fruitless tribute to the memory of his frank 
 affection. He had not within him the spirit of 
 distrust or envious rivahy. His only ambition 
 was to be known for bold and generous bear- 
 ing, in the gallant profession which he had 
 chosen and adorned; and he never for an 
 instant stooped to the influence of a mean or 
 interested desire. Poor fellow ! — I leave this 
 subject; for it is a pleasure to me to praise 
 him, and my business is self-punishment. My 
 malignant genius disposed me to believe that 
 this worthy creature was hoarding up his hopes 
 of inheriting the entailed family property, — 
 and, for no other purpose than to disappoint 
 him, did I set to work to conquer my own 
 settled repugnance to wedlock. Love I knew 
 not; so I seriously inclined myself to matri- 
 mony, upon an impulse of the next strongest 
 feeling to love, — spite. The more resolved I
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 59 
 
 grew to mari'y, the more did marriage become 
 tlie theme of my invective, in order that I might 
 the better disguise my intentions. One day, 
 my brother, in the openness of his heart, told 
 rae he was goinoj to be married in a week to a 
 girl he had long loved. " You must not press 
 me," he added, " to mention her name to you. 
 To own the truth, brother, she and I are 
 equally afraid of some little peculiarities of 
 yours, and, as some of her friends have given 
 but a reluctant consent to our union, on account 
 of the smalhiess of my fortune, we wish to avoid 
 any suggestions being made, which might, we 
 think, have the effect of exciting afresh a hostile 
 spirit in them." 
 
 " Cunning brother," thought I, '' and fine 
 words these ! A very pleasant scheme truly 
 for preventing my telling her relations that I 
 mean to keep what I have to myself ! Re- 
 luctant consent, with a vengeance ! When, I'll 
 be bound, you have taken care to say that I 
 never mean to marry, and that, (please God I 
 D 6
 
 60 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 die,) you will then come in for all. But I will 
 marry as well as you, and without further loss 
 of time." I allowed myself small space to pause, 
 and went to work in earnest; for I wished to 
 have all settled and declared on the very day 
 of my brother's wedding. I made a list of all 
 the marriageable women in the neighbourhood, 
 setting down all their good qualities in the 
 inverse ratio, and weighing all their respective 
 demerits with great aggravation. According to 
 this just and flattering mode of computation, 
 my choice fell upon a young girl of good con- 
 nections, pretty enough, very unassuming ; and 
 who, unlike others, had taken no trouble to be 
 either particularly rude or civil to me. It was 
 Christmas time, when, as is usual, parties as- 
 sembled frequently at the different houses of 
 the neighbourhood. This gave me oppor- 
 tunities of engaging this young lady in con- 
 versation. I even submitted to the toil and 
 exposure of dancing with her, and sat by her 
 one or two days at dinner. I was charmed to
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 61 
 
 find her all I could wish. My allotted week 
 had expu^ed, all but one evenmg, when, fancy- 
 ing the lady and the moment equally favour- 
 able, I made her a formal proposal of marriage. 
 
 " Good God ! Mr. ," exclaimed she, 
 
 starting back, and fixing on me a look in which 
 it appeared to me doubtful whether mdignant 
 surprise, or suspicion of the state of my wits, 
 
 had the predominance; " Good God ! Mr. , 
 
 what can you mean ? Do you not know that I 
 am to marry your brother to-morrow? To 
 what could I attribute your kindness to me but 
 to your having, as I believed, discovered our 
 secret?'* 
 
 Evil passions are rapid in then- march, and 
 full of resource. I instantly concluded it to be 
 impossible that she could continue to prefer a 
 younger brother, afl:er she had discovered her 
 power to possess herself of an elder. Such was 
 the infamous opinion I had conceived of her 
 sex : and, in prosecution of a design still more 
 infamous, I represented to her the advantages
 
 62 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 of a marriage witli myself, and would have im- 
 puted my unnatural conduct to the force of a 
 passion before which brotherly love, and every 
 other love but itself, must give way. But she 
 prevented me; and now, casting upon me a 
 second look of an unmixed meaning, which I 
 could not mistake for any thing but pure loath- 
 ing and contempt, she commanded me to be 
 silent; and, merely telling me that, out of 
 respect for my brother's happiness, she would 
 forbear to expose me, she left me overwhelmed 
 with confusion, having become master of the 
 secret of an honourable heart at the expense of 
 my own deep disgrace ; — and she became next 
 morning my brother's bride. 
 
 This was a lesson which might have opened 
 the eyes of the blind, or restored reason to a 
 madman. But I was incurable. I meanly 
 relied upon her promised silence, thinking that, 
 for her own sake, she would dread to offend me 
 by the disclosure. I was of a sickly constitution ; 
 and it appeared to me to be reasonable that she
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 63 
 
 and my brother might be looking to my death 
 as to no remote event. This idea, once con- 
 ceived, soon grew into a conviction that they 
 were sanguinely watchmg every sjTnptom as it 
 might affect their chance of pouncing on the 
 family property-. The desire of self-preserv- 
 ation, strong in all men, acquired accumulated 
 power over me; and my resolution to marry 
 was fortified in an equal degree. I was glad 
 to conceal my mortification and resentment by 
 an absence from home, upon a pretence of 
 sudden and urgent business in London. Thither 
 I repaired, and there I remained, as in the 
 most convenient harbour which the world 
 affords to the thoroughly selfish ; for there I 
 was little knowTi, and less observed. Still I 
 went into society ; my acquaintance increased ; 
 and I soon fixed my choice upon a lady who, 
 unhappily for herself, appeared to be well cal- 
 culated to suit me as a wife. She was of what 
 is generally called a steadier, because a rather 
 maturer, age, than the romantick girl to whom
 
 64? THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 I had lately proposed myself. She had beauty, 
 rank, and fortune ; and there appeared in her 
 no assignable motive for listening to my ad- 
 dresses, but affection. In the uncertainty of 
 success there was an excitement which made 
 me look with diminished horror upon the sa- 
 crifice to which I was resigning myself. To 
 make short of needless and very ordinary de- 
 tails, I content myself with saying that, after 
 six months of prosperous courtship, I became 
 the husband of the rich, beautiful, accomplished, 
 (and, oh ! how good and amiable,) Lady Anne 
 
 S . 
 
 I do not say that, in the probationary period, 
 I never wavered. But, when at length my pro- 
 posals were frankly and unhesitatingly accepted, 
 I had hideed some grievous misgivings. Still, 
 the fear of ridicule and mfamy obliged me to 
 proceed. And now began those annoyances, 
 dreadful enough to any man, but to one of my 
 temper how totally insupportable ! Now began 
 the inquisition of solicitous friends and interro-
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 65 
 
 gatory relations. I had to o\\'n to every acre, 
 every exchequer bill, and the true force and 
 meaning of every newly acquired article of 
 comfort or of show. But these were visitations 
 to be parried. For curiosity may always be 
 baffled by a bounce. The worst remained ; — 
 a couple of mimical looking lawyers insisted, 
 by virtue of their function, upon not allowing 
 us to marry in peace, without a plenary confes- 
 sion from us both of all we were worth, m esse 
 and in posse; and it was with the utmost diffi- 
 culty that I could contrive to deceive them 
 with regard to a portion of my personalties. 
 The only thmg that cheered me m all this, was 
 the repetition of the comfortable words " heu's 
 of my body" m almost every alternate line of 
 my settlement. 
 
 Wedded at last, was I happy ? Far from it ! 
 I had succeeded to my utmost expectations — I 
 had, as I imagined, secured content to myself, 
 and disappointment to my brother. But within 
 my o\Mi breast was an enemy, ever watchful to
 
 66 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 convert back the elements of repose into a 
 chaos of confusion and discomfort. My wife 
 could not conceal the surprise and dread with 
 which she became by degrees acquainted with 
 the secret of that monstrous power which held 
 me in its bondage. At first she tried ridicule ; 
 mild and friendly ridicule, too friendly to wound, 
 or to reform me; then expostulation, gentle 
 as her ridicule had been, but grave and earnest. 
 It failed as signally. She then gave way, grace- 
 fully, to what she saw was irremediable. She 
 never sanctioned my follies by a compromise of 
 her own judgment; but, as if she had wedded 
 herself to them as well as to me, she endea- 
 voured to shelter them from exposure, and me 
 from the contempt and danger into which they 
 were continually hurrying me. I no sooner 
 had a house of my own, and an establishment 
 of servants suitable to my fortune, than it 
 naturally occurred to me that all servants were 
 thieves ; and, dealing with my own accordingly, 
 I discharged each in his turn, after one or two
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 67 
 
 watchful and litigious months. Their strong 
 boxes alternately disclosed their treasures be- 
 fore the scrutiny of successive search warrants. 
 I never discovered any loss of property to my- 
 self, and, in my present penitence, I can only 
 hope that my temper was so publickly known 
 that these displays of distrust never caused 
 any loss of character to the beings who were 
 wretched enough to serve an always unjustly 
 suspecting master. 
 
 I know not whether I was the inventor, I 
 certainly was a practiser, of the most odious 
 temptations; and, after habitually leaving money, 
 duly marked and noted, in their way, I remained 
 perplexed to determine whether they had failed 
 to see the bait, or had left it untouched only in 
 hopes to lure me into trusting them at last with 
 a more considerable prize. My house was a 
 museum of anti-burglarious inventions. With 
 difficulty could my shutters be opened at all, so 
 encumbered were they with expedients to pre- 
 vent their being opened from without ; and it
 
 68 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 was a miracle that preserved me and mine 
 within from faUing victims to the concealed 
 explosives with which my self-defending, bell- 
 beset, and bullet-proof, chambers were nightly 
 furnished. Nor, in ordering the internal police 
 of my family, was I negligent of means for 
 watching the course of opinion concerning my- 
 self. In the hope of discovering some secret, in 
 which I had no concern, and which it would 
 have been a grief to me to become acquainted 
 with, and, like all suspicious persons, deeming 
 myself the subject of all thought and convers- 
 ation, often would I sham sleep, or burst sud- 
 denly in upon parties in conversation, and 
 sometimes feign to have heard some things 
 which never had been said, in hopes of detect- 
 ing others which, I suspected, had. 
 
 But now to the bitterest part of the bitter task 
 of confession, and to the scene of my deepest 
 dishonour. Hitherto my wife had suffered but 
 little from my temper, except in her conscious- 
 ness of the mihappiness and disgrace in which it
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 69 
 
 involved me. Against her, personally, I had as 
 yet committed no very great enormity. But no 
 one could live with me and escape. After two 
 years of what might have been great happiness, 
 I began to lay all the stores of my madness 
 under contribution, for means to destroy what- 
 ever little repose the daemon of distrust had left 
 me — I resolved to doubt my wife's affections. 
 I could not disguise from myself my master 
 passion — I had too much reason to know it. 
 I had reason also to know her to be a person 
 of quick and searching shrewdness. Could it 
 then have been a total secret from her. even 
 before she married me ? And, knowing or sus- 
 pecting it, could she have ever loved me ? And 
 then, the distracting enquiry, if she loved me 
 not, why the plague did she marry me ? 
 
 In this state of mind, having determined to 
 make myself utterly miserable, I had not rightly 
 determined how to set about it, when I obtained 
 the assistance of a neighbouring lady. She 
 wrought not her mischief in the ordinary voca-
 
 70 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 tion of her sex — she was not a coquette ; nor 
 was she of an age to do any mischief at first 
 sight. She was not malicious, like some, nor 
 jealous, like most. But yet she was one of a 
 tolerably large class of mischievous persons. 
 She was one of those who, from the most 
 amiable desire to be agreeable and useful in the 
 world, make all people's affairs their own ; who 
 delight in getting hold of a story, and usually 
 get hold of it by its wrong in preference to its 
 right end ; then benevolently impart their hold 
 of this wrong end to the very person whose 
 happiness is the most likely to be involved in 
 the distinction between the right and the wrong; 
 and have accordingly often to lament the having 
 become the " innocent cause" of some sad 
 piece of work. She was a gossip. This was 
 her only folly — a great one. My much greater 
 was the eagerly accepting from her that fruit of 
 knowledge which it was the first vice of greedy 
 man to devour, upon the offer of communica- 
 tive woman.
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 71 
 
 I would not that he who loves his wealth 
 should gamble with sharpers, nor that he who 
 values his life should drink with bravoes. But 
 with a far deeper dread let the suspicious man 
 eschew all converse with a well-meaning gossip ! 
 
 This lady, from a desire to set me on yet 
 better terms with mv wife, was kind enough to 
 hint that Lady Anne had, for my sake, refused 
 an alliance with a younger and a richer man 
 than myself The name only, from motives of 
 deUcacy, she postponed. And thus, though her 
 love of imparting all was quite as strong as 
 mine of hearing all she could impart, was I 
 kept feeding, unsatisfied still, and my hunger 
 increasing, on the stimulating food of vague 
 and incomplete information. At length, after 
 extorting the strictest promises of secrecy, she 
 confessed that my unsuccessful rival was Sir 
 
 Felix . That he had proposed soon after 
 
 I had been accepted; that he had been rejected, 
 but not with severity- ; that, on the contrary, as 
 Lady Anne considered his proposal a strictly
 
 72 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 lionourable one, she had allowed him after- 
 wards to write to her; that she had, in her 
 turn, behaved with a most commendable dis- 
 cretion, for that, to prevent any unpleasant 
 feeling between us, she always retired from 
 company to read his letters ; that the difficulty 
 which, up to the last moment, she had to 
 struggle with from his importunities, was shown 
 by her having, early on the very morning of 
 her marriage, given him a letter, which he 
 kissed; and not only it, but the hand which gave 
 it; and that she was not insensible to the pain 
 it had been her duty to inflict; for that she at 
 the same time wiped a tear from her eye with the 
 very handkerchief which, an hour after, per- 
 formed the same office at the altar. "I do not 
 repeat a word that I cannot swear to," added 
 my kind informant ; " all these particulars I had 
 from my own maid, who is cousin to Sir Felix's 
 groom's wife, who lives in Sir Felix's own 
 house." Horror upon horror ! I gave full 
 belief to a gossip, a groom, and a groom's wife.
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 73 
 
 and her cousin, who was the gossip's own maid ; 
 and then entered judgment on the whole, first 
 against the affection, and then against the 
 honour, of my wife ! 
 
 To bring to open proof what is unproveable, 
 because untrue, is a very desperate undertaking, 
 though in the affairs of hfe a very ordinary 
 one; and, in the eagerness of this pursuit, I 
 quite forgot that my success would be my 
 shame. But, though I failed of the proof, I 
 ensured the dishonour. I assumed different 
 disguises, in which I daily watched Lady Anne. 
 I wrote her anonymous letters, in the style in 
 which I fancied Sir Felix might address her. 
 I hid myself, to observe the effect they would 
 produce. I have seen her countenance mark 
 surprise and anger, as she committed them, 
 half perused, to the flames. I have seen her 
 weep, when, as she believed, she was alone; 
 and still I deemed that her tears were faithless 
 to my honour and her own, and that, if amid 
 those tears she thought of me, it was only that 
 
 A^OL. I. E
 
 74 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 she wept over my vigilance which deprived her 
 of the society of her lover. Do not detest me, 
 reader, more than is my due. I felt my own 
 baseness to the quick. My conscience told me 
 I deserved her hate, and assured me that I had 
 obtained it. Yet I went on. Our home was 
 no happy one ; and she never dissembled her 
 readiness to meet my proposal to her to live 
 more in the crowd and bustle of the world. 
 This proposal of mine was in the hope of 
 throwing her into habits of unguardedness ; her 
 quick concurrence in it I attributed to the 
 hope, in her, of more frequent occasions of 
 meeting Sir Felix. I saw them meet, with de- 
 monstrations of a pleasure which they never 
 strove to hide. Often would she quit my arm 
 for his, and sometimes (I still think) an indif- 
 ferent person might have traced in their manner 
 the appearance of something like an intelligence 
 between them to which I was not a party. I 
 ask not for sympathy : but, still, if there be a 
 state of human suffering singly more exquisite
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 75 
 
 than all the rest under which unhappy man may 
 writhe, it is when a jealous heart sees the ob- 
 ject of its pride occupied in ministering to the 
 affections or vanities of another. I have said 
 I was incapable of love. I sometimes doubt 
 it. I know that I have been the prey of jea- 
 lousy ; — and whether the one can exist without 
 the other I leave to such metaphysicians as may 
 think that question a profitable one to discuss. 
 
 I was subject to nervous attacks. One even- 
 ing I was particularly mdisposed. I complained 
 of feverishness and thirst. Lady Anne had 
 promised to spend an hour or two from home 
 with a sick friend ; but she wished to excuse 
 herself and stay with me. I peevishly refused 
 to permit her to defer the engagement. I 
 thought her concern for me affected; and it 
 disgusted and angered me. At length, when, 
 by my command, she left me, she placed on the 
 table by my elbow a jug of lemonade. Shortly 
 after her departure I took a large draught of 
 it ; — my thirst and restlessness encreasing, I 
 E 2
 
 76 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 returned to my jug. I was seized with giddi-. 
 ness and vomiting. Oh, was it possible ! — 
 Yes ! Such things have been ! The horrid 
 thought struck me that aversion and revenue 
 had done their work, — that I was poisoned, — 
 and by my own wife ! I rang the bell violently, 
 — communicated to all my servants the strong 
 probability of their mistress being an assassin, 
 and sent off three of them instantly in different 
 directions: one for a police officer, one for 
 
 Doctor , and one for a stomach-pump. 
 
 Lady Aime returned in the midst of the 
 scene that ensued, having shortened her visit to 
 attend on me. The stomach-pump had just 
 done its work in its own rough and summary 
 way; and the doctor was, by my particular 
 desire, engaged in an active chemical analysis 
 of the proceeds. I was sitting in great anxiety 
 to hear by what preparation of vegetable or 
 mineral mischief my life had been attempted. 
 No trace of poison could the doctor find in 
 what had been made to rise in judgment ; and
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 77 
 
 now did he endeavour to calm me into ad- 
 mitting the persuasion that it was only the 
 excitement of the mind acting upon those sen- 
 sitive sjTnpathizers in all the mental distresses of 
 man, the biliary organs. Pooh ! — And was it 
 thus I was to be defrauded of my hopes of 
 proving myself a murdered man ? I had never, 
 for a moment, lost sight of the vessel that 
 contained the residue of the lemonade. I now 
 desired the doctor to transfer liis attention to 
 the jug, and promised him that he woidd chs- 
 cover a deposit of arsenick at the bottom. ]My 
 wife had hitherto sat, not an unmoved, but a 
 resolute and indignant, spectatress of all this 
 strange performance. At this moment, she 
 seized, with a strong and sudden effort, the jug, 
 which was already in the doctor's hands. I 
 thought she would dash it to the ground, and 
 shrieked out to all to rescue it from her grasp ; 
 — but, she had swallowed every drop that re- 
 mained ! She quietly and silently resumed her 
 .seat ! What could I think ? At one moment, 
 e3
 
 78 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 conscience told me I had wronged her, and im- 
 mortalised the proofs of my madness before 
 competent witnesses; but, at the next, I con- 
 cluded that the certainty of detection and pu- 
 nishment had impelled her to the horrible 
 resolution of adding suicide to an attempt at 
 murder. Surprise, anxiety, and the exhaustion 
 of the mechanical process my stomach had 
 undergone, had made me incapable of exertion. 
 My situation was deplorable. The doctor de- 
 parted, shrugging his shoulders ; my servants 
 with difficulty smothered their laughter; and my 
 wife sat bolt upright, and neither sickened 
 nor swelled. A fearful languor stole over my 
 senses. I thought I was dying. I remember 
 no more. It seems a deep sleep came over me, 
 and I was carried to bed. 
 
 Late next day I awoke to a full sense of all 
 that had passed, together with a confounding 
 consciousness of perfect health. I intended to 
 sneak out of the house unobserved, but, on my 
 opening my door, I was presented with a letter^
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 79 
 
 It was from Lady Anne. In a tone of remon- 
 strance so dignified and so deserved that it left 
 me without a word or a thought in my defence, 
 she told me that we now must part, — not for 
 her character's sake only, but for my own 
 repose. She left the choice of her place of 
 retirement to me. She said she had quitted 
 my house as soon as the disgraceful scene of 
 the former night had closed, and had gone to 
 that of her sick friend, where she should re- 
 main until I should have determmed on her 
 future plans, but declared that nothing could 
 induce her ever again to see a husband who 
 had so cruelly repaid her blameless conduct. 
 She ended wdth an earnest, an affectionate, 
 prayer for me, to strive, for my own happiness 
 and credit, to conquer my most unhappy fault, 
 which had led to such an insult as alone could 
 have driven her from my side. 
 
 I was abashed. But, before I could beheve 
 her thoroughly in the right, I resolved to have 
 one more peep. 1 shall surprise the reader 
 E 4
 
 80 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 when I say that now I reallt/ saw the eternal 
 Sir Felix go stealthily to the house of Lady 
 Anne's sick friend. I saw him let in and out 
 with every sign of caution. He used to go 
 there, unattended, and generally at twilight, 
 wrapped in one of those hideous cloaks which 
 have lately been introduced into fashion, with 
 many other filthy serenading habits from foreign 
 parts. Was I now justified in fearing that all was 
 not quite right ? 1 felt certain that all was quite 
 wrong; and I only waited for the chance of 
 such a disclosure as might effectually rid me of 
 the shackles and dangers of the marriage bond. 
 These hopes were delayed by the departure of 
 Lady Anne from London. She had, through 
 her lawyer, repeatedly urged me to choose a 
 residence for her; but, in furtherance of my 
 project, I had left these applications without a 
 reply. I thought I had every reason to resent 
 the step she had now taken. In my phrenzy I 
 protested against her having moved without my 
 knowledge and permission. But, where was
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 81 
 
 Sir Felix? He had gone abroad. Now all 
 was clear to me. While he was in London, 
 Lady Anne had been content to remain with 
 her friend ; and it was upon his quitting Eng- 
 land, tired no doubt of her and of her affection, 
 that she had taken the sudden resolution of 
 leaving a town which had ceased to contain her 
 lover, and that did contain her husband. She 
 was now, where, unmolested, she could mourn 
 over his absence and his inconstancy ! 
 
 For myself — I was again alone m the world. 
 My years, my iniirinities, increasing. I began 
 too to perceive, with a sensitiveness which a 
 disposition like mine was calculated to sharpen, 
 that the world, after having at first made some 
 show in my favour, had now withdrawn its 
 sympathy ; and that many a tale of my forepast 
 follies was rismg again in judgment, much to 
 my disparagement in my present condition. I 
 had no immediate hopes of the success of my 
 favourite scheme; for month afler month elapsed, 
 and it appeared as though Sir Felix had re- 
 E 5
 
 82 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 solved to return no more. To shake, if pos- 
 sible, this resolution of his, now so fatal to my 
 hopes, and to deceive Lady Anne into a false 
 security, I feigned preparations for going abroad, 
 and put my departure in the papers. But I 
 quitted not London : I changed my way of life; 
 and, taking lodgings in the healthy and retired 
 neighbourhood of the Edgeware Road, I there 
 concealed myself under a feigned name and the 
 assumed character of a bachelor. My landlady, 
 who represented herself as an officer's widow, a 
 conversable and comely body, soon became to me 
 a woman after my own heart. She would make 
 my tea, and render my evenings agreeable with 
 stories of her departed husband. She confessed 
 over our cups that she had not lived happily 
 with him ; and she assured me of her determin- 
 ation never again to marry. She was the first 
 single woman I had ever known who I was 
 quite sure had no designs, however remote, 
 upon my person ; for she thought me poor. I 
 used, for several days together, to leave my
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 83 
 
 lodgings, without any account of my actions 
 being given or required. Thus I had, at last, 
 discovered a manner of woman, and of Ufe, which 
 suited me. In one of my old disguises, I used 
 to prowl about the neighbourhood of the cot- 
 tage that contained my unhappy wife. I used, 
 unobserved, to see her frequently. Ever alone 
 — ever melancholy — and smking under a de- 
 cay of health and beauty which I am wilKng to 
 hope might have awakened tenderness, even in 
 me, had I not attributed it, wretch as I was, to 
 any but the innocent and virtuous grief that was 
 consuming her. 
 
 Yet this life was idle and uneventful. And 
 an idle and uneventful life leaves a man's head 
 and heart open to strange fancies. It left me, 
 now, in my age, and for the first time, to fancy 
 myself in love. Can the reader doubt with 
 whom ? If he does, he has never lived in single 
 gentleman's lodgings, with a comely communi- 
 cative landlady, who makes his tea, who flatters 
 his vanity by confiding to him her causes of 
 E 6
 
 84 THE CONFESSIONS OE 
 
 discontent with her departed husband, and lulls 
 his suspicions by imparting her determination 
 to marry no more. I laid the whole plan of 
 the drama. Lady Anne's part of the perform- 
 ance I considered nearly as good as settled. I 
 should obtain my divorce. My widow would 
 be kind, when, assisted by the charms of my 
 strong box, (les beaux yeux de ma cassette,) I 
 should open it and my heart to her together. 
 Fortune, too, seemed at length to favour the 
 completion of my design; for I read in the 
 papers of Sir Felix's return. 
 
 I had but one doubt which hung behind to 
 perplex me. Would my widow, would any 
 woman, be tender and true enough to cleave to 
 me still, when, by accident, or illness, as I 
 should decline in years, I might become inca- 
 pable of acting profitably for myself? Judging 
 by her tenderness to a sickly, stupid, abusive, 
 superannuated, parrot, whom she cherished, she 
 was capable, I thought, of constant, disinter- 
 ested, love. But I determined on a trial. I
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. S5 
 
 resolved to sham illness, and to watch her use 
 of the brief authority with which I should thus 
 be able to invest her. The very next night, I 
 rang her up from her bed. My usual spare 
 and anxious countenance, aided in its lament- 
 able expression by a night-cap well arranged to 
 assist the deception, and by a beard which had 
 been purposely neglected, was not at variance 
 with my story. She proposed a doctor. Xo, 
 said I; doctors were expensive, and I was an 
 old man, and might, I hoped, be allowed to die 
 in peace, my o^^Tl way. She exerted her own 
 small knowledge of medicine in my behalf. I 
 took all she gave me, the better to colour my 
 design. I acted the part of a sick man; not to 
 the life only, I proceeded to act it to the death. 
 Her behaviour had been charming for several 
 days — all attention, all kindness. And I now 
 only wished to satisfy myself if she would show 
 a little, a very little, sorrow, at the advances of 
 my dissolution. I was just proceeding prosper- 
 ously to the last scene, when she went out for
 
 86 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 an instant, as she said, to speak with a person 
 on business. She had left the door ajar be- 
 tween the rooms, and I could distinctly hear 
 her as she discoursed with a gruff-voiced man, 
 to the following effect : — 
 
 Man. Well, mistress, is the old gentleman 
 ready ? 
 
 Landlady. Not quite, Jem; you must com6 
 back in the evening. 
 
 Man. That's unpossible. I have to go be- 
 yond Whitechapel for an old lady who must be 
 pretty well dead by this time; and I've got a 
 sack here will hold 'em both. 
 
 Landlady. Well, I don't know ; he must be 
 nigh gone by now ; and it's dangerous to keep 
 such things long in an honest lodging, now the 
 cry is up about them. Remember, I must have 
 half what's given. If you should do me out of 
 a penny, I '11 split — so, come, give us the sack. 
 
 To spring out from my death-bed, on the 
 floor, with a yell of " murder ! " — to fling the 
 door to, and bolt it on the inside, was the affair
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 87 
 
 of a moment, rendered short, vigourous, and de- 
 cisive, by despair. Chairs, tables, every article 
 of the furniture of a sick-room, did I pile up, 
 in miraculous haste, to form a barrier sufficient 
 to keep the daemons who were on the outside 
 in check, while I might by my cries from the 
 window invite the neighbourhood and pas- 
 sengers to witness my danger and defend my 
 life. But, superfluous were these precautions. 
 With a clatter louder than that which I occa- 
 sioned by throwing up my fortifications within, 
 and with a yell which for a moment deafened 
 me to my own cry of " murder," did the 
 wretches tumble over each other all the way 
 down stairs. Then, out of the street door they 
 rushed, together, and, turning the corner, dis- 
 appeared, yiy head already half out of the 
 window, I paused to reflect upon my condition. 
 If I should alarm the neighbourhood, my land- 
 lady would doubtless retahate upon me my 
 accusation with a counter-charge of insanity. 
 And too many things would concur to give
 
 88 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 colour to such an imputation; even, perhaps, 
 to the placing me in a mad-house for life. I 
 therefore thought my wisest course to be the 
 one which I adopted in perfect silence. I 
 dressed, and, having merely armed myself with 
 a poker against the possibility of my assailants 
 returning in force before I should be able to 
 descend the stairs, and leaving without reluct- 
 ance behind me every part of that small stock 
 of property which I had with me in my lodg- 
 ings, I made my escape, bidding a hasty and a 
 last farewell to the house which had so nearly 
 witnessed the closing scene to my unhappy life. 
 Often since have I shuddered as I passed that 
 house, though now inhabited, I believe, by very 
 respectable and honest people. The daemon in 
 widow's shape I have never since set eyes on; 
 nor do I ever wish it. 
 
 The rest of my story is shortly told. This 
 paragraph appeared in the papers : — '' The 
 
 gallant Sir Felix , who is just returned 
 
 from the Continent, has announced his marriage
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAX. 89 
 
 with the accompHshed Miss D , which took 
 
 place two years ago, under circumstances which 
 made it necessary that it should not sooner be 
 publickly declared." 
 
 When I say that Miss D was the earliest 
 
 of Lady Anne's friends, the mystery of all that 
 poisoned the happiness of my married life is 
 solved. In obedience to the gossip's stipulation, 
 I had never had the frankness to ask my wife 
 concerning her position with Sir Felix. It was 
 on her fi'iend's account alone she had ever com- 
 municated with him. Before her marriage, she 
 had been trusted by them, and had suffered 
 their letters to pass through her hands; and, 
 on the morning of her marriage, she had for- 
 mally resigned that trust. When she claimed 
 an asylum in the house of her friend, that friend 
 had already for some time been Sir Felix's wife. 
 
 There is one concluding part of my narra- 
 tive, which my readers will not have expected. 
 Lady Anne is reconciled to me ; but, as the 
 condition, the only one, of her forgiveness, she
 
 90 THE CONFESSIONS OF 
 
 has insisted on my committing my memorials to 
 paper, as holding up to me a beacon to warn 
 me hereafter from those dangers on which so 
 often, in former times, the whole freight of my 
 happiness has made wreck. Now that I have 
 completed my task, it is against her wish that 
 I publish it. But here she must be disobeyed. 
 If it be the record of my own disgrace, it is no 
 less that of her many virtues. As such it shall 
 go forth into the world. 
 
 There is one more act of justice which, alas ! 
 I cannot perform. It is to confess to my poor 
 brother that the maxim of his simplicity was as 
 wise as it was amiable. This though his death 
 has prevented, I have adopted his maxim with 
 his children, and, together with them, make it 
 my own ; and thus, as it were, I inscribe it to 
 his memory as the moral of my tale : — '* On 
 the whole, a greater share of happiness belongs 
 to one, who, from thinking a little too well of 
 the world, is sometimes deceived, than to one, 
 who, from thinking a great deal too ill of the
 
 A SUSPICIOUS GENTLEMAN. 91 
 
 world, has through life to eat the bread of 
 carefulness, seasoned with this bitter experi- 
 ence, that, in a pitched battle between a sly 
 man and sly mankind, the odds are always 
 awefully agamst the contentious unit." 
 L. G,
 
 92 
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 It was my meaning to return, late as it was, 
 across the bog, over by " Phelim's Rest," and 
 so reach home before my mother would wake. 
 And what was " Phelim's Rest," and who 
 was I, and my mother at home and alone, and 
 I out still, and it so late ? And is there an- 
 other bog in the whole south, be it where it 
 may, from Wexford, and the Golden Vale of 
 Kilkenny, to the westermost extremity of Ire- 
 land and Europe entirely, that it wouldn't be 
 better crossing on a dark November's night, 
 than exactly that which lay convenient to my 
 poor mother's bit of a farm ? And " Phelim's 
 Rest," in the middle of it, had been, many's the 
 long day since, the strong place of some old 
 chieftain, (or worse may be,) where he used to 
 hold himself secure from all comers, save and
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 93 
 
 except them he'd like, by reason there was only 
 one path, none of the widest, and not much of 
 a path neither, leading fi'om the " Rest," both 
 ways out to the edge of the bog. 
 
 The path was crooked, and broken, with big 
 stones, here and there, a sort of causeway like ; 
 and you'd sometimes seem to yourself to be 
 rather going backward than forward, seeing the 
 turns of it ; and each side brown shaking bog, 
 and big holes of water; and worse luck's his 
 who would get into them. It 's my opinion 
 that, in his day, and before the stone causeway 
 was there, it was all brown together, only 
 patches of green or of water, and that none 
 but he and his men would know the firm 
 ground at all to go across. And the '• Rest " 
 is but a small little place, on which once stood 
 a grand tower, or such as that, the old stone 
 wall of which still is in parts five or six feet 
 above the heap, and on one side a little gable 
 for his bell ; and the stones of the upper part 
 of the tower, such as hadn't gone to make the
 
 94 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 causeway, had tumbled round the foot, and 
 made it almost a sort of island of natural rock 
 to look at, standing up grey in the dark and 
 watery flat. 
 
 And there it was, as a boy, I'd be mightily 
 given to sit of a morning, and through the day 
 too, and a good bit of the evening, by reason 
 it was the shortest way to the town, when I'd 
 go for my mother of an errand. And there 
 I'd He in the sun on the stones and soft moss, 
 or sit dabbling my heels in the square pools 
 that the turf-cutters made, with my bit of 
 whatever it was that I'd eat ; and I'd glory in 
 a throw at the wild fowl, who'd come (bold 
 birds as they were) to quarrel with me for my 
 seat and my bit : and it was by my staying out so 
 late, (and because, when the water lay high on 
 the bog, and the evenings were dark and dirty, 
 it was not always a sure thing by any manner of 
 means to find the path rightly,) that my poor 
 mother would be uneasy ; and, sometimes, when 
 I'd come home wet and cold, she'd be very mad
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 95 
 
 with me, poor soul ! God rest her ! for she 
 loved me greatly. And often, when she'd fault 
 me for leaving her to go sit alone among 
 the stones and the wild bu'ds, she'd talk of my 
 father, who had left her alone with me in the 
 world, and she'd cry over me, graceless as I 
 was. For I was the only son of my mother, 
 and she was a widow ! Oh, my poor mother ! 
 and I loved you too ! And I believe at times 
 you knew it ! And, oh, that I had you but with 
 me now, old as you would be, and helpless, but 
 for me, and all the dearer too for that, and I 
 would tell you that indeed indeed I loved you all 
 along, and that your care of me should never 
 make a sore heart between us again; and I'd 
 never cause you uneasiness, but sit by you, and 
 comfort and cherish you. But that is past and 
 gone now ! 
 
 Well, and I grew up to be a clean proper 
 fellow, and it was my own birth-day, and there 
 was a wedding in the town, and I wished 
 gi*eatly to be there, and my poor mother knew
 
 ^6 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 it right well; and, the why I did not know, 
 but she was more than ever eager with me that 
 night to stay with her, though I told her I 
 would pass my birth-day night with her until 
 she'd be going to bed ; but that the boys would 
 be wanting me at the town, and that there'd be 
 grand doings long after that, And true for me 
 it was : the bridegroom had been, many's the 
 day, my fishing companion, and, besides, the 
 bride's mother was her own gossip, and the 
 piper was her own foster-brother; and, — why 
 wouldn't she let me go ? And there was Anty 
 Dooley too, — and I knew she'd be there, the 
 creature, — and I'd be making sweet eyes at 
 Anty. But it was all one. My poor mother, 
 besides a wish expressed, faintly and mildly 
 enough, when she went to bed, left her com- 
 mand and her blessing on me that I wouldn't 
 go. 
 
