"L I b R_ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLR.SITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
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 Return this book on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 University of Illinois Library 
 
 
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 \
 
 HAWKSTONE, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 London : 
 
 Printed by A. Spottiswoode, 
 
 New'-Street-Square.
 
 HAWKSTONE : 
 
 A TALE OF AND FOIl ENGLAND 
 IN 184-. 
 
 S^*i^.^ 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 
 
 1845.
 
 
 YJ 
 
 TO 
 
 I LORD JOHN MANNERS, 
 
 1 AND OTHERS, 
 
 THE PROMISE AND FORERUNNERS OF A NEW 
 AND BETTER GENERATION, 
 
 K\)t f0lla&jinjj liaisp^ are 3EnScri6etf 
 
 ^ BY A HAND UNKNOWN TO THEM, 
 
 WITH THE RESPECT 
 DUE TO EARNESTNESS OF MIND, AND LOFTINESS OF PURPOSE ; 
 
 AND WITH THE PRAYER, 
 THAT AS THEY ALREADY CHERISH 
 FAR HIGHEa ASPIRATIONS THAN THE WORLD AROUND THEM, 
 4 SO THEY MAY SOON ACQUIRE 
 
 SUCH CLEAR AND DEFINITE VIEWS OF PRACTICAL DUTY, 
 
 AS MAY RENDER THEM 
 
 AN EXAMPLE AND A BLESSING TO 
 
 DISTRACTED AND DEGRADED 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 ^ 
 ^
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 " Neither was this in use only with the He- 
 brews, but it is generally to be found in the 
 wisdom of the more ancient times — that as men 
 found out any observation that they thought 
 was good for life, they would gather and ex- 
 press it in parable, or aphorism, or fable. But 
 for fables, they were vicegerents and supplies, 
 where examples failed: now that the times 
 abound with history, the aim is better when the 
 mark is alive. And therefore the form of 
 writing, which of all others is the fittest for 
 this variable argument of negotiation and oc- 
 casions, is that which Machiavel chose wisely 
 and aptly for government, namely, discourse 
 upon histories or examples; for knowledge 
 drawn freshly, and, in our view, out of par- 
 ticulars, knoweth the way best to particulars 
 again ; and it hath much greater life for prac- 
 tice when the discourse attendeth upon the 
 example than when the example attendeth 
 upon the discourse: for this is no point of 
 order, as it seemeth at first, but of substance ;
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 for when the example is the ground, being set 
 down in a history at large, it is set down with 
 all circumstances which may sometimes con- 
 trol the discourse thereupon made, and some- 
 times supply it as a very pattern for action; 
 whereas the examples alleged for the discourse's 
 sake are cited succinctly and without parti- 
 cularity, and carry a servile aspect towards the 
 discourse which they are brought in to make 
 good. 
 
 " But this difference is not amiss to be remem- 
 bered, that as history of times is the best ground 
 for discourse of government, such as Machiavel 
 handleth, so history of lives is the most proper 
 for discourse of business, because it is more 
 consonant with private actions." — Bacon's 
 Advancement of Learning, 
 
 December 23, 1844.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a dark stormy night, and the wind was 
 sweeping in gusts down the deserted streets of the 
 town of Hawkstone, when Mr. Bentley, the young 
 curate, was startled as he was sinking into his first 
 sleep by a strange distant sound, mingling confusedly 
 in the pauses of the wind, and growing louder and 
 louder. He rose up on his elbow, and, after listen- 
 ing for a few moments, sprung from his bed, threw 
 ojDen the window, and through the trampling of feet, 
 and the hoarse, broken clamour of a crowd, he caught 
 distinctly the cry of fire. In a few moments, a 
 man, breathless and half dressed, ran down the 
 street, knocking and ringing at the doors. Windows 
 were thrown open, and anxious terrified faces were 
 thrust out, calling for information to the watchmen 
 who were hurrying by. The fire-bell rang. The 
 hollow iron rattle of the engine was heard, as it 
 galloped past amidst the cracking of whips and the 
 cries of the men and boys who had seated themselves 
 about it ; and on going to another part of the 
 house Bentley saw at once a red, lurid glare, which 
 showed him where the calamity had occurred. 
 Bentley was neither a cool nor a courageous man ; 
 