 But how could my go'ng hurt my poor mo- 
 ther ? So I sees her to bed, and the light well 
 out, and off I slinks out of the window, not to
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 97 
 
 be heard, like a bold undutiful blackguard, and 
 across the bog, by the sweet mooR, meaning to 
 be back before my mother was up. Well, all 
 this was very well ; and, though the rains had 
 made the water He high in places on the turf, 
 and over some parts of the causeway too, I 
 knew the track, and the sky was bright al- 
 together ; and I spent my hour or two just as 
 I'd wish, and no much harm neither ; only I 
 was disobeying and deceiving my poor mo- 
 ther. 
 
 It was a good two in the morning when I 
 put forward to come back. Alone I was ; for 
 nobody's way but mine lay over the bog. 
 
 The morning had set in cloudy and dark, 
 and not a blink in the whole heavens, but a 
 small ram in my face ; and I was thinking more 
 of Anty than should be, seeing the danger was 
 all before me, and nothing to be discerned at 
 the nose's length of me, any more than if I 
 had been stark natural blind. I missed the 
 track that led to the causeway. Young I 
 
 VOL. T. F
 
 98 THE SHOOTINCi STAR. 
 
 was ; and, because nothing could hurt the Uke 
 of me, I pushed on over the quaking scraw- 
 lugger, thinking, sure enough, I'd, by and bye, 
 come to the hard. 
 
 Every step took me deeper and deeper into 
 the mischief, and out of my knowledge, and 
 among appearances new and strange to me; 
 I was bothered among bog holes, I tumbled over 
 turf-clumps, till at last all grew soft, and it 
 was enough for me to keep this side smothering 
 depth, by reason, I was fairly bogged. I sunk 
 if I stood still ; I was more lost if I tried to 
 get on : I knew no more than the dead where 
 I was, or how to return. My limbs ached with 
 the labour, and I cried piteously. The wind 
 blustered and howled mournfully round me; 
 the green plovers, blown fronTthe roosts, were 
 borne before it off their wings, gibbering and 
 squeaking across the very face of me ; and the 
 black clouds were driving, as it seemed to me, 
 close over my head. A few moments more, 
 and I was throat-deep in water.
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 99 
 
 I thought of my mother ! — of her strong 
 love for me, (and a mischief on me,) and the 
 many proofs I'd be daily receiving of it; I 
 knew her agony if Fd never return, or be again 
 heard of, — and, oh ! I hated myself, and was 
 in despair. I looked wildly up to heaven, and 
 prayed : " Oh Lord, I am a sinner ! But my 
 mother, my poor mother ! " I paused, holding 
 on by my hands to the edge of the hole where 
 I was ; and my heart beat quick and strong ; for 
 it seemed a small spot grew suddenly light in 
 the vast black heavens, and a shooting star 
 darted across ; and oh ! its ever blessed gleam 
 lighted up for a moment one big white stone, 
 which I could not mistake ; it was not above 
 twenty good paces from me. I struggled to- 
 wards it; the g?bund grew firmer : long life to 
 it ! — it was one of the causeway, and I reached 
 " Phelim's Rest ! " But the clouds were as 
 dark again as ever ! and here I could sit till 
 first day-dawn, two, tlii'ee, cold wretched 
 hours, giving God thanks; but my heart 
 F 2
 
 100 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 breaking to think if my mother would wake 
 and call me. 
 
 I reached home, oh ! strongly hoping that 
 she had been spared all. But I was soon sen- 
 sible that the house-door was open, and a light 
 in the bit of a kitchen. I saw through the 
 window my mother up and drest, sure enough, 
 and boiling the milk, at that unseasonable hour, 
 and a suit of my clothes warming at the fire. 
 She was very pale. Her eye was often turned 
 towards the door, and then upwards ; and then 
 she'd droop her head again, and turn my 
 clothes, and clasp her hands for me. Hard 
 enough it was to bear to see that ! I was soon 
 with my arms round her neck : " My child — 
 
 my pet — my darling : " she paused, " be 
 
 comforted, all's right now — I've been very 
 anxious — I guessed where you were, and how 
 it would be; it was very dark for you, and, 
 helpless as I am, I had once the thought to go 
 out to you ; but I did a better part, — I prayed ; 
 — for without Him there is no help, and with
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 101 
 
 Him there is no danger. I watched at the 
 door till near three, and the wind blew cold 
 upon my heart, and I could see nothing, and 
 hear nothing, but the blast and dashing rain. 
 And it was that night, sixteen years ago, you 
 first drew breath, and God knows how it might 
 then be with you, I knelt on the ground in 
 my agony, and said, " Lord, who gavest him 
 life, spare him, and he will be thy servant ! " 
 Oh, my boy, I am not presumptuous ; but just 
 then a bright shooting star streamed across, and 
 it almost seemed to tell me that there was hope, 
 and that heaven was not shut to my prayers, or 
 to my child ! " 
 
 I '11 not take it on me to say whether myself 
 grew better or wiser for that, but I am sure I 
 ought to ; or whether I was more dutiful to 
 my mother : alas ! I hope so ; — for a sadder 
 night it was mine to see within three years 
 after. But that night her son never can de- 
 scribe, — no, nor think of, — except to my own 
 self 
 
 F 3
 
 102 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 Shortly after my poor mother's death, I had 
 offers from a commercial house in Cork, to 
 which my father had been well known; and, 
 before the year came round, it was deter- 
 mined to send me out on business to their 
 correspondents at Lisbon. I took my passage 
 in a small merchant brig that had been built 
 for privateering on the Spanish main, going out 
 in ballast, ill appointed enough, and mighty 
 short-handed — the captain, three men, and 
 a boy, over and above myself. But what of 
 that? Fresh to the world, and, moreover, 
 proud, to be sure, and thinking greatly of what 
 I'd got on hand, and I so young : what could 
 a wild Irish boy feel but a bounding heart, on 
 the bold wide ocean for the first time ? 
 
 I set to work to take my place in the ship. 
 I took my watch, and went aloft, and kept a 
 dead reckoning, and took daily a bit of an ob- 
 servation, too, for my own self. Well ; all went 
 mighty well, and we made the rock, and were 
 well off the Tagus before sun-down on the
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 103 
 
 fourteenth day. The wind being fair, and 
 plenty of it, the captain was anxious to save 
 his tide up that night; but not knowing the 
 river, and wanting a pilot in, we bore up to a 
 sail that was coming close-hauled from the 
 southward, and apparently standing in. 
 
 Tlie stranger, a Portuguese ship, heavy 
 laden, seemed not to like our cut, and went 
 about, carrying on, and putting herself before 
 the wind. Well, we knew we could go two 
 to her one ; and it was taking us mighty little 
 out of our course, and we could not get in 
 without a pilot at any rate, and so we only 
 luiFed a point or two, not to fall to leeward of 
 our chase, and, hand-over-hand, we were com- 
 ing up ^vith her. 
 
 In less than two hours, we were within hail ; 
 and so near in with the land, too, and it being a 
 shoal coast, and the wind commg strong from 
 the north-west, and it growing very dark, it was 
 only having her — and a large ship she was too 
 — within us, that gave us confidence to stand 
 F 4
 
 104 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 on. Suddenly she luffed up, nearly across 
 our bows, as if going about; but she merely 
 braced her head-yards round, then took in top- 
 gallant sails, and, keeping her main-top sail 
 back to the mast, lay at our mercy. 
 
 We hailed her as we passed ; but no answer 
 we got but a dead silence. So, bringing the 
 brig up in the wind as soon as we could, to 
 heave her to, convenient to the Portuguee, 
 we held a council what was to be done. We 
 had but one boat, and she was on deck, and a 
 nasty, little, round, short, crazy, jolly-boat she 
 was as you'd wish to see. So we lowered her ; 
 and, by reason we were short-handed, and it 
 blowing strong, the captain wouldn't spare only 
 a man, and the small boy, and me, that wasn't 
 good for much. So, shoving off, I steered for 
 the Portuguee, whom we could now see but 
 mighty little of, for the distance had encreased 
 greatly between the two vessels since we first 
 hove to. 
 
 Well; we had got a musket in the bottom of
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 105 
 
 the boat, for a signal in case of accident, and 
 then the brig was to hoist a hght. By the time 
 we had pulled fairly out of sight of her, and the 
 night now pitch dark, it was our opinion we 
 could not catch a wink of the other, and it was 
 a bare chance where she might be. Then, for 
 the first time, spoke the small boy. " And, 
 may be," said he, " the Portuguee guessed 
 we were lowering away our boat, and thinking, 
 after we had shoved off, that the captain, with 
 his boat adrift, could hardly do less than wait 
 to pick her up : may be the Portuguee has 
 made sail again." And faith this sounded 
 reasonable too. And, furthermore, and be- 
 sides that, it being at least beyond our know- 
 ledge where the Portuguee was, we thought 
 we might as well pull back. 
 
 At this time, I felt the cold greatly about 
 the legs of me, and, puttmg my hand down, 
 oh, murder ! if the boat wasn't half way up to 
 the thwarts in water. " Why, what on earth 
 is this ? " cried I. " May be," says the small 
 F 5
 
 106 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 boy, " your honour, and the captain, and Pat, 
 and Flinn, and myself, and Ben, that's here, 
 forgot to ship the plug, and may be it's out." 
 And sure enough it was. And, because I was 
 sensible of a hole as big as my thumb through 
 the boat's bottom, it stood to reason that she 
 should be filling. " Short times for thinking," 
 said I ; " it's my opinion it's a good season for 
 making a bit of a signal." But, worse and 
 worse, there was the musket where we'd put it, 
 over head and ears, lock and all, poor thing, in 
 good blue water on the boat's floor. 
 
 Nothing remained but to pull for the bare 
 life ; — and what if I 'd bale with my hat ? — and, 
 may be, they '11 be thinking on board some- 
 thing's wrong, and they'll show a light, and 
 then," says I, " I'll see them." Well, by the 
 very reason of the boat's pulling heavy, and a 
 swell, and Ben catching a crab, too, crack goes 
 the grummet his oar pulled against, short off 
 in the mortice ; and there we were, one oar.
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 107 
 
 and we spinning round, and filling, and no- 
 thing else ! 
 
 Now, to be sure, all seemed as good as over 
 with us at any rate. And is there any one, 
 with only nineteen years upon him, with death, 
 inevitable, imminent, death, staring him in the 
 face, every moment nearer, and more grim, 
 but would feel it hard to have Hved to be thus 
 lost in his youth, with all his hopes before him ? 
 So thought the poor small boy in the bows ; for 
 he wept aloud, and called on his mother. 
 Poor boy ! she was far away. But had no- 
 body a mother but he ? Oh, yes ! Though 
 mine was dead and gone, she'd be with me 
 still : often in my joy, when I'd wish for her 
 to share it; and always in pain or sorrow: 
 for they were akin to the thoughts of having 
 lost her. And, oh ! that night, when I was alone 
 on the wide, tumbling, unrelenting, swell, in a 
 round, short, crazy, jolly-boat, with one oar, and 
 no plug to bless ourselves, and two poor wretches 
 whose company would be no comfort in drown- 
 F 6
 
 108 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 ing; and the more I baled, the more I couldn't 
 keep her from filling. It was just that night 
 twelvemonth — but why did I remember it was 
 just a year ago that night that I lost her, when I 
 thought, to be sure, we were so soon to meet 
 again? Oh, it was that I was thankful she 
 was dead and gone, not to mourn for me. But 
 I said nothing; for I wouldn't have considered 
 that handsome, by any means, to the rest of 
 us; but I looked once round before I'd give 
 all up. 
 
 Was that the brig's light ? — oh no ! it 
 was a shooting star ! — and I don't know 
 what it was, or why, but I felt something 
 glance warm across my heart. It was but a 
 foolish shooting star, after all ; — but I set the 
 spot where it fell. And, hurrah ! if Ben, who 
 had been working all along with his knife, 
 like a heathen who never thought of death, 
 hadn't got the mortice-hole clear, and new 
 shipped the grummet. So we cheered to keep 
 our hearts up, — and got something like steer-
 
 THE SHOOTING STAR. 109 
 
 age-way on the boat once more. But, seeing it 
 was all one which way we put her head, I 
 steered her a straight course for where the 
 star had shot into the wave, — I don't know 
 why, — and baled double tides. And, poor 
 comfort though this was, I thought I'd see 
 what would come of it, and hurrahed them to 
 give way stoutly, for we might, at least, be 
 pulling in towards shore. 
 
 Two dreary hours more, and still working 
 hard, when a streak of gi'ey morning light 
 began to daT\Ti narrow and cheerless on the 
 horizon. Was it cheerless, I said? Oh no — 
 blessings on it ! for as the dark curtain drew 
 up, which for hours had been closed on the very 
 souls of us, I thought I could see a sail on the 
 black heaving horizon, against the opening sky, 
 right a-head. My eyes ached, being fixed so 
 long ; I closed them for a wank, — and then, 
 clear and plain, there was the brig, hove to as 
 we had left her, and not a lantern had the thief 
 shown all the time. Well ; we cheered again.
 
 110 THE SHOOTING STAR. 
 
 loud and lustily. And now it was, indeed, I 
 wept amain; and the poor boy shrieked like 
 a young thing catching a sight of life again. 
 Even Ben, the creature, dropped his head, as 
 if he felt more than he'd be speaking of. 
 
 It was long, long before we could be seen 
 pullmg over the swell, though often I'd wave my 
 handkerchief high. But, at last, — oh glory ! — 
 we saw her fill her sails and come right down 
 to us. And she picked us up just as the jolly- 
 boat's ugly gunnel was down to the water's 
 edge. 
 
 And here I am, five years after. I have led 
 a rough life since, and am like to do, — for I'm 
 captain's clerk to a West Indiaman. But 
 never, never from that hour have I seen a 
 shooting star but I'm the better for it ; for then 
 I bless heaven for my life, and my poor mother 
 for her prayer, when I was struggling in the 
 bog-hole near " Phelim's Rest." 
 
 Am I superstitious ? — I believe not. 
 
 G.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE FIRST FIT OF THE GOUT, 
 
 THE END OF MAN'S HAPPINESS. 
 A JOURNAL. 
 
 Oh gout ! inexorable wicked gout ! bane of 
 all enjoyment ! destroyer of beauty, of com- 
 fort, of activity, of gi'ace ! of amusement of 
 every kind, and in every degree ! leveller of 
 distinctions — that makest the pampered rich 
 man to suffer and lament like the subdued me- 
 chanick, and the subdued mechanick to swear 
 and bluster like the pampered rich man ! — 
 that swellest the toe of the nimble rope-dancer 
 till he limp it Uke a one-legged Chelsea pen- 
 sioner ! — oh, what have I done to deserve thy 
 heavy chastenings, and all the cruel mortifica- 
 tions thou hast brought upon me in thy train ?
 
 112 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 But I will stay my suspirations, for they do but 
 accelerate the circulation of my blood; and 
 then my toe, and my knee, and my hip, and my 
 elbow — seats of my disorder — resume their 
 insufferable twitchings, making existence hor- 
 rible, and me a very wretch indeed — consigning 
 me again to hot flannels, old women, apothe- 
 caries, and water gruel. 
 
 It is a toil too great for a man, recovering as 
 slowly as possible, (my friends call it "favourably 
 and gradually,") from a first, and a very severe, 
 fit of the gout, to give a detail " raisonne" of all 
 his sufferings. I have forgotten many of mine ; I 
 have been delirious with vexation, even more than 
 with pain. For I have been till now a smart 
 man, — and a handsome man ; a man famous 
 for a light dancing step in walking, and a small 
 foot, and a well-made shoe ; and it has been my 
 study to prolong my youth, and guard my 
 good looks, by every possible little attention to 
 my person and manners ; by feats of agility, 
 such as twisting through chair-backs, standing
 
 OF THE GOUT. Il3 
 
 on one foot, and raising the other to my mouth, 
 falling flat on the ground, as people do in a tra- 
 gedy, or, still better, in a pantomune, and getting 
 up again without using my hands; by quadril- 
 ling it, like a thing of one-and-twenty ; and, in 
 short, by every innocent artifice that might 
 cheat the world into believing I was younger 
 by fifteen good years than I am now free to 
 ovni, and eager to ovm, I am; for, now, my 
 only prospect of future ease and comfort is in 
 running into the opposite extreme, and in 
 being able, by reason of my mfirmities, to 
 claim the best and most commodious arm- 
 chair, the stoutest walking-stick, the bed-room 
 on the ground-floor, with the pity and the 
 indulgence of those who will be as kind as they 
 are active, and who will run my messages, rub 
 my foot, ring the bell, and bring me relays of 
 caricatures. — Thank God there is no lack of 
 excellent caricatures just now, — which will bear 
 looking at again and again. May H. B. live
 
 11 4 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 for ever ! and never have the gout in his 
 pictorial hand or his inventive head ! 
 
 I fear " self" has always occupied too much 
 of my thoughts ; and now it is " gouty self," 
 still less social, and still more selfish, in its 
 enjoyments than ever. But I can dwell on 
 nothing else for longer than a few minutes at a 
 time. I am a poor enervated creature, and I 
 must try at least to make my complainings 
 heard by the sympathising fraternity of the 
 podagrous, if no other race of men will com- 
 passionate me, listen to me, or read me. 
 
 I have had some small, very small, solace in 
 my misery by keeping a sort of sick-room 
 journal. I am still incapable of connecting 
 these snatches of writing into a detailed ac- 
 count of the progress of a fit of gout; but I 
 think they may, like my poor toe, be more 
 interesting in their present shape. The world 
 loves originality, too; and lam sure the subject 
 will strike more home to the probable majority 
 of my readers (those, I mean, who are sufferers
 
 OF THE GOUT. 115 
 
 from gout) than if I affected a tranquil style of 
 writing, while a prey to the most painful of all 
 the pains that flesh is heir to. 
 
 But I must first shortly introduce myself to 
 notice. My wife, — yes, the truth must out, 
 spite of all my assumed bachelor airs, — I 
 have a wife ; and, now^ that I have the gout 
 likewise, I would not be without her for the 
 world. WTiat can place a flannel, and smooth 
 a pillow, and sweeten a bitter draught (I do 
 not speak in types), or alleviate a pang of 
 corporal sufferance, like the soft, light, cautious, 
 ready, willing, hand of an affectionate wife ? Yes, 
 I have a wife, and a happy home, and six small 
 children, all healthy and beautiful, and many 
 friends, old and tried; and yet I have some- 
 times left all, and neglected all, and been half 
 ashamed of all, and have even denied that I 
 possessed some of these blessings; and for what? 
 — that I might the better affect the externals 
 of youth to hide the real respectabihty of my 
 station, while I might play the boy, and the
 
 116 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 lover, and the fool, with every pretty woman 
 with whom I happened to become acquainted. 
 
 But let me say one redeeming word for 
 myself — I loved my wife. Yes. Although I left 
 her under feigned excuses ; though I kept her a 
 stranger to my habits, my pursuits, my amuse- 
 ments; though I withheld from her my con- 
 fidence in some matters the most important to 
 a loving wife, and now and then went so far as 
 to unpose upon her credulous, unsuspecting, 
 affection, — still I loved her, and admired her, 
 and honoured her ; and, had I, at any moment 
 since our marriage, (even before the gout had 
 brought me low and lean, ) had to choose again 
 my life's companion and my honour's guardian, 
 again should I, without a moment's hesitation, 
 have chosen thee, my good and faithful Janet. 
 
 But I am exhausted with even this small 
 effort of tenderness, and must now refer my 
 readers to my journal : — " Sweet Janet, give me 
 a cordial, and fifteen drops of my new bitters, 
 and reach me that little port-folio by the bed-
 
 OF THE GOUT. 117 
 
 side, in which I wrote when I was so poorly; 
 tie the bell-string to my chair ; put the smelling- 
 bottle within my reach, and tell them not to bang 
 the doors. Now, go and take a walk, for you 
 are pale for want of air, and I will amuse my- 
 self with these." 
 
 Wednesday. — Cross and ill — out of condi- 
 tion — don't know what is the matter with me — 
 never felt so before — haven't been to say well 
 for several days — can't keep my shoe on, 
 right foot so uneasy — a pain in the sole of it 
 all through to the instep — must be the cramp. 
 
 Seven o'clock. — Getting worse — no relish 
 for any thing — forced to wear my slippers and 
 stay at home — can't eat — children make a sad 
 noise over my head — will smoke a cigar and 
 drink some champagne — shall then be up to 
 going to the play — can go there in large shoes 
 and trowsers. 
 
 Ten o'clock. — It won't do — devil take the 
 cigar and the champagne ! — send for a doctor 
 — my foot's on fire ! — a red-hot poker running 
 through it !
 
 118 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 Monday. — Thursday , Friday, Saturday, and 
 Sunday ! shall I ever forget ye ? I have had 
 the gout! am a martyr to the gout! Oh, what 
 excruciating torture ! Did I ever feel pain 
 before ? Never ! I wonder I 'm alive — I am but 
 half alive, and writing makes me giddy. 
 
 Wednesday. — Another whole day of agonis- 
 ing pain. A little better now, — a very little, — 
 and only the effect of opium, so it will not 
 last. But, thank heaven ! I have a moment of 
 comparative ease from the racking pains of 
 gout ! Could it have been gout ? — Yes, it was 
 gout. I have had it all over me — nobody ever 
 before was so afflicted — I am vanquished, 
 utterly vanquished — I cry like a child, and 
 gossip over my sufferings like an old woman 
 who has a pride in her incapacity. Pity — pity 
 is all I covet — I am so exhausted — so feeble ! 
 
 Thursday. — A sad night — got an hour's 
 sleep this morning, which has revived me a 
 little — am a little better — and should have felt 
 some degree of encouragement, but for an un-
 
 OF THE GOUT. 119 
 
 toward accident, which has annoyed me beyond 
 measure, and given me a return of my feverish 
 symptoms — must not think any more about 
 it to-day — my doctor says I must be quiet, 
 and composed. To-morrow I may be better. 
 
 Friday. — Better indeed ! — worse and worse ! 
 Could not sleep a wink. Shall I never be at 
 rest ? oh my toe ! and oh these tiresome 
 women ! Can't they be quiet when a man has 
 got the gout — and can't they wait till he's 
 well, and hold their tongues and their pens 
 meanwhile? D — n these women! — No, I 
 won't say that though. — Bless them. — But 
 what shall I do? I am prettily shown up 
 now ! Unable to move hand or foot, — help- 
 less as a baby, and a cj^her in my own house, 
 — dosing my life away, and fit for nothing, — 
 of course every matter of business is referred 
 to my wife. Yesterday half a dozen notes, 
 directed to me, were given to her by my 
 rascal of a groom. He might have known 
 better. I believe he had a pleasure in showing
 
 120 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 me up, because I was so snappish with him, 
 when this plaguey gout was coming on, only 
 because young Highflyer's coat stared. — Yes, he 
 gave half a dozen notes to my wife, of half a 
 dozen different colours, and with half a dozen 
 pretty devices on the seals. She might have 
 guessed they had nothing to do with her. She 
 could not have understood them — how should 
 she ? Here they are ; true copies : — 
 
 Note 1. (Pink paper.) 
 
 " Don't forget you are engaged to-night for 
 our quadrille costumee. Your dress, — white 
 shirt, &c., pink and blue bows ; straw hat, with 
 wreath of corn flowers; red stockings; green 
 garters below the knee, and "oery small yellow 
 morocco leather shoes. Don't be late. We 
 must have a rehearsal before our grand de- 
 but. Charlotte." 
 Note 2. (Blue.) 
 
 " Where are you, Tesoro ? won't your unfe 
 allow you to go out ? You see I have found out 
 you ham a wife ! Emily."
 
 OF THE GOUT. 121 
 
 Notes. (Green.) 
 
 " Mr. A. is become rather more reasonable 
 — I am to have an opera-box for the whole 
 season. Oh ! the transport of having my bijou 
 by my side every Tuesday and Saturday ! — 
 But where are you ? Rosa3iond." 
 
 Note 4. (Yellow.) 
 
 " We are waiting for you — all the other 
 rowers are come, and look very tidy in their 
 blue striped shirts and no neckcloths. — It 
 won't rain all day — we are just starting — 
 make haste. Caroline." 
 
 Note 5. (Lilack.) 
 
 *' My amiable friend must forgive me, if I 
 say he is unkind. Above a week — and no 
 visit — no letters — no plaintive sonnet — no 
 little token — intrinsically trifling, but inestim- 
 able to friendship ! not a rose — a violet — a 
 diamond Sevigne — nor any little thing to 
 prove the thought is present, although the 
 person may be absent. Fickle ? — No — I'll 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 not believe it — after all your promises and 
 vows of eternal friendship — no ! But, per- 
 haps, your wife is jealous — perhaps she can- 
 not understand the refinements of a pure and 
 tender friendship. What meanness to be jea- 
 lous ! Yes, you are very right to stay away 
 
 — it is your duty — but I must find a friend 
 with fewer domestick ties. I am too sensitive 
 
 — they bore me. Adieu for ever ! unless you 
 come to-day. X. Y. Z." 
 
 Note 6. (Rose-colour, stamped with Cupids.) 
 " Remember ! — Somebody." 
 
 Now was it not enough to drive a man mad 
 to see his own wife standing at his bed's foot, 
 with all these six notes open in her hand ? But 
 she looked innocent, and ignorant, and tran- 
 quil as ever. 
 
 Had she read them ? I shall never feel sure 
 that she had not^ and yet, if she had — how 
 could she be tranquil? They must have 
 opened her eyes, or her eyes are not worth
 
 OF THE GOUT. 123 
 
 opening. She can't like to have such a fool 
 for her husband ! Strange animal that I am, 
 and contradictory ! — I should not like to think 
 that my wife coiild read those six notes and not 
 be jealous — and angry — and unhappy. I 
 would not give twopence for her if she could 
 be tranquil, and calm, and contented, under 
 what any dehcate-minded woman ought to con- 
 sider a misfortune ; for, upon my life, these 
 notes paint me worse than I am. I am a Phi- 
 landerer, and that leads me into follies ; — but 
 only follies — and I love my wife in spite of 
 them all, and value her good opinion and 
 affection beyond all other good. But, if she 
 have read those notes, can I expect her to 
 believe it? 
 
 " Here are some notes," she said, holding 
 up No. 1. " They seem all to be invitations 
 to parties. Shall I read them to you ? " 
 
 " For God's sake, no ! " I answered, with 
 unbecoming haste, which she mistook, I hope, 
 for gouty peevishness. For I saw by their 
 G 2
 
 124 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 shapes and colours, that there could be no 
 good in them. 
 
 " They are mvitations," she continued, 
 glancing her eye again over No. 1. " But I 
 said you have got the gout." 
 
 " The devil you did ? " 1 uttered inadver- 
 tently. 
 
 She replied with perfect simplicity : — " Yes, 
 it is the truth, and a very sufficient answer to 
 all invitations at this present. I said, from 
 myself, that you were very ill with a severe fit 
 of the gout — and that you will answer those 
 letters that require an answer as soon as you 
 are better. I will put them on the chimney- 
 piece, with this book upon them, to keep them 
 together ; and, whenever you like it, I will 
 brmg pen, ink, and paper, and write the an- 
 swers to them that you shall dictate." 
 
 No — she could only have read the first ; 
 and she is so accustomed to seeing me 
 make a gander of myself, — she has so often 
 made up a fancy-dress for me with her own
 
 OF THE GOUT. 125 
 
 hands, and knows I am such a vain frivolous 
 ape, that I begin to think she was not even 
 surprised at No. 1., and had no curiosity to 
 look further than the fortunate quadrille cos- 
 tumee. So, I am better now, and will take a 
 nap ; to-morrow, I hope, I shall get into a 
 gout}^ chair, and a list shoe. I have ordered 
 all coloured notes to be given to me privately. 
 I should have done so sooner. But all's well, 
 I do believe. 
 
 Saturday. — No such dissipation for me as a 
 gouty chair and a list shoe yet. A return of 
 pain last night, and fever. It is shifting its 
 quarters, and flying about from joint to joint, 
 till not an inch of me is free from pain. They 
 tell me it is a orood sio^n: and thev wish me 
 joy. They say that the gout is chspersing, 
 and will soon take its departure. I am a sad 
 victim to this horrible disease. It has quite 
 subdued me. I, who never kept my bed be- 
 fore for a whole day, now find it is the only 
 comfort in life. The monotony of a sick-room 
 G 3
 
 126 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 is become so necessary to me, that it is losing 
 all its horrors. Unfit for every other place, 
 it is some relief to me to be a despot here, — to 
 have all arranged as I wish one moment, and 
 to alter all by a sign or a nod the next. Could 
 any thing be less to my present taste, than a 
 smart apartment ? — Good heaven ! I tremble 
 at the thought of a long dinner; — Sitting bolt 
 upright on a cane-bottomed chair. The idea of 
 a cold damp laborious party of pleasure by 
 water gives me an ague fit. How should I 
 shrink from facing the heat of an opera box ! 
 A boudoir all over looking-glasses would add to 
 my misfortunes, by multiplying on all sides the 
 afflicting image of a swollen leg and sallow 
 blotched complexion. 
 
 No ! — My days of health and sweet folly all 
 are past ! — As soon as I can move, I will go 
 to my country-house — to Birchendown — 
 where I have not been since my honey-moon 
 — but where I ought to be : I will take to bo- 
 tany — and dendrology — plant young trees —
 
 OF THE GOUT. 127 
 
 improve my grounds for my son's sake. Oh ! 
 it may soon be his ! I will be a magistrate, and 
 take the chair, an easy chair, at quarter sessions. — 
 Little is required for that, but a captious temper 
 and a chronick disorder. I will lead a useful 
 comfortable hfe at last — never wear tight shoes 
 again. I will drive my 0"«ti wife about in a 
 httle low four-wheeled carriage, di'awn by a 
 steady pony. She is ignorant of my misdeeds 
 past, and will still think herself a happy woman, 
 — and, I know, will enjoy the change, and 
 value the constant society of her once careless 
 husband. She deserves of me this sweet 
 amends. I will write to my steward to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Sunday. — There is no post of a Sunday — 
 so I can't write to-day — and I never could 
 do things well in a hurry. I slept for several 
 hours last night, and feel somewhat better — 
 although I am very weak, and cannot sit up in 
 my bed. But I am out of pain, and that is 
 a great blessing. I shall get well in time. I 
 G 4
 
 128 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 wish my wife would not go telling every body 
 that I have got the gout. Can't she say, I 
 have had a fever ? There is something gay, 
 and rakish, and chivalrous, in fever, — and, if 
 there were but a hint of contagion, people would 
 be glad to stay away till one is fit to be seen. 
 She brought young Darley into my room just 
 now, thinking he would amuse me with his 
 senseless rattle, — and fancying that I really 
 like the puppy, because I am always praising 
 him, — which I do to hide that I am jealous of 
 him with " Somebody." And now he will go 
 to that dear pretty little creature, and make 
 her die with laughing at his good stories, about 
 my wretched looks, and my remedies, and my 
 night-cap, — and my wife. Oh Lord ! Oh Lord ! 
 what a plague it is to have the gout ! — Any 
 thing else I could have borne. 
 
 When will my trials end ? — I really shall 
 go crazy, and do myself a mischief. I never 
 feel better inwardly for an hour or two, but 
 it is a signal for some new torment, some fresh
 
 OF THE GOUT. 129 
 
 mortification, to assail me from without. I 
 was better to-day — I had a parental impulse — 
 I thought it might amuse me to see my chil- 
 dren. — In they came, poor dears ! — upon their 
 little toes, for fear of making a noise to disturb 
 me — my wife carrying the baby, whom she 
 had taken from the nurse at the door. 
 
 " Thank you, dear papa, for my pretty pre- 
 sent," came, w^ithakiss, from every Httle mouth, 
 while every tiny hand displayed — w hat ? — 
 why, a confounding witness ! a well known 
 " trifle " — " token" — " keepsake " — '• sou- 
 venir, " all which I had received — begged — 
 stolen — or scrambled for, like a born idiot as I 
 am, from my many female friends and cor- 
 respondents ; and which I had considered safely 
 stored within the drawer of my writing-table, 
 in my room below stairs. 
 
 Luckily the windows were half closed, and 
 my confusion could not be seen, — and, as sheer 
 surprise had taken from me all power to speak, 
 my voice did not betray my agitation. 
 G 5
 
 130 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 My wife approached my bed-side, and, hold- 
 ing her baby towards me, so that his rosy 
 mouth should touch my parched and shrivelled 
 lips, " You must not be angry with me," she 
 said, " for giving the dear children the little 
 presents you had so kindly collected for them. 
 I looked into your table draAver for the tax- 
 gatherer's paper. The children were by, and 
 espied the pretty toys, and seized most of them 
 before I could hide them amongst the papers ; 
 and they were so delighted, and so happy, 
 that I had not the heart to take them away. 
 Each seemed to guess what you had intended 
 for him or her. Jemima took the scented 
 sachet — Harriet the heart with the key to it, 
 ^- Jackey said the little lady's riding-whip with 
 the silver top was certainly for him, for you 
 had promised him a pony — Tommy has the 
 cup and ball — and Fanny the tiny tetotum ; 
 and, as for baby, we all said the egg full of 
 sugar plums could not be meant for any thing 
 bigger than he is — so we gave it to him, and
 
 OF THE GOUT. 131 
 
 he has emptied it already. This turquoise ring, 
 which is too big and too handsome for a child, 
 I know my kind husband meant for me upon 
 my birthday; only you were too ill on that 
 day to recollect any thing. I have it on my 
 finger — and wiU never part with it — it fits 
 exactly. — How do you find yourself now, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " Oh! quite weU, my dear, and quite com- 
 fortable, and quite happy — and at my ease, 
 of course; how can I be otherwise? There, 
 — take all the children away, and leave me 
 to sleep." 
 
 To sleep ! a pretty joke ; and a pretty figure 
 I cut, indeed ! — So, — there she goes, with Be- 
 linda's rhig upon her finger, which she swears 
 she will never part with. Here's a pretty job ! 
 It is a remarkable rmg, and she knows Belinda 
 intimately — she is her own cousin. I shall 
 go mad amongst them. I wish there was not 
 a woman m the world, with all my heart. 
 Is she in earnest? Can she still be blind 
 G 6
 
 132 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 — Stupid — ignorant? Is she a fool ? She 
 used not to be one — she was not one when 
 we married — and maUce never was in her 
 nature. She cannot have done all this in 
 malice, surely ? She cannot be so consummate 
 an actress. Oh, po ! I wrong her — poor Janet ! 
 She is honest, innocent, confiding. I am 
 myself the fool, — the deceiver. It is my cruel 
 fate which is now besetting me in every quarter. 
 I must fly — there is nothing else for it. I will 
 write to my steward directly, and live the rest 
 of my life at Bircheiidown. How can I contrive 
 to get possession of Belinda's ring? Once 
 more in my possession, I'll make sure work of 
 it. No one shall ever find that again. 
 
 Monday. — I shall never get well while I am 
 exposed to these constant frights ; for, though, 
 thank heaven, they have all, as yet, been false 
 alarms, still they agitate and worry me, and 
 keep me awake, or cause me frightful dreams, 
 just as if they were real. It would be better to 
 fall into the precipice at once, and put up with
 
 OF THE GOUT. 13S 
 
 the worst that could happen, than live for ever 
 thus, trembling on its brink. 
 
 1 have had a sad night. — The swelling of 
 my foot and my knee was abating, — I was less 
 feverish, — when these devils of " souvenirs" 
 made me as bad as ever; and, although I got 
 so well out of. that scrape, it half killed me. 
 Yesterday was an unlucky day for me from 
 beginning to end. I had a second fright in the 
 evening. I really must send my wife into the 
 country, and make some excuse for getting her 
 out of the way. How she does contrive to 
 bore me, poor dear soul. 
 
 I could not sleep yesterday, after the children 
 were dismissed, although I lay still to avoid 
 speaking. Thinking I was fast, my wife stole out 
 of the room, as I expected, to see the little 
 ones put to bed. 
 
 When she returned, she held in her hand a 
 large nosegay, the sight of which was so 
 delightful and refreshing to a sick and gouty 
 man — it formed such a cheering contrast with
 
 134 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 every thing else around me — that I bade her 
 draw up the window blinds, and let me luxuriate 
 over its gay colours, its fragrance, and its 
 freshness. 
 
 " See what somebody has sent you," she 
 said. 
 
 Good heaven ! I thought she meant my 
 " Somebody." My heart bounded to my throat. 
 " Now for it ! " thought I — " now for the 
 grand explosion." 
 
 " See what a beautiful nosegay!" she con- 
 tinued — untying it, and spreading the sweet 
 flowers before me : " here are roses, and car- 
 nations, and jessamine, and mignionette, and 
 myrtle in blossom. I guess who sent it all, 
 although no name came with it, and no message, 
 excepting that it was for you." 
 
 " Who sent it?" I groaned. 
 
 " Somebody must have sent it, — that you will 
 own," she said. 
 
 I groaned again. 
 
 " My sister Benson must have sent it," she
 
 \ 
 
 OF THE GOUT. 135 
 
 continued. — " She was to come this evening 
 from her pretty place at Richmond, where she 
 has such lovely flowers. It must have been my 
 sister Benson." 
 
 " God bless your sister Benson !" I exclaimed; 
 " I never felt so gi'ateful to any one before." 
 
 " I wish you could get to Richmond, dear," 
 said my simple wife; " it is such a pretty 
 spot, and such good air. My sister's house is 
 close to the water side : you might be lifted 
 into a boat, and we would leave the gout and 
 all annoyances behind us." 
 
 " We "will go there," said I, in a momentary 
 extacy; " we'll go to-morrow." 
 
 She looked alarmed, for she thought me 
 delirious to contemplate such a speedy act. 
 She gathered up the scattered flowers, put 
 them into water, placed them on a table by my 
 side, and, gently closing the window bhnds, 
 took her usual station in a corner of the room. 
 
 And now I am come to the end of my scraps 
 of journal, and I trust nearly to the end of my
 
 136 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 sufferings, together with my mortifications and 
 exhibitions. I have read over what I have 
 written, and I think it rather good, — for a gouty 
 man ; there is an air of candour in it which is 
 admirable. In short, I am vain of my first 
 effort as a writer, (I have already owned to the 
 deadly sin of vanity,) and I shall go on now 
 steadily, and wind up my narrative, but without 
 dividing it into days. In another week or so, I 
 hope to get to Richmond for change of air, and 
 then I shall soon be well and happy again. 
 
 It is now three weeks since I was seized with 
 the first symptoms of gout — I am certainly 
 getting much better. I have had good nights 
 and tranquil days, latterly. I needed rest from 
 worry and pain of mind as well as of body. I 
 have moved my quarters, and got into my 
 wife's dressing room. Nobody but a gouty 
 body can tell the delight of even a slight 
 change of scene after acute suffering. I never 
 shall be able to make use of that dull room 
 again ; (Janet must take it for her's) ; it makes
 
 OF THE GOUT. 13? 
 
 my toe ache even now, when they open the 
 door of it, and I catch a gUmpse of those 
 eternal blue and white striped curtains. The 
 only thing that now bores me is Belinda's ring 
 for ever upon my wife's finger. 
 
 I cannot move yet like a Christian ; but I am 
 m a Merlin's chau', (rare and blessed invention! ) 
 and I have all the small amusements incident 
 thereto. I twist and turn myself about all day 
 long ~ not at will, for I cannot guide it yet, and 
 not much at pleasure, for I came bang up 
 against the wall just now, and received a shock 
 which set all the elastick fluid vibrating through 
 every nerve and fibre in my body, m order that 
 I might avoid playing Juggernaut upon my 
 poor baby, who was innocently crawling on the 
 floor. But this is comparative happiness to any 
 thing I have experienced during the last three 
 weeks. 
 
 And I have now settled the matter of the 
 ring ; thank heaven ! I shall never see that 
 again. I have been a sad rogue to poor
 
 138 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 dear Belinda; but the comfort of my life 
 depended on it; and as soon as I am well I 
 will make her give me another souvenir. 
 
 Of all those dear creatures, who are so very 
 kind as to allow me to carry on a very pleasant 
 sort of unprofitable liaison with them, which 
 hurts no one, Belinda happens to be the one 
 that I am the most attached to; and, at the 
 same time, the most afraid of. She has so 
 much wit, is so shrewd and clever, that she 
 keeps me always in awe of her ; but she is so 
 charming, so beautiful, that I have allowed her 
 to be a very despot, and to rule me with a rod 
 of iron when she chooses : then she is very 
 jealous, and I am forced to spend part of every 
 day in her society, or I have her here, — under 
 pretence of visiting my wife, but, in fact, to 
 find out where I am, and what I'm doing. 
 
 Now, it would be more convenient to keep 
 her to myself; so I have told Janet that I 
 dislike her cousin Belinda, and that, now I 
 must stay more at home, it will not be pleasant
 
 OF THE GOUT. 139 
 
 to have her, as third, constantly breaking in 
 upon our comfortable tete-a-tetes. Poor dear 
 little fool ! she was pleased at this, and said it 
 would be hard, indeed, if I might not choose 
 my society in my o\^^l house, especially now, 
 that illness had made me such a fixture at 
 home. 
 
 " Leave it to me," she said : " I will contrive 
 to keep Belinda away. But you must try to 
 like her again, in time, for my sake." 
 
 I took her hand, as I thanked her for her 
 ready compliance with my wishes ; and, point- 
 ing to the obnoxious ring upon her finger, 
 " My dear Janet," I said, " I am a strange 
 fancif\il beinff — I am takinop a disHke to everv 
 thing excepting you : this ring bores me ; it 
 reminds me of gout, and of all the plague and 
 trouble I have given you. Don't wear it any 
 more ; I will give you another, and a prettier ; 
 throw this away." 
 
 *' You shall never see it again," she replied, 
 taking it directly from her finger, and putting
 
 140 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 it in her pocket ; " but I can't throw away a 
 gift of yours." 
 
 " As you like," I rephed; happy at having 
 gained two essential points; and I feel quite 
 relieved, and quite comfortable ; for Janet never 
 breaks her word ; and I shall now be out of hot 
 water about Belinda's ring, and Belinda; for 
 Janet, with all her gentleness, has a way of 
 doing things which, without being harsh, is 
 very effective, and her whole study being to 
 make me happy, and fond of my home, poor 
 dear! she will soon manage to clear away 
 Belinda. Belinda will think she is jealous, and 
 that will not hurt me in her opinion. So alFs 
 well ; and I am so much better, that my spirits 
 and my appetite are improving hourly. 
 
 Some day or other what an excellent husband 
 I will become ! The next fit of gout will be a 
 lucky one for Janet, I have no doubt — then 
 her turn will come. A man cannot be expected 
 to give up every thing at once. But I have 
 begun my reformation — I have considered the
 
 OF THE GOL^T. 141 
 
 subject, and left off stays, which are the first 
 steps towards connubial bhss. 
 
 Another week is gone, and I am come to the 
 last scene of my tragedy. Yes, another week 
 is gone — and the gout is gone. ^\^lo would 
 then believe that I am a more miserable being 
 than ever ? But I am ; for my wife is gone 
 too — and my children are gone — and all my 
 happiness is gone — and Belinda's ring is come 
 back again. It is even now lying before me on 
 the table. What shall I do ? It has all fallen 
 so rapidly upon me — all in the last fatal hour 
 — that I hardly know what has happened ; and 
 yet I know, beyond a doubt, that I am a very 
 wretch. 
 
 I said Belinda's ring is lying before me on 
 the table. Close to it is a letter in my wife's 
 hand-writing, addressed to Belinda, and both 
 sweet tokens — ring and letter — have just been 
 sent to me by Belinda herself. Let the letter 
 speak for itself and for me : —
 
 142 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 " Dear Belinda, 
 
 " One ever increases one's difficulties in 
 " attempting to disguise an unpleasant truth. 
 " I am sure it is always wisest to be honest; 
 " and I know you well enough to be convinced 
 " that it is your maxim, as well as my own, to 
 " do what is right, let what will come of it. 
 
 " My poor husband has, as you must know, 
 " been greatly afflicted lately with the gout ; 
 " indeed he has suffered much, and, upon the 
 " whole, very patiently. But I have often heard 
 " that this most painful disorder leaves a sort 
 " of restlessness in the system, which ill-natured 
 " people call peevishness, and which may cause 
 " a man to be a little capricious, even against 
 " his better judgment. It must be this usual 
 " effect of the gout that has made poor dear 
 " Herbert take some odd fancies since he has 
 " begun to recover. He won't return to his 
 " own former room; he likes new objects about 
 " him, and takes dislikes to what he has liked 
 " hitherto, and been accustomed to. In short.
 
 OF THE GOUT. 143 
 
 " dear Belinda, without more preamble, he has 
 " taken an unaccomitable dislike to you, of all 
 " people in the world ! and has urged me so 
 " kindly, and yet so strongly, to banish you 
 " from our society, that I o^^ii I am at a loss to 
 " find a cause for it, much more any reason. But 
 " so it is — and, as it is, of course, my duty 
 " rather to offend a friend, than disobey a hus- 
 " band, I must act upon his orders. 
 
 " But I shall not offend my dear BeHnda in 
 " trusting this little family secret to her discre- 
 " tion. It is more pleasing to me to make this 
 " honest avowal of a husband's caprice than 
 " run the risk of my cousin's beheving I am 
 " ungrateful to her for former kindnesses. Let 
 " me ask you then to avoid us for the present ; 
 " all will be ricrht soon, and Herbert will be the 
 " first to laugh with you over his nonsense. 
 
 " I enclose a ring — wear it, dear Belinda, 
 " for my sake. I assure you it is one that 1 
 " value, as the gift of my husband. But he has 
 " taken a dislike to this unoffending ring, too,
 
 144 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 " and has bid me to throw it away. I can- 
 " not throw away or cease to value a gift of 
 " Herbert's, although I must cease to wear it 
 " myself; so I give it to you, Belinda; and let 
 " it remnid you of the sincere affection which 
 " you must feel you so well deserve from 
 
 " Yours, &c. Janet." 
 
 Now for another, and a still more agreeable 
 epistle, if possible. Another letter in my wife's 
 hand-writing, and addressed this time to myself. 
 It was given to me a few minutes before the 
 other arrived, and had already nearly been the 
 death of me. Oh, Janet ! one half of these 
 mild, just reproaches, would have been sufficient 
 to humble a husband, who can, at least, say 
 this — He never yet did aught against you, 
 however trifling the offence, even in the jealous 
 eye of love, without his conscience pleading 
 your cause so strongly, that he could not much 
 longer have continued unfaithful to you in a 
 look, a thought, or word.
 
 OF THE GOUT. 145 
 
 But I must not give way — still must I play 
 the bravo ^"ith my own vexed heart a little 
 while, and wind up my narrative with what 
 spirit I can muster. Janet's letter to me shall 
 now be heard. I am a lover of justice. I am 
 at this moment incapable of explaining what it 
 shall tell for me, and for itself 
 
 Janet's Letter. 
 
 " It is grievous indeed to me to be the 
 " cause of inflicting pain upon you ; and yet 
 " will I own honestly that I wish these lines 
 " may pain you ; for, if they do not, then is all 
 " hope of future happiness in this world shut 
 " out from me for ever. 
 
 " When you shall receive this letter, your 
 " wife and children will be many miles from 
 " you on their way to Birchendown. I have 
 " never been there since we were first married 
 " You had then just chosen me to be your com- 
 " panion — the sharer of your joys and sorrows 
 " — and I fondly hoped, and firmly believed, 1 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 " could have added to your happiness. I have 
 " often seen and felt that I was mistaken in that 
 " hope. But I imputed no blame to you ; and 
 " fancied that no man of your age and disposi- 
 " tion would have been contented any where 
 " but in the constant round of society and 
 " amusement which can be only found in Lon- 
 '' don, and at publick watering places, where, 
 " for nine years, our lives have been wasted. 
 '' Yes, wasted ; — for what is the result ? No- 
 " thing useful — nothing respectable ; and, if I 
 " ask my own heart, nothing, even before my 
 " late discoveries, worthy or honourable. 
 
 " Many things have occurred, • during your 
 " late illness, which might sooner have opened 
 " the eyes of one less suspecting than I have 
 " been. At length, however, the veil has been 
 " wholly withdrawn ; and my husband has been 
 " shown to me in a character (I blush as I write 
 "it) which I am ashamed of. 
 
 " I have had an explanation with my 
 " cousin, Belinda. Of course I ought to guard
 
 OF THE GOUT. 147 
 
 " myself from judging of my husband upon the 
 " word of any person, especially that of an 
 " angry woman. But oh, Herbert! — the ring 
 " — the turquoise ring ! and, would that this 
 " were all ! I know Belinda is a gay, thought- 
 " less creature, and too eager, too happy should 
 " I be, to throw all the blame upon her. But 
 " what would be the use of a fond unjust palli- 
 " ation in this one instance, when so many 
 " other accidents have put it beyond a doubt 
 " that I am deceived and despised ? — yes, des- 
 " pised ! For can one place in situations such 
 " as I have been placed in by you, or with 
 " your sanction, a being who is really loved 
 " and honoured ? 
 
 " The enclosed miniatures will explain what 
 " I have no heart, no courage, to mention 
 " further. 
 
 " These letters, too, which I likewise enclose , 
 
 " and which likewise fell by accident into my 
 
 " hands, will remind you what must have been 
 
 " my feelings upon perusing them. I cannot 
 
 H 2
 
 148 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 " trust myself to speak of their contents; but I 
 " must just say this, — had it not been for your 
 " own poor and unnecessary device in telUng 
 " me that letters of this kind were always from 
 " your lawyer, and generally required your im- 
 " mediate attendance in the city, never should 
 " I have thought of opening them. But when 
 " these two letters arrived almost together, and 
 " I dreaded lest you should be disturbed at an 
 " unseasonable hour (it was midnight), and yet 
 " wished to judge if there were any real neces- 
 " sity for waking you, — and knowing already, as 
 " I believed, the subject of them, — was I wrong 
 " in opening them ? But I was most unfor- 
 " tunate ; and this is all I will allow myself to 
 " say concerning them. 
 
 " I am going to Birchendown. As I do not 
 " wish to excite any surprise in your family, I 
 " shall act as if T came there by your desire. I 
 " should not leave you were you not recovering 
 " fast ; but I found it impossible, now that you 
 " are recovering fast, to delay any longer giv-
 
 OF THE GOUT. 149 
 
 ' ing way to my feelings. The painful restraint 
 
 * under which I have existed during the last 
 ' few days is what I have no power to pro- 
 ' long. I have endeavoured to write with a 
 ' composure which I do not feel, but which 
 ' your still weak state of health demands from 
 ' me. 
 
 " My future lot must depend upon yourself 
 
 * entirely. I am not without a hope, however 
 ' vague, however faint, that these afflicting cir- 
 
 * cumstances may admit of an explanation 
 
 * which shall prove to me that a portion of my 
 ' lost happiness may, in time, be restored — 
 ' that is, if you can find wherewithal, in a re- 
 ' spectable and a very different manner of life 
 ' in future, and in my affection, to secure your 
 ' own happiness : if not — we must part. 
 ' Your wife may not continue to live as she 
 ' has lived — neglected by you — scoffed at — 
 ' and, with your sanction, by your companions. 
 
 " Janet." 
 
 H 3
 
 150 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 Alas ! Alas ! — 
 
 " Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." 
 They were wont to — 
 " Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul." 
 
 But now, what do they bring me? Wretch 
 that / am! Do they bring me "aid?" Do 
 they "waft sighs?" No, no! They blow a 
 tempest, a hurricane, which bursts upon me in 
 upbraidings, lectures, scoldings, taunts, and 
 tortures ! 
 
 I sent a few incoherent lines, but very 
 expressive of grief, love, gout, and repentance, 
 to Belinda. They are just returned, unopened. 
 What am I to do ? miserable being that I am ! 
 There is but one road open to me — the dull, 
 strait, highway of duty. I must even travel 
 by that in future. No sweet meanderings — no 
 gentle serpentinings — no devious bye-ways — 
 no pretty doubles, nor trifling wanderings, may 
 be permitted now ; but the beaten, monotonous, 
 vminteresting path — so plain, it cannot be mis-
 
 OF THE GOUT. 151 
 
 taken — so obvious, I need not stay to ask my 
 way — leading direct to home, to wife, and 
 children. All blessings, doubtless, — of the 
 first order. 
 
 This must now be mine ! Tlie chaise has 
 waited at the door at least two hours — and now 
 for Birchendown ! 
 
 Postscinpt. — (dated) Birchendown. 
 
 " Yes — lam still a miserable man. My cruel 
 wife ! she had it all her own way, one should 
 have thought, without this last floorer, — this 
 coup-de-grace. I cannot quarrel with her, for 
 she is so useful to me in my infirm state, that 
 I should not know what to do without her. 
 And, all the time that I am smarting under 
 the effects of her discipline, still I like her to 
 show symptoms of character. I had begun 
 to fear she had no spirit, or a tame one ; for 
 she had forgiven me ! 
 
 But I must explain. In our first hours of 
 meeting and reconciliation, — when my heart 
 was opened, and grateful for her kind and 
 
 H 4.
 
 152^ THE FIRST FIT 
 
 frank forgiveness, and continued affection, — 
 when I found that she knew so much, that 1 
 had it not in my power to make her acquainted 
 with much more, even had I been inclined 
 so to do, vanity, vanity, tripped up my heels, 
 gouty as they are — and I made a merit of 
 showing her my journal. 
 
 She had not quite given credit to my vows, 
 that I had never, even in the worst of times for 
 her, ceased to love her. I thought my journal 
 would put that doubt to rest, and so, as I 
 said, I showed it to her. 
 
 It did not amuse her so much as I expected. 
 She was at first grave upon it, but allowed 
 that any other person than herself might find 
 it entertaining. She took it to reperuse in 
 private. Little did I think she harboured any 
 sinister design. 
 
 After a few days she returned it to me, with 
 more compliments upon the style of my writing, 
 which, she said, might have been better bestowed 
 upon a better subject ; but she urged me to turn
 
 OF THE GOUT. 153 
 
 k 
 
 my mind to authorship. Poor gull that I am ! 
 —I swallowed her praise as if I had deserved it, 
 and asked no further questions. This hap- 
 pened about a month ago. 
 
 Good heaven ! what was my surprise, my 
 dismay — this very morning — while sitting at 
 my reformed, early breakfast — when a packet 
 of books arrived fi*om Paternoster-rpw. I 
 seized them, with an appetite for novelty, which 
 nothing less than a novel itself, or a magazine, 
 or a review, could assuage. I tore open the 
 leaves of a magazine hastily, unmechanically, 
 with the sugar-tongs — my eye fell upon an 
 article — 
 
 " the first fit of gout — the end of 
 man's happiness." 
 
 The title I had given to my own journal — 
 and it was my own journal — printed — pub- 
 lished — verbatim ! ! ! 
 
 And now, what can I say ? Why — the 
 truth — and nothing but the truth. A man 
 never lies but when he is guilty ! 
 H 5
 
 154 THE FIRST FIT 
 
 My wife had stolen a copy of my journal 
 — she had sent it to a respectable publisher — 
 she had desired it might appear immediately. 
 
 Upon my honour, as a gentleman, it was 
 entirely without my knowledge. I would give 
 all I am worth in the world could I cause it 
 to be unprinted — unpublished. I have sent 
 an express to town, to order every copy that 
 can be met with of that work to be bought 
 up, at any price, and burned. May I linger 
 out a long long life of acute, incessant gout, 
 if I am not innocent. What more can I say, 
 or do? 
 
 But dear — injured — exasperated beauties ! 
 will ye believe me ? Will ye forgive me for ever 
 having so rashly put pen to paper? There 
 was my fault, my blunder, my excessive folly ! 
 I cannot kneel for pardon at your feet, for I 
 cannot bend my knee ; and I shall never dare 
 again to approach the smallest of you. All I 
 ask is, to be forgotten — if not forgiven. All 
 I pray is, do not — do not laugh at me.
 
 OF THE GOUT. 155 
 
 " Janet — Janet ! why did you use me so ? " 
 I said : and what do you think was her cool 
 reply ? But no — I'll not repeat it — I will 
 give the substance of her sad prognosticks ; 
 but in my own spirit and words — not in her's 
 — for they would be too sad, — peradventure 
 also, somewhat offensive. 
 
 " Dear, too dear — amiable, too amiable — 
 sensitive, too sensitive — Beings, — whose only 
 fault it has been to feel too kindly, and to write 
 too much, — oh ! while I am with sincere con- 
 trition lamenting over the faithlessness of those 
 depositories which should have concealed from 
 every eye but mine your kind remembrances, — 
 while I deplore the blushing avowal which 
 notes {cmileur de rose) are too apt to make of 
 their compassionate contents, — oh ! may I hope 
 this, at least, from your fidelity ? — that you 
 may not now be granting to others the privilege 
 in their turn to bear any part like unto the 
 melancholy part I have been forced to bear in 
 H 6
 
 156 THE FIRST FIT OF THE GOUT. 
 
 these exposures ; lest, peradventure, the natural 
 impulse of testy jealousy should urge me to 
 wish my rivals in your favour a gout, — a 
 catastrophe, — and an exit, — as painful as my 
 own ! 
 
 G.
 
 157 
 
 THE CONVENT IN THE FOREST. 
 
 In Bretagne, and within a few leagues of the an- 
 cient city of Nantes, there was formerly a small 
 village, the situation of which was so pecuHarly 
 beautiful and romantick, that, at one time, it 
 became a fashion, amongst the nobles and rich 
 merchants, to purchase the cottages, and build 
 in then- stead small villas, whither they would 
 occasionally retire in the summer-time from 
 the bustle of the city, to enjoy refreshing quiet 
 and repose. But the French do not love re- 
 tirement, and a city is seldom too noisy or too 
 busy for them. These villas, although con- 
 structed of wood and other perishable materials, 
 lasted, in some instances, longer than the 
 caprice out of which they had sprung; and, 
 at the time of which I am speaking, all, ex-
 
 158 THE CONVENT 
 
 cepting two, had fallen into decay, and had 
 disappeared. 
 
 There was every thing in this favoured spot 
 that could complete the landscape. Elevated, 
 but sequestered, it lay far away from any pub- 
 lick road, and, like a modest beauty, it could 
 not be discovered unless it were searched for. 
 It was sheltered on the east by rocks, bold and 
 broken, which formed numberless little plat- 
 forms of various shapes and sizes ; on many 
 of which the natural fertility of the soil 
 had thrown up tufts of forest-trees, growing, 
 in conformity with the spaces allowed them, 
 into the most fantastick and picturesque shapes. 
 On the less abrupt parts of the rocks, sweet 
 bays, myrtles, jessamines, and various other gay 
 and flowering, shrubs, had wound themselves 
 into natural bowers and arbours, which showed 
 like the work and the abode of fairies. To the 
 west, the open country towards Nantes lay 
 stretched like a map ; the wildness of the fore- 
 ground subsiding gradually into the cultivated
 
 IN THE FOREST. 159 
 
 formality characteristick of the neighbourhood 
 of a populous city. Xantes itself was a noble 
 object; and, even at this distance, might be 
 seen its fair bridges, its venerable cathedral, 
 and its castle, built and fortified by the ancient 
 dukes of Bretagne, which still frowned in 
 peaceful strength on the banks of the broad 
 and beautiful Loire. 
 
 But perhaps the fairest scene is still to be 
 described. Towards the north lay a tract of 
 forest-land, widening in the distance, and ex- 
 tending further than the eye could follow. 
 Beautiful were the deep woods, when topped 
 by the glowing hues of the settmg sun ; and 
 there too might be seen two sparkling white 
 towers, then best to be distmguished, in the 
 very heart of the forest. They were the belfreys 
 belongmg to a convent and a monastery, small 
 and very ancient buildings, at some distance 
 from each other ; but, when thus seen, appear- 
 ing almost to touch. These marked the only
 
 160 THE CONVENT 
 
 spots in that lone wilderness known to be in- 
 habited by human beings. 
 
 Two persons sat, one evening, upon one of 
 the highest juttings of the rock, which com- 
 manded a view of the whole of this magnificent 
 scene. But they gazed not on the forest — they 
 heeded not the city — they were regardless of 
 the glories of the setting sun — they thought 
 but of themselves and of each other. 
 
 Auguste Dumesnil was the only child of one 
 of the most opulent merchants of Nantes. His 
 father possessed the more conspicuous of the two 
 remaining villas at " Le Bocage;" so had the 
 spot we have described been called by those 
 who had first brought it into notice. The 
 other villa belonged to the Baron de Chaudraye, 
 a nobleman of more rank than fortune, and 
 one who carried high the pride of ancestry. 
 It had led him to doom his young daughter to 
 the cold austerities of a convent, that she might 
 not, by requiring a marriage-portion befitting 
 her lineage, impair the already slender patri-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 161 
 
 mony that he had to bequeath to his son, a 
 sickly infant in the cradle, who, in coming 
 into the world, had cost his mother her life. 
 Till the unlooked-for birth of this child, Ade- 
 line had been considered and treated as the 
 Baron's heir. She had been allowed a greater 
 degree of libertj^, and more indulgence in 
 society, than usually fell to the lot of so 
 young a person, at that time, in France; and, 
 even at the moment when I have described her, 
 sitting at sunset on the highest jutting of the 
 rock, although her doom was decreed in her 
 father's cold and stubborn breast, she was 
 iffiiorant of the hard fate that awaited her. 
 Yet she was in tears, and her fair bosom 
 heaved with strong emotion ; for the two were 
 lovers, and they had met to part, and her heart 
 was now, for the first tune, wrung with grief. 
 Its wild impatient throbbings might even then 
 have told that that proud heart might burst, 
 but never bend, to a meek endurance of its 
 wrongs. Her brow was now, for the first time,
 
 162 THE CONVENT 
 
 clouded by sorrow; but its slight contraction 
 did even then betray marks of a high resolve, a 
 dauntless spirit, and a firmness of purpose 
 fearful, most fearful, in one so young, so in- 
 experienced. 
 
 Her companion, Auguste Dumesnil, was in 
 equal affliction; but the expression of his feel- 
 ings was widely different. His demeanour was 
 calm and manly : he whispered words of con- 
 solation ; he clasped upon her arm a golden 
 bracelet, adorned with emblems, and engraved 
 with words of love, of hope, of constancy. He 
 supported her agitated frame; he led her to the 
 entrance of her father's garden; he folded her 
 once more to his young and faithful bosom. 
 But why should I attempt to describe so sad a 
 parting? what need to follow either sorrowful 
 heart? — Oh! if either, it should not be that 
 most desolate, most pitiable one, that was left 
 in its bereavement to gaze upon the now empty 
 scenes of its former happiness. 
 
 It requires time to school a young and
 
 IN THE FOREST. 163 
 
 ardent mind to patience under a sudden and 
 overwhelming grief. The spirit is already 
 tamed, and the heart is already subdued to its 
 fate, that can soon be soothed by the charms of 
 a beloved spot in the unlimited absence of the 
 object whose presence first endeared it. The 
 impatience of a heart new to suffering, and full 
 of unrestrained and strong affections, rejects 
 such ineffectual solace. It is taunted by, it 
 recoils fi'om, scenes of peace and tranquillity: 
 the contrast is too great — too sudden. It rather 
 seeks what is in acor dance with its own despair 
 — it would even joy to see in the whole fair 
 face of nature nothing but what is wild and 
 rugged, as its own torn feelings. 
 
 Auguste and Adeluie had gro\s^l up together 
 from infancy at *= Le Bocage." As children, 
 they had often been left at the villas, when their 
 parents had been obliged to return to the city. 
 Every rough cavern in the rocks, every smiling 
 myrtle bower, that had once been the scene of 
 their childish sports, had since become that of
 
 164} THE CONVENT 
 
 their stolen meetings; for, although they had 
 not been forbidden each other's society, still 
 their sanctioned intercourse had been gradually 
 more and more restricted as they advanced in 
 years ; and many a slight and casual token had 
 already announced to the quick eye of love, that 
 the Baron de Chaudraye looked down with 
 disdain (which, in truth, concealed no small 
 portion of envy) on the plebeian prosperity of 
 his rich but ignoble neighbour. 
 
 The Baron had, for some time, resided with 
 his family constantly at " Le Bocage:" not 
 that he had a mind capable of deriving enjoy- 
 ment from the picturesque beauties that there 
 surrounded him, (although they formed his 
 pretext for passing his days in a small chamber, 
 with his back to the prospect, and his head 
 bending over a chess-board, or the tree of his 
 genealogy,) but, in reality, because the very 
 small establishment that he could accommodate 
 within the villa suited with the dilapidated 
 state of his fortune, which could ill have met
 
 IN THE FOREST. ]65 
 
 the expensive and ostentatious charge, which 
 he fancied his rank required him to support, 
 when at his old hereditary hotel at Nantes. 
 
 Monsieur Dumesnil, on the contrary, alwavs 
 happy to quit the fatigues of business, and too 
 much engaged to be often at " Le Bocage," 
 really enjoyed the moments he could pass 
 there, and, in his turn, envied the situation of 
 the Baron, whose exemption from the toils and 
 superfluities of life, left him, as Dumesnil 
 thought, leisure to be happy. Thus Monsieui* 
 Dumesnil was, in fact, the man of simple taste 
 and mind that the Baron only affected to be ; 
 while the needy nobleman was the insolent, 
 overbearing; tvrant, whom he was determined 
 to consider Monsieur Dumesnil to be; — and 
 this for no other reason than because his villa at 
 " Le Bocage" accidentally reared its head 
 above the Baron's villa, in about the same pro- 
 portion that the Baron de Chaudraye desired to 
 raise himself, in his impotent pride of ancestry, 
 above the merchant Dumesnil. Out of petty
 
 166 THE CONVENT 
 
 jealousies such as these, sprung a dishke on the 
 Baron's side towards his unoffending and un- 
 conscious neighbour, which was fostered by 
 soHtude, idleness, and ill humour, into an 
 insurmountable disgust and hatred. 
 
 His anger may be easily conceived, when 
 some kind friend, or bitter enemy, (which shall 
 we call that person who, by officiously opening 
 our eyes, destroys our happiness?) brought 
 private intelligence to the Baron of the clan- 
 destine meetings of the lovers. He had already 
 resolved upon his daughter's fate, and this 
 news but hastened his measures. His imme- 
 diate concern was, how to contrive that Auguste 
 should be sent to a distance, while he should 
 use his parental authority in obliging Adeline 
 to take the veil. Chance favoured him in his 
 unnatural design. The revolutionary war was 
 just breaking out; and young Dumesnil received 
 peremptory orders to join his regiment, near 
 Paris. The Baron prudently waited his time, 
 and shut his eyes, while the lovers indulged in
 
 IN THE FOREST. 167 
 
 the few stolen meetings which the shortness of 
 the time allowed them. 
 
 And had they no friend — no kindly help ? — 
 Could a love so tender, so natural, excite no 
 •«ympathy ? — Yes ; there was an ear that listened 
 to their sorrows — there was a voice that spoke 
 of comfort; and, at the same time that it 
 exhorted them to present patience, sanc- 
 tioned the hope of future happiness. Their 
 secret had been confided to the keeping of 
 one being, to whom every act of their blame- 
 less lives — every thought and wish of their 
 innocent hearts — had been committed from 
 their earliest infancy. Father Etienne had 
 always been a welcome guest with the inhabit- 
 ants of " Le Bocage." He loved to dwell in 
 the lone monastery of the forest; but would 
 often quit his retirement to perform the duties 
 of friend and confessor in the families of the 
 Baron and of Monsieur Dumesnil. He was 
 beloved of young and old: even the moody 
 Baron rejoiced at his arrival, and would arrange
 
 168 THE CONVENT 
 
 the chess-board, in pleasing anticipation of the 
 victory, which the good-natured Father seldom 
 failed to concede to his noble antagonist. 
 
 He it was who now stepped between the 
 lovers and their despair — who offered to be* 
 come the channel through which the young 
 soldier should inform his Adeline of his pro- 
 ceedings. Many and fervent were the thanks 
 and the blessings he received from them both 
 for this unhoped-for sympathy and indulgence. 
 
 Auguste was gone ; — and what became of 
 Adeline? She knew her cruel fate but too 
 soon. She received her father's stern command 
 to prepare for the cloister. Resistance, bold 
 and strong, was to be expected from a spirit 
 so high and daring. She refused obedience to 
 her father's orders. She wrote to Monsieur 
 Dumesnil. She disclosed to him her love for 
 his son — told of their hopes, their vows — and 
 demanded protection at his hands. Monsieur 
 Dumesnil flew to her rescue. He made offers, 
 in the name of his son, which no feelings softer
 
 IN THE FOREST. 169 
 
 than those of pride and hatred could have 
 refused. All, all in vain ! they were rejected 
 with scorn, with insult; and, notwithstanding 
 the tears, prayers, threats, frenzy, of the un- 
 fortunate girl, she was removed by force to a 
 convent within the city walls, to perform her 
 noviciate. Even curiosity dared not follow her 
 there, and nothing more was knowTi. But 
 Monsieur Dumesnil prepared for a journey to 
 Paris. He resolved, as well as threatened, to 
 move the tribunals — to recall his son — to 
 leave no means untried that might release the 
 sufferer from her persecutors. But this step, 
 together with all further mterference, was 
 rendered useless; for soon, alas! too soon, — 
 the great cathedral bell tolled loud and solemnly 
 for the heart-broken victim of a father's pride ; 
 and Adeline de Chaudraye was buried with 
 pomp in the magnificent family vault, which 
 had been constructed by the Baron as close as 
 was permissible to the tombs of the ancient 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE CONVENT 
 
 Dukes of Bretagne, from whom (as he used 
 to boast) he had derived his origin. 
 
 But the Baron returned not to "Le Bocage." 
 His cruelty had caused a grave to be opened ; 
 and that grave seemed greedy of its prey. 
 The sickly boy soon followed his sister. This 
 was indeed a death-blow to the Baron, who 
 lingered for some time in hopeless imbecility, 
 forgotten and neglected, and then was carried 
 to his ostentatious but unhonoured tomb. 
 
 These melancholy and striking events, to- 
 gether with increasing anxiety for their son, 
 which the disturbed state of many parts of 
 the country occasioned his parents, took from 
 Monsieur and Madame Dumesnil all desire to 
 renew their visits to " Le Bocage." It was now 
 entirely deserted ; for even Father Etienne had 
 retired to the monastery in the forest, and was 
 never again seen where he could no longer be 
 the messenger of peace and comfort, or the pro- 
 moter, as well as preacher, of social kindness 
 and good will.
 
 IN THE FOREST. 171 
 
 But it is time we should enquire after x\uguste. 
 Six long years were gone since he had parted 
 from Adehne and happiness. A man's heart 
 has room for many feelings, and many duties, 
 and many pursuits. The desire of fame, the 
 love of country, may well be permitted to occupy 
 their part. So it was with Auguste. But still 
 he loved with undiminished fervour; and never 
 formed a plan of future bliss but in the society 
 of his Adeline. Every airy fabrick of peace and 
 happiness was reared in the well-remembered 
 and cherished scenes of theu' joyous infancy. 
 The heart of the young soldier still beat high 
 with hope ; and hope still promised a reward to 
 his constant aflPection. 
 