 B
 
 2, HAWKSTONE. 
 
 but he was a man of warm sensibility, and the curate 
 of the i^arish ; and he lost no time in flinging on his 
 clothes and hastening to the spot. As he was 
 running down the steps of his house, Mrs. Alsop, 
 the old woman who managed his little household, 
 cried after him to give him his hat, and inquire if 
 she should make up the blue bed, in case it should 
 be wanted by any of the sufferers. "Yes, yes," 
 was the reply, and " get mine ready too. Any thing 
 you can think of for them poor souls." Ajid the 
 next minute he was out of sight. 
 
 A fireman who was running for more help told 
 him, as he passed, that the fire was in Barton Row ; 
 and Bentley soon made his way to the spot, through 
 a labyrinth of dark courts, and filthy alleys, which 
 few persons knew of in Hawkstone, but himself, and 
 the miserable beings whom he visited there. As he 
 turned into one of these narrow passages, a strong 
 red light at the end fell on a crowd of terrified faces, 
 who were gazing on the scene of destruction ; and 
 the cries of "More water!" "More hose!" "Move 
 the ladders!" "Pump away!" mingled with oaths, 
 and screams, and the roaring of the flames, and the 
 howling of the Avind, struck a cold chill upon him, 
 and almost broke his resolution to go nearer; for 
 Bentley, as we said before, was a man of feeling, 
 rather than a man of courage. But as he stopped, 
 and leaned for a moment against the wall, a wild 
 piercing shriek was heard ; the flames shot up sud- 
 denly above the roofs, and as a cry of terror and 
 anguish burst from the crowd, Bentley found himself, 
 he scarcely knew how, standing in sight of the 
 burning building. And the sight was sickening. 
 The house which was on fire itself was one of a 
 dingy red brick row, such as grow up in the suliurbs 
 of manufacturing towns, and, having been originally 
 intended for decent occupants, become, by degrees,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 3 
 
 the abode of numerous poor families, who each 
 tenant a single room, and hide, under an exterior of 
 some pretension, a degree of poverty, misery, and 
 vice, greater, perhaps, than exists in huts and hovels. 
 The lire had begun in the ground room, and had 
 been discovered in time to permit the escape of a 
 crowd of wretched, haggard men and women, bearing 
 naked children in their arms, and endeavouring to 
 save as treasures the little bedding, the clothes, 
 stools, kettles, and rugs, which formed all their pro- 
 perty in the world. All were supposed to have 
 escaped ; and they had gathered in little groups at 
 a distance from the fire, the children cowering round 
 their parents, and the parents endeavouring to wrap 
 them from the cold, and to place them as guards 
 over the little property they had saved ; while, as the 
 flames made their way from room to room, they 
 looked on with a face almost of desperate unconcern, 
 as if, for beings so destitute and wretched, it mat- 
 tered little what fate awaited them, the fire or the 
 famine. 
 
 The first floor had already fallen in ; the lower 
 part of the staircase was destroyed, and the firemen, 
 hopeless of saving the house, were beginning to play 
 on the adjoining buildings, when, to the horror of 
 the crowd, a boy, about 14 years old, was seen shriek- 
 ing for help at one of the garret windows. At the 
 same moment a man and woman half clad rushed to 
 the house, and, but for the interposition of the fire- 
 men, would have thrown themselves into the flames. 
 "My child! my child! save my child! OGod! save 
 my child ! save him ! save him ! O God ! O God ! " 
 were the sounds that reached Bentley's ear just as 
 he gained the spot. The man, a strong muscular 
 swarthy ruflian, struggled with the desperation of a 
 maniac to escape from the policeman, who held him 
 back from rushing into certain destruction. The 
 B 2
 
 4 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 woman, held back likewise, fell down upon her knees 
 before Bentley, saying, " Save him ! save him ! let me 
 go ! I have a right to go ! he is my child ! save him ! 
 save him! my child! my child!" till Bentley, in an 
 agony of distress, burst from her, and she sunk down 
 in a fit. " Ten guineas ! twenty guineas ! a hundred 
 guineas!" he cried (his whole stipend was scarcely 
 more), any thing, only save the boy." No one answered. 
 
 " Is it impossible ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the man, with a dead hollow 
 voice, who was working at the engine, " it is impos- 
 sible ; no one could get up the ladder through the 
 flames. It is quite out of the question ; God help it ! " 
 
 And the poor man, who had children of his own, 
 fairly burst into tears. 
 
 " Try — make an effort," returned Bentley. 
 
 "Can't be," said the man; "we must submit to 
 God's will; God have mercy on it! Look at the 
 ladder, sir ; look there ! " 
 
 And Bentley saw a burst of fire from the windows 
 wrap it round and round like a whirlwind, just as 
 the father, who, by one gigantic eflTort, had cast off" 
 his detainers, had mounted a few yards from the 
 ground, and fell back as if blasted. 
 
 " Take the ladder away ! take it away," cried the 
 firemen. " It's no use : the next house has caught. 
 More water ! more water ! " 
 
 And with that sturdy sense of command which 
 Englishmen even in the lowest post of authority 
 exercise over their feelings when engaged in offi- 
 cial duties, he was proceeding to push aside Bentley, 
 who was even thinking of making the attempt 
 himself, and to remove the ladder, when a stranger 
 made his way through the crowd. He was a man 
 tall, vigorously formed, and with all those marks 
 of high birth and commanding mind which the 
 lower orders so instinctively recognise and obey.
 
 HA WIv STONE. O 
 
 There was a quietness and steadiness in his move- 
 ments which contrasted strongly with the tumult 
 about him ; and even Bentlej, a man of education 
 and religion, felt himself in the presence of a su- 
 perior, and was unconsciously abashed at his own 
 agitated state of feeling. 
 
 " Let the ladder stay, my good fellow," said the 
 stranger gently ; " let it stay. I have a protection 
 here against the flames ; hold it fast at the bottom, 
 and let me mount." And the words were uttered 
 in a tone of command which threw the firemen back. 
 He stopped to put on a pair of thick gloves and a 
 mask of wire over his face ; knelt down for a mo- 
 ment as in prayer, folded his hands over his cheeks, 
 and those who stood near asserted that he made the 
 sign of the cross on his forehead, and then sprung up 
 the ladder before the by-standers had recovered 
 themselves to interfere. He had seized the moment, 
 when a fall of one of the inner walls had lulled the 
 flames, which were bursting round him ; and the 
 crowd, who were looking on with intense anxiety, 
 hailed him with a loud cheer as he reached the 
 window. The boy had akeady disappeared, having 
 sunk down stupified with the smoke, and with terror. 
 The window was closed and fastened within ; but 
 the glass was broken, and the stranger, with all his 
 strength, tore away sufiicient of the woodwork to 
 obtain an entrance. As he disappeared within 
 the room, another volley of flame and smoke broke 
 forth from the floor beneath, and cries of " Make 
 haste ! make haste ! the floor is falling ! for God's 
 sake, make haste! save yourself!" burst from the 
 people, followed by a tremendous cheer as he ap- 
 peared on the sill of the window with the boy wrapt 
 up in a blanket. Another moment, and it had been 
 too late. A frightful crush behind him announced 
 the falling of the floor. A heavy chimney at the 
 B 3
 
 6 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 side staggered, bowed, and fell upon the ruins ; and 
 before the flames could shoot out again, the stranger 
 and his burden had slided down the ladder. Scorched 
 and nearly stifled as he was, his first act on 
 reaching the ground was once more to kneel down, 
 and bury his face in his hands in silent prayer. 
 Then giving the boy to Bentley, whose enthusiasm 
 of admiration now was only equal to his agony of 
 anxiety before, he quietly fell back into the crowd ; 
 and as they pressed about him with cries of " God 
 bless him ! There's a fine man ! Bless your honour ! " 
 cheering him and thrusting their hands into his, 
 and waving their hats, he simply answered, " Thank 
 ye, thank ye ! "Will you allow me to pass ? " And 
 turning down the same alley through which Bentley 
 had come upon the spot, he was lost to sight. 
 