 Six long years were gone, and he had re- 
 ceived no tidings fi'om Father Etienne, nor 
 even from his family. But the now distracted 
 state of France, and his owti frequent and 
 sudden changes of station, were sufficient to 
 account for this, and to lull at least a part 
 of his anxiety. 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE CONVENT 
 
 At length, upon his return to Paris, he found 
 several letters from his father. They had been 
 written and sent at different periods, and some 
 of them had been long detained in places to 
 which they had followed him in vain, and spoke 
 of others which must have been entirely lost. 
 One of these letters gave intelligence of Ade- 
 line's death, with the few known particulars con- 
 cerning her sad fate. Another, of a later date 
 by three years, brought news, which, had 
 it reached him at a time of less absorbing grief, 
 would alone have filled his heart with sorrow. 
 But now it only added to the bewilderment of 
 his senses, without being capable of adding to 
 his already full affliction. The meek, the good 
 Father Etienne, the indulgent friend and guide 
 of his boyhood and youth, had met with a 
 dreadful and violent end. He had been dis- 
 covered, early one morning, murdered, in the 
 chapel of the monastery. Every endeavour 
 had been used to detect the perpetrators of 
 this most foul and inexplicable act, but all with-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 173 
 
 out eflPect ; and the poor Father's death remained 
 a mystery, and unavenged. 
 
 Auguste's health gave way at once under 
 intense suffering. He had a long and dangerous 
 illness. He was no longer fit for mihtary 
 duty, and easily obtained leave of absence 
 to visit his parents, at Nantes. It was not 
 that he felt he could ever acram be the minister 
 
 o 
 
 of happiness to them; nor did he expect to 
 derive any comfort from their society : and yet 
 he resolved to undertake the journey. Alas ! 
 his poor heart panted for solitude, and wel- 
 comed the thought of once again visiting the 
 now-deserted scenes of former happiness, now 
 for ever lost, and of his last parting with 
 Adeline. 
 
 Worn by sickness, and by grief, deep and 
 hopeless, Auguste could only accomplish a 
 long journey, at an inclement season, by very 
 easy stages, resting whenever he found his 
 strength fail him to proceed. At last he reached, 
 by a cu'cuitous and unfrequented road, which 
 I 3
 
 174 THE CONVENT 
 
 he had chosen by design, the skirts of the well- 
 known forest of . The day was closing 
 
 rapidly, and with all the indications of an 
 approaching storm. There was that boding 
 pause in the elements — that sudden and dread 
 stillness amongst living things, which so often 
 precedes the rudest shocks of nature. Man, 
 perhaps more helpless than all other living 
 things, because without the aid of that unerring 
 instinct which gives them natural warning of dan- 
 ger, trusts to his own most weak philosophy, and 
 rashly defies the power of what he can neither 
 resist, controul, nor understand. The wild 
 melancholy of the scene was in unison with the 
 sad musings of Auguste, and he ventured on. 
 True, he had often travelled by that lone road, 
 and at all hours, and in all seasons; but it w^as 
 when his step was firm, and his heart light, and 
 when an eye was watching for him, and an ear 
 was listening — that might not watch, that 
 might not listen in vain ; and when there was 
 one who would seek no rest herself, nor screen
 
 IX THE FOREST. 175 
 
 her own fair bosom from the rough night au', 
 till he was safe and sheltered. Alas ! how 
 changed ! how many and how agonizing were 
 the recollections that crowded upon his memory ! 
 He groaned aloud, and saved liis heart from 
 bursting. 
 
 Father Etienne, too, his old friend and tutor, 
 beloved from infancy, and most beloved because 
 indulgent to his passion for Adeline — he, too, 
 claimed a sigh of grateful remembrance and of 
 bitter regret ; and Auguste felt a strong desire 
 to visit the poor Father's near and humble 
 grave. He knew the situation of the monaster}-, 
 and he rode, as he imagined, towards it. The 
 storm was increasing rapidly; he was far 
 advanced in the depths of the forest, and at a 
 distance from any other shelter, and there 
 he would find safety, and, though poor, yet 
 timely, hospitality. The wind was howling 
 wildly through the woods, in blasts as loud and 
 fearful as the peals of thunder which at intervals 
 joined their roar. The night was dark, cold, 
 I 4-
 
 176 THE CONVENT 
 
 and very dismal, and even the flashes of vivid 
 hghtning scarce could pierce the deep gloom of 
 the tall black trees. Auguste was obliged to 
 dismomit and lead his horse, already sinking 
 with fatigue. He could find no path, and 
 he walked at random. At length he gained a 
 small opening in the forest: he knew not 
 where he was, and he paused to determine 
 upon his course; when a glimmering light, 
 visible only at intervals, but stationary, glad- 
 dened his sight, and, straining his ear to the 
 uncertain, but most welcome sound, he dis- 
 tinguished the slow tolling of a bell, often 
 hushed and smothered in the loud gusts of 
 wind. 
 
 The hope of speedy shelter again revived 
 his almost exhausted strength and spirits : he 
 endeavoured to lead on his horse, when a 
 tremendous and continued crash of thunder, 
 accompanied by several quickly succeeding 
 sheets of blue lightning, which for some seconds 
 lingered upon the near and venerable building,
 
 IN THE FOREST. 177 
 
 from which the light and the sound of the bell 
 proceeded, so terrified the animal, that, starting 
 back with sudden force, he drew the bridle 
 fi'om his master's hand, and, rushing headlong 
 into the forest, was lost to sight and hearing in 
 a moment. The disappointment of Auguste 
 may be imagined on perceiving that those were 
 not the walls of the monastery to which, as a 
 boy, he had so often wandered, and which were 
 so familiar to his eye. But he knew they 
 could not be far distant, for that the pile near 
 which he stood must necessarily be part of the 
 outer buildings of the neighbouring convent, 
 of which we have already spoken. 
 
 Still he walked on m the direction of the 
 light. It proceeded from the chapel, a portion 
 of which extended beyond the convent walls. 
 It was closely surrounded by high trees, and it 
 had been the bowing and tossing of their 
 branches in the wind that had obscured, at 
 intervals, the light, which now gleamed bright 
 and steadily through the narrow windows. 
 I 5
 
 178 THE CONVENT 
 
 One of these trees had been newly torn up by 
 theroots, and had fallen, with tremendous force, 
 upon the little chapel, burying its trunk deep 
 into the mossy roof, and breaking down a part 
 of the ivied wall. Without pausing to consider 
 further, Auguste determined to enter the 
 chapel by this breach, and there to await the 
 dawning of day. He found more difficulty in 
 this attempt than he expected: the massive 
 wall had been forced down within side of the 
 chapel ; while on the outside, the matted ivy, the 
 growth of ages, opposed a tough and persevering 
 barrier to his efforts, as if collecting all its 
 tangled and luxuriant powers to guard the 
 entrance of that ancient masonry, under whose 
 supporting shelter it had attained its present 
 strength. 
 
 At last he arrived within the chapel. In 
 such a place, on such a night, could he be 
 insensible to a feeling of satisfaction at the sight 
 of any human being? But the human beings 
 who now met his gaze seemed much more to
 
 IN THE FOREST. 179 
 
 require, than to be able to afford, the aid of 
 which our toil-worn traveller stood in such 
 urgent need. The tree, in falUng, had not only 
 broken in the roof of the chapel, but it had 
 also torn away a large portion of the oaken 
 screen which separated it from the interiour of 
 the convent, and a large low chamber, im- 
 perfectly lighted by another lamp, was thus 
 opened to the view of Dumesnil. Amidst the 
 fragments, and on the very threshold of what 
 had for so long been the parting barrier be- 
 tween the world and them, impelled so far by 
 unconquerable curiosity, but withheld from 
 venturing one step further by a still stronger 
 barrier, religious awe, stood a little group of 
 terrified and trembling nuns. Auguste ap- 
 proached them, briefly explaining, and apo- 
 logising for, his intrusion, and offering to 
 retire immediately if he might not be permitted 
 to remain till day-break in the shelter of their 
 chapel. The poor frightened beings first ran 
 wildly from him, and motioned him away; but, 
 I 6
 
 180 THE CONVENT 
 
 before he could understand or obey their 
 gestures, they returned, clasping their hands, 
 and uttering words of fear and indecision. 
 They seemed to move and act in a body, and 
 frequently turned, and always with signs of 
 terror, towards an object which Auguste had 
 not at first perceived. It was a bier, or rather 
 a tressel-bed, upon which lay extended a figure, 
 in the habit of a nun, partially covered with 
 a pall, and apparently lifeless. At this mo- 
 ment, the tempest, which for some little while 
 had been hushed, or had raged only at a 
 distance, resumed its fury, and its now doubled 
 violence seemed directed to this devoted pile. 
 The chapel shook to its foundations, and every 
 instant threatened some great and destructive 
 crisis. 
 
 Aghast with terror, the women clung to 
 one another, knelt, and endeavoured to pray 
 aloud ; but their voices were drowned in the 
 surrounding hurricane ; large pieces of the 
 loosened masonry fell in amongst them, wound-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 181 
 
 iiig some, and obKging all to leave the spot. 
 And now, two old and feeble nuns, who yet 
 appeared to be somewhat more capable of 
 controuling their fears than the others, ordered 
 the rest to retire further within the convent, 
 and, m a short time, all but these had dis- 
 appeared. They stood trembling and irre- 
 solute, turning alternately towards Auguste 
 and the bier, and conmiuning with each 
 other in low whispers. At length they ap- 
 proached the broken screen, and, leaning over 
 some of the fragments, they addressed him 
 with voices which age and terror rendered at 
 first almost inarticulate. 
 
 They said he might, if he pleased, continue 
 under that shelter, from which their walls 
 could no longer exclude him ; but they charged 
 him, by his hopes of heavenly grace and mercy 
 they charged him, not to attempt to penetrate 
 further into their holy retreat, and not to pass 
 
 what had so lately been the parting screen. 
 
 ** And oh ! " said they, " you need not wish
 
 182 THE CONVENT 
 
 it. Beyond this screen there is a sight would 
 make you welcome even this dreadful tempest's 
 power, so that it drove you far from these dis- 
 mal walls." 
 
 Auguste hastened to calm their apprehen- 
 sions, by assuring them he would attend to 
 their wishes, and also that he would depart 
 with the first dawn of light. " But what," he 
 asked, " may be the fearful sight you speak 
 
 of? Can my poor help " " Alas ! alas ! " 
 
 cried one, " do not seek to know; — be warned, 
 — be wise, — be ignorant, — overstep not the 
 sacred limits, — lift not the pall, — look not 
 upon the corpse ! " " It is the awful nun," 
 rejoined the other sister; and both women 
 muttered alternately in broken sentences, as 
 they slowly passed the object of their fears and 
 prohibition. " It is the sad, the silent nun. — 
 She died at sunset, when this unearthly storm 
 began : — and oh ! may we ne'er live to wit- 
 ness such another parting. — So will it ever be 
 with those who leave this world unshrived of
 
 IN THE FOREST. 183 
 
 sin ! Her's must have been most black — 
 most secret; for she never spoke; no, neither 
 to nun nor priest, till this night of terror ; and 
 then, it was without her judgment ; — and oh ! 
 such words ! — such words ! " . . . And sud- 
 denly, as if recollecting their own situation, 
 and the presence of Auguste, " Sir, sir," said 
 they, in a hasty but authoritative tone, " be- 
 gone before the day appears ; for then we must 
 assemble here, to pray for mercy on that poor 
 sinner's soul." — And they vanished in the 
 gloom of that w4de chamber. 
 
 Auguste was left alone. The scene, dismal 
 as it was, had hitherto small power to aflPect a 
 mind already so deeply engrossed by its own 
 sad thoughts and recollections. He had 
 scarcely listened to the poor women's childish 
 expressions of their fears and superstitious 
 fancies. He had even been impatient for their 
 departure. But now that they were gone, — 
 now that the storm was again hushed, and 
 sinking into distant melancholy moanings, —
 
 184; THE CONVENT 
 
 now that the glare of the lamp within the cham- 
 ber rested steadily upon the stillness of the ob- 
 ject on the bier, and that the mournful silence 
 was only occasionally broken by the slow and 
 regular tolling of the bell, and the sudden and 
 near scream of the raven, — now did he wish 
 most heartily that he had persisted in his 
 endeavours to reach the monastery, or had 
 patiently abided the worst pelting of the tem- 
 pest, rather than have sought such comfortless 
 shelter. Although he had taken small note 
 of the words of the two nuns at the time they 
 were spoken, they now forced themselves upon 
 his recollection to confound and appal him ; — 
 and, strange as the thought for a while ap- 
 peared, he began to feel a wish that he might 
 look upon the corpse. It became by degrees 
 an unconquerable uneasiness, and he deter- 
 mined to satisfy his curiosity. He hesitated 
 as he reached the broken screen, and his heart 
 throbbed with a feeling resembling remorse as 
 he stepped across the prostrate fence which
 
 IN THE FOREST. 185 
 
 lay between him and the forbidden space be- 
 yond; and he strove, but in vain, to master 
 the wild fancy that impelled hi»^ ards. 
 
 Without power to resist, he appi^^ac the 
 
 tressel-bed. After a short pause of nervous 
 indecision, his hand mechanically raised the 
 pall. He gazed for one short moment, and he 
 let it fall. . . . The awful times in which he had 
 lived, and the duties of his military calling, 
 had obliged him to witness scenes and objects 
 most horrible, and most afflicting. He had 
 looked upon death in its most revoltmg shapes, 
 and among its direst accompaniments. He 
 had become familiar with it — he had even 
 learnt to hail its grim image, as the welcome 
 finisher of human suffering — the herald of 
 triumph over the efforts of human cruelty. 
 But never, never before, had his eyes rested 
 upon so appalling an object as the one at which 
 his sight now sickened. It was like nothing 
 hving; it was too emaciated for that. It was 
 like nothing dead ; too many earthly passions
 
 186 THE CONVENT 
 
 Still curled the thin disdainful lip; too many 
 lines of human violence still lingered on the 
 dark distorted brow. 
 
 Auguste had been greatly shocked ; but he 
 had now indulged his fancy in its strange weak- 
 ness, and he endeavoured to banish from his 
 thoughts the fearful form from which his heart 
 shrunk, and at the contemplation of which his 
 whole frame shuddered. He tried to believe 
 that the excitement of his nerves had aggra- 
 vated the real gloom of the surrounding scene, 
 and he resolved to resume his firmness, and 
 nerve his mind against any return of such 
 unworthy weakness. He refreshed the lamps 
 with some oil which had been left in a cruise; 
 then, throwing himself into a large oaken 
 chair, and drawing his horseman*s cloak closely 
 over his head and face, he courted that repose 
 of which both mind and body had such urgent 
 need. 
 
 But vain were all his efforts. Still, and 
 liowever combated, his thoughts reverted to
 
 IN THE FOREST. 187 
 
 that appalling figure, and an irresistible im- 
 pulse forced hiin to the bier again — again to 
 lift the pall. A great and a wonderful change 
 had taken place. The stiffened joints had all 
 relaxed. The dark brow was now but sliorhtlv 
 bent, exhibiting an expression of woe, not pain. 
 Tlie thin features had assumed a very mourn- 
 ful, but not unlovely cast ; and the blue livid 
 skin was now white and smooth as Parian 
 marble. 
 
 Auguste stood in melancholy mood, yet 
 pleased that he had had the courage to look 
 again; gazing long and intensely on the dead 
 nun. Alas ! he thought, she too may have 
 been beautiful, and she too may have been 
 happy once. Those eyes may have been ra- 
 diant with bright and joyous hopes. It was 
 said, that she was guilty ; but surely guilt looks 
 not thus. She may have been unhappy. Oh 
 yes ! for she may have loved ! and lost him 
 whom she best loved ! Alas ! that hollow eye 
 — that careful brow — that sunken cheek !
 
 188 THE CONVENT 
 
 they tell more of sorrow than of guilt. But 
 oh ! whate'er it be, you are tranquil now, 
 poor sufferer ! Rest in peace ! . . . 
 
 Again he strove to seek repose at a distance 
 from the bier ; but still it was impossible, and 
 again did feelings, strong, strange, and irresisti- 
 ble, draw him to its side. But those feelings 
 were changed. He had lately reproached him- 
 self for his restless and unwarranted curiosity : 
 he had been struck with horror and disgust. 
 But now a not unpleasing sadness soothed his 
 mind, and he hung over the body with a sen- 
 sation bordering on tenderness. He spoke 
 aloud as he addressed the inanimate object be- 
 fore him : — " And who would shun thee ?" he 
 said ; " and who would fear to gaze upon thee, 
 " tranquil image of the only tranquil state ? 
 * ' Would I were by thy side ! would I could 
 " share thy peaceful, humble grave ! My heart 
 " yearns towards thee ! it hails thee as welcome 
 " company, even as its fitting bride. Oh, Ade-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 189 
 
 " line ! death is not thy rival — I woo it and 
 " thee as one ! " 
 
 Auguste at length found himself oveipowered 
 by fatigue. He drew the hea^y oaken chair 
 close to the pallet. He sunk into it, and gave 
 way to a state of drowsy forgetfulness. His 
 spirits became composed as the exhaustion of 
 his body acted upon his mind. He encouraged 
 recollections calm and soothing. He dreamed 
 of former days — days of gay hope — days of 
 fair promise — he dreamed of Adeline ! His 
 o^ni name was uttered with a piercing crv ! — 
 the voice was the voice of Adeline ! He 
 started on his legs. Oh, God ! it was no 
 dream — the nun was leaning forwards on the 
 pallet. One arm was stretched towards him — 
 the beams of the lamp struck upon a well 
 known, a bright, and golden bracelet, which 
 hung upon that upraised wasted arm ! 
 
 It was not till many weeks after the events 
 of that night that Auguste again was con-
 
 190 THE CONVENT 
 
 scious that he looked upon the light of day. 
 He was in his father's hotel at Nantes, and in 
 the chamber which had been his own in boy- 
 hood: it had suffered no change. The httle 
 coloured prints, which his hand had framed 
 and placed, still hung upon the walls. The 
 same indulgent father, who had watched over 
 and instructed his youth, still leant over him 
 with kind solicitude, and the bosom of the 
 same fond mother still pillowed his head. All 
 intervening years, with all their load of suffer- 
 ing, had vanished from his mind. The sight 
 of his parents had brought back only those 
 early recollections which were blended with 
 scenes of home and happiness. 
 
 But soon he marked, and with inquisitive 
 attention, the sorrowful expression of his fa- 
 ther's eye; and his cheek was wet with his 
 mother's scalding tears. Such was not the 
 wonted, well-remembered welcome. Alas! 
 and what had happened? — Adeline ! — At that 
 fatal name the cloud which had hung, as if in
 
 IN THE FOREST. 191 
 
 pity, over the past, began to open, and the 
 di'eadful truth broke in with new, but for- 
 tunately with gradual light, upon his amazed 
 and weakened understanding. It was long 
 before he could collect and arrange the par- 
 ticulars of his journey, and of his nightly visit 
 to the convent in the forest. His strong im- 
 pression was, that the nun was no other than 
 his long-lost, and now again lost, Adeline. 
 Yet how was he to reconcile so wild an idea 
 with the accounts he had received, and which 
 his father now, at his request, repeated, and 
 with unde^iating exactness, of her early death, 
 and publick funeral? He longed for liberty, 
 and for a decree of bodilv health that miffht 
 permit his going once more to the convent. 
 He would fain have doubted if indeed he ever 
 had been there, and laboured to persuade him- 
 self, that the events, which had retained so 
 fast a hold on his feelings, had been altogether 
 the effect of illness and a disordered imagin- 
 ation. He had closely questioned his father
 
 192 THE CONVENT 
 
 concerning the time and manner of his arrival 
 at home; who constantly assured him that it 
 had occurred as follows : — He had entered 
 the house one day with every symptom of ill- 
 ness and of excessive bodily fatigue. He had 
 spoken to no one, and had appeared to know 
 no one ; but had passed through the court, and 
 up the stairs, to his own former apartment ; — 
 there he had thrown himself upon the bed, — 
 from whence, for many weeks, he had never 
 risen, — and the first signs of his returning 
 consciousness had taken place on the morning 
 when he had been for the first time sensible of 
 the presence of his parents, who had never left 
 his side during the whole of his long and dis- 
 tressing illness. 
 
 Auguste was most anxious to comply with 
 all that was deemed necessary for the recovery 
 of his health. At first, his parents hailed 
 these symptoms with joy and thankfulness. 
 But they soon perceived that it was only in 
 furtherance of some hidden purpose that he
 
 IN THE FOREST. 193 
 
 submitted to what at the same time he felt as 
 a most irksome restraint. They looked with 
 uneasiness to the use he was likely to make 
 of his liberty, for they guessed that his heart 
 yearned toward the favourite haunts of his 
 happy youth; and they thought, with well- 
 grounded alarm, on the effect which the 
 changed and neglected appearance of " Le 
 Bocage " was likely to produce upon his spirits, 
 already so overwrought and so sorely wounded. 
 But there was now a spot which caused an 
 interest still more acute; and he first went to 
 the convent in the Forest. He had not been 
 deceived. It was indeed the same lone build- 
 ing to which he had wandered in the storm, 
 and, as if yet further to prove its identity, the 
 fallen tree was still lying across the little 
 chapel. But the breaches it had made had 
 been carefully, though roughly, repaired, and 
 the tree remained bedded in the roof, now 
 forming a part of it, and sheltering what it 
 had failed to destroy. Some of its roots had 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE CONVENT 
 
 not been separated from the earth ; and the 
 large overshadowing branches were budding 
 with new and verdant fohage. 
 
 Auguste demanded with earnest importunity 
 an audience of the superiour; and, after some 
 hesitation and delay, was admitted to the 
 parlour. A venerable woman appeared within 
 the grate, and desired to know the occasion 
 of his visit. He told her he was the traveller 
 who had lately sought shelter from the tempest 
 in the chapel of her convent, on that disastrous 
 night which she must well remember ; and, 
 for reasons of the highest importance to him- 
 self, he besought her to confide to him the name 
 and family of the sister, whose dead body he 
 had then seen within the screen. The ab- 
 bess earnestly declared ignorance of both her 
 name and lineage; adding, that she had been 
 considered mad ; and that some awful circum- 
 stances attending her death (which had taken 
 place during that fearful storm) had had much 
 effect at the time upon the minds of the other
 
 IN THE FOREST. 195 
 
 nuns. To his further questions the abbess 
 repHed that, upon the first dawTiing of the 
 following morning, when she herself, with her 
 little community, had met for divine ser\dce, 
 a stranger was discovered lying senseless on 
 the floor of the chamber beside the bier. His 
 position had been easily accounted for by those 
 nuns who had seen him in the chapel. They 
 concluded that he had been unmindful of their 
 prohibition ; that he had rashly passed the 
 sacred limits; and that he had been justly 
 punished for the sacrilege. They deemed that he 
 had fainted upon witnessing the horrours of the 
 sad sight they had warned him of; for the pall 
 was removed from the corpse, whose appear- 
 ance was, if possible, more a\\^ul and appalhng 
 than ever. As for the stranger, he had been 
 lifted by the officiating priests into the open 
 air, — where, as they had heard, he had soon 
 recovered his sense of life, but not his under- 
 standing, and a countryman had undertaken to 
 guide him to some dwelling. This man had 
 K 2
 
 196 THE CONVENT 
 
 soon returned with intelligence, that, after 
 supporting him with much difficulty through a 
 part of the Forest, he had reached with him a 
 beaten path, which led to the city; that the 
 stranger had then, of his own accord, suddenly 
 struck into it, and was soon out of sight. 
 
 With trembling hesitation, Auguste enquired 
 if any ornament had been found upon the dead 
 nun. " None whatever," replied the abbess ; 
 — " such worldly vanities may not have harbour 
 here. The sisters were afraid to look again 
 upon her ; and she was buried that night in the 
 habit in which she died. May she rest in 
 peace ! " 
 
 Auguste turned to depart ; but the abbess 
 motioned him to approach the grate, and after 
 a short pause she said, — " I have a duty to 
 perform, which requires the aid of some one 
 who has liberty to leave these walls ; and there 
 is that in your countenance and deportment 
 which tells me you would not disregard or 
 break a promise, a solemn promise. Will you
 
 IN THE FOREST. 197 
 
 swear to deliver this paper to the person to 
 whom it is addressed? It was committed to 
 my hands by the departed sister, whose corpse 
 you saw. She spoke to me but once ; this was 
 a short time before her death ; and she enjoined 
 me, with more earnestness than befits a worldly 
 care, she enjoined me to cause the safe delivery 
 of this paper. She said my poor convent would 
 benefit by my faithful discharge of the trust. 
 Will you swear to deliver it?" — " I will, I 
 will," cried Auguste, with half frantick energy ; 
 — " and as I keep my word may Heaven deal 
 with me ! " The abbess passed a roll of paper 
 through the grate, and disappeared. It was 
 closely sealed, and addressed " To Auguste 
 Dumesnil, of Nantes." 
 
 These were its contents : — 
 
 ** Auguste; — lost, but ever loved, loved to 
 
 " the last ! how shall I tell it you ? I hve, — 
 
 " your Adeline lives ! — she writes to you, but 
 
 ^' only to bid you spurn her from your heart — 
 
 K 3
 
 198 THE CONVENT 
 
 '^ from your pity — from your memory. — She is 
 " dead to you; — and she is miserable, for she 
 " is guilty ! 
 
 " The sinner's heart best knows the deepness 
 " of its own guilt. It is accuser, witness, 
 "judge, against itself, and searches out with 
 " severest, most ingenious justice, the penalty 
 "from which it shrinks with greatest horror. 
 " It is in the weakness, the cowardice, the 
 " hypocrisy of our nature, that we fly to 
 " other and to milder inquest than that of our 
 " own unerring consciences. I needed no mo- 
 " nitor, beyond that within my own torn breast, 
 " either to lay bare to me my sin, to teach 
 " me to detest it, or to command my penance. 
 " That penance shall be faithfully performed. 
 " For the world, — I valued not its praise when 
 " I was innocent; I care not for its reproaches 
 " now that I am guilty. I am weary of a 
 " painful burthen ed life, and death, by the 
 " hand of justice, would be a mercy I could 
 " grasp at. Whom then should I punish and
 
 IN THE FOREST. 199 
 
 " degrade by a public confession of my crime? 
 " whom but you ? oh, ever dear ! — my fame 
 " might still live cherished and unspotted in 
 "your memory — but no — it shall not be. 
 " To you I will expose my guilt in all its 
 " hideousness ; and thus I submit, I voluntarily 
 " submit, to torments such as no earthly judge 
 " could sentence me to undergo ; and I call 
 " down upon my self-devoted head (bowed 
 « already to the dust) the only human censure 
 "that has power to sink it lower. Auguste — 
 " I am a murderess ! Father Etienne died by 
 " my sacrilegious hand! 
 
 " It is a long, a fearful story, but it must be 
 " told ; — and I must recall that day, that heavy 
 " day, the last of my peace, when our young 
 " hearts first sunk with a prophetick gloom at 
 " parting. You, and hope, and happiness, had 
 " lefl me. I soon became the victim of a 
 " father's pride and cruelty. I was dragged to 
 " a convent, and commanded to take the veil ; 
 K 4
 
 200 THE CONVENT 
 
 "to forget you! — you, Auguste ! but I did 
 " not even wish that such obedience were in my 
 "power. No; I Hved upon the recollection of 
 " your love — I gloried in the sufferings to 
 " which, for its dear sake, I was condemned. 
 "I was most true to you, and to our vows — 
 " (even in my present deep humiliation there is 
 " satisfaction in that thought) — I braved my 
 " persecutors, and baffled their attempts to force 
 " me to compliance; but they told me you were 
 " slain — they showed me letters that announced 
 " and described your death, with particulars of 
 " so much courage, so much manly virtue, and 
 " so much solicitude and love for me, that, — 
 "oh! my fond, my credulous heart! — it be- 
 " lieved them ! 
 
 " I forget what followed ; I only know they 
 " did with me as they pleased. I made but one 
 " request — it was to be removed to the convent 
 " in the forest; we had often together gazed 
 " upon its distant peaceful towers, and I thought 
 " I could be tranquil there, in that lone
 
 IN THE FOREST. 201 
 
 " wilderness. My wish was granted ; but 
 " first, and almost unconsciously, I took the 
 " vows that were to separate me for ever from 
 " the world. T felt not the sacrifice; it was 
 " none then to me. I had lost you ; and the 
 " world might well be closed for me. Oh ! 
 " would that all had ended here ! But, even 
 *' in this holy place, this deep retirement, 
 " human interests found or forced an entrance, 
 " and I heard vou lived ! — Ao^ain the world 
 " appeared open to my view, and with double 
 " value, with augmented splendour. The 
 " world, with all its interests, and its many 
 " charms, seemed again to belong to my young 
 " and loving heart ! Oh ! they may preach 
 " its nothingness ; — in vain — in vain ! for 
 " who would leave the summer warmth, and 
 " forego to bask in the golden sun ? ^\^lo 
 " would refuse to listen to the chant of joyous 
 " birds, or to inhale the healthful invigorating 
 " breeze, because, in its due appointed time, 
 " winter will surely follow ? Alas ! alas ! my 
 K 5
 
 20^^ THE CONVENT 
 
 " winter was already come — a sudden, lasting 
 " winter — without gradual approach, or natural 
 " warning. I had lost the blessings of love and 
 " life in one dread wreck — all my fair hopes 
 " were blighted in one short, fatal storm — and 
 " all beyond was ruin and desolation ! 
 
 " But was this so? and was I indeed so 
 " lost? when I had been doomed to misery by 
 " fraud and cruelty, and by an act in which my 
 " own will had borne no part. — And could then 
 " such an act be binding? It had been a deed 
 *' of parental despotism, aided by mistaken 
 ' ' religious zeal ; for more truths had broken in 
 " upon my half-frenzied mind, and by degrees 
 " I had learned the whole black mystery. 
 " Father Etienne had deceived me. In his 
 " strange zeal for the glory of the church, he 
 " had marked me for its victim from my earliest 
 " infancy. Our fond affection had crossed his 
 " views, but could not turn him from his 
 " purpose. He understood the human heart 
 " too well to venture open conflict with its
 
 IN THE FOREST. 203 
 
 " fondest hopes. He had Hstened with seeming 
 " indulgence to the out-pourings of our young 
 " hearts — he had done so, but to strike with 
 " surer aim the poor lone victim. Alas ! what 
 " warrant could he find in the sacred pages of 
 " perfect truth for fraud and falsehood ? How 
 " could he imagine Heaven would accept the 
 " extorted sullen service of the lips, while the 
 " rebellious heart was panting after worldly 
 *' affections? The affections were innocent; the 
 *' surrender only was the sacrilege. It was the 
 " priest who had early filled my father's mind 
 " with objections to our love; he had been the 
 " secret spy who had betrayed our meetings ; 
 " and he it was who fabricated the story of 
 " your death, together with the forgeries which 
 " gave it a false, but fatal plausibility. 
 
 " I was unknown in the convent. Such had 
 
 " been my own desire, and such the condition 
 
 " upon which I had obtained the one indulgence 
 
 " respecting the choice of my living grave. I 
 
 K 6
 
 204- THE CONVENT 
 
 " soon perceived that the other nuns thought 
 " me mad, and I was careful to encourage the 
 " opinion. I avoided all intercourse with them, 
 " and maintained a stubborn silence. I even 
 " concealed my features from their sight, which 
 " I fancied might betray to them the sorrows 
 " of a heart which scorned their useless sym- 
 " pathy ; and I had now begun to harbour 
 " feelings of hatred, and desires of vengeance, 
 " which, even in their undefined infancy, were 
 " such as shrunk from notice. 
 
 " I heard that Father Etienne had retired to 
 " the neighbouring monastery. The feigned 
 " friend, the subtle secret enemy, the cold 
 " deliberate destroyer of my peace, was near 
 " me, was almost within hearing of the cry of 
 " my despair. I know not when the deadly 
 "thought first passed across my brain — I 
 " meditated but to gain my liberty. It is true, 
 " I thirsted for vengeance, and would brood 
 " over it in many shapes ; but never, never in 
 " my wildest, worst, imaginings, did I contem-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 205 
 
 " plate a deed so foul, so bloody. I had 
 " succeeded in silencing my conscience with 
 " regard to my vows. — Vows, in which my will 
 " had never joined, I thought could be bmding 
 " only upon a weak and servile spirit. In 
 " short, you, Auguste, were in the world, and 
 '' I persuaded myself the world might still 
 " acknowledge me. 
 
 *' I had obtained some degree of liberty? 
 " owing to the studied composure of my de- 
 " portment, when observed : and, under the 
 " impression that my mind was lost, although 
 " my state was harmless, I was seldom reproved 
 " for absenting myself occasionally from our 
 " religious ceremonies. I gradually lengthened 
 " these absences, and sometimes remained for 
 " whole days at a time within my cell. Then 
 " I affected a childish fondness for flowers, and 
 " would follow an old lay-sister, whose duty it 
 " was to cultivate a few vegetables in the 
 " convent garden, and who was permitted to 
 " search in the forest for simples necessary for
 
 206 THE CONVENT 
 
 " the sick and infirm. She was old and lame; 
 " and her task was a painful one; and, as I 
 " constantly assisted her, and never showed 
 " any desire to quit her side, she would now 
 " and then suffer me to follow her when she 
 " passed the gate. By degrees I would wander 
 " a few steps from her — but I ever took care 
 " to bring back to her, mixed with the wild 
 " flowers that I collected, such a supply of the 
 " roots and herbs most wanted, as was sure to 
 " procure for me a repetition of the indulgence. 
 " I was thus enabled closely to observe the 
 " walls of the convent garden. They were 
 " much decayed and broken, and, in several 
 " places, the breaches had been repaired with 
 " but a false show of strength. There 1 might 
 " easily effect an escape. During these few 
 " half-stolen, half-permitted, wanderings, I ever 
 " went in the direction of the monastery ; and 
 " sometimes I have been so near it that the 
 '' holy chaunt, raised in praise of the Being I 
 " was offending, has fallen heavily and reproach-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 207 
 
 " fully upon my heart. But I would think of 
 "Father Etienne — I would ponder qgi my 
 " wrono-s, and hatred would rankle in my soul. 
 " The loud chorus then would seem to my 
 " vexed ear as the sound of but one weak, and 
 " tremulous, but well-kno^Mi, and hated, voice: 
 '• and in the rich full harmony I would alone 
 " distinguish the feeble tones from which I had 
 " received my doom of deep despair. 
 
 " One evening, I had ventured so near the 
 " monastery that I was obhged to hide myself 
 " within the hollow of an aged oak, from a 
 " young boy who was chopping fire- wood out- 
 •« side the porch. The bell rang for evening 
 " service, and the boy left his occupation to 
 " enter the monastery. Before I could retire 
 " from my concealment he returned to the 
 " crate, in the dress of an incense bearer. He 
 " carried his o^sii habit and hat, and threw 
 " them on the ground within side of the porch, 
 " then re-entered, and closed the gate. A 
 " sudden impulse made me resolve to secure
 
 208 THE CONVENT 
 
 " the clothes, and to attempt in them my 
 " escape from the convent. Twilight assisted 
 " my theft as well as my return ; and I hid the 
 " stolen habit in a dark corner of my cell. 
 
 " What was my design ? Alas ! I hardly 
 '•knew. I was ignorant of your abode — I 
 " knew not where to go — but I thought, if I 
 " could get at some distance from the forest 
 " without pursuit, I might find help — perhaps 
 " friends. At all events, I could beg my way 
 " to Paris (I knew not the distance); there I 
 " hoped to find you, or to hear of you. In 
 " short, there was joy, there was hope, in the 
 " vague thought of liberty ; and I and hope 
 " had for so long been strangers, that I 
 " welcomed it in all its bright uncertainty, and 
 '*' hugged it to my bosom. 
 