 " Do you know who the gentleman is ? " asked 
 Bentley, of many of the by-standers who had gathered 
 round the poor man and woman, as they sat with 
 the boy in their arms, and watched liim gradually 
 returning to life. 
 
 " No, sir," was the general answer. " We never 
 saw him before. He is a stranger in the town." 
 
 " But he's a real gentleman," said a poor labourer 
 to another. " Yes, that he is," cried they all, " a 
 real gentleman, and that's a fine thing to say. God 
 bless him ! say I." " God bless him I" cried another. 
 "God bless him!" murmm-ed the poor mother, as 
 the boy's eyes began to open. Even the ruffian 
 father relaxed his surly, gloomy look, and, though 
 he did not say " God bless him," he muttered some- 
 thing about thanks, and, bidding his wife look to 
 the things, took up the boy in his arms, and followed 
 a poor neighbour, who had oflered a part of her 
 hovel as their refuge for the remainder of the 
 night.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. 11. 
 
 On the Monday afternoon, in tlie week after 
 the fire, a sensation (to use the fashionable term) 
 was caused in the principal street of Hawkstone, by 
 symptoms of an approaching festivity in the apart- 
 ments of Miss Mabel Brook, who occupied the first- 
 floor bow window in the very respectable house of 
 Messrs. Silkem the linen-drapers. Mrs. Crump, 
 the lame old lady who occupied a similar bow 
 window on the opposite side of the way, and who, 
 having a strong desire to know what was passing 
 in the world, could yet command only that portion 
 of the world which came within the focus of the 
 above-mentioned window, had observed, as she in- 
 formed her maid, that the little girl from the Grey 
 school who waited on Miss Brook had gone out no 
 less than three times that morning, and returned on 
 each occasion with a something (Mrs. Crump could 
 not tell what), but she had her suspicions. On the 
 first sally, Mrs. Crump had traced her as far as her 
 eye could stretch to the end of the street, when she 
 turned a corner abruptly ; but in a few minutes she 
 came back again, and Mrs. Crump's ingenuity im- 
 mediately called to mind that there was a pastry- 
 cook's shop just at the distance required to account 
 for this temporary disappearance. On the second 
 occasion, there had been an open visit to Mallam's 
 the grocer before Mrs. Crump's own eyes ; and a 
 return with a packet of tea, whether it was green or 
 souchong, Mrs. Crump had been unable to ascertain. 
 But as she knew Miss Brook three days before had sent 
 B 4
 
 8 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 for a pound of tea to the same shop, Mrs. Crump in- 
 ferred that it could not yet be exhausted, and that 
 the new importation was probably green tea for 
 company. The third expedition, at about four 
 o'clock p. M. baffled JVIi's. Crump completely. The 
 little grey-clad abigail vanished at the end of the 
 street, and when she returned she was accompanied 
 by two other abigails clad in the same uniform, and 
 bearing prodigious packages of some mysterious 
 article wrapt up in white linen. In vain the old 
 lady rubbed her spectacles, wiped the window, moved 
 from one pane to the other ; the contents of these 
 portentous packages were impervious to her eyes. 
 The Grey girls and the packages both disappeared 
 at the side door of Messrs. Silkem's premises ; the door 
 closed upon them, and, in a fit of desperation, IVIrs. 
 CrumjD returned to her elbow-chair, pulled the bell 
 rope, which was tied to it, and desired her maid im- 
 mediately to go over, with her love to IVIiss Brook, 
 and inquire how she did this evening. 
 
 " You can find out," she said, " from her servant, 
 by the by, whether Miss Brook has company to 
 tea." 
 
 No distressed lady in ^Irs. Crump's predicament 
 was ever blessed with an Iris more anxious to ful- 
 fil a task, which involved an occasional gossip, than 
 Mrs. Crump's Martha, and, after a little delay, which 
 provoked no little irritation in her impatient 
 mistress, she returned with the announcement that 
 ]Miss Brook had company to tea, and that she was 
 expecting no less than ten ladies. 
 
 "Ten!" interrupted IVIrs. Crump; "why, where 
 is she to put them?" 
 
 Martha, who was out of breath, proceeded. " It 
 was the great monthly meeting of the Hawkstone 
 Dorcas or BeTievolent Lying-in Union Society, of 
 which Miss Mabel was the honoured secretary, and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 9 
 
 most active supporter ; and there was to be JVIrs. 
 Thompson, and the Miss Macdougalls, and Mrs. and 
 young Miss Maddox ; and muffins, and tea-cake, 
 and wine and water afterwards. And the sofa had 
 been uncovered, and the window curtains put up. 
 And JVIr. Peachit, the gardener, had sent some flowers 
 for the chimney-piece, and IViiss Brook was so busy, 
 with her table covered with flannel, and nightcaps, 
 and gingham, and all sorts of things ; — and the 
 company were expected almost directly." To all 
 this, to the great disappointment of Martha, Mrs. 
 Crump only answered "pish," and the "pish" was 
 repeated at the close ; accompanied, however, it 
 must be confessed, with a rubbing of the spectacles 
 and an advancement of the wheeled chair to the 
 window, for the purpose, it may be presumed, of 
 obtaining ocular demonstration of the arrival of the 
 visiters. But the "pish" implied much. It im- 
 plied, first, that Mrs. Crump was not a member of 
 the Dorcas or Benevolent Lying-in Union Society ; 
 secondly, that she was no friend to it ; thirdly, that 
 she was, as she delighted to say, one of the old 
 school. She did not think that any good ever 
 came from such societies. She did not like mixing 
 with Dissenters ; the Miss Macdougalls were Presby- 
 terians, and the Maddoxes Unitarians; she liked the 
 good old way, and kept to the church, as her father 
 and mother had done before her; and if dozing 
 regularly every morning over the psalms and lessons, 
 attending regularly in her pew at church every 
 Sunday, and even on Wednesdays, and Fridays, and 
 Saints' days, and giving her annual mite to the 
 National Schools, and, we may add, playing her 
 nightly rubber with Dr. Grant, the old paralytic 
 rector, constituted a friend to the Church, no one 
 could be relied on for more determined support than 
 Mrs. Crump. And yet on the " pish " there followed
 
 10 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 something like a sigh ; and as the old lady sat 
 watching for the first arrival, she fell into a soliloquy 
 on the evils of a solitary old age, when there were 
 no children to repay the care of their youth, and 
 society treated her as a burthen, and weak health 
 and advancing infirmities prevented her from en- 
 gaging in any active occupation either of business 
 or amusement. There was, indee«.i, to relieve the 
 heavy days which dragged on Avifiout change and 
 without hope, an occasional morning call (few they 
 were, and far between), from Miss Mabel Brook, and 
 the other dowagers of the town. And at times, one 
 or two of the younger ladies charitably reminded 
 each other that they ought to call on poor Mrs. 
 Crump. And once or twice in the month, Martha, 
 who knew how her mistress required some relief to 
 her monotonous existence, would entrap a stray 
 nursery maid with Mrs. Thompson's little girls, or 
 Mrs. Jones' baby ; and, as the old lady crawled to 
 her cupboard for the slice of sweet cake, or made 
 them sit down at her feet to show them the wonders 
 of her worsted work, a tear would stand in her eyes 
 at the thought of what had been denied to herself, — a 
 child, a grandchild, any being whom she might look 
 to for support, and love and watch over, and think 
 on as a second self, instead of hanging upon a cold 
 neglectful world, without interest, and without affec- 
 tion, until the grave closed over her head. And 
 another thought sometimes struck her, little as her 
 mind was formed to deeper reflection, that God 
 could not have intended such things to be ; that if he 
 were, as she devoutly believed, a god of love, and 
 Christianity were designed by liim to be a blessing to 
 all mankind, there might be somewhere in its system, 
 when rightly brought out, a provision for destitution 
 like hers, and that something might be deficient in 
 a church, which left her the widow, the labouring
 