 " That night I left the convent. My heart 
 " beat high with love and daring. I knew the 
 " path that led directly through the forest. 
 " Oh ! that I had followed it — even had it led 
 " me to instant death ! Some daemon suggested
 
 IN THE FOREST. 209 
 
 « the thought of Father Etienne,— and I paused. 
 " A desire of vengeance, stronger than ever, 
 " crossed my mind, and I resolved to seek him, 
 " to upbraid him with his treachery; to show 
 " him that my mind had triumphed over the 
 " thraldom he had doomed it to ; to tell him I 
 " still was yours, and that soon we should be 
 " together, never more to part. Oh, pride ! 
 " blindness ! madness ! I blamed another, and 
 " I sealed my fate myself! Chance, or my 
 " cruel destiny, favoured my rash design. I 
 " reached the monastery as day began to da\\Ti. 
 " The sun, that was so soon to shine upon a 
 " deed of horror, had not risen. Oh ! that I 
 " had never seen again the glory of its beams ! 
 " I entered the porch — with fatal eagerness I 
 " hstened at the gate — alas ! it was unfastened, 
 " and, yielding to the slight pressure of my 
 " body, it swung open, slowly, solemnly, and 
 " without noise, upon its massive hinges. The 
 " gate opened into the outer hall of the mo- 
 " nastery, the deep gloom of which still resisted
 
 210 THE CONVENT 
 
 ' the light of the breaking day ; but the 
 ' doors of the adjoining chapel were set wide 
 ' open, and there, alone, kneeling upon the 
 ' steps of the altar, with his hands crossed 
 ' upon his breast, and apparently lost in the 
 ' fervency of prayer — there was Father Etienne ! 
 ' Every black passion took possession of my 
 ' soul. I gave myself no time for thought — 
 ' no moment for escape. I only recollected 
 
 * my own deep anguish — his cruel falsehood: 
 ' his prayer appeared a mockery. Some logs 
 ^ of fire- wood lay near me on the floor. I 
 ' seized one; and, moving with the quick 
 ' noiseless step of a murderer or a maniac, I 
 ' came behind the still kneeling Father. I 
 ' raised the deadly weapon with supernatural 
 
 * strength — how can I proceed? Oh! the 
 ' aim was sure : it fell with fatal force upon the 
 ' bare head, silvered with age. His eyes 
 ' opened for a moment, ere he closed them for 
 ' ever. They rested upon his murderer : it 
 ' was a look of recognition, pity, and forgive-
 
 IN THE FOREST. 211 
 
 " ness ; and it has blasted every succeeding 
 " hour of my existence ! 
 
 " I rushed from the appalling scene. At 
 " that early hour no one was abroad, and I 
 " reached an unfi^equented part of the forest 
 " unobserved. I bathed my scorched temples 
 *' in a stream of water, and by degrees I re- 
 " covered from the stupor which had precluded 
 " feeling. As my ideas arranged themselves in 
 *' gradual order, a truth, a stubborn irresistible 
 " truth, one that made my whole frame shudder, 
 " and the blood curdle in my veins, — pre- 
 " sented itself to my bewildered imagination. 
 " Auguste ! I was now unworthy of your love! 
 " I had myself severed our fates for ever ! 
 
 " Where now were all the joyous hopes, the 
 " smiling visions, which so lately had caused my 
 " heart to bound with the foretaste of recovered 
 " happiness ? What was the worst of the evils 
 " I had already undergone, compared with the 
 " agony, the desolation, I now began to endure? 
 "J have sunk at last; and all is nearly closed.
 
 212 THE CONVENT 
 
 " But I must finish my sad story. I returned 
 " to the convent : I had scarce been missed, 
 " and no question was made that could affect 
 " me, although the fate of the Father was soon 
 *' known ; and strange and fearful tales were 
 " told concerning his death — all horrible, but 
 " all false ; and all less horrible than the dread- 
 " ful truth. I still continued to shun all inter- 
 " course with my companions. I never slept, 
 " I never rested; but still I lived; and the 
 " struggle is still prolonged. Auguste ! you 
 " have gazed with passion on my beauty — you 
 " have formed plans of happiness for our youth, 
 *' of honour for our age. You have thought 
 " our fates should be linked together in peace 
 " and innocence. Alas ! my beauty is gone ! 
 " Even you, Auguste, you might look upon me 
 " now, and no remaining line of former loveli- 
 " ness would tell you I am Adeline. I am 
 " early old, worn out by grief and penance. I 
 " am alone in the world ; and, while, for your still 
 " cherished sake, my crime must be unknown to
 
 IN THE FOREST. 213 
 
 '* Others, you must learn to blush and tremble 
 " at my name, and strive to hide all traces of 
 " my once honoured memory ! 
 
 " Oh ! if such a wretch, so spotted, so spoiled 
 " by sin, might yet venture to prefer one prayer, 
 " and, in the few short intervals of her black 
 *' despair, might dare to grasp at one fond 
 " image of her still too sanguine fancy, it would 
 " be this, — To fasten my eyes once more upon 
 ** you, ere you know my guilt — to meet your 
 " look of love and kindness for one short mo- 
 " ment — then close them in early, haply in 
 " expiatory, death, and leave my fate and history 
 " to the silence of your breast, and the in- 
 " dulgent pleadings of your love !" 
 
 One only further proof was wanting. Auguste 
 obtained permission to examine the family vault 
 of the late Baron de Chaudraye. A splendid 
 coffin, marked as that of the unfortimate Ade- 
 line, was opened It was empty. 
 
 L.
 
 214 
 
 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 
 
 AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 
 
 To such as are well read in the rare work of autobiography 
 lately published by Sir Jonah Barrington, so singular will the 
 coincidence appear between the relation he gives of the strange 
 fate of Mr. Joseph Kelly and Mr. Peter Alley, in " My Brother's 
 Hunting Lodge," and the catastrophe of the following tale, that, 
 except for the doubtless authenticity of the first-mentioned 
 narrative, it might almost be thought to have been founded 
 on this ancient ballad, which bears evidence of having been 
 written about the middle of the sixteenth century, by a person 
 who was hunself a witness of the event he celebrates. As 
 it is, the two stories will probably be taken as equally true, and 
 strongly confirmatory of each other. 
 
 A GOODLYE romaunte you shal heere, I wis, 
 *Tis ycleped of Alle Deuiles Halle, 
 
 Likewyse of the Feaste of Alle Deuiles it is. 
 And of what dyd there befalle.
 
 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 215 
 
 For a pleasaunte thynge is this historye, 
 
 And much delyte doe I 
 In one so straimge, yett so true perdie 
 
 That noe man can ytt denye. 
 
 O the boarde is sett, and the guestes are mett 
 
 To drinke in Alle Deuiles' Halle, 
 The guestes are drye, but the walles are wett, 
 
 And the doores are barred on alle. 
 
 And why are the tables in ordere sett, 
 
 And why is the wassaile spredd, 
 And why are they mett while the walles are wett 
 
 To carouse o'er the uaultes of the dedd ? 
 
 The Baronne of Hawkesdenne rose wyth the sunne 
 On the daye of Alle Sayntes in the morne, 
 
 A terrible feate hee had thoughte uponne, 
 And a terrible oathe he had sworne. 
 
 From holye Church full manie a roode 
 
 Hee had ravishede of landys fayre. 
 And where Alle Saintes' Abbaye had latelye stoode 
 
 Hys holde hee had builded there.
 
 ^16 THE FEASTE OF 
 
 For to hym our good Kynge Harrye * bad giuen 
 
 For hys fee that riche Abbaye, 
 When the Angels bequeathed for the seruice of 
 heuen f 
 
 Were ta'en from the Church awaye. 
 
 Yett firmlye and well stoode the proude Chappell, 
 Though ne monk ne preeste was there, 
 
 Butt for festival nowe was hearde the bell 
 That wont to be hearde for prayere. 
 
 And those sayntelye walles of olde gray stone 
 
 Dyd witnesse foul revelrye, 
 And they shooke to heare theire echoes owne 
 
 Wordes of ribaulderie. J 
 
 * " Good Kynge Harrye." — Henry the Eighth, whom the 
 ordinary reader may, perhaps, not at once recognise under that 
 epithet. 
 
 t " Angels." — Metalick currency, not spirits of another 
 world. 
 
 % " Ribaulderie." A sort of converse much in use among the 
 soldiers of the Pays des Ribauds[; desultory troops under the 
 command of the Duke of Burgundy in the holy wars. 
 
 See Du Gangers Glossary.
 
 ALLE DEUILES. 217 
 
 " Xow builde mee a Halle," the Baronne sayde, 
 " And builde ytt both wide and high, 
 
 And builde ytt mee ouer the moulderinge dedde, 
 As they rotte in cemeterye. 
 
 " For longe haue I lacked a banquettinge Halle, 
 
 Meete for my feeres and me, 
 For our mirthe the olde Chappell is alle too smalle, 
 
 Soe our butterye-hatch ytt shal bee. 
 
 " Thys aunciente place I vryl newlye calle, 
 
 And christene j-tt in goode wyne, 
 Thys Church of Alle Sayntes shall be Alle Deuiles' 
 Halle, 
 
 And the daye, too, Alle Deuiles' and m\Tie. 
 
 " On the firste of Nouembere thys lordeshippe 
 fayre 
 My heritage was made. 
 From noe Saynte dydd I craue ytt by vowe or by 
 prayere. 
 But I called to the Deuile for ayde. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE TEASTE OF 
 
 " Longe, longe did I striue, and on hope I leaned, 
 
 And att courte I dyd uainlye toyle, 
 Andhys Highnessewas harde, tyll luowedto thefiende 
 
 A share in the Churche's spoyle. 
 
 " Nowe, onn thys daye beginneth a moneth of cloudes. 
 And of deedes that maye not bee forgiuen. 
 
 When the self-sleyne dedde looke upp from their e 
 shroudes, 
 See no blew, and despair e of heuen.* 
 
 " And cache yeare thys festiuall daye wee wyl keepe, 
 Saynte nor angelle a place shal haue. 
 
 Butt darke spiritts wyth us shal carouse, pottle deepe. 
 And we '11 welcome suche from the graue. 
 
 " O there wyll wee mocke the skulles belowe. 
 And we'll grinne more wyde than theye. 
 
 * " Que faut-il faire pour dissiper I'ennuie ? C'est le mois 
 " de Novembre. II fait mauvais temps — temps de brouillards. 
 " Que faut-il faire pour dissiper I'ennuie ? Les Anglois se 
 " pendent. Que faut-il faire, dis-je, pour dissiper I'ennuie ? II 
 " faut boire du ponche ! " — Almanack des Gourmands.
 
 ALLE DEUILES. 219 
 
 And we '11 sjTige more loude thami the owletts doe, 
 And louder than preestes wolde praye. 
 
 " And our dogges -v^yth cache pate that is bleached 
 and bare 
 
 Shal sporte them rounde and rounde, 
 Or tangle theire jaws in the drye dedde haire, 
 
 As theye route in the hollowe grounde. 
 
 " Att the wildered batte wee wjl loudlye laugh, 
 As hee flitts rounde hys mansyons olde, 
 
 And the earthe worme shal learne the redde wyne to 
 quaiF, 
 As he reeles in his sl^Taie folde. 
 
 *' We wyl barre oute the blessede lyghte fulle welle, 
 And we'll heare noe larke to disturbe us, 
 
 For the larke synges to heuen, butt wee to helle, 
 Noe hymninge fooles shal curbe us. 
 
 " A frend in our neede is indeede a frend, 
 
 And suche frend wnis the Deuile to mee ; 
 
 And thys halle I wydl builde, to thys dutyfulle ende, 
 
 That my cuppe fellowe hee maye bee." 
 L 2
 
 220 THE FEASTE OF 
 
 O Nouembere is neare wyth the closinge yeare. 
 
 And the Halle is unfinishede quite. 
 And what liuinge menne dyd reare in the day, ytt 
 dyd appeare 
 
 That dedde handes dyd undoe at nighte. 
 
 O the ceilinge and walles theye are rough and bare. 
 And the guestes theye are comynge nowe ; 
 
 O how shal the Baronne feaste them there. 
 And how shal hee keepe hys vowe ? 
 
 Att the builders he raued furiouslye. 
 Nor excuse wolde hee graunte att alle ; 
 
 Butt, as one poore wretch low bent on hys knee, 
 He strake oute hys braynes wyth hys malle. 
 
 And, highe as hee raysed his bloudie hande, 
 
 Ryght fearfullie thus spake hee : 
 " YfF at eue thys halle unfinishede stande. 
 
 Not one knaue of yee liuinge shal bee ! " 
 
 Thenn the builders theye playstered dilligentlye. 
 For lyfe or deth playstered theye,
 
 ALLE DEUILES. 221 
 
 And, a dagger's depthe, thicke coates three 
 Theye had spredde on the walles that daye. 
 
 " Sore feare worketh welle ! " quoth the proude 
 Baronne, 
 
 As he strode to the festall chayre. 
 And loude laughed the guestes to looke uponne 
 
 The worke so smoothe and fayre. 
 
 The pine torches rounde a braue hghte dydd flynge, 
 A redd noone through the darke nighte streaniinge, 
 And smalle thoughte hadd the guestes of the wayn- 
 scottinge 
 Howe wett, and softe, and steaminge. 
 
 Nowe theye haue barred faste the doores belowe, 
 
 And eke the windowes on highe ; 
 And withoute stoode tremblinge the vassailes a rowe 
 
 Att the bolde impietie. 
 
 O wee tremblede to heare theire reueh*ie, 
 
 (For I was there that nighte,) 
 A sabbath ytt seemede of Deuilrie, 
 
 And of Witches att theyre delyte. 
 L 3
 
 222 THE FEASTE OF 
 
 There was cliauntinge thenne amayne, butt the pure 
 and holie strayne 
 
 Of sweete musicke had loste ytt's feelinge, 
 And there was harpe and lute, but ly ttel dyd ytt boote, 
 
 For the daunce was butt beastlie reelinare. 
 
 o 
 
 And the feates were ille tolde of chiualrye olde, 
 
 Aniiddste dronkennesse and dinne, 
 And the softe laye of loue colde noe tendernesse moue 
 
 Ynn hartes of ryott and smne. 
 
 Three nightes ytt endured, and the staringe owle 
 
 Was scared from hys ivye throne, 
 And the poor currs dismallie answered a howle 
 
 More senselesse thanne theyre own. 
 
 And dronker theye waxed, and dronker yett, 
 
 And each manne dyd uainly laboure, 
 By reasone of manie speakers, to gett 
 
 Meet audience from his neyboure. 
 
 These wordes thenn stammerede the loude Baronne, 
 " Maye I ne'er quitt thys goode cheer e,
 
 ALLE DEUILES. 223 
 
 " Tyll our maystere come to feaste wjth hys owne ! " 
 And thatt was the laste wee colde heare. 
 
 The thu-d mome rose fiille fayre, and the torches 
 ruddye glare 
 Through the windowes streamed noe more, 
 And, when the smalle bh'de rose fi'om hys chambere 
 in the boughes. 
 The festiuall shout was o'er. 
 
 The smalle birde gaylye sunge, and the merrye larke 
 uppe sprunge. 
 And the dewe droppe spangled the spraye, 
 And the blessede sunne, thatt stille shines the same 
 on goode and ille, 
 Smyled thatt morne onn the olde Abbaye. 
 
 O longe dydd we listene, in doubte and feare, 
 
 Att thatt unholye doore, 
 And, ere wee essayed to entere there, 
 
 Ytt was fiille highe noone and more. 
 
 Butt stille colde wee gaine noe answere att alle, 
 Though wee asked continuallye ; 
 
 L 4?
 
 224 THE FEASTE OF 
 
 And I that telle was the urchinne smalle 
 
 That was thruste through the windowe to see. 
 
 I hadde quayled in Saynte Quentin's fighte, 
 Where I rode in that Baronne's trayne. 
 
 And hadde shrunke to see the slayne att nighte, 
 As theye laye onn the bloudye playne. 
 
 1 hadde sickennede to see eache pale face bare, 
 
 And eache staringe glassie eye. 
 As the moone was dimmlye reflectede there. 
 Far re from agreeably e. 
 
 Butt ne'er hadde I scene suche a syghte before 
 
 As thatt whyche dydd thenn befalle. 
 Of grimme and ghastlye dedd heddes a score 
 
 Mortared into a walle ! 
 
 Theye were helde as theye dronkenlye backe dydd 
 leane, 
 
 Ynn deadlye payne and despayre. 
 And the redd wyne was clottede their e jawes betwene, 
 
 And the mortare was growne to the hayre.
 
 ALLE DEUILES. 225 
 
 Full ofte haue I hearde thatt wyse menne doe save 
 " Manie heddes are bettere thaiine one," 
 
 Butt, O, thanne wyth suche gaunt heddes as theye 
 Ytt were bettere to Hue w^^th none. 
 
 And stille the gaye fruites blushede on the boarde. 
 
 As m scorne of the sadde arraye, 
 And the sparklmge flaggons, wyth wyne halfe stored, 
 
 Beamed oute to the sunne alwaye. 
 
 No we Tune hath rolled onne for three score yeare, 
 
 And the olde walle standeth yett; 
 And, deepe, in rowes, rounde thatt dred chambere, 
 
 Eache darke browne skulle is sett. 
 
 The ivye hath wreathede a coronett grene 
 
 For the grimlye Baromie's browe ; 
 And, where once the dais carpett flaunted shene, 
 
 The ranke grass waveth nowe. 
 
 In the sockett where rowled eache dronken eye 
 Hath the martlett builded her holde ; 
 
 And, aye, midde the whyte teeth, gallantlye 
 The walle flowere twisteth ytt's folde. 
 
 L 5
 
 226 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 
 
 And, in place of the torches of pine-tree made. 
 The pale moone quivereth o'er themme. 
 
 And the scritch owle, wyth sorrye serenade, 
 Mocketh the mynstrell before themme. 
 
 And there muste they staye, tyll the dredful daye 
 When theire maystere claymeth hys dole ! 
 
 O Gentles beeware of suche doome, and praye 
 Grammercye onne eache poore soule. 
 
 Butt, euermore, to your dyinge hower, 
 
 Remembere, whate'er befalle, 
 Keepe free your hartes from the foule fiende's power, 
 
 And your heddes from newe mortared-walle. 
 
 Thenne of AUe Deuiles' Daye thys the storye is, 
 And of Alle Deuiles' Halle lykewyse ; 
 
 A wonderous tale, yett soe trewe ytt is, 
 That noe bodye it denyes. 
 
 G.
 
 227 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Nowe, as touchinge wytches, conynge weomen, and 
 the lyke, I closelye cherdge ye, (the quhilk I doute not 
 indede ye houlde to be y''" dutyes,) to make alle convenient 
 diligence for y** better exfodiatinge and bringinge to lyghte 
 soche leude and filthie dedlries of darknesse. Bot, mete yt 
 is, for the more discretelye declaringe forth, and, as it 
 wer, scentinge out, of the same, that ye sholde knowe 
 they are of eighteene sortes and qualityes. Of the most 
 manifest and ordinarye sorte ye sal be g^ven to imderstond 
 in quhat followeth hereupon." 
 
 Mayster Justiciary e BaldocJce. Tract ate of Wytches 
 and other Papistry es — 1609. 
 
 Of the fruitfulness of this enquiiy no one can 
 doubt. — For my witch I must travel back, it is 
 true, at least forty mortal years of my life ; — a 
 toilsome road, which, nevertheless, now, at 
 seventy years old, I wish lay before me still in 
 prospect, rather than behind me in memory. 
 L 6
 
 228 THE WITCH. 
 
 But I think her worth the journey; for she was 
 a very witch indeed. 
 
 My ancient school-fellow and friend, Mr. H., 
 when a very young man, came into possession 
 of a rather large estate in the north of England, 
 as heir at law to an old solitary gentleman, of 
 whose existence he had indeed been aware, but 
 of the degree of whose relationship to himself 
 he had been wholly ignorant. Mr. H. was 
 already rich. Born to the expectation of a 
 large fortune, and having very early inherited 
 the same, he had never felt any incitement to 
 exertion ; and he was one of that large class who 
 consider the prerogative of idleness to be among 
 the most valuable gifts to be enjoyed by man. 
 His habits and tastes confined him to London 
 and its neighbourhood. At the time of which 
 I am speaking, idle young gentlemen could not 
 travel with the same luxurious despatch as now. 
 Roads were bad, improvement still in its in- 
 fancy, M'Adam in a go-cart, carriages awkward, 
 highwaymen in plenty, and good inns scarce.
 
 THE WITCH. 229 
 
 A journey, therefore, which any fool can now 
 achieve with comfort in a few hours, was then a 
 rather dangerous and toilsome undertaking of 
 some days to the most considerate. Mr. H. 
 would have given away the whole estate in 
 question sooner than contemplate for a moment 
 such a pilgrimage at an inclement season of the 
 year. Nor was it in my power, at any season, to 
 convince him of the folly he was guilty of, in 
 never taking upon himself to look into his own 
 affairs, and the alleged improvements, for which 
 he was paying so largely ; for his agent in the 
 North was gradually encreasing his demands 
 for repairs and other outgoings on the estate, 
 up to the amount of the whole of the rents. Of 
 this agent he knew nothmg personally. He 
 had found him in that character, on his first 
 accession to the property — hereditary agent ; 
 and the former proprietor, an infirm old man, 
 had for years lefl the place to the mercy of this 
 stewardship. In short, I, who, without priding 
 myself on my knowledge of business, fancied I
 
 230 THE WITCH. 
 
 understood it a little better than my friend, had 
 suspicions that he was wofully plundered, and 
 did all in my power to inspire him with like 
 doubts. His constant answer was, " then, if so, 
 why does the fellow plague me in all his letters 
 to go and visit this out of the way place ?" I 
 own the agent's letters often conveyed a wish, 
 faintly enough expressed, that Mr. H. would 
 visit his property. But this advice was always 
 prefaced by the most uninvituig descriptions ; 
 and generally given at times when snow was on 
 the ground, or recent rains had swelled the 
 rivers, and rendered the roads nearly impassable, 
 and when it required some strong motive to stir 
 any man, especially a lazy man, from his fire- 
 side. I observed that, in summer time, the 
 agent was invariably silent on this topick. 
 
 At last, an accident effected what my elo- 
 quence had always failed of. Disputes had 
 arisen respecting my friend's right to this pro- 
 perty on the part of sundry counter-claimants, 
 styhng themselves heirs at law to the deceased.
 
 THE WITCH. 231 
 
 The usual consequence followed. What had 
 lately been so entirely valueless in the eyes of 
 Mr. H., while his title to it was unquestioned, 
 suddenly became matter of infinite interest to 
 him. He shook off his natural indolence, and 
 set to work in good earnest to meet the claims 
 of his opponents, with a determination to assert 
 his right, and defend it to the last. I now felt 
 it proper to give him advice of an opposite sort 
 to that which I had so often given before ; but 
 with as little effect. I reminded him of the 
 annoyance which the very mention of this 
 estate had so long cost him ; that it had long 
 been a source of expense to him, and never of 
 profit ; and I entreated him to give way, upon 
 even his just claim, if it should appear likely to 
 cost him much of either trouble or money in 
 the proving. No; he was resolved, even to 
 his last shilling, to try the issue. But my ap- 
 prehensions as to the difficulty of substantiating 
 his title had been groundless. The attacks ap- 
 peared to have been wantonly begun in a pre-
 
 232 THE WITCH. 
 
 sumption upon Mr. H.'s well-known indolence 
 of character; and they were easily defeated. 
 Again he was left in undisputed possession of 
 the manor of D. 
 
 In the course of this contest, many things 
 occurred to arouse in Mr. H.'s mind the same 
 suspicions which I had so long felt respecting 
 the integrity of his unknown steward; and the 
 success with which the contest had been 
 crowned had given him not only a taste for the 
 enquiry, but a spirit of industry to pursue it; 
 and at length he proposed to me to accompany 
 him on a visit to D. Too happy was I at hi& 
 tardy inclination towards so reasonable a mea- 
 sure to thwart him by a refusal ; and, accord- 
 ingly, we were soon on our road to the North. 
 He wished not to announce his intention, but to 
 see men and things on his property unprepared 
 for his arrival ; to see all with his own eyes, 
 and to judge of all with his own judgment. 
 We travelled, therefore, under feigned names. 
 In a few days we reached the little town of B.,
 
 THE WITCH. 233 
 
 which was the nearest resting-place to D. 
 manor ; for, akhough there stood a capacious 
 mansion on the estate, it had been described as 
 miinhabitable, and as having been for many 
 years shut up as an unfit and unsafe abode for 
 any human creature. 
 
 It was about the middle of October when we 
 started upon this expedition. We reached B. 
 about the noon of the fourth day; fortunately 
 for our entei'prize, the agent was absent from 
 the neighbourhood ; and, having engaged rooms 
 at the orily publick-house which the place 
 afforded, instead of sitting dovm to stare at each 
 other across the small ricketty table on which, 
 in due time, we were to dine, Mr. H. proposed 
 that we should walk to the manor. We en- 
 quired our way of some persons m the street. 
 " You will be clever to miss it," was the reply, as 
 our informant pointed towards a flinty road which 
 ran straight across an open flat country, leading, 
 as far as the eye could reach, without tributary 
 branch or impeding circumstance of any sort.
 
 23 t THE WITCH. 
 
 to one object. And this object was the man- 
 sion at D., distant about four miles from the 
 town. We walked towards it at a good pace, 
 and, as we neared it, it did not indeed present 
 an inviting aspect. 
 
 A story is told of Mr. , of gambling 
 
 notoriety, that, on his first visit to a most un- 
 picturesque part of the county of Waterford, 
 he was asked by a friend at whose house he 
 was staying, what he thought of the country. 
 The country, though verdant, was flat and 
 treeless, and no object was in sight but his 
 friend's white cubick house with two rows of 
 windows, and, at a short distance from it, a 
 neighbour's house of the same shape and di- 
 mensions. " I like it of all things," said the 
 old gambler; " it puts one in mind of throwing 
 
 sixes on the green baize." But D. manor 
 
 was a flat without green, and the house was 
 like sixes cast one on the top of the other. It 
 was a high oblong, with nothing to break the 
 bluff* mass of masonry. The chimneys had
 
 THE WITCH. 235 
 
 fallen. The roof, like the face, was without 
 break or excrescence ; and of windows, all of 
 one size and shape, four regular rows were to 
 be counted. 
 
 Within half a mile of the mansion, the road 
 turned abruptly into another direction, and we 
 then had to walk over marshy ground, till we 
 fell into a regularly trodden sheep-walk, 
 which led close under the walls of the house. 
 Nothing could be more dreary. Tree, or even 
 shrub, there was none ; not even a wild crab, 
 with its sour golden fruit, tempting the wan- 
 dering schoolboy to visit the spot, and some- 
 times to break its stillness with the gladsome 
 notes of his voice or whistle. A few black 
 leafless thorns, on which the torn spoils of the 
 sheep's fleece here and there fluttered in the 
 wind, stood at intervals among the thistles, to 
 mark the lines of what had once been hedge- 
 rows. 
 
 But I was describing the mansion. The 
 windows on the ground-floor, and the door,
 
 236 THE WITCH. 
 
 were bricked up, and, by the marks of time 
 upon this work, it appeared that they had been 
 so closed for many years. Broad Hnes of 
 broken stones and mortar ran parallel with 
 three sides of the house, showing that a wall 
 which, from its remains, must have been high 
 and thick, had once nearly surrounded the 
 building. This was confirmed by the evidence 
 of two ponderous gates of worked iron. They 
 still maintained their station opposite to what 
 had probably been the principal entrance ; while 
 the wall, which of old had embraced them on 
 either side, now lay so low in its ruins by them, 
 that a child of a year old might have crawled 
 over any part of it. The huge bolt had long 
 rusted in the lock, and docks and nettles had 
 bound them with all their tangled might to 
 the threshold, over which they had, time out 
 of mind, been closed. 
 
 On the only side of the building which had 
 formerly lain open was the deep bed of a large 
 square pond. It was now entirely dry. Here,
 
 THE WITCH. 237 
 
 it appeared, the shepherds folded their flocks. 
 At a short distance from this, and ftirther 
 from the mansion, was a broad dusty ditch, 
 which once had served as an outside moat to 
 this well-guarded place. Our crossing this 
 ditch had already excited the wonder, perhaps 
 displeasure, of the few inhabitants of some 
 miserable hovels which clustered on the out- 
 side bank of it. These hovels belonged to the 
 peasants who looked after the flocks; but 
 seemed as little fit to shelter human beings 
 as the poor creatures who issued from them 
 seemed fit to represent humanity. Our arrival 
 had occasioned a stir amongst them which was 
 expressed by looks and gestures, the more 
 particular meaning of which it was hard to 
 comprehend. I never before saw a convention 
 of such squalid, sickly looking beings. The 
 scene on which we had before been gazing was 
 so dispiriting, that we should have gladly 
 turned to one of life and motion. But here 
 life and motion, if they did form a contrast
 
 238 . THE WITCH. 
 
 with stillness and solitude, formed but a me- 
 lancholy one indeed. Poverty, want, the most 
 abject, was stamped in traces too severely true 
 upon their wasted careful visages. They w^ere 
 mostly women and children. Women ? Alas 
 for woman-kind, — that it ever can by penury 
 and degradation be brought to look so ! And 
 the children — even they presented a melan- 
 choly picture. One looked in vain for the 
 playful smile, and ruddy cheek of infancy, the 
 rounded yet vigorous form, beautiful even in 
 the bareness of its rags. All was blighted by 
 the desolating genius of the ruined place. 
 
 We joined this wretched crew. We could 
 collect but little of the subject of their half 
 ideas expressed in their confused provincial 
 jargon; but were given to understand that 
 their men were at a distance, with the sheep, 
 which at sunset they would bring home to fold 
 in the place I have described. An old grey- 
 headed shepherd, who sat on a stone at the 
 door of one of the huts, and who, by gestures
 
 THE WITCH. 239 
 
 of more seeming cordiality, motioned us to- 
 wards him, appeared to be the most reason- 
 able and social of the group. He was bent 
 double by age and infirmities. He bowed his 
 head as we approached, and would have even 
 risen to receive us. But we spared him so 
 tedious and paiaful an exertion. He concluded 
 us to have lost our way ; for who but strayed 
 strangers could be expected to visit such an 
 abode? And he offered to send a child to 
 guide us into the high road. But, when he 
 understood that we desired a few particulars 
 respecting the place, he was equally ready to 
 satisfy our curiosity, — and, asking Mr. H. to 
 seat himself on another large stone placed on 
 the opposite side of the door of the hovel to 
 that where he himself was established, he be- 
 gan his history in the simple but strong lan- 
 guage of truth and feeling. Supported by the 
 evidence of the surrounding scene, it formed 
 one of the most striking pieces of natural elo- 
 quence I ever listened to.
 
 24-0 THE WITCH. 
 
 I must give a mere abstract ; for it was long. 
 Far from suspecting who it was to whom his 
 tale was addressed, the old man first spoke of 
 the proprietor of the manor himself. Mr. H. 
 made signs to me to be silent, and then, his 
 face buried in his hands, sat to hear himself 
 described as the cause of all the unhappiness 
 and all the desolation he witnessed ; as a hard 
 landlord, and a bad man ; as one who, insen- 
 sible to all the woe he had created, and at a 
 distance from it, was fattening on wealth ex- 
 torted from the ill paid labour of those whose 
 poverty fixed them to a spot where all those 
 comforts were denied them which man has a 
 right to claim from that fellow-man whom Pro- 
 vidence has entrusted with the sacred duty of 
 providing for his wants; as one, lastly, who 
 had instructed his agent to harass and oppress 
 beinffs who had in his estate an interest far 
 older, more natural, and closer, than his own; 
 and as one who caused the remonstrances and 
 petitions of those who had none to help them
 
 THE WITCH. 241 
 
 to be punished as the outbreakings of insolence 
 and mutiny. And the old man raised his 
 withered hands, and almost sightless eyes, to 
 Heaven, as he called upon that power which is 
 present to listen to the poorest, and dreadful to 
 judge the proudest, to lay its chastening hand 
 on the selfish and cruel oppressor. 
 
 The prayer was already granted. My poor 
 friend wTithed in anguish. He felt, he mag- 
 nified, the guilt of having so long delayed 
 acting for himself, where he had the privilege 
 and the duty of conferring happiness, and 
 where he had recklessly inflicted so much suf- 
 * fering ; and he recollected, with shame and 
 remorse he recollected, that his presence even 
 then had been the effect but of accident and 
 caprice. 
 
 To reheve him, and to give another turn to 
 the old shepherd's eloquence, I asked concern- 
 inor the mansion. He said it had lono- been 
 uninhabited and shut up. That he had never 
 known it otherwise than as it now appeared; 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE WITCH. 
 
 and that he was the oldest inhabitant of those 
 hovels now living — save one. That he had 
 heard strano-e thinijs of the mansion. That it 
 must have known far different and better times ; 
 " when those gates," said he, pointing to them, 
 " were gilded with gold, and never opened, as 
 I've heard, to less than coaches and six. That 
 was long, long, before my day. When I was 
 a lad, and when many, now gone, were lads 
 too, there we used to stand, as the boys do 
 now o' days, on the brink of that ditch, hurling 
 stones at the old gates. But never cared we 
 to go any nigher. It is said, gentlemen, that 
 the place is an awkward one to meddle with, 
 and, perhaps, the less that 's said about it the 
 better." 
 
 " What ! " said I, — for I always had a dear 
 fancy for a ghost ; — " is it haunted ? " 
 
 " God forgive us our idle talk," replied the 
 old shepherd. " I had rather not say that, 
 sir. But this I will be bold to say — all is not 
 as should be about that window." " What
 
 THE WITCH. 243 
 
 window ? " cried I and my friend at the same 
 moment; and. with suitable action, we turned 
 from the old man to look. There were 
 many windows; all, as I have before said. 
 alike in size and shape. And we turned again 
 to the narrator. Pleased, as a man who, in 
 whatever circumstances, believes that he has 
 found, not one only, but two, attentive listeners 
 to his oldest, his longest, and his favourite, story, 
 he replied, with an expression that brightened 
 even his sunken countenance, " ^^ nat ! — 
 have you never heard of the window?" — 
 " Never," we both answered. " Xor of the 
 Witch ? " said he, with increasing energy, — 
 " Never." 
 
 The old shepherd chuckled with pleasure. 
 He then set himself to recollect the story he 
 had thus engaged for. But, as his mind 
 journeyed back through years of hardship and 
 of gloom, the dim lustre died upon his features, 
 like the cold light of a wintry sunset, which has 
 glistened for awhile upon a rum, but soon 
 M 2
 
 244 THE WITCH. 
 
 leaves it again to the encreasing shadows of 
 night, which it before so faintly and moment- 
 arily repelled. 
 
 This is the outline of what followed. That, 
 when he was a boy, his father and mother 
 would speak of the great house having been 
 inhabited in their youth by a man and woman 
 at that time far advanced in years and very 
 infirm. No one then knew how long they had 
 lived there, who had placed them there, or 
 what they did there. They lived in the centre 
 attick. This was known; for their tottering 
 forms were occasionally seen through that 
 window; and a light would often glide and 
 glimmer there, and sometimes at very unseason- 
 able hours of the night. It seems that, amongst 
 these ignorant and unobservant people, (squalid, 
 and miserable, and unfriended, and uneducated, 
 then, as now,) some curiosity had been awak- 
 ened concerning the old couple in the mansion. 
 For, as time went on, the occasional appearance 
 of the figures and of the lights had ceased; yet
 
 THE WITCH. 245 
 
 no one had marked precisely the period at 
 which they had ceased to appear, and nothing 
 had occurred to date the death or departure of 
 either of these strange inmates. Yet it was 
 clear that they, who were old in the days of the 
 parents of the oldest now alive, must long ago 
 have mingled theii' dust with that of the 
 mouldering tenement in which they had so long 
 and so strangely Hved, 
 
 Had all traces of inhabitancy ceased in the 
 mansion, the dwellers in the hovels would long 
 ago have acquiesced in the conclusion that the 
 old couple had quitted it unseen, or that their 
 bones were bleaching in their attick ; and the 
 whole mysterious story would have been for- 
 gotten. But all traces of inhabitancy there had 
 not ceased. Still one window of the old house, 
 and only one, was regularly opened as soon as 
 the first rays of the sun appeared above the 
 horizon to make every object distinct and 
 clear; and with the same regularity was it 
 closed at sunset. And this, everv morning and 
 
 M 3
 
 24^6 THE WITCH. 
 
 evening of the year, and year after year ; what- 
 ever was the season, and whatever the weather. 
 And this was the same window, the attick 
 window, through which, of old, (it was tradi- 
 tionarily said,) the last human forms had been 
 seen to glide and the light to glimmer. And 
 still was the heavy casement set open to the 
 dawn of each succeeding day — and still was it 
 closed each night at sunset. Yet never could 
 the hand be seen which performed this regular, 
 but apparently unnecessary, ceremony. I say 
 unnecessary, because the old casement was 
 entirely destitute of glass, and must have 
 admitted the weather as freely when closed as 
 when set open to the utmost stretch of its rigid 
 hinges. One thing only was certain — the old 
 couple must long have been dead. Who then 
 or what can open and shut that window ? 
 