 HAWKSTONE. ' 1 1 
 
 with sickness, the desolate, the all but oppressed — 
 whom it prayed for, as one of its especial objects of 
 care, — with no consolation but a Bible, as little un- 
 derstood as it was monotonously perused ; and no 
 fixed task of duty but her worsted work, and the 
 feeding of her cat ; n j one bound to attend on her 
 but the hired Martha ; and, saving one day in seven, 
 no aid or comfort to her devotion, but once or twice 
 a hurried service in a cold and desolate church, 
 with no one, perhaps, but the children in the grey- 
 school gallery, and poor Betty Foyle the blind old 
 woman from the almshouse, to join in offering 
 praises and thanksgiving, for a population of thou- 
 sands. 
 
 Whether or not the old lady's soliloquy would 
 have terminated thus, we cannot presume to say ; 
 for it was interrupted by the first arrival at Miss 
 Mabel Brook's soiree, in the person of the two Miss 
 Morgans, the pretty daughters of the principal 
 surgeon in the town of Hawkstone. 
 
 And here we must apologise once for all for our 
 inability to amuse our readers, and especially that 
 privileged class who dwell in parks and villas, 
 places, halls, and courts, at a distance from the 
 vulgar town, for our inability to supply them with 
 the usual facetious catalogue of odd characters, and 
 still odder names with which modern art has loaded 
 the population of our country towns. Hawkstone, 
 indeed, like all other places of human resort, had its 
 characters ; and those characters had names. But 
 we lament, for the sake of our readers, that they 
 were little remarkable in any way. If they could 
 not boast of Fitz's, and Ville's, and Saints, and De's, 
 neither were they afilicted with the unseemly ai)pel- 
 latives of Hobbs and Dobbs, Simkins or Scroggins. 
 They were, in fact, fair, ordinary specimens of the 
 middle class of English people ; neither very clever
 
 12 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 nor very stupid, very vulgar nor very polished, very 
 enlarged in their notions nor very narrow. In one 
 point they resembled all English people alike. 
 They acknowledged an implicit submission for the 
 little world in which they moved ; anxiously aspiring 
 to the notice of its leaders, and condescendingly 
 patronizing all who came beneath themselves ; and 
 measuring the whole fate send character of the vast 
 terra incognita beyond them, by the opinions, acts, 
 and vicissitudes of their own little coterie. Perhaps, 
 indeed, the Dorcas Society could not pretend to in- 
 clude exactly the elite of Hawkstone ; for there were 
 several little suburban villas in the neighbourhood, 
 which being uncontaminated by pavement and gas 
 lamps, aspired to a claim to rurality, and held some- 
 what aloof from the decidedly town population. 
 But still it was comj^osed of " respectables," in that 
 sense of the word, which perhaps might be properly 
 rendered "without a shop." Besides the Miss 
 Morgans, the surgeon's daughters, there was Mrs. 
 Lomax, the banker's wife, who officiated as presi- 
 dent ; the Miss Macdougalls, who tenanted the 
 large brick house with five windows in front, and 
 a coach-house and garden, at the north entrance 
 of the town; Mrs. and Miss James, who had 
 recently retired from the superintendence of a 
 very respectable seminary for young ladies; ]Mrs. 
 Hancock, the wife of Capt. Hancock, an ofiicer on 
 half pay, who continued to vegetate in a neat little 
 verandaed cottage in the outskirts of the town ; and 
 the Maddoxes, whom their father's success in trade 
 had placed in easy circumstances, and left them 
 abundance, both of time and money, to devote to 
 the charities of Hawkstone. And one after another 
 they arrived at Miss Mabel's door ; and though IMrs. 
 Crump, who was by no means a favourable critic, 
 did detect about them all a little bustle of serious
 