 Such was the tardy but irresistible reasoning 
 of these poor creatures. The natural inference 
 drawn by ignorant and superstitious minds, 
 (and I say not this in scorn, for daily ex-
 
 THE WITCH. 247 
 
 perience shows that one needs not be born in a 
 hovel to draw such inferences,) was, that what 
 was to them unintelligible must be, therefore, 
 supernatural, and that Providence was going 
 out of the ordinary lofty path of its wisdom and 
 its goodness to show its power, by what ? — 
 " perplexing monarchs ?" — No, but by fright- 
 ening and annoying paupers, and their wives 
 and children. 
 
 Soon the little community became agitated 
 by those undefined and painful excitements 
 which the wonderful and unexplained is sure to 
 awaken. Various were the solutions which 
 arose in men's minds, and some found their 
 way, full four miles off, to the town of B. But, 
 as is usual on these impoitant occasions, the 
 solutions became much too extravagant to 
 deserve attention, and the really unexplained 
 truth was lost or forgotten in a crowd of false 
 wonders. Use reconciles us to most things, 
 not to all. But all other feelings arising out of 
 these things had subsided into a general one of
 
 248 THE WITCH. 
 
 awful reluctance to approach the old house. 
 And this explains the surprise shown by the 
 women and children upon our crossing of the 
 dry ditch; for that ditch had long been the 
 boundary beyond which it had been judged 
 prudent never to proceed. The bed of the old 
 pond being the only shelter for the sheep in 
 winter-time, the practice of folding them there 
 was, perforce, continued. But care was had 
 that the sun should be well seen to rise, and 
 the mysterious window to open, before the 
 flocks should be released of a morning ; and as 
 regularly they were secured for the night 
 before the sinking sun should disappear, and 
 the closing window give token that the reign of 
 powers beyond mortal reach had begun. These 
 tasks were performed not by individuals, but by 
 parties. One man alone would not have 
 ventured ; and often has a poor lamb been left 
 to bleat, unfolded, and disregarded, if it hap- 
 pened to stray beyond the hour when it was 
 safe for the more timorous animals on two legs
 
 THE WITCH. 249 
 
 to guide it to its home. The children were 
 nursed in the fears of their parents. If a 
 peeled stick, or round pebble, or any other 
 such treasure from the magazine of their simple 
 sports, chanced to fall into that ditch, there did 
 it remain unredeemed among the other wastes 
 and strays of many generations : and the most 
 daring urchins, imder the strongest impulse of 
 mischief, was never seen to cross that bourn. 
 
 To this effect was the old shepherd's history 
 of the house and the window. His history of 
 the Witch was in this wise. One very ancient 
 woman, the oldest inhabitant of those parts, 
 had long dwelt alone, in a hovel which was 
 distinguished from the others only by its being 
 at a Uttle distance from them, and upon the 
 inner edge of the fearful ditch. All considered 
 her able, if she were but willing, to tell many 
 and strange things. Her own existence, indeed, 
 was a mystery. None knew how she procured 
 the means of supporting life. She had never 
 been known to offer help or kindness to any 
 M 5
 
 250 THE WITCH. 
 
 one; there was not a human creature for 
 whom she seemed to care. She never was 
 known to ask help or kindness ; for she seemed 
 to think there was not a human creature who 
 cared for her. She was the only one whom the 
 reports about the window seemed never to 
 concern or astonish; so she was believed to 
 know all about it. She appeared but rarely on 
 the outside of her wretched dwelling; when 
 she did, her bearing remained unaltered, amid 
 the alarm, the commotion, and the abuse, of 
 her neighbours, and, strangest of all, she 
 seemed ever as eager to avoid their company 
 and observation as they were to keep at a 
 secure distance from her. She was very old 
 and very decrepit; she did not complain though 
 she was very poor; but what settled the 
 question of her being a witch was, that she lived 
 alone on the side of the ditch which nobody 
 else dared approach, and she had no fear. 
 This was all the Shepherd had to say against 
 her. But was it not enough ?
 
 THE WITCH. 251 
 
 By this tinie the sun was getting low, and we 
 began to think of returning to our inn. Mr. H. 
 took leave of the hbtorian, promising to pay 
 him another visit, and we walked slowly towards 
 the town. When at a littJe distance from the 
 mansion, we stopped to take another view of 
 it. Our eyes rested mechanically on the myste- 
 rious window. The sun was now sinking fast ; 
 and — as the last narrow segment of its blood- 
 red disk departed below the line of the horizon 
 — the casement closed slowly but firmly, with- 
 out any appearance of human agency to move 
 or fix it ! 
 
 . Our looks met, and again instantly were 
 withdraT\Ti. I believe neither of us wished the 
 other to observe the whimsical degree of solem- 
 nity with which the looks of both were im- 
 pressed. 
 
 We walked quickly towards the road over 
 
 the coarse long grass now wet with the heavy 
 
 dew. The mansion at D. faced the east, and 
 
 was backed by the short-lived glories of an 
 
 3J 6
 
 252 THE WITCH. 
 
 autumnal twilight, lingering awhile in the quarter 
 where the sun had set. The sky was full 
 of leaden-coloured clouds, which showed like a 
 distant range of mountains, capes, and bays, 
 darkening with each passing minute, and be- 
 coming less distinct till land and sky seemed 
 joined in one. One long narrow line of yellow 
 light still marked jjie west, and against its 
 bright light was still seen the outline of the 
 huge oblong building. But soon even this 
 light vanished; a fog rose around us; and we 
 were heartily glad to reach our little inn. 
 
 Mr. H. continued silent and grave, a prey to 
 the gloomy thoughts which all he had seen and 
 heard that day served to inspire in a feeling 
 and reflecting heart. He retired early to bed ; 
 and I was glad to follow his example. 
 
 The next morning we met, over the breakfast 
 table, in a very different mood. The sun shone 
 so gaily, it was impossible to be melancholy ; 
 and a fresh and frosty air invited to exercise. 
 Mr. H. had settled all differences with his con-
 
 THE WITCH. 253 
 
 science before he slept; no hard matter with 
 one who has sinned only from carelessness and 
 in ignorance. He had promised himself large 
 amends for his sufferings of the day before, in 
 executing the good and kind resolutions he had 
 formed ; and now, contented with himself, and 
 eager to give happiness to beings till then 
 strangers to it, he was jeaipus of every moment 
 he lost till we should return to D. Our walk 
 was delightful. We knew that there were no 
 beauties of scenery ; we did not therefore regret 
 the absence of what we did not look for. But 
 the sky shone brightly on us, and the birds 
 sang gladly, and my friend's terrier dog was 
 our companion. He was just set at liberty, 
 having been four days imprisoned in a post 
 chaise, and then tied for a whole afternoon and 
 night to the leg of a table at the inn ; and he 
 seemed to wish to conununicate his joy, and he 
 succeeded, as he ran and barked and snapped, 
 in pursuit of the dry yellow leaves from the 
 hedges, as the eddies of light wind bore them
 
 254< THE WITCH. 
 
 round and round in circles along the road. 
 Even the ill-omened aspect of the old house 
 failed to frown us into bad spirits ; though there 
 it stood in all its awful dulness, and the case- 
 ment, which we had seen closed the preceding 
 night, now again stood open as the day that 
 beamed in glory upon it. 
 
 On reaching the abodes of the shepherds, we 
 found that enough curiosity had been e'icited 
 by our visit of the day before, and our promise 
 to repeat it, to cause several of the men to re- 
 main at home to receive us. They suspected 
 us, as we were afterwards informed, to be per- 
 sons deputed by the agent to d^'scover, if pos- 
 sible, new means of adding to the profits of the 
 estate at their expense ; and it was easy enough 
 to perceive, in the sullen countenances of starv- 
 ing men, whose resentments, if not their wits, 
 had been thus aroused, something that bespoke 
 a spirit of ferocious resistance already swelling 
 up against its barriers, and ready to break forth 
 upon any further provocation. By minds which
 
 THE WITCH. 255 
 
 have been thoroughly debased to ignorance and 
 wrong, every thing will be submitted to while 
 aught can be "gained, or saved, bv submission. 
 So it was with these poor creatures, who had, 
 till then, bowed tamely beneath the rod, and 
 had borne, without resistance, the extreme of 
 insult, want, and oppression. But now, when 
 patience and life must have sunk together under 
 harder trials, they had become desperate. Nor 
 was this feeling abated, when Mr. H., calling 
 them about him, declared himself owner of the 
 land on which they stood. His name had been 
 too often used among them by his agent as 
 ordering and approving his own acts of injustice, 
 for his first appea.-ance to inspire any other but 
 feeluigs of fear and hatred. Not a hat was 
 raised, and not an eye was turned upward upon 
 him that did not speak savage anger. With 
 great presence of mind he spoke aloud. " My 
 friends, I come among you to judge for myself 
 and for you. I only wish I had come sooner, 
 for I see that you are in want of many comforts,
 
 256 THE WITCH. 
 
 and it shall be my study to make you happy. 
 We will no longer be, as we have been, 
 strangers to each other. I will, henceforward, 
 live often among you, and you shall all have 
 reason to rejoice that I have at last become 
 acquainted with you and with your wants. 
 That house is mine. It shall soon come down 
 to the ground to make place for one that shall 
 better suit a man who will live on his estate. I 
 will now give a guinea to any one who will 
 follow me and help me to examine it." All 
 were silent. The men hung back irresolute. 
 Not one offered to earn the tempting bribe. 
 Suddenly there rose a murmur of surprise and 
 dismay. The women caught up their screaming 
 children, the men retired behind the women, 
 and "the Witch! the Witch!" was heard 
 echoed from mouth to mouth, as a very old 
 woman, wrapped in a man's tattered great coat, 
 approached, supporting with a crutch stick 
 her slow and feeble steps. Mr. H., seeing the 
 crowd retiring from around him, repeated his
 
 THE WITCH. 2o ( 
 
 words ; but without effect. They who, but a 
 few minutes before, were meditating and mut- 
 tering projects of outrage against one armed 
 with the authority of a master, and supposed to 
 be an oppressor, now quailed before, they knew 
 not what, under the form of a helpless, palsied, 
 old woman. 
 
 We were soon left alone with this remarkable 
 person. She raised an old black hood, which 
 shaded her face, surmounting the rest of her 
 strange epicene attire, and she gazed intently 
 upon Mr. H. At length, in a voice cracked 
 with age, and hoarse with strong and stern 
 energy, she thus bespoke him: " Sir, — I heard 
 your offer, — I accept it, — Such as I am, will 
 you go with me?" 
 
 Something, as much in the old woman's eyes 
 as in her tone of voice and manner of accepting 
 the challenge, for a moment confounded my 
 friend, and he appeared irresolute what to do. 
 Taking it for granted, however, that the poor 
 creature's show of zeal and spirit was but the
 
 258 THE WITCH. 
 
 effect of the proffered bribe, he told her kindly 
 that he would take her good-will for the deed, 
 and, excusing her a fatigue to which she was so 
 unequal, would give her the guinea. 
 
 She drew up her withered frame, till, in 
 spite of its infirmities, for a moment she stood 
 almost erect. She pushed aside, with indigna- 
 tion, the hand which held the money, and, 
 raising her voice to a pitch at which she seemed 
 to have cast off all the weakness of age, and to 
 have gathered at once eloquence and power 
 from the dignity and passion of her feelings, " I 
 will," she said, " be true to my word. My 
 word has been given to others as well as to 
 you, and I never yet broke faith with created 
 man. Keep you your promise as I will be 
 true to mine. Give me the gold when I shall 
 have earned it — Sir:" (and, with an action of 
 strange and forcible meaning, she struck her 
 crutch repeatedly on the ground as she uttered 
 these last words) " I am old, poor, wretched, 
 hated, feared, perhaps to he feared if provoked,
 
 THE WITCH. 259 
 
 but / only can. or dare, go with you where you 
 wish to go, — and I will go with you ! " 
 
 There was that in her words and niien that 
 filled us with astonishment. We knew not 
 whether to think her deranged in her wits. 
 But it was plain she would not be refused, and 
 there was enough in what we remembered of 
 the old shepherd's story to make us think her 
 at least worth attending to, as a companion, if 
 not as a guide, in our progress. She moved 
 towards the mansion. Mr. H. followed her, 
 and I, of course, followed him. 
 
 \\Tien we were close under the walls, a 
 question arose how we were to enter. The 
 brick-work, which blocked all entrance below, 
 being as substantial as the walls themselves, the 
 nearest practicable opening was through a 
 window of the first floor. But the whole 
 neighbourhood could not furnish a ladder. 
 We stood irresolute, while the old woman 
 watched us shrewdly. I began to advise desist- 
 ing from the enterprise that day, and returning
 
 260 THE WITCH. 
 
 on the morrow with better means, and with 
 workmen, from the town. But, my friend, and 
 the old woman, were now not in a temper of 
 mind to be daunted with difficulties. She 
 pointed to the mixed masses of bricks and 
 stones which lay near us, and asked if we could 
 not make a heap high enough to enable us 
 from its top to break an entrance, and even 
 pointed to one window that appeared to be in 
 a more shattered state than the rest. Mr. H., 
 ashamed of finding himself surpassed in energy 
 and invention by his feeble companion, set to 
 work, without loss of time, to move to the spot 
 the materials for his crazy mount. I assisted, 
 while the old woman was eagerly and im- 
 patiently observing our progress. 
 
 We had soon raised a pile of rubbish suf- 
 ficiently high, and, after standing on it together 
 to try its power of supporting us in our effort, 
 I helped Mr. H. to place himself on the broad 
 window-sill. The iron work was deeply worn 
 with rust, and the leaden bars which joined the
 
 THE WITCH. 261 
 
 small squares of broken dingy glass had, many 
 of them, already yielded to the visitings of the 
 wind, and remained bound together by little 
 more than thickly matted cobwebs and hardened 
 dust. He soon made good his entrance into 
 the room, ha\'ing cautiously tried the strength 
 of the floor, and then invited me to follow. 
 But the old woman had already ascended the 
 pile on which I stood, and impatiently called 
 upon me to aid her to reach the window. 
 This, with Mr. H.'s help from above us, was 
 not difficult to effect, and she was soon safely 
 by his side. But my exertions to place her 
 there, without injury to her frail and decrepit 
 frame, had caused great chsturbance in our 
 works below. They had given way, and I was 
 now lower by some feet than I had been at 
 first. Neither had I any one to lend a hand to 
 my ascent. After witnessing some ineffectual 
 and hopeless struggles of mine at an impracti- 
 cable escalade, Mr. H. laughed heartily at my 
 discomfiture. I fancied that the old woman
 
 262 THE WITCH. 
 
 enjoyed it too, and that a very peculiar look of 
 malicious satisfact'on darted from her wild 
 eyes, as Mr. H. and she turned to leave the 
 window, without waiting for the elaborate 
 process that I had again undertaken, but singly 
 now, of rebuilding the pile, from which stones 
 had rolled down too large for one man's strength 
 to replace. 
 
 Still I continued my work. But the found- 
 ations were now loosened, and the. masses that 
 I was able to bring had neither breadth nor 
 weight to support themselves or each other 
 against the wall. In this disheartening labour 
 I persevered for some time, occasionally going 
 to some distance from the face of the house for 
 materials. On my return from one of these 
 trips I became aware of a very strong and 
 overpowering smell of smoke. I judged that 
 some weeds were burning in the nearest fields, 
 and, the symptoms encreasing, and the utter 
 hopelessness of my project of following my 
 companions through that window being now
 
 THE WITCH. 263 
 
 evident, I proceeded to reconnoitre another side 
 of the house. Here I was met by a stronger 
 and more stifling smell, and a still thicker 
 smoke, and I returned to my old quarters. 
 By this time I perceived small wreaths of 
 smoke issuins: from several crevices in the 
 lower parts of the mansion. I was now very 
 much alarmed, and, running towards the win- 
 dow by which my friend and the old woman 
 had entered, I called loudly to apprize them 
 of the strange, and unaccountable, but very 
 plainly imminent, danger. The house had 
 certainly caught fire ; and it seemed to spread 
 with astonishing rapidity, and on all sides. 
 Soon a thin white vapour began to appear 
 from the upper windows, as it had at first done 
 from the ground-floor, while through the 
 chinks below a red flash was here and there 
 indistmctly visible, Uke flames through a thun- 
 der-cloud, adding its horrors to the black 
 billowy volumes that now rolled within ; and a 
 faint crackling sound at intervals told the
 
 264« THE WITCH. 
 
 quick advances of the conflagration. I ran 
 round the house, almost frantick with my fears 
 for my friend. I returned to the window. No 
 one appeared, and I knew not how to act. In 
 vain I again betook myself to my desperate 
 and impotent efforts to reach the opening. I 
 only displaced still more the heap, and was 
 thereby adding to the difiiculties he would find 
 in his decent, if, by Heaven's mercy, he should 
 again reach the spot where I had last seen 
 him. Not a soul from the hovels would come 
 to my assistance. I shouted, I gesticulated, 
 I believe I knelt; but all in vain. A little 
 crowd had assembled on the further edge of 
 the dry ditch, to gaze at the sight in stupid 
 wonder. But no signs, no entreaties, no threats, 
 (for I threatened them all with the gibbet for 
 petty treason, as accessories in the murder of 
 their lord, — fear like necessity hath no law, — ) 
 nothing could induce one of them to approach, 
 and I dreaded to quit my post lest my aid 
 might be wanted there before I could return.
 
 THE WITCH. 265 
 
 I knew and recollected with sad foreboding the 
 
 o 
 
 generous kindness of my friend's nature, and 
 it was with dismay I thought of the infirmities 
 of his companion, for I knew he would not 
 desert her. And how was she to second any 
 effort he could make for her safety ? An 
 active man, with only his own life to provide 
 for, might, by a desperate spring, and at the 
 expence of, perhaps, the fracture of a limb or 
 two, save it at once. But, clogged as he was 
 with the fortunes of that unlucky old creature, 
 every thing was to be feared for him. In 
 alarm, as in wrath, it is consolatory to find 
 some victim to accuse; and I was unjust 
 enough to vent a hundred imprecations against 
 that helpless being. I could scarcely breathe, 
 from agitation and from the suffocation occa- 
 sioned by the smoke and the black dust which 
 fell thick around me. At length, with feel- 
 ings of extacy proportioned to the horrors 
 I had endured, I perceived the forms of both 
 Mr. H. and the old woman at the window 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE WITCH. 
 
 which I had been so long and eagerly watch- 
 ing. Not an instant was to be lost in doing all 
 that was practicable to extricate them from a 
 situation of rapidly increasing peril. Mr. H. 
 was unwilling to attempt his own descent till 
 he should have secured that of the old woman. 
 But this it was impossible to accomplish with- 
 out causing a severe fall. She too, as is not 
 unusual in such a dilemma, seemed to dread 
 this slight danger more than the dreadful one 
 that raged so near her: and she refused to 
 stir. She bade Mr. H., however, strip off his 
 coat, and, applying her whole force, she held 
 on by one sleeve doubled over the window-sill, 
 while, by the opposite end of the hanging gar- 
 ment, he lowered himself from the window 
 sufficiently to be able to drop the remainder 
 of the distance without material injury ; and, 
 I standing with my back to the wall to break 
 his fall, we only rolled together, unhurt, among 
 the stones and rubbish. Our next work was 
 instantly to set about raising the heap, by piling
 
 THE WITCH. 267 
 
 upon it large blocks and masses, such as only 
 the joint strength of two men could raise. At 
 last, after great and rapid toil, we were enabled, 
 one standing on the summit, and the other on 
 his shoulders, very nearly to reach the sill. 
 We then earnestly called on her to trust her- 
 self to the upheld hands which were stretched to 
 receive her. Had she been young and beauti- 
 ful we could not have longed ^^ith more ardour 
 to feel the descending weight of that precious 
 burthen. But now, — madness, sheer madness, 
 it seemed, — she sat on the edge of the window, 
 still hesitating, objecting to the means offered 
 to her of rescue from a certain, instant, and 
 dreadful death. And, while Mr. H., whom I 
 had raised on my shoulders, was actually en- 
 deavouring to climb up once more to where 
 she was, to force her from the approaching 
 fate of which she seemed unconscious or heed- 
 less, a sheet of fire burst out behind and around 
 her. She threw her arms up wildly, 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE WITCH. 
 
 " Like a scribbled form, drawn with a pen 
 Upon a parchment ; and against this fire 
 Did she shrink up." Shakspeare. K. John. 
 
 Then, with a cry of pain, mingled with a yet 
 louder laugh of something like exultation, she 
 fell, or rather flung herself, backward into the 
 flames ! 
 
 At the same dreadful moment a loud crash 
 was heard within. We both dropped from 
 the heap, and ran unconsciously from the build- 
 ing, gasping for breath. 
 
 All time for exertion, or for hope, — all was 
 over ! The crash had been occasioned by the 
 falling in of floors and ceilings, and, for some 
 moments, the building itself could scarcely be 
 distinguished through the thick masses of smoke 
 mingled with dust, and the showers of sparks, 
 and then jets of pure flame, which followed. 
 At intervals the blaze seemed to receive a 
 check from the weight of beams, parting walls, 
 &c. falling in from aloft with tremendous noise. 
 But it was only to burst out again with a fury
 
 THE WITCH. 269 
 
 on which the eye could scarcely bear to gaze. 
 After a time, it raged almost without check or 
 hiiiderance, and the old mansion showed like a 
 huge furnace, all within glowing and roaring 
 with a white heat, sometimes a waving upward 
 tongue of flame, and the whole canopied by 
 a rolling shrow d of smoke, which settled into a 
 dark cloud high in the midst of the still bright 
 atmosphere. A scene appalling even in re- 
 collection, but of strange magnificence and 
 beauty. 
 
 Besides the impression of deep melancholy 
 produced by the frightful spectacle we had just 
 witnessed, we felt that w^e had become in some 
 sort publickly answerable for the Ufe of a fel- 
 low-creature. We thought it prudent at once 
 to hasten to B., and tell our own story, before 
 it should be told for us with all the imper- 
 fections and all the additions inseparable from 
 any story to be narrated by such historians as 
 those who had been the distant spectators of 
 our enterprize and its result. People too were 
 N 3
 
 270 THE WITCH. 
 
 now flocking from all the neighbouring parts, 
 attracted by the conflagration, which must have 
 been seen for many miles round that flat 
 country. 
 
 As soon as we reached our inn, we despatched 
 the landlord in quest of a few of the most 
 respectable inhabitants of the town, among 
 whom was a magistrate, entreating their attend- 
 ance on a matter of public importance. Four 
 or five gentlemen soon joined us. Mr. H., in 
 their presence, declared his name and purpose 
 in coming to B., and then detailed all that had 
 passed, concluding with the disastrous fate of 
 the poor woman. His declaration was taken 
 in writing, and signed. I must here mention 
 the few particulars to which I was not witness, 
 which occurred during the brief period when 
 Mr. H. and his companion were within the 
 mansion at D., as related by himself. They 
 began by passing across several small square 
 chambers, and along some narrow crooked 
 passages ; the dim windows admitting so
 
 THE WITCH. 271 
 
 scanty a light, and the floors being so much 
 broken, that they were obliged to proceed very 
 cautiously. Slowly as he went, however, his 
 companion seemed hardly able to follow him. 
 She complained much of fatigue. She seemed 
 quite as much perplexed as he to find a way 
 in the house through which she had offered 
 herself to be his guide, and much more intent 
 on finding a place to sit down and rest than on 
 the performance of what she had undertaken. 
 More than once, he had lost sight of her for 
 several minutes at a time, and was fain to 
 return to look after her. At lenorth, they 
 reached together a chamber, in the centre of 
 the edifice, much larger and hiorher than the 
 others, but, like them, encumbered with the 
 dust and rubbish of a century or more. The 
 floor of this room was so decayed and danger- 
 ous that Mr. H. would scarcely have ventured 
 upon it, but that he was tempted forward by 
 seeing, nearly in the middle of it, a large square 
 opening. This gave upon a flight of broken 
 
 N 4;
 
 272 THE WITCH. 
 
 stone steps, which he descended, in the behef 
 that they would lead to the rooms on the 
 ground 'floor which had been so carefully 
 closed, from without, with brick-work. It was 
 in descending this stair that he was suddenly 
 met by so dense a smoke that he was obliged to 
 retreat. And soon the smell began to be so 
 oppressive, and the smoke to issue through so 
 many parts of the rotten flooring, that he was 
 convinced that some of the lower apartments 
 were on fire, and burning rapidly. Had he 
 been alone, the strange coincidence of such a 
 circumstance, occurring within the first half 
 hour of his first entrance into his own house, 
 might have tempted him to investigate further. 
 But fear for the safety of the feeble partner of 
 liis adventure overcame his curiosity, and he 
 urged her to retire with her best speed. But 
 fear seemed, in her, to have conquered for 
 awhile all natural infirmities, and she showed 
 not only an activity of body, but a sagacity and 
 power of resource, that astonished him. She
 
 THE WITCH. 273 
 
 had made herself mistress of every turn of the 
 rather intricate progress they had made through 
 the house, and now guided him back rapidly, 
 with confidence, and unerringly. It w^as only 
 when her own innnediate safety remained to be 
 provided for, and at the last moment, that the 
 poor wretch seemed to lose her senses. I have 
 already detailed that dreadful crisis, and I do 
 not wish to dwell upon it again. 
 
 The result of our consultation with the 
 gentlemen was an agreement that they should 
 accompany us, next morning, to D. manor. 
 Mr. H. was, more than ever, anxious to begin 
 the works of justice and kindness which these 
 events had so unexpectedly broken in upon. 
 Accordingly, in the morning, we set fortli, 
 attended by several more persons than we 
 had looked for. Curiosity was excited, and 
 several recruits voluntarily joined our party. 
 Many parts of the exterior of the huge build- 
 ing had fallen during the night. It was now a 
 misshapen and blackened ruin; still smoking, 
 N 5
 
 274- THE WITCH. 
 
 and here and there the fire creeping still 
 through its glowing hollows. 
 
 Little groups of the natives were gazing and 
 gaping around; but a closer and larger crowd 
 had assembled on the extreme edge of the 
 broad ditch which separated them from the 
 hovel of the poor old woman. Our arrival 
 caused some sensation, and a few of the men, 
 and more of the women, approached Mr. H. 
 with a petition to tear down what had so lately 
 been the residence of her whom they had so 
 long hated and feared. Mr. H. was not un- 
 willing to do a popular act at so cheap a rate. 
 " But first," said he, " I will enter it. For if 
 the poor woman had any property, it would be 
 a pity it should be damaged. And I understand 
 she had means of living which none of you could 
 guess at." Without waiting for an answer, but 
 taking, as in some cases it is very wise to do, 
 consent for granted, he advanced towards the 
 ill-omened tenement. It had never before, 
 within the memory of living mortal, been so
 
 THE WITCH. 275 
 
 closely reconnoitred. Window or chimney it 
 had none. But an opening in the roof, whose 
 form left it doubtftil whether it was the effect 
 of design or of decay, served the double purpose 
 of an entrance for light from without and a 
 vent for smoke from within. The door was 
 fastened, and at first resisted the united strength 
 of Mr. H. and myself, till, our efforts being 
 redoubled, the old wood-work gave way, and 
 burst from the strong iron bolts that had 
 caused the opposition. It fell in fragments and 
 yielded us an abrupt entrance into the miser- 
 able dwelling. Good heavens ! How were we 
 confoimded ! In a large stone chair, which 
 occupied the centre of the place, there sat the 
 old woman herself! Alive, but wretchedly 
 scorched and wounded. Her withered hands 
 clenched in anger and pain ; and her wild eyes 
 casting a glance of impatient remonstrance 
 which accorded well with the querulous tone in 
 which she muttered a few words, in themselves 
 too unimportant to record, but which, under all 
 N 6
 
 276 THE WITCH. 
 
 the circumstances in which they were spoken, I 
 never can forget. The last moments of her 
 mysterious existence were numbered. Our 
 surprise had been marked of the people with- 
 out. The cause of it was soon known. 
 
 And now began a painful strife indeed. The 
 most ungenerous and savage passions of our 
 nature are those, alas ! which are communicated 
 the quickest; and quickly above all do they 
 travel among minds which, like those of the 
 poor population of D., have never, by education 
 or by benefits received, been soothed down 
 to emotions of forgiveness or pity. Among 
 them, rage mastered even their servile sense of 
 inferiority. They forgot even the presence of 
 Mr. H. their landlord. They pressed rudely 
 forward^ declaring that they would come at the 
 object of their fury, now that all her supposed 
 powers of mischief and defence were in dissolu- 
 tion. They determined that her having escaped 
 the fire was evidence, strong as holy writ, of all 
 they had before believed of her ; and they re-
 
 THE WITCH. 277 
 
 solved now to haul her, dying as she was, to the 
 nearest pond, to try if she were likewise proof 
 against drowning. We had no door to oppose 
 to these wretches. But, with the assistance of 
 the gentlemen who were with us, we formed a 
 circle round the unhappy victim, standing 
 shoulder to shoulder to face the assailants. 
 Thus repulsed, the mob set about the work of 
 demoHtion, and we soon saw the mud-walls fall 
 in fragments round us. The full glare of open 
 day broke in, for the first tune for many years, 
 upon that abode of twihght and mystery. The 
 unusual sight seemed for a moment to affect the 
 almost insensible being by whom we stood. 
 She stared fearfully around, and at once took 
 in a full and piteous sense of her danger. She 
 drew her wasted form into a corner of her 
 great stone chair. She caught our hands, and 
 grappled them with an expression of imploring 
 helplessness. She seemed to know our purpose 
 was to protect her from those fellow-creatures 
 who had been born and bred in the neighbour-
 
 278 THE WITCH. 
 
 hood with her, and, by a few faint gestures and 
 disconnected words, she gave us to understand 
 that our wish that the last struggle of her poor 
 life were past could not be greater than her's 
 to quit a world of misery, in which all that 
 now remained to her was the dreadful and 
 immediate prospect of a violent end. We 
 could not much longer have maintained our 
 post. The yells of the mob became every 
 instant louder and more portentous; and now 
 an attack was commenced upon us by the 
 hurling of fragments of the broken mud-walls, 
 the assailants approaching nearer and nearer 
 after each volley. Mr. H. and I again turned 
 to the dying woman. She appeared to suffer 
 no more. She was regardless now equally of 
 our attentions and of the assaults of the mob, 
 or answered them by low moanings, rather 
 of weakness than of apprehension or of pain. 
 Her eyes were resting fixedly on the dark 
 ruins of the mansion which stood in the distance 
 high over the levelled walls of her cottage, and
 
 THE WITCH. 279 
 
 gradually something of a serene and satisfied 
 smile took possession of her features. Suddenly, 
 with a violent rush, the mob overbore us. 
 They clustered round and over the stone chair, 
 and Mr. H. and I found ourselves pinioned 
 each by a couple of ruffians. We exclaimed, 
 we struggled, in vain ; we looked for the last 
 time on the object of our solicitude. Heaven 
 was kind to her in her utmost need. One 
 convulsive sob, — and all was over. — She had 
 escaped the hands of men. — Her lifeless form 
 alone remained to gratify their fiendish but 
 impotent rage. 
 
 Soon after these events, my fate called me 
 to a great distance from my country, and 
 from the friends of my youth, ^^llile abroad, 
 I settled ; — as the world has it when a man 
 marries. But, my marriage bringing after it the 
 cares ofa numerous progeny, I became the most 
 unsettled man ahve. I wandered wherever I could 
 find lucrative employment. I spent some time 
 in India, and, from my first leaving my native
 
 280 THE WITCH. 
 
 land, I did not return for near thirty years. 
 When I did return, my first care was to seek 
 out the closest friend of my early life. An 
 uninterrupted correspondence with Mr. H. had 
 continued him in my mind as he was when we 
 parted in our youth. But he had become a 
 comfortable, corpulent, bald, country gentle- 
 man, a farmer on a large scale in every sense 
 of the term, and a justice of the peace ; 
 eagerly pursuing improvements and experi- 
 ments, and retaliating my foreign wonders with 
 descriptions of his own agricultural discoveries 
 at home. 
 
 He asked me one day as we sat together in 
 a coffee-house in London, whether I remem- 
 bered the journey we had once made in our 
 youth to that formidable estate of his in the 
 North. Could I ever forget it ? He seemed 
 pleased with the vivid recollection I retained 
 of the place, and of all the circumstances be- 
 longing to it. I enquired what he had done 
 towards improving it, and I soon found myself
 
 THE WITCH. 281 
 
 engaged to accompany him, for the second 
 time, to the manor. It was arranged that we 
 should pass one day at the house of a relation 
 of his, which lay in our wa}' to his own pro- 
 perty, and at no great distance from it. Many, 
 many years had been added to our ages. We 
 were altered men in every respect but in our 
 fi'iendship for each other. That was the same, 
 and our pleasure in each other's society un- 
 diminished. It was a delightful journey. Eng- 
 land, my old England, in her neat garment of 
 green fields and clipped hedges, with the little 
 varieties of solitary gentlemen's solitary seats, 
 peaceful towns, hills without bandits, and 
 jungles without wild boars or tigers. My 
 country was fresh to me; but her features were 
 familiar as those of the consolmg genius of 
 many a home-sick dream. 
 
 Much as I was pleased with every inch of 
 the way, I was most gratified when we reached 
 what Mr. H. announced to me as his relation's 
 residence. And not a little glad was I to
 
 282 THE WITCH. 
 
 think we should spend at least twenty-four 
 hours at that sweet spot before proceeding to 
 renew the melancholy recollections of D. 
 manor. Here, at our resting-place, all was 
 gay and smiling. Thriving plantations, waving 
 corn-fields, meadows of rich green, — all was to 
 my taste and liking. Mr. H. saw the pleasure 
 I derived from the scene, and proposed our 
 walking by a shorter road to the house through 
 the plantations. We did so, our servants 
 going round with the carriage to announce 
 our arrival. At last, after a charming walk, 
 we came in sight of the house. I was eager to 
 see if its appearance corresponded with the 
 gaiety and tastefulness of all the rest. It soon 
 answered for itself, and confirmed my satis- 
 faction. " You like this place ? " said my 
 friend. I turned to answer him, — and the 
 secret was divulged by his glistening eye and 
 by the kind pressure of his hand, as he wel- 
 comed me to his own happy home — the ma- 
 nor of D. Such it was; and, after the first
 
 THE WITCH. 283 
 
 few moments of keen surprise and incredulity, 
 (for an Englishman, when convicted of being 
 dull of apprehension, generally thinks it right to 
 console himself for a short time by being also 
 hard of belief,) I began, under Mr. H.'s guid- 
 ance, to trace the principal and most repelling 
 features of D. manor in those which were to 
 be the most admired of tliis new creation. 
 