 HAWKSTONE. 13 
 
 importance, more than the occasion required ; and 
 Miss James had put into her cap rather a gayer dis- 
 play of flowers than suited the sobriety of her age ; 
 and the Miss Macdougalls looked somewhat prim ; 
 and Mrs. Lomax was guilty of a little ostentation 
 in making her footboy follow her with a work-basket 
 and cloak ; still there was little to censure in their 
 appearance, and nothing to ridicule. And any one 
 who could have seen the hearty welcome with which 
 Miss Mabel received them, and the kind mutual 
 greetings of the party, and the cheerfulness with 
 which they produced work-boxes and baskets, scis- 
 sors and needles, and ranged them on the green 
 cloth of JMiss Mabel's largest table, would think it 
 a very ill-placed satire which attempted to carica- 
 ture such a charitable meeting, assembled, as 
 modern philanthropy delights to express it, without 
 distinction of sect or party, to promote the comfort 
 and relieve the wants of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 Of the whole party no one was so pleased as Miss 
 Mabel herself. It was the first time that she had been 
 enabled, by a removal into a new lodging, to entertain 
 the Dorcas Society in her single room. And earnest 
 were her pains to make her guests comfortable and 
 happy ; and visible the satisfaction, notwithstanding 
 all her pains to suppress it, with which she received 
 the congratulations of the Miss Morgans on her 
 cheerful view of the High Street, so close to the 
 Crown Inn, where she might see every day no less 
 than three coaches stop and change horses ; and 
 Mrs. Lomax's panegyric on the prettiness of her 
 sofa coverings ; and Miss James's admiration of the 
 silver tea-pot, the only relic saved from the wreck 
 of her father's little property ; and the praise which 
 all bestowed on the delicious tea-cakes, and excellent 
 cream. Every one seemed anxious to say some-
 
 14 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 thing which would please and flatter her ; for Mss 
 Mabel was a general favourite. 
 
 She was the only daughter of an officer in the 
 navy who had died at an advanced age, leaving IMiss 
 Mabel, neither young nor beautiful, with liis blessing 
 and a very small annuity, to make the remainder of 
 her way tlii'ough the troubles of the world by her 
 own exertions. By dint of the strictest economy, 
 she contrived soon to bring her wants and wishes 
 within the compass of sixty pounds a year. High 
 spirits and active habits engaged her in a variety of 
 occupations which filled up her time, and absorbed 
 both past and future, so far as anxiety or sorrow 
 was concerned, in the interests of the present ; and 
 an inexhaustible fund of good humour and good 
 nature made her invaluable to the little society of 
 Hawkstone. It was Miss Mabel who undertook the 
 management of the national schools; Miss Mabel 
 who was secretary and chief mover, not only of the 
 Dorcas Society, but of all the ladies' societies which 
 flourished with a mushroom growth at Hawkstone ; 
 the Ladies' Branch Bible Society, the Ladies' Anti- 
 Cruelty-to-Animals Society, the Ladies' Book So- 
 ciety, the Ladies' Association for the Conversion of 
 the Jews, the Ladies' District-Visiting Society, the 
 Ladies' Penitentiary, the Ladies' Female Orphan, 
 and Deaf and Dumb, and Pastoral Aid, and General- 
 Religious-Purpose Society. None could flourish, 
 and few had originated, without Miss Mabel ; her 
 whole soul was in doino- good. And if there mixed 
 with this ardour of sincere benevolence some little 
 bustle and over-zeal, and no little ignorance as to the 
 right mode of doing good, it was the fjiult not so 
 much of Miss Mabel herself, as of the age in which 
 she was born ; and which her own warmth of feeling 
 and delight at the excitement of charity in wliich 
 she had involved herself, represented to her as a
 
 HAWKSTONE. 15 
 
 model of wisdom, and a Paradise of newly discovered 
 virtues. Nor was her benevolence confined to 
 public life. How she contrived to do so much no 
 one could understand; but scarcely a respectable 
 family in Hawk stone was ignorant of the value of 
 her services. If Mrs. Jones was ill, Miss Mabel 
 would come and spend the day and take care of the 
 children. If a death occurred in a family, Miss 
 Mabel was the first looked to for assistance in those 
 melancholy moments ; if a wedding, Miss Mabel 
 assisted in distributing the bride cake ; if a children's 
 dance, at Mrs. Lomax's, IVIiss Mabel was the first who 
 arrived to help in putting the young ones in motion, 
 and the last who remained to see the candles put 
 out, when the wearied hostess had retired to bed, 
 and Mr. Lomax had shaken both her hands with a 
 hearty wish that every one could be so useful. And 
 in all this, there was neither conceit nor pretension ; 
 simply the overflowing of a kindly-disposed heart, 
 which could not rest without doing something, and 
 happily was most pleased when that something con- 
 tributed, as she hoped, to the comfort of her kind 
 friends and neighbours. 
 
 And having arrived at this point, it is high time 
 to relieve the apprehensions which our fair readers, 
 who care nothing for a story not strewed thick with 
 lords and ladies, Almack's and diamonds, will feel, 
 when our talk seems likely to be of market towns, 
 and Mrs. Crumps, Dorcas Societies, and flannels. 
 They need be under no alarm lest Miss Mabel Brook, 
 much as we have enlarged her merits, should be the 
 intended heroine of our tale ; or lest we should 
 already have destined her to pair off", after trials and 
 temptations, with either Mr. Bentley or the un- 
 known stranger of the fire. Miss Mabel is by no 
 means an unimportant personage; but she is not 
 the most important.
 
 16 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 And they will be rejoiced to learn at once that 
 our heroine will be a real lady, such as a heroine 
 should be. Not as if the middle walks of life were 
 contemptible, and had no joys or sorrows, duties or 
 virtues, to excite our sympathies and interest ; but 
 because, where goodness does exist accompanied 
 with rank and birth, it exists in a higher and nobler 
 form than in a humbler station. It is a grievous 
 mistake to think that the highest ranks of society 
 are the only objects worth attention, or to under- 
 value the middle classes. But it is an equal mistake 
 to make society rest on the foundation of the 
 middle classes, or to suppose that leading minds, 
 minds fitted to command and rule, will be found, 
 except by some extraordinary accident, in any but 
 men, whom nature, from their birth, has placed on 
 an eminence, and accustomed them to receive the 
 homage of the world as their birtliright, without 
 either vanity to court, or affectation to disclaim it. 
 To Miss Mabel, however, we must return. And 
 cheerful as she seemed, laughing with one, and 
 arranging flannel with another, and pressing another 
 cup of tea upon a third, it might be remarked that 
 her eye glanced often to the door, and then to an 
 old easy chair, stationed in the warmest corner of 
 the room, and provided with a cushion and a foot- 
 stool, wliich no one yet had presumed to occupy. 
 She was evidently anxious for another arrival. 
 
 "We shall see Mrs. Bevan, I hope, to-night," 
 said Mi's. Lomax, with a tone of sincerity. 
 
 "Itrust she is coming," subjoined Mss Macdougall, 
 in a voice which implied no regret if she were to 
 remain away. 
 
 "What can make her so late?" continued Mrs. 
 Maddox, with something of censorious ness in her 
 manner. 
 
 And even Mabel began to wonder at her absence,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 17 
 
 not without some secret misgivings as to the de- 
 sirableness of her presence. And yet, if there was 
 one person in the world whom Mabel venerated, it 
 was Mrs. Bevan ; who on the death of Captain Brook 
 had offered her the shelter of Brookfield Parsonage ; 
 had accustomed her to the active duties of charity, 