 " Look," said he, as he pointed towards the 
 house, " look well at it, and you will see it is 
 built upon the very site of the old mansion. 
 The conservatory in front of it extends exactly 
 to where the old iron gates stood when you 
 were here last. And the flower-garden, which 
 now looks so gay and gaudy, and is edged by 
 that little light paling, fills the space which 
 was once enclosed by the wall whose ruins you 
 remember but too well. Behind the house, 
 I will soon show you a fair little lake ; and you 
 must endeavour to spy through its clear still 
 waters the formal edges of the deep dry pond. 
 Now^ survey that little brook into which I have
 
 284- THE WITCH. 
 
 drained the marsh, and over which you see 
 that rustick bridge with the ivy and china 
 roses, and tell me if it take not the exact line, 
 still serpentining here and there, of the awful 
 moat which lay betwixt the original mansion 
 and the hovels of the shepherds. I never will 
 own that a village need be hid by artful 
 plottings and plantings, if the cottages be such 
 as it behoves a rich man to provide for the 
 lodgement of those who look to him for the 
 recompense of honest service. That cheerful 
 little village, to the right of the bridge, stands 
 in the place of the wretched hovels, but gives 
 a better shelter to some of the very persons 
 whom I found on that ground. They were 
 all taken care of. Many, most, are since gone, 
 — I hope, to a still better home. But their 
 children are their successors ; and in those 
 healthy urchins, who are playing on the lawn, 
 and whose voices sound so joyously, you see 
 many of their grand-children. There is one 
 spot more that will interest you, and which I
 
 THE WITCH. 285 
 
 see your eye is seeking. Yes, — you are right; 
 — that Httle evergreen ckimp marks the spot 
 where the poor old woman's hovel stood. Let 
 us go there. You will still find her stone chair. 
 It is big enough for both of us. And I will 
 there tell you more about the window and the 
 witch." 
 
 " More than ten years after those events," 
 continued my friend, when we had taken our 
 seat in the centre of what once was the witch's 
 cottage, " I received a letter from the governor 
 
 of the jail at W , informing me that a 
 
 man, who was under sentence of death for 
 coining, earnestly desired to see me. I hastened 
 
 to W , and saw the convict. He was 
 
 somewhat advanced in years, and I certainly 
 did not remember to have ever seen him be- 
 fore. By his desire, we were left alone to- 
 gether. With an expression of respectful 
 earnestness, he took my hand between both 
 of his, squeezed it, and, after gazmg for some 
 moments on my face in silence, burst into tears.
 
 286 THE WITCH. 
 
 Naturally referring these emotions to the de- 
 plorable condition in which the poor fellow 
 stood, I asked him how I could serve him, and 
 why he sent for me. " You cannot serve me, 
 sir, — " he answered firmly; " I am guilty and 
 must suffer. But I wished to see you, that you 
 might receive a poor disgraced, dying, man's 
 thanks. Sir, I thank you with all my 
 heart." And his eyes again filled with tears. 
 " You were kind to my mother in her last 
 agony, and you saved her from the cruelty of 
 those who, but for you, would have murdered 
 her." — " The witch's son ! " exclaimed I, 
 most inadvertently ; — had I thought twice, such 
 words would not have passed my lips. The 
 softened, penitential, expression of the man's 
 features in a moment changed to one of wild 
 and stubborn pride. It was one which, alone, 
 would have gone far to establish the kindred. 
 
 " I am," replied he, " son to an unfortunate 
 woman who never did harm to mortal; who 
 made a promise before the Almighty to three
 
 THE TTITCH. 287 
 
 guilty sons : — and she kept it : — she sacrificed 
 her life to save their's. She had suffered much 
 and long, sir, for that promise. The poor 
 ignorant wretches of your once-neglected vil- 
 lage did brand, and abuse, and nickname her for 
 what thev did not and could not imderstand." 
 I interrupted him — I do not know that in the 
 course of my life I have been much in the 
 habit of making apologies. But this I am sure 
 of, that never was there a more hearty apology 
 given in so few words for a hasty phrase 
 than that in which I made reparation to the 
 poor convict, before whose high and kindhng 
 feelings I stood abashed. His countenance, 
 his tone, his heart, were again subdued, and 
 he entered into a detail of which these are the 
 particulars. 
 
 He could tell nothing of this old mansion 
 further back than when it was known to be 
 inhabited by the old couple of whom the 
 shepherd had told us. Their son lived there 
 with them, but in careful concealment, for,
 
 288 THE WITCH. 
 
 within its protecting walls, he carried on, in 
 connexion with a widely-spread gang, the 
 dangerous trade of coining false money. He 
 had an only daughter, who, almost from her 
 infancy, had been partner in his practices, but 
 whose mother had always continued to inhabit 
 the hovel, on whose site we are now sitting. 
 This daughter became the wife of one of her 
 father's associates, by whom she had three 
 sons. Her father and husband dwelt, often 
 for weeks together, in the mansion, carrying 
 on their business on the ground-floor, which, 
 you remember, was carefully bricked up. They 
 would sometimes separate, and go to a great dis- 
 tance, and then meet again at the old house, 
 which they entered at night by means of a 
 passage under ground from this spot. By the 
 same passage, food was carried into the house, 
 and the proceeds of their trade found their 
 way out. The poor woman, in her turn, 
 waxed old, and her three sons naturally suc- 
 ceeded to their grandfather's and father's mode
 
 THE WITCH. 289 
 
 of life. Her occasional departures from the 
 hovel, no one knew whither or by what way, 
 and her solitary and mysterious existence, may 
 sufficiently account for the conclusions come to 
 concerning her. 
 
 The mystery of the window was very simple. 
 The casement of the room occupied by the 
 original couple had been for so many years, 
 during their lifetime, opened and shut every 
 day, that, when they died, it became the care 
 of the survivors to continue that practice, 
 in order that no apparent change should attract 
 curiosity to the place. The same process, 
 therefore, was daily observed, only effected 
 by the simple machinery of cords passed 
 through the rotten boarding of the floors, 
 to obviate the necessity of the appearance 
 of new figures at the window. Soon all enquiry 
 and all wonder subsided into the tranquillity of 
 a superstitious belief. But for the purpose 
 of the opening and shutting of the window, 
 each day regularly, at sunrise and at sunset, 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 THE WITCH. 
 
 did the old woman visit the mansion by the 
 passage already described. 
 
 But these precautions were not all. — Life 
 was at stake; and the sons had taken care 
 to place the means for instantly setting fire 
 to the house, if at any time it should appear to 
 their mother necessary to do so, in order to 
 prevent a search. Trains of gunpowder were 
 laid from several parts, communicating with 
 heaps of dry shavings and other coinbustibles, 
 so that she might, entering the building on any 
 side, in a very short time set the whole in a 
 blaze. This last resource was also to serve for 
 giving notice to her sons, one of whom, during 
 their absences from the mansion, was always in 
 the neighbourhood. The house on fire, or 
 in ruins, was to be the signal for them to fly, 
 and never to return. 
 
 During the performance of this act, the 
 strong and excited feelings of the old woman 
 gave no place to fear. She was doing what 
 she deemed a great duty; — one that she had
 
 THE WITCH. 291 
 
 passed her word solemnly, to do truly, in case 
 of need; — and on the success of which de- 
 pended the safety of the beings who formed 
 the only link between her and the affairs and 
 affections of life. That work done, perhaps 
 her mind may have failed her; perhaps it may 
 have misgiven her that the work was imperfectly 
 done. Whatever caused her to hesitate, when 
 we proposed to her to escape with us, it is 
 probable that, at last, hurt to death, she made 
 her retreat to the hovel through the passage 
 which she knew so well. 
 
 The condemned coiner ended his narrative 
 in these words, " \\lien we lost the old house, 
 we had no longer a place in which to pursue 
 our busmess safely. We loved it, and we 
 had loved our mother too, as we had reason to 
 do, dearly, — dearly. Sir. Nothing, after, w^ent 
 well with us. My brothers were detected at 
 the old trade. One suffered death by the 
 law, and the other, as I heard, died on his 
 passage to Botany Bay. I was left alone, 
 o 2
 
 292 THE WITCH. 
 
 little caring what became of me. I had a 
 longing to see my native place again. I saw 
 you there, Sir. I heard speak of the protection 
 you had yourself given to my mother in her 
 dying moments.'* 
 
 " Now I am settling my last account with 
 this world. Sir," said he, and his voice as- 
 sumed a strange tone, — and his eye gleamed 
 with a strange expression, — and his hand 
 shook as he drew something from his bosom, 
 — " will you keep this. Sir ? I have no one on 
 earth I care for, or that can care for it but you, 
 but it may remind you at least of an act of 
 benevolence and charity to one who, whatever 
 may have been her faults, did not fear to die in 
 preserving the life of those whom she had 
 brought into the world. Sir," added he, in 
 a whisper, " I should not like this to fall into 
 the hands of a hangman." 
 
 It was a piece of black silk sewed carefully 
 up all round. It contained one thin lock of 
 white hair. 
 
 L. G.
 
 293 
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 I HAVE often occasion to pass through a village 
 on the St. Alban's road, at one end of which 
 there is so tidy and convenient a publick house, 
 that I always give my horse his bait there, if I 
 happen to be travelling in my gig. I had fre- 
 quently observed an old soldier, who, having 
 lost an eye, a leg, and an arm in the service of 
 his country, had pretty well earned the privilege 
 of idling away the rest of his life, in a maimer 
 particularly congenial with the habits of one of 
 his calling. He would sit on a bench outside 
 the door of this iim, with a pipe in his mouth, 
 and a can of beer by his side ; and thus he 
 would pass all the fine months of the year. In 
 winter he merely changed his seat : he was 
 constant to his pipe and his can ; he took both 
 o 3
 
 294- THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 with him to the warm chimney-corner ; and 
 thus he enjoyed his out-pension. During the 
 hour of baiting I have often talked with this 
 old man. He had served last in the early part 
 of the war on the Peninsula. He was loqua- 
 cious enough on other subjects; but, if one 
 questioned him concerning these last military 
 services, he became on the instant morose and 
 uncommunicative, and one could not but per- 
 ceive that the topick was disagreeable and 
 painful to him. 
 
 What most interested me about this man, 
 was his love for young children. He was ge- 
 nerally surrounded by a parcel of curly-headed 
 urchins ; and often have I seen the mistress of 
 the little inn consign her infant to the protec- 
 tion of his one arm, when, by an arrival, she 
 has been called upon to attend to the business 
 of the house. The old fellow never appeared 
 so contented as when thus employed. His pipe 
 was laid aside, his beer forgotten, and he would 
 only think of amusing and caressing his charge,
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 295 
 
 or of lulling it to sleep. The bigger children 
 would cluster round him, clamber over him, 
 emptj^ his pipe, upset his can, take all sorts of 
 liberties with him, yet never meet with a rebuke. 
 At times, however, he would appear lost in un- 
 easy thought, gazing with earnestness upon the 
 features of the sleeping infant, while tears 
 would course each other down his cheeks. 
 
 As I drove one morning up to the door of 
 the inn, and passed the bench on which the old 
 soldier was, as usual, sitting, with his little flock 
 of children playing round him, one of them, a 
 very young one, suddenly backed into the road, 
 and in another moment more would have been 
 crushed ; but the old man sprang forward ; 
 with a vigorous and wonderful effort he seized 
 the child with his only arm, and threw it several 
 feet out of the way of danger. He fell with the 
 exertion, and was among mv horse's feet. In 
 suddenly drawing up, I had unwittingly done 
 my very worst by the poor fellow ; for I had 
 caused the animal to trample upon him a second 
 o 4-
 
 296 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 time, and a wheel had hkewise passed over his 
 body. 
 
 He was taken up insensible : we carried him 
 to a bed, and after a little time he recovered 
 his recollection. But he was so severely in- 
 jured, that we feared every moment would be 
 his last. The first words he uttered were, 
 " The child ! the child ! " We assured him that 
 the child was safe; but he would not believe 
 us, and it became necessary to send into the 
 village to search for the little creature, who had 
 been hurried home with the others upon the 
 confusion that the accident had occasioned. 
 He continued to call for the child, and was in 
 the greatest distress of mind till we had found 
 it, and had taken it to him as he lay. His de- 
 light at seeing it alive and unhurt was intense; 
 he wept, he laughed, he hugged it to his 
 bosom, and it was not till he grew very faint 
 and weary, that he would suffer us to remove it. 
 
 A surgeon arrived, and pronounced that the 
 poor man was so much hurt, inwardly as well
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 297 
 
 as outwardly, that notliiiig could be done to 
 save hini ; and desired us merely to give him 
 cordials or cooling drink, as he should appear 
 to wish for either. He lingered for a few days. 
 
 I had been the cause, although innocently, 
 of the poor fellow's death : of course I took 
 care that all was done that could alleviate his 
 sufFermgs; and, as long as he lasted, I went 
 every day to pass a few hours by his bedside. 
 The rescued child, too, was brought to him 
 each day, by his own desire. From the moment 
 he had first ascertained that it was unhurt, he 
 had been calm and contented. He knew he 
 was dying, but he could part with life without 
 regret; and the cloud, which I had so often 
 observed upon his weather-beaten countenance 
 before the accident, never after returned. 
 
 The day before he died, as I was watching 
 alone by his side, he asked me for a cordial. 
 Soon after he had swallowed it, he laid his 
 hand upon my arm, and said, — " Sir, if you will 
 not think it too great a trouble to listen to an 
 o 5
 
 298 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 old man's talk, I think it will ease my mind to 
 say a few words to you." He was of course 
 encouraged to proceed, "I die contented," 
 lie continued ; " happier than I have for some 
 years lived. I have had a load upon my heart, 
 which is not quite removed, but it is a great 
 deal lightened. I have been the means, under 
 Providence, of saving a young child's life. If 
 I have strength to tell you what I wish. Sir, you 
 will understand the joy that blessed thought 
 has brought to my heart." 
 
 I gave him another cordial, and he spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 " It was in a stirring time of the Duke of 
 " Wellington's wars, after the French had 
 " retreated through Portugal, and Badajos had 
 " fallen, and we had driven them fairly over 
 " the Spanish frontier, the light division was 
 " ordered on a few of their long leagues fur- 
 " ther, to occupy a line of posts among the 
 " mountains which rise over the northern banks 
 " of the Guadiana A few companies of our
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 299 
 
 " regiment advanced to occupy a village which 
 " the French had just abandoned. 
 
 " We had had a brisk march over a scorched 
 " and rugged country, which had already been 
 " ransacked of all that could have supplied us 
 " with fresh provisions ; it was many days since 
 " we had heard the creak of a commissary's 
 " waggon, and we had been on very short com- 
 " mons. There was no reason to expect much 
 " in the village we were now ordered to. The 
 " French, who had just marched out, would, 
 " of course, have helped themselves to what- 
 " ever was portable, and must have previously 
 " pretty well drained the place. We made a 
 " search, however, judging that, possibly, some- 
 " thing might have been concealed from them 
 " by the peasants ; and we actually soon dis- 
 " covered several houses where skins of wine 
 " had been secreted. A soldier, Sir, I take it, 
 '* after hot service or fatigue, seldom thinks of 
 " much beyond the comfort of drinking to ex- 
 o 6
 
 300 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 " cess; and I freely own that our small party 
 " soon caused a sad scene of confusion, 
 
 " Every house and hovel was searched, and 
 "' many a poor fellow, who had contrived to 
 " hide his last skin of wine from his enemies, 
 " was obliged to abandon it to his allies. You 
 " might see the poor natives on all sides run- 
 " ning away, — some with a morsel of food, — 
 " others with a skin of wine in their arms, — 
 " and followed by the menaces and staggering 
 " steps of the weary and half- drunken soldiers. 
 
 " * Vino ! vino ! ' was the cry in every part of 
 " the village. An English soldier, Sir, may be 
 " for months together in a foreign land, and 
 " have a pride in not knowing how to ask for 
 " any thing but liquor. I was no better than 
 " the rest. — ' Vino! quiero vino !' said I, to a 
 " poor half-starved and ragged native, who 
 " was stealing off, and hiding something under 
 " his torn cloak. — ' Vino ! you beggarly scoun- 
 *' drel; give me vino,' said I. * Vino no tengo !' 
 " he cried, as he broke from my grasp, and
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. SOI 
 
 " ran quickly and fearfully away. I was not 
 " very drunk ; I had not had above half my 
 " quantity, and I pursued him up a street. — 
 " But he was the fleeter, and I should have 
 " lost him, had I not made a sudden turn, and 
 " come right upon him in a forsaken alley, 
 " where, I suppose, the poor thing dwelt. 
 
 " I seized him by the collar ; he was small 
 " and spare, and he trembled under my gripe ; 
 " but still he held his own, and only wrapped 
 " his cloak the closer round his property. — 
 " « Vino, quiero vino ! ' said I again, ' give me 
 " vino ! ' — ' Nada, nada tengo ! ' he repeated. 
 « — 1 had already drawn my bayonet. — I am 
 " ashamed. Sir, to say, that we used to do that 
 " to terrifv^ the poor wretches, and make them 
 " the sooner give us their liquor. 
 
 " As I held him by the collar with one 
 " hand, I pointed the bayonet at his breast 
 " with the other, and I again cried, ' Vino ! ' — 
 " ' Vino no tengo — nino, nino es ! ' — And he 
 " spoke the words with such a look of truth and
 
 302 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 ' earnestness, that, had I not fancied I could 
 ' trace through the folds of his cloak the very 
 ' shape of a small wine-skin, I should have 
 ' believed him. — ' Lying rascal ! ' said I, * so 
 
 * you won't give me the liquor ? then the dry 
 ' earth shall drink it ! ' and I struck the point 
 ' of my bayonet deep into that which he was 
 ' still hugging to his breast. Oh, Sir ! it was 
 ' not wine that trickled down ! — it was blood 
 ' — warm blood ! and a piteous wail went 
 ' like a chill across my heart ! — The poor 
 ' Spaniard opened his cloak — he pointed to 
 
 * his wounded child, — and his wild eye asked 
 ' me, plainer than words could have done, — 
 ' Monster ! are you satisfied ? I was sobered 
 ' in a moment. I fell upon my knees beside 
 ' the infant, and I tried to stanch the blood. 
 
 * — Yes, the poor fellow understood the truth : 
 ' he saw, and he accepted my anguish, and 
 ' we joined our efforts to save the little victim. 
 
 * Oh ! it was too late ! . . . 
 
 " The little boy had fastened his small
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 303 
 
 " clammy hands round a finger of each of us. 
 " He looked at us alternately, and seemed to 
 " ask alike fi'om his father and his murderer 
 " that help which it was beyond the power of 
 '' one of earth to orive. The changes in the 
 " poor child's countenance showed that it had 
 " few minutes to live. Sometimes it lay so still, 
 " I thought the last pang was over; when a 
 " slight convulsion would agitate its fi^ame, 
 " and a momentary pressure of its little hands 
 " would give the gasping father a short, vain 
 " ray of hope. 
 
 " You may believe. Sir, that an old sol- 
 " dier, who has only been able to keep his 
 " own life at the expense of an eye and two 
 " of his hmbs ; who has lingered out many 
 " a weary day in a camp hospital after a hot 
 " engagement, must have learnt to look on 
 " death without any unnecessary concern. I 
 " have sometunes wished for it myself, and 
 " often have felt thankful when my poor 
 " wounded comrades have been released by
 
 304< THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 " it from pain. I have seen it, too, in other 
 " shapes. I have seen the death-blow dealt, 
 " when its effects have been so instant, that 
 ** the brave heart's blood has been spilt, and 
 *' the pulses have ceased to beat, while the 
 " streak of life and health was still fresh upon 
 " the cheek; — when a smile has remained upon 
 " the lips of my brother soldier, even after he 
 " had fallen a corpse across my path. But, 
 " oh ! Sir, what is all this, compared with what 
 " I suffered as I watched life ebb slowly from 
 " the wound which I had myself so wantonly 
 " inflicted in the breast of a helpless, inno- 
 " cent child ! . . . It was by mistake, by ac- 
 " cident. Oh, yes ! I know it. I know it 
 " well, — and day and night I have striven to 
 " forget that hour ; but it is of no use : the 
 " cruel recollection never leaves my mind — 
 " that piteous wail is ever in my ears. The 
 " father's agony will follow me to the grave ! " 
 
 L.
 
 305 
 
 THE ODIOUS 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION.* 
 
 " Puis, pour achever ses peines, le malheureux est 
 conduit a la chambre basse, et mis en etat de souffrir La 
 Question." — Histoire de P Inquisition. 
 
 I AM a Yerj unfortunate young man, smarting 
 from the recent infliction of a scourge which is 
 felt by so many of his Majesty's subjects, that I 
 cannot help thinking the publication of these, 
 my memoirs, may be of some use, as a warning 
 to society. Tlie scourge of which I complain 
 is, " politicks." Pohticks haye been my plague, 
 
 * This ston" was ^vritten some years ago. To those, 
 who do not recollect the progress of that great question, 
 now happily settled, a great deal of the violence of feeling 
 detailed in this fiction may seem unnatural. Those, who 
 do remember the course of it, may have reason to think 
 those feelings, however preposterous, not exaggerated in 
 the description.
 
 306 THE ODIOUS 
 
 ever since I was born; and politicks have gone 
 near to make me wish that I never had been 
 born. I hate them with a hatred I cannot de- 
 scribe ; still, all other branches of politicks are 
 endurable to me in comparison with that master- 
 plague, " The Catholick Question." That 
 odious question has just put the finishing stroke 
 to my misfortunes. It has been the ruin of me 
 — it has been the ruin of all my hopes of 
 happiness — and has driven me into my present 
 state of distraction. The first lesson my good 
 old nurse taught me, was, " to ask no ques- 
 tions." Good soul ! No doubt she feared I 
 might in time come to be entangled with the 
 Catholick Question ; and so I have been with a 
 vengeance. And yet, extraordinary as it may 
 sound, after having described the influence 
 which that question has had over my happiness 
 and fortunes, I know nothing at all about 
 it; I do not even know who is Pope; and 
 I don't care. 
 
 It is surely much to be wished, that those
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 307 
 
 gentlemen on both sides, and all sides, and no 
 side at all, who make such a fuss concerning 
 the CathoHck Question, would understand that 
 people are tired of it; that, therefore, it is 
 high time to have done with it ; or, as greater 
 men than I have said, to settle it one way or 
 other. Then, indeed, honest tradespeople 
 might have some chance of being at peace and 
 happy, which this question will never let them 
 be while things o^o on as they are now doin*?. 
 Gentlefolk may think that politicks were only 
 made for them, and that gentlefolk are the only 
 people whose happiness is interrupted by them ; 
 but they are strangely mistaken. — Gentle or 
 simple, — or both, — it is all one; — now-a-days 
 all are politicians ; — and this quarrelsome ques- 
 tion, in particular, creeps mto every family, 
 high and low, and sets us all, fathers, mothers, 
 brothers, sisters, together by the ears. I only 
 speak of what I have seen and experienced; 
 and I ^^dll now endeavour to make my words 
 good, by telling my owti story.
 
 308 THE ODIOUS 
 
 My father ought to have been a gentleman, 
 
 — that is, his family had been long known 
 where they lived. It had ever been most 
 respectable in character, and, at one time, it was 
 opulent; but things were changed before my 
 generation, and most of its members had been 
 reduced to earn their bread by trade. Truth 
 to tell, my father was a fishmonger, and a very 
 good and tranquil trade he might have found 
 it, had he meddled with nothing worse than 
 fishmongering. 
 
 I lived at home, to assist my father in his book- 
 keeping, and to help carry out fish of a morn- 
 ing to our different customers; as I grew 
 bigger, my time was more and more employed, 
 and I had little or no leisure for much thinking 
 about any thing. Still I can remember thmking 
 very early, what a sad pity it was that when 
 Sunday did come, we could none of us enjoy it 
 
 — and why? Why, because, as surely as it 
 pleased God to send this day of rest, so surely 
 did it please my honoured father to unhallow
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 309 
 
 the same by political debatings, and disputings 
 with his friends and neiorhbours. Thev would 
 meet with intent to be happy; to spend the 
 holyday in social intercourse and friendly 
 hospitality ; but in vain. Politicks, alas ! met 
 them on the threshold. — Then away went 
 harmony, good-fellowship — every thing good; 
 — and the evening was certain to close in 
 discord and all uncharitableness. Six following 
 days of sober industry generally had the effect 
 of allavins some of the rancorous feelings 
 contracted in this manner: but the Sabbath 
 brought another and another opportunity of 
 renewing the evil ; till at length the pernicious 
 habit of quarrelling took deep root. Friend- 
 ships were thus destroyed, which might have 
 withstood every other attempt to dissolve them, 
 and ties, even of blood, were broken, which 
 micrht have defied everv thino- short of the 
 Catholick Question to sever them. 
 
 ^Vhen quite a child, I used to sit, dressed in 
 my Sunday suit, with my new hat upon my
 
 310 THE ODIOUS 
 
 head, staring at my father, and endeavouring 
 thus to catch his eye, and remind him of 
 the promised walk. How I used to sigh 
 and yawn, as the passing " How d' ye do ? " of 
 a neighbour, impatient of the answer which 
 at first it seemed to soHcit, proceeded to pro- 
 voke an argumentative conversation ? How my 
 heart would rise with the same neighbour 
 from his seat, as he announced the blissful 
 intelligence that he " must be off." But oh ! 
 how it would sink again withr him upon his 
 chair, as he resumed it and the dispute to- 
 gether! Still there was hope — but when (as 
 seldom failed to happen) I became aware, by 
 the deepening frowns and louder voices of 
 the speakers, that they had got upon what they 
 called " the Catholick Question," — when I saw 
 my father put by his Sunday gloves in the 
 cupboard, and hang his best beaver upon the 
 peg which it had so lately left, — then, indeed, 
 I knew all chance was over of my chief amuse- 
 ment for a whole week to come: and who
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 311 
 
 can wonder if I hated the cause out of which 
 all my early disappointments sprung? On 
 these occasions I would escape from the parlour, 
 betake myself to mv little chair in the kitchen. 
 and sob and sulk over my hard fate. My 
 mother, too, added her part to this feeling. 
 She would bear all smaller inconveniences and 
 mortifications with patience (and yet her Sun- 
 day walk with her husband and child was 
 a great delight to her, and the only recreation 
 she ever indulged in); but, when these con- 
 versations warmed into disputes, — when neigh- 
 bours, flocking in and taking opposite sides of 
 the argument, gave to it the sound of a quarrel, 
 — when angry words, and bitter smiles, in 
 which there was no merriment, were followed 
 by more angry replies, — then she would, in 
 her turn, make her escape from the scene 
 of discord. In such moments, the sight of my 
 httle dressed-out person (according so ill with 
 the dejection of my attitude and countenance) 
 would be too much for her; and she would
 
 312 THE ODIOUS 
 
 take me in her arms and weep with me; — she 
 would tell me it was not my father's fault, — 
 that it was his misfortune, and all owing to the 
 Catholick Question. If I had not hated that, I 
 must have hated my own father. A child 
 cannot be deprived of all the amusements of his 
 age without looking to something or somebody 
 as the cause ; and that something or somebody 
 he is sure to hate. There was some little 
 virtue, therefore, as well as much convenience, 
 in my detestation of politicks. Whenever I 
 fell into a rage against my parent, I called him 
 the Old Question, and thus could rail on, 
 to my heart's content, without committing any 
 very conscious breach of the fifth command- 
 ment. And, though I say it, I might have been 
 older, and bigger, and wiser, and still not have 
 come better out of the scrape. 
 
 Without knowing the meaning of the word, 
 I understood that my father was an Emanci- 
 pator. I have said that I am totally uninformed 
 on these matters. In that Babel, our parlour,
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 313 
 
 it would have been diiSicult, even for an in- 
 quirer, to learn what was passing; — and I was 
 no inquirer. It does not follow that one must be 
 well acquainted with a subject because it is con- 
 tinually under discussion in one's hearing I 
 had long learned to turn, not a figuratively, but 
 a really, deaf ear to all sounds that bore the 
 tone of disputation. There never had been a 
 moment when I wished to understand politicks ; 
 on the contrary, if I had a pride, it was in my 
 ignorance on all matters connected with them. 
 I owed them a grudge, which, I do believe, will 
 endure to the end of my life. My father was 
 never known to flog me but once; and that was 
 for burning a newspaper containing a debate 
 on the Catholick Question, which he declared 
 he had only read twice over. 
 
 He was a good even-tempered man naturally; 
 but no temper is proof against politicks. He 
 was somehow or other almost always in the 
 minority (as they called it) at these meetings in 
 his own parlour ; — and that did not mend the 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 314 THE ODIOUS 
 
 matter. I remember my mother and I used to 
 say, " Such a one is in the minority," when- 
 ever we meant to impute ill humour to any 
 one. 
 
 With all this, however, my father was an 
 excellent man; he minded his business, took 
 care of his family, and all things went on de- 
 cently, with the exceptions of his temper and 
 my amusements. As I became older, and 
 capable of taking much of the trouble of his 
 shop off his hands, he indulged still more in the 
 way of his mastering passion. He would now 
 leave the shop to me of an afternoon, and go 
 pretty frequently into the gallery of the House 
 of Commons ; always choosing those evenings 
 when some discussion was expected to take 
 place on the Catholick Claims. Thus I was 
 brought up, as it were, at enmity with this great 
 question ; — it spoiled all my pleasures as a 
 child, and abridged my liberty, while it added 
 to my labour, as I grew older. It was a sad 
 life I led for a youth of a cheerful and social
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 315 
 
 disposition. — I really began to contemplate 
 the running away from under my father's roof; 
 and I should, indeed, have taken this step, had 
 I not been deterred by his constantly repeated 
 assurance that Emancipation for the Catholicks 
 must soon be granted, which would make him 
 perfectly happy, and put him in a good humour 
 the remainder of his life. 
 
 At length, and when my patience was at its 
 last ebb, some other subject seemed to share his 
 thoughts, and worked a considerable improve- 
 ment in his temper, ^\^lisperings, and nod- 
 dings, and all the visible signs of consultation, 
 took place between my father and mother ; and, 
 before long, I was informed that they had re- 
 solved upon a marriage for me with a cousin of 
 my own, the daughter of my father's only 
 brother. I knew I had such an uncle, and that 
 I had been called Benjamin, after him ; but I 
 had never seen him. He was the head of our 
 house, and still possessed a small landed pro- 
 perty in a distant county ; the last remnant of 
 p 2
 
 316 THE ODIOUS 
 
 the considerable possessions that had belonged 
 to our family in its prosperity. He farmed this 
 little estate himself, together with a large por- 
 tion of land contiguous to it, which had been 
 sold by his father, and which he now rented. 
 By this arrangement, my uncle was enabled 
 still to dwell in the family mansion, in which he 
 had been born ; but it had suffered changes 
 and reductions proportioned to those to which 
 its masters had been obliged to submit ; and it 
 now went by the unostentatious appellation of 
 " The Farm." My father and his brother had 
 been much attached in early youth, but different 
 occupations, and manners of living, had com- 
 pletely separated them in after-life. The ties 
 of relationship had been, however, constantly 
 kept up by certain tokens of remembrance, 
 which were sure to arrive at Christmas time, in 
 the substantial shape of turkeys and chines, and 
 barn-door fowls ; these tokens were, of course, 
 duly acknowledged by us, and never without 
 the accompaniments of fine salmons, with lob-
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 31? 
 
 sters for sauce, turbots, and barrels of oysters, 
 &c. &c. : but here ended, as often as it recurred, 
 all communication between the brothers. 
 
 These presents from the country, as was 
 natural, exalted my ideas of the country" itself, 
 and I had long cherished a strong, but secret 
 wish to visit my uncle Benjamin. For the 
 two last years, my mind had been roused to 
 curiosity respecting my cousin Margaret, who I 
 had heard was just of my own age. I longed 
 to know whom and what she resembled, and I 
 saw her under various forms of beauty in 
 my dreams. I had now reached the age of 
 sentiment ; and, during my father's frequent ab- 
 sences, when I had to remain closely at home, 
 and mind the shop, I had latterly sought 
 amusement for many hours of mental idleness 
 in reading novels, which I procured from a 
 circulating library next door to our house. This 
 course of reading had all the charms of a 
 stolen pleasure, for my father had ordered me 
 not to employ my time so unprofitably. I there- 
 P 3
 
 318 THE ODIOUS 
 
 fore kept my novels carefully out of his sight, 
 and learned little but dissimulation ; for I always 
 had a greasy old newspaper at hand, which I 
 pretended to be busy with, whenever he made 
 his appearance. 
 
 I need not say that I listened with satisfac- 
 tion, and glowing cheeks, to my father's 
 announcement of the marriage he had settled 
 for me. My joy was complete, when he told 
 me that I should soon pay my uncle a visit at 
 his farm, and begin a personal acquaintance 
 with his daughter. The proposed alliance had 
 been offered in due form by my father : it had 
 been accepted immediately by my uncle, whose 
 one letter on the subject had been received that 
 very morning. 
 
 Accordingly, when the full season was over 
 m London, and business began to grow slack, 
 I set out upon my long-wished-for expedition; 
 every trouble forgotten, — Catholick Question 
 almost forgiven, — and my mind full of pleasing 
 anticipations. But, when I arrived at my
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 319 
 
 uncle's, Margaret was absent; she was at 
 the house of a neighbouring squire, whose 
 daughters were much attached to her, and 
 had been fond of making her their companion 
 from her infancy. Every thing at the farm 
 marked regret at her absence, and impatience 
 for her return. Every thing seemed to go 
 wrong without her. I constantly heard it 
 repeated by one or another of the inmates — 
 " How we do want Margaret ! " — " What 
 shall we do without Margaret?" — " All will 
 be right when Margaret comes back ! " &c. &c. 
 She soon returned, and every face beamed 
 with joy, and all was indeed right. As for me, 
 in less than half an hour I was very heartily in 
 love. 
 
 I know I ought, here, to describe my cousin ; 
 but I scarcely know how to set about it. She 
 was not like any of the fair visions I had 
 so often seen in my sleep : they were all less 
 lovely than the real Margaret. She was tall 
 and slender, and graceful as nature herself — 
 p 4
 
 320 THE ODIOUS 
 
 active as youth, health, and good humour 
 could make her. Every thing she did, every 
 thing she said, every thing she wore, became 
 her, and one never could be weary of looking 
 at her. She was necessary to every one; 
 her father was uneasy if she was out of his 
 sight for a moment; her brothers were con- 
 tinually calling after her; her cheerful voice 
 answered, before her light step could be dis- 
 tinguished, as she obeyed with alaci'ity every 
 call: she seemed busy for all, and yet ever 
 ready to attend to each. But — must I own it? 
 — she was inexplicable in her conduct to me. 
 She was not unkind — that was not in her 
 nature; and, sometimes, I fancied her smile 
 had a peculiarly sweet expression, when she 
 spoke to me; and certainly her step was not 
 less quick in obliging me. But she avoided 
 me ; she would talk of years to come in her 
 father's house, as if she contemplated no 
 change in her own situation; she would artfully 
 give a turn to every conversation that seemed
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. S21 
 
 to promise some allusion to our projected 
 marriage; and, if we were left but for a moment 
 together, she would find, or feign an excuse for 
 quitting me abruptly. 
 
 For some time, I flattered myself this was 
 only the effect of our relative situation. She 
 knew I was come to court her, and a little 
 diffidence was to be accounted for, and would 
 soon wear off. Instead of wearing off, how- 
 ever, the bad symptoms increased rapidly, and 
 she soon avoided my attentions with a degree of 
 caution remarkable in so frank-hearted a girl. 
 My uncle was a very silent man, and seldom 
 gave expression to his feelings ; but he treated 
 me exactly as he treated his o^^^l sons, and 
 that was enough to show I was approved by 
 him; the young men were fond of me, and 
 often spoke of my marriage with their sister 
 as an event to which they looked forward with 
 pleasure ; so I endeavoured to make my mind 
 easy. 
 
 P 5
 
 322 THE ODIOUS 
 
 Time passed on without my observing its 
 progress. I took my share in the usual 
 occupations, as well as in the recreations, 
 of the young farmers; and I became like 
 one of the family. Every thing was new 
 and interesting to me ; and every day I hoped 
 that the next would bring with it something to 
 better my case with Margaret. At her bro- 
 ther's request, she would sometimes join us 
 in our rambles. One day, I had the wit to 
 lead her pony astray, and, (as I thought,) to 
 lose myself with Margaret in a wood. For 
 the first time, I assumed courage to speak 
 of our marriage, and to complain of her cold- 
 ness. My complaint was long and pathetick. 
 The pony, like a good confidant, took the 
 hint, and grazed unconcernedly; while Mar- 
 garet, lengthening the bridle to indulge him, 
 listened with grave, but patient, attention to 
 all I had to say. When I had finished, she 
 sighed ; and some tears, which had been for 
 several minutes gathering in her eyes, fell
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 323 
 
 in big drops upon the pony's shaggy mane. 
 She laid her hand upon my shoulder with 
 an affectionate pressure, and said, " Ben, don't 
 talk so; you make me unhappy. You see how 
 much I am wanted at home — they cannot 
 spare me — I must not leave them." — " Mar- 
 garet, Margaret," said I, " say it at once — 
 you cannot love me." — " I won't say that, 
 Ben," she repUed; " but, — I caimot marry you ; 
 ' — we can be good friends, and kind cousins, 
 without marrymg." She looked at me with a 
 tender and anxious expression, as she shortened 
 her pony's bridle, and turned him into a 
 narrow foot-path almost hid by the bushes. 
 She was out of sight and reach in a moment ; 
 but, in a short time, she returned with her 
 brothers to my rescue, I being the only be- 
 wildered one of the party. 
 
 Bewildered I was, in every sense. I was 
 determined to force Margaret to an explan- 
 ation ; and, for this purpose, I eagerly 
 sought an opportunity which she carefully 
 p 6
 
 324 THE ODIOUS 
 
 and dexterously avoided. I now received a 
 sudden order from my father to return to 
 London, as he wanted my assistance in his 
 business ; and he desired me to be sure to start 
 on the day after that on which I should re- 
 ceive his letter. 
 
 For many weeks, I had not heard one word 
 of politicks ; and my heart sickened when I 
 thought of returning to the atmosphere and the 
 topicks which I had been so glad to quit. My 
 uncle seemed not to possess the means of in- 
 dulging in such subjects, even if he had the in- 
 clination; — for he lived retired, he saw very few 
 besides his own family, — and, if a neighbour 
 did happen to call at his house, it was merely 
 for some farming purpose. Moreover, he was 
 a man of very few words, (quite unlike all the 
 politicians it had been my ill-fortune to meet 
 with at home), and I, naturally, and not very 
 untruly, concluded that he was a man of few 
 ideas. The truth was, that, although he spoke 
 little and seldom, he was a vehement thinker,
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 325 
 
 though, as I have since suspected, he generally 
 thought wrong ; and, at this very time, his mind 
 was deeply engaged, not only on most publick 
 subjects, but more particularly on that of the 
 Catholick claims; and he was a strenuous op- 
 poser of Emancipation. He had imbibed his 
 opinions chiefly from a pretty constant intercourse 
 upon agricultural affairs, with a neighbouring 
 '* No Popery" squire — the same whose daugh- 
 ters were so fond of Margaret. He let the squire 
 read for him, and judge for him, and thought 
 that, because the squire was very understanding 
 in agricultural concerns, he must be equally 
 accomplished as a statesman. This gentleman 
 told my uncle, that too much had already been 
 conceded to the Roman Cathohcks, and he gave 
 him his word of honour, in right down earnest, 
 that, if more were granted, the Pope himself 
 would live in Windsor Castle, and fell Wind- 
 sor forest for faggots, to burn Protestants. The 
 squire offered to wager his own head for the 
 fact. Well, — my uncle could not but believe
 
 326 THE ODIOUS 
 
 there was something in thaL — In short, under 
 this tutorage, he came honestly to the conclu- 
 sion, that the Roman Catholicks were scarcely 
 fellow-creatures, (certainly not fellow-Chris- 
 tians), and that all who wished for their eman- 
 cipation must be traitors to their king, and 
 enemies to their country. Such, as I have 
 since learned, were my uncle Benjamin's opi- 
 nions. 
 
 On the evening before my departure, we sat 
 later than usual after supper. I was vexed at 
 my summons to London : I was still more out 
 of temper with Margaret; for she had slipped 
 away upon some frivolous excuse, although she 
 knew this was the last evening we were to 
 spend together for some time. My uncle, (al- 
 though, as usual, silent,) continued up beyond 
 his hour, as if unwilling to part with me ; and 
 my two cousins lamented the necessity of my 
 leaving them, and insisted upon my speedy re- 
 turn to the farm. We conversed learnedly on fish- 
 mongery in all its branches, and I received their
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 327 
 
 cordial wishes for good success in my trade. My 
 uncle had been dozing, when some perfectly in- 
 nocent observation of mine on the consumption 
 of fish caught his ear and opened his eyes. Fix- 
 ing them upon me Tvdth a penetrating expres- 
 sion, he said, " Nephew, that was a sly remark — 
 I fear you mean something by that — you hope 
 to live to see more fish eaten by all classes in 
 this country. There are others of that way of 
 thinking, young man ; and there are those who 
 are plotting at this moment to bring such a thing 
 about." — " Here's success to them," cried I, 
 brandishing a glass which I had just filled with 
 my uncle's best ale. " Drink that toast in my 
 house if you dare, sir ! " said my uncle, in a 
 loud and angry tone. " I do dare," replied 
 I (tossing off the liquor — already out of tem- 
 per as I was, and somewhat nettled at the 
 phrase), " I do dare, uncle; and what's more, 
 I heartily wish there was not a man in Old 
 England that, for our sakes and for our good, 
 was not ohlicred to eat fish." — " Good God ! "
 
 328 THE ODIOUS 
 
 groaned my uncle, " can it be possible? Have 
 I been mistaken ? — But I won't be rash — 
 Fool ! — you know not what you are saying ; 
 hold your tongue ! " 
 
 God knows, I did not understand my uncle, 
 but I knew what " fool " meant ; and I, like all 
 other fools, was obstinate ; and so, instead of 
 taking his advice, and holding my tongue, I 
 went on magnanimously with the dispute. " I 
 don't see why I should hold my tongue, uncle," 
 continued I. " I am not a child, and I know 
 perfectly well what I am saying, perhaps better 
 than you do. — I said I wished people were 
 obliged, for our sakes and our good, to eat more 
 fish — and so I do — and what's more still, I 
 wish that all, up to the king upon his throne were 
 obliged by law to eat nothing but fish twice a 
 week at least, all the year round. It would be 
 a glorious time for us then. Do I know what 
 I am saying now, uncle ? " — " Yes," answered 
 he, "it is plain enough now. Good God ! 
 how greatly I have been mistaken ! Young
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTIOX. 329 
 
 man," continued he, " with increasing emotion, 
 " I have done with you ; only answer me one 
 question, "What is your father ? " — "A fish- 
 monger," repHed I, staring with unfeigned 
 astonishment. " Puppy ! " said my uncle, " you 
 know very well what I mean — you shall not 
 so evade my question — answer me directly, 
 "WTiat is your father ? Is he — can he be — a 
 Catholick Emancipator ? " — « That he is," 
 cried I, with exultation, hoping I was at last in 
 the right box; and I am mistaken, or a Ca- 
 tholick Emancipator he will be the longest 
 day he has to live. We are all," cried I, 
 raising my voice, " we are all Catholick Eman- 
 cipators." — " Then I have no brother ! " said 
 my uncle, with a deep sigh. He resumed his 
 seat — he rapped his clenched fist with vio- 
 lence upon the table — we all rose in con- 
 sternation ; and Margaret ran into the room, 
 looking prettier than ever, with half her hair 
 in papillotes, and the rest flowing loose about 
 her shoulders. " Margaret," said my uncle
 
 830 THE ODIOUS 
 
 to the frightened girl, in a solemn tone of 
 voice, " but yesterday I bade you look upon 
 that young man as your future husband — I 
 now tell you, I had rather see you in your 
 coffin than see you his wife. As for you, sir, 
 I thank you for showing yourself in your true 
 colours before it was too late. Leave my 
 house directly; it is now no home for you, 
 and shall be no harbour to one, whom I con- 
 sider as no better than a traitor to his kiiiff 
 and country. Boys, turn him out. Margaret, 
 my child — I would sooner give you to our 
 Protestant cow-boy, than see you the wife of 
 your Popish cousin ! " The dear girl stepped 
 suddenly forward, and fixed her large blue 
 eyes upon me in astonishment. Her father 
 caught her by both arms, as if she had 
 been in danger, and took her with him out of 
 the room. 
 
 I protest, I was so confounded I could hardly 
 stir — I could not follow the whole of my uncle's 
 meaning ; but his last words showed he thought
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 331 
 
 me a Roman Catholick ; and, as I could soon 
 set that to rights, I began to recover from my 
 surprise. But, before I could say one word in 
 my own defence, my young cousins proceeded 
 to give a proof of their strength, as well as their 
 Protestantism, by hustling me out of the house, 
 and barring the door between us. They were 
 deaf to all expostulation, and I could but sub- 
 mit. My pride rose, as my surprise subsided ; 
 and I resolved to leave the spot directly, — to 
 hasten to my father, and complain of the brutal 
 treatment I had experienced. I thought of 
 Margaret, and turned to take one last look at 
 the house that contained her. There was a 
 light in her window, and I ran towards it. 
 Magaret herself opened the casement gently, 
 and leaning out, appeared to be looking for 
 some one. All my pride, all my resentment, 
 vanished in a moment. " Margaret," whis- 
 pered I, "all shall be explained. Will you 
 too desert me ? Will you too send me from 
 you without one word, one token of kindness?"
 
 332 THE ODIOUS 
 
 " Hush," said she, hastily, " there is no time 
 for words, and I want no explanation. I 
 thought you would contrive to see me, and I 
 prepared a token for you ; one you will value — 
 one that you deserve." She dropped something 
 into my raised hands, closed the window sud- 
 denly, and extinguished the light. 
 
 I got from under the shadow of the house, 
 eager to examine, in the moonlight, what she 
 had given me. It was a little cross, — formed 
 of black wood, curiously carved, and with a 
 piece of silver string attached to it. " Cruel, 
 cruel Margaret ! and this was the token she 
 had prepared for me — the keepsake I ' de- 
 served ! ' Was it not enough to see me driven 
 disgracefully from your presence, denied your 
 beloved society, and forbidden to think of you 
 as my promised bride ? Was not this enough ; 
 but you must raise my hopes afresh — make 
 me fly at your beck — triumph over my weak- 
 ness, and all to insult me with a mockery most 
 unworthy of yourself ! "
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 333 
 
 My soliloquy ended : I left my uncle's gar- 
 den, and soon reached the village. I knocked 
 up the people at the little inn, and flung myself 
 upon a bed, where, though I did not sleep, I 
 lay stupified tiU mornmg. I then resolved to 
 return once more to the farm, just to upbraid 
 my uncle with his injustice, and to demand my 
 clothes. Margaret's cruel mockery had made 
 this an easy task to me. I fancied I no longer 
 wished to link my fate with one who could be 
 guilty of so heartless, so coarse, an act. 
 
 Accordingly, I went to the farm ; no one op- 
 posed my entrance, and I walked into the usual 
 sitting-room. [My uncle was there, seated in 
 his arm-chair. His sons were standing before 
 him ; Margaret was sitting on a stool by his side ; 
 his arm was round her waist, and she rested 
 her head upon his shoulder. They seemed to 
 be in consultation, and the men started when 
 they saw me. The cruel girl hfted her head for 
 a moment, smiled, and replaced it on her fa- 
 ther's shoulder ; that smile was wormwood to
 
 334' THE ODIOUS 
 
 me; it roused the anger that was near sinking 
 when I first saw her, and gave me courage to 
 proceed; and feeling, as I did, her mockery 
 more deeply than all my other injuries, I va- 
 lorously began my oration with a complaint of 
 it, proceeding with the whole history, and pro- 
 ducing, at the proper moment, the ebony cross, 
 which 1 held suspended by the silver string. 
 Margaret uttered one piercing scream, and fell 
 senseless at her father's feet! All crowded 
 round her: in our terror we forgot even our 
 animosity, and we all assisted to raise her from 
 the ground ; — all but my uncle. He sat silent, 
 and almost as motionless as his fainting child. 
 He held the little crucifix, the cause of con- 
 sternation, in his hand — and he gazed alter- 
 nately upon it and upon Margaret. At length 
 she recovered; she looked up, and her eyes 
 met her father's stern and earnest gaze ; — she 
 sunk upon her knees, and her beauteous face 
 dropped upon her bosom. " Father," she 
 murmured, " you have discovered my secret.
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 335 
 
 Yes — I am a Catholick. Do with me as 
 you please." My uncle rose from his chair; 
 the poor girl clasped his knees, and looked up 
 to him imploringly, when — shame to his man- 
 hood and his blood — he struck her to the 
 ground ! " Margaret, " said he — and he 
 paused, for his voice failed him — with a great 
 effort he continued, " Margaret, on one con- 
 dition, and on one alone, you are still my child. 
 Abjure your new, your idolatrous, faith, and 
 keep your father. Hold to your new faith, 
 if you choose — but never attempt to see him 
 more." He then beckoned to his sons, and, 
 with their assistance, left the room. 
 
 I was alone with Margaret — I, the cause of 
 all her sorrow, was alone with her — but I 
 dared not approach her. She wrung her hands 
 in woe, and continued to sob for many minutes, 
 as if her heart were breaking. Suddenly, she 
 espied the httle cross, which had been thrown 
 upon the floor in the general confusion. She 
 seized it eagerly, gazed upon it for some time
 
 336 THE ODIOUS 
 
 with an expression of meek resignation, which 
 no words I am master of can describe, then 
 kissed it with fervour, and placed it in her 
 bosom. She had checked her tears, and she 
 now rose with calm composure from the ground. 
 At this moment, our eyes met. Instead of load- 
 ing me with reproaches which were so justly 
 my due, she held out her hand to me, and 
 smiled. " Ben," said she, " it was not your 
 fault; but how grievously you misunderstood 
 me. I gave you that cross as a token of my 
 affection, as a pledge of our faith. You have 
 heard my father's mandate ; of course my choice 
 is made ; meet me this evening at the entrance 
 of the village; you must provide for my de- 
 parture ; — I have now no friend but you." In 
 a moment she was gone. Her brothers were 
 approaching, and, thinking that a meeting with 
 them at such a crisis would lead to no good, I 
 hastened from the room, and from the house. 
 
 Poor Margaret ! It was evident that there 
 were more mistakes ; that she, too, was deceived;
 
 CATHOLICK OUESTIOX. 337 
 
 that she considered me a Roman Catholick; and 
 that her sudden confidence in me was thus to 
 be accounted for. But there was no time nor 
 opportunity now for explanation, and it was not 
 in human nature to forego her offer ; she would 
 be safer with me than alone, and I determined 
 to meet her with a chaise, prepared for flight. 
 
 She was true to her appointment. Towards 
 evening, I saw her coming along the ^N^nding 
 footpath that led from the farm to the village. 
 — She was in the dress of a young girl of the 
 country, and carrying a bundle. — Her step was 
 faltering and slow, but she never paused, and 
 she never once looked back. I put her, trem- 
 bhng and pale, into the chaise, and we were 
 soon on our road towards London. Her pur? 
 pose was strong, but her spirits were over- 
 wTought; and she wept long and bitterly. I 
 thought I ought to lose no time in undeceiAong 
 her concerning myself. So, as soon as she was 
 sufficiently composed to listen to me, I entered 
 upon the subject, deploring my own blind folly, 
 2
 
 338 THE ODIOUS 
 
 and her father's intemperate conduct, as the 
 causes of all our misunderstandings. She 
 had, indeed, conceived his words literally, 
 when he called me her " Popish cousin" — she 
 was much disappointed, and appeared cast 
 down. She acknowledged that she had liked 
 me from the beginning of our acquaintance; 
 but that, knowing her marriage with me must 
 hasten the disclosure of her secret, dreading the 
 effects of her father's violence, and not doubting 
 but that I should break off the engagement 
 upon the knowledge of her religious opinions, 
 she had endeavoured not only to conquer her 
 own inclination, but, likewise, to discourage me 
 from urging the fulfilment of her father's pro- 
 mise to my parents. She owned that the scene 
 of the last night had given her equal pleasure 
 and surprise — that she had instantly settled in 
 her own mind to place full confidence in me, 
 and to leave the rest to time and accident. 
 
 " And now, Ben," said she, " you must wish 
 to know how I became a Roman Catholick.
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 339 
 
 Strange as it may seem to you, it is all owing to 
 my father and the Catholick Question." (There ! 
 my old enemy again !) " For many years we 
 were all happy and comfortable, and my father 
 was as cheerful and light-hearted as any man ; 
 but, when the present squire took possession of 
 his property, and came to live in the great 
 house, all was soon changed. He set my father 
 upon caring for poHticks, and used to send for 
 him to the house, take him from his business, 
 and keep him for many hours together, talking 
 over the affairs of the nation. He was sure to 
 return home uneasy and gloomy, and as if he 
 knew of some misfortune that was hanging over 
 us all. The squire took a prominent part on 
 the Catholick Question, and suffered no pub- 
 lick dinner, nor even turnpike meeting, to pass 
 in our neighbourhood, without making long 
 speeches on that subject. At the time I am 
 speaking of, it happened to be the eve of a 
 general election, and nothing would satisfy the 
 squire but trying to get into ParHament, and he 
 8 2
 
 S3S THE ODIOUS 
 
 and her father's intemperate conduct, as the 
 causes of all our misunderstandings. She 
 had, indeed, conceived his words literally, 
 when he called me her " Popish cousin" — she 
 was much disappointed, and appeared cast 
 down. She acknowledged that she had liked 
 me from the beginning of our acquaintance; 
 but that, knowing her marriage with me must 
 hasten the disclosure of her secret, dreading the 
 effects of her father's violence, and not doubting 
 but that I should break off the engagement 
 upon the knowledge of her religious opinions, 
 she had endeavoured not only to conquer her 
 own inclination, but, likewise, to discourage me 
 from urging the fulfilment of her father's pro- 
 mise to my parents. She owned that the scene 
 of the last night had given her equal pleasure 
 and surprise — that she had instantly settled in 
 her own mind to place full confidence in me, 
 and to leave the rest to time and accident. 
 
 " And now, Ben," said she, " you must wish 
 to know how I became a Roman Catholick.
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 339 
 
 Strange as it may seem to you, it is all owing to 
 my father and the Catholick Question." (There ! 
 my old enemy again !) " For many years we 
 were all happy and comfortable, and my father 
 was as cheerful and light-hearted as any man ; 
 but, when the present squire took possession of 
 his property, and came to live in the great 
 house, all was soon changed. He set my father 
 upon caring for pohticks, and used to send for 
 him to the house, take him from his business, 
 and keep him for many hours together, talking 
 over the affairs of the nation. He was sure to 
 return home uneasy and gloomy, and as if he 
 knew of some misfortune that was hanging over 
 us all. The squire took a prominent part on 
 the Catholick Question, and suffered no pub- 
 lick dinner, nor even turnpike meeting, to pass 
 in our neighbourhood, without making long 
 speeches on that subject. At the time I am 
 speaking of, it happened to be the eve of a 
 general election, and nothing would satisfy the 
 squire but trying to get into Parhament, and he 
 S 2
 
 340 THE ODIOUS 
 
 persuaded my father that every thing would go 
 wrong in publick if he were not returned to sit 
 for the county. All their endeavours failed,, 
 however. The squire was more than half 
 ruined in a contest, and my father never could 
 recover the disappointment. He grew more 
 earnest about politicks than ever, and so violent 
 on the Catholick claims, and so gloomy in his 
 temper, that he became quite an altered man, 
 and some thought disturbed in his mind. Oh ! 
 Ben, such things I have heard him say of the 
 poor Roman Catholicks : you would not believe 
 that so good a man, and so kind in every other 
 respect, should be able to harbour such bitter 
 resentments. In short, he said such hard 
 things against the Roman Catholicks, that he set 
 me upon wondering if they could be all true. I 
 knew but one Catholick in the world. — She was 
 a French lady, who lived in the squire's family, 
 partly as governess to the young ladies, and 
 partly to attend on their mamma ; that is, she 
 sat in the school-room to talk French, and
 
 CATHOLICK (QUESTION. 341 
 
 teach the French orrammar of a morniiior, and 
 she passed the evenings alone in her lady's 
 dressing-room, mending her laces, and making 
 French caps and bonnets for all the family. 
 Madame was always very kind to me, and 
 would take pleasure in teaching me French, 
 and curious needleworks, when it did not inter- 
 fere with the studies of the young ladies. I 
 thought it was next to impossible that a creature 
 so mild and inoffensive could be capable of the 
 crimes and perjuries I had heard laid to the 
 charge of every Roman Cathohck. I knew she 
 was unfortunate, that she was a widow, had lost 
 all her children and her fortune, and that she 
 was reduced to work for her bread among 
 strangers, in a foreign land. I saw her always 
 neglected, and often insulted, in the squire's 
 family ; still she was resigned and cheerful, and 
 ready to be kind and charitable whenever there 
 was any one so forlorn and poor as to need her 
 aid. At last, I took courage. I told her my 
 pei*plexities, and repeated to her many of my 
 Q 3
 
 342 THE ODIOUS 
 
 father's opinions concerning her religion. She 
 answered them with gentleness, but with firm- 
 ness. She suffffested excuses for him in his 
 ignorance, while she plainly (to my capacity) 
 pointed out the injustice and the falsehood of 
 the charges. She taught the child of her 
 enemy the duty of a daughter, and sent me 
 home instructed how to soothe and excuse the 
 violence of his temper. I returned to her 
 again and again for further instruction and 
 encouragement. In short, by her kind and 
 judicious help, I was enabled to calm my 
 father's mind — to lead him, by degrees, to 
 resume his former habits of useful industry — 
 to take an interest once more in his own 
 affairs — to look to his own family for comfort 
 and happiness, and even to forbear giving in- 
 temperate utterance to feelings, which, when so 
 indulged, never failed to discompose his mind 
 and injure his health. He saw and felt the 
 good I did him, and his affection for me soon 
 knew no bounds. To me he was again com-
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 343 
 
 municative, and, at times, even cheerful ; and, 
 although he continued generally reserved in his 
 manner, he became once more kind and consi- 
 derate to my brothers and all aroimd him, and 
 we were all happy again." Here, poor Margaret 
 paused to weep. Recollections of her father's 
 former fondness quite overcame her. " But, 
 Ben," at length she continued, " there was one 
 important secret, which, for my father's sake, as 
 well as for my own, I kept carefully concealed. 
 Was it a criminal concealment ? I was, myself, 
 a Roman Catholick ! It would have availed 
 nothing with him had he been told that his 
 own unjust prejudices alone had set me upon 
 making enquiries after the truth, and that 
 the answers I had obtained to those enquiries 
 had converted me to the faith he abhorred. I 
 have been a Catholick three years. This very 
 dress I have used as a disguise, in which I 
 have attended occasionally at a Roman Catho- 
 lick Chapel, at , with Madame. She like- 
 wise introduced me to a Priest, at whose house 
 2 4
 
 344; THE ODIOUS 
 
 we used to rest when we went upon these 
 excursions. Thus, I have been enabled to 
 satisfy my conscience and attend to my religion, 
 while I continued to fulfil the duties of a child 
 towards my father." 
 
 Such was Margaret's history. We reached 
 
 the town of that night. Here I resolved 
 
 to stop, as she required rest after the fatigue 
 of body and mind she had undergone. I 
 tried to cheer her sinking spirits. I assured 
 her my father needed only to see her to 
 be her friend; and I dwelt with the sanguine 
 tone of youthful affection on the happiness that 
 awaited us. Margaret did not share my 
 exultation. She sighed heavily when we parted 
 for the night — she lingered at the door as 
 if unwilling to part, and, although she tried 
 to smile, there was a tear upon her cheek. In 
 the morning, my surprise and mortification 
 may be imagined, when, instead of finding 
 Margaret ready to pursue the journey with 
 me, I was told that she had left the inn at
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 345 
 
 day-break in the Dover mail, and a letter 
 was put into my hands. This letter (when 
 I was able to read it) explained the mystery, 
 in a manner which, although it grieved me 
 sorely, I knew not how to condemn. My 
 noble-minded Margaret said, she could not 
 consent to the mortification of appearing before 
 my father, till he should have heard her story, 
 and been allowed time to judge for himself, 
 and for me. She begged me not to be uneasy 
 on her account. She said she had long been 
 endeavouring to prepare her mind for some 
 sudden accident — that she had for many 
 months saved her pocket-money, and was thus 
 provided with a sum sufficient for her journey 
 — that she was likewise in possession of letters, 
 written by her friend, the French lady, which 
 would secure her being received and well 
 treated in a convent at Abbeville in France, 
 whither she was hastening, and where she 
 should remain for the present. She urged 
 me to go directly to my father; to tell him 
 S 5
 
 34-6 THE ODIOUS 
 
 every thing, and inform her, by letter, of 
 the success of my appeal to his affection. She 
 owned she was not very sanguine, but she 
 promised to be guided entirely by my wishes, 
 provided my father should consent unhesitat- 
 ingly to receive her (proscribed and portionless 
 as she now was) as his daughter-in-law ; and 
 she forbade me, upon pain of her displeasure, 
 to attempt to follow her. 
 
 I could only do as she bade me; so I took 
 my place in a coach that was just starting 
 for London, and consoled myself, as well 
 as I could, for the absence of her with whom, 
 the evening before, I had formed so many 
 plans of happiness which, from thenceforth, I 
 fondly and proudly hoped, were never more to 
 be interrupted. I soon recovered my spirits. I 
 determined to throw myself upon my father's 
 generosity to enable me to marry a girl without 
 a fortune ; and I now began to depend almost 
 as much upon my own eloquence as I had 
 before done upon Margaret's beauty, to pro-
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 347 
 
 cure me a favourable reception. As to her 
 religion, I had no fears on that score ; on the 
 contrary, I had every reason to beUeve that 
 would be a point much in her favour, and that 
 it alone might induce him to overlook the 
 real obstacle — her want of fortune. But I 
 was doomed to be mistaken. Can it be be- 
 lieved what my father had the inconsistency, as 
 well as cruelty, to say ? — " Why, you stupid 
 fool, Ben," said he, " what a pack of nonsense 
 and confusion have you got into your head? 
 Can't you comprehend that it is the very 
 hatred I feel towards their religion that makes 
 me so anxious to emancipate the Roman 
 CathoKcks ? It is persecution, boy, that keeps 
 them together, and binds them closer and 
 closer to their ridiculous superstitions ! Eman- 
 cipate them, and they are ours to-morrow; 
 that is, in less than twenty years, they will 
 all turn Protestants. Marry a Catholick? and' 
 before Emancipation is granted ? — Marry the 
 devil sooner ! — The House would be filled 
 2 6
 
 31-8 THE ODIOUS 
 
 with priests, all plotting against Emancipation ; 
 for those gentry know very well that their 
 power will soon cease after that is obtained.' 
 In this way he went on till he was tired. I 
 was too much astounded, too broken-hearted, 
 to reply, and he left me with three injunctions 
 — to be a good boy, to mind my business, 
 and never to think of my cousin again. 
 
 With a heavy heart, I applied myself once 
 more to be a good boy, to mind my business, — 
 and to write to my dear Margaret. I was 
 forced to tell her the truth; but I endeavoured 
 to inspire her heart with hopes which I hardly 
 dared encourage in my own; and, as all my 
 novels authorised, I bade her expect every 
 thing from time, love, and constancy. 
 
 Time, love, and constancy, however, had 
 to go on till patience was almost w^orn out. I 
 thought that dreary winter would never end ; 
 Spring came at last, but brought no hope ; Sum- 
 mer succeeded, but without gladness; Autumn 
 had no fruits that I cared for; a whole Year
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 349 
 
 passed, and no change ! It was now Spring 
 again. — My father was more than ever devoted 
 to politicks — his temper had been growing 
 worse and worse — Catholick Emancipation was 
 said to be going backwards, and a pretty sort 
 of life I had of it ! 
 
 Parliament was now sitting. The Catholick 
 Question came again under discussion, and my 
 father's keen and irritable feelings were in full 
 activity. At last, there w^as an unexpected 
 majority in favour of the claims of the Catho- 
 licks. After a long and late attendance in the 
 gallery of the House of Commons, my father 
 (having stayed out all night) came home one 
 morning, (while my mother and I were at break- 
 fast,) ill a state of boisterous joy, which was 
 perfectly new in him and extraordinary to us. 
 We soon discovered that he had been celebrating 
 what he called his " Triumph," too frequently 
 and too freely during his long walk home, at 
 an hour when it was very unusual for people 
 to have been drinking instead of taking their
 
 350 THE ODIOUS 
 
 natural rest. In short, my father was very 
 much intoxicated. We put him to bed in a 
 state of great bodily fatigue and mental excite- 
 ment. By the afternoon, he was in a high 
 fever and unable to rise. We called in medi- 
 cal aid, but his illness and his danger increased 
 rapidly. Notwithstanding his sufferings, he 
 showed constant and intense anxiety concerning 
 the Catholick Question. He said he must and 
 he would get up, and go again to the Parliament 
 House; he cried out for newspapers, fancied 
 every noise he heard was the newsman's bell, 
 and disregarded all our beseechings to him to 
 be calm. He raved in his fever, and talked 
 much about " winning it by six." The next 
 day he grew quite desponding, shook his head 
 often, and sighed as if a great weight were on his 
 mind. He said, " He feared things would go ill 
 for him in the upper place," or something to 
 that effect, a phrase which shocked my mother 
 and me very much. We could not understand 
 it, for he was a very good man ; but we thought
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 351 
 
 it respectful not to repeat it to any one ; so we 
 darkened the chamber and gave him his quiet- 
 ing drops. But in spite of all our care my poor 
 father died that evening — a victim, in good 
 truth, to this awful question ; leaving us to 
 deplore our loss, and not inclined to consider 
 with less aversion than before this fatal cause 
 of all our past and present misfortunes. 
 
 But one thought had power to penetrate like 
 a sunbeam into the house of mourning — to 
 impart light to the darkness, warmth to the 
 coldness, hfe and animation to the stilhiess, of 
 even the chamber of death. I could now 
 marry Margaret ! I could shield her youth, 
 her innocence, from sorrow and danger. My 
 home would be her home — my mother her 
 mother ! 
 
 This kind parent had always wished me to 
 marry my cousin. She had no prejudices — 
 she desired nothing but my happiness, and was 
 the first to propose, that as soon as I had 
 arranged my father's affairs, and entered upon
 
 354? THE ODIOUS 
 
 [The paper was here so blotted with my 
 poor Margaret's tears, that she had been 
 pbhged to leave it and take another sheet.] 
 
 " And now," she proceeded, " one parting 
 " word of advice. Your mind is still unin- 
 " formed on the differences between our two 
 " religions. It is time you should instruct your- 
 *' self concerning those differences. — At all 
 " events, judge with charity, the first of Christian 
 " virtues, the motives and the actions of your 
 " fellow- Christians. And, should your voice 
 " be ever called for in the great strife that is 
 " now going on, give it, as much unbiassed by 
 " passion as I know it will be by interest, and 
 "join in no vulgar (however popular) prejudice 
 " or injustice. Ben, remember this; by merely 
 " keeping out of my father's sight those out- 
 " ward forms of my religion, which, while I used 
 " them in private, both as comforts and duties, 
 " would have been offensive to him, I was 
 " enabled to remain for three years a Roman 
 " Catholick, before he discovered the change.
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 355 
 
 " And how, at last, was the discovery made ? 
 " Not by any falling off in my duties as a 
 " daughter : on the contrary, those duties had 
 " been doubled in the time by my mother's 
 " death ! — Not by any diminution in my af- 
 '* fection towards my family — No ; I was the 
 " pride and the joy of their lives — and I have 
 *' heard my father bless God for having given 
 " him such a child — but by a mere accident, 
 " which you know but too well. 
 
 " My fathei' had imbibed an early, but a most 
 " unjust, prejudice against all who profess my 
 " 7'eligion, in consequence of an act of ireacheiy 
 ^' peypetratcd by a Catholick towards his father, 
 " or grandfather, I don't know which. His fa- 
 " mily had been unlucky, and had suffered by 
 " other acts of treacheiy from othei^ pretended 
 ''^friends, when equal losses had been incurred. 
 " But these had come from Protestants. They 
 " *voere forgiven — they were forgotten. A?id it 
 " seemed as if the one injuiy that -proceeded from 
 " a Catholick was the only one to be recorded
 
 356 THE ODIOUS 
 
 " 171 the family^ and to obliterate the recollection 
 " of all the rest. The squire took pains to rouze 
 " these powerful^ though dormant feelings^ for his 
 " o'wn private and ambitious purposes, "when he 
 ''first induced my father to interest himself so 
 " deeply in the political question of the Catholick 
 " claims. Thus you see how, in consequence of 
 " these unjust prejicdices, imbibed before she was 
 " born, my poor mistaken father has wilfully 
 " deprived himself of the society and the services 
 " of his daughter. By denying to her what are 
 " her natural rights, he has driven her upon 
 " strangers for protection, and to a foreign land 
 ''for a home 1 Alas ! she is not the only sufferer ! 
 " He has by the same blow destroyed his own 
 " happiness, and his own credit. He has cast 
 "from him, in his blindness, the support and the 
 " comfort of his age ; and shall find his family 
 " divided when he shall speak xmth his enemies in 
 " the gate ! ! ! Oh, Ben ! I presume to see, in 
 " my own humble case, a parallel to that of 
 " the vast number of those whose fates hafig
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 357 
 
 ^* upon the issue of this great question. You 
 " will know what I mean, when you shall be 
 " less ignorant on the subject. Instruct yourself 
 " without loss of time. Then judge between 
 " us ; — and may Heaven be your guide ! " 
 
 Here the matter rests. Xothinor can be 
 done : there is no help, and therefore no hope 
 for me ! I may live to a respectable old age — 
 I may see myself surrounded by my children, 
 and my children's children — 1 have a prospect 
 of the Common Council — I may rise to be 
 Lord Mayor of London — but never, never 
 can I forget my poor lost Margaret ! I am 
 endeavouring to obey her last injunction ; and, 
 notwithstanding my abhorrence of the subject, 
 I am seeking for information on this detestable 
 question — the cause of all my sorrows. I 
 may do it with a bias : it would be unnatural 
 if I did not. But, as far as I have yet gone, I 
 do not see that the Roman Catholicks have 
 either the power or the will to hurt us. I most
 
 358 THE ODIOUS 
 
 sincerely hope I shall never become a politician; 
 but, I must say, I begin to have opinions of 
 my own on the subject; and opinions of my 
 own are quite new things to me. I must likewise 
 confess, that my anger against the general 
 question is subsiding by degrees into a dislike 
 to the opposers of these claims. This feeling 
 is particularly levelled against my uncle ; and, 
 in one way, I am determined still to be re- 
 venged upon him. He shall have another 
 Catholick in his family; for, if ever I marry at 
 all, I will marry a Roman Catholick. Of all 
 the people I have ever known, no one has 
 appeared to me so faultless as Margaret. She, 
 alas ! alas ! is lost to me and to the world. But 
 she has taught me how well a Catholick can 
 perform all the best duties of life, even against 
 her own interests and her own dearest wishes. 
 
 But, when I marry my Catholick, I will take 
 care to make one condition ; I will have one 
 security for my establishment — and one good
 
 CATHOLICK QUESTION. 359 
 
 security is enough — I must myself choose her 
 confessor ; — and, that one point conceded, a 
 fig for all the rest. 
 
 L. 
 
 Benjamin 
 
 f 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
 London : 
 
 Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoocle, 
 New. Street- Square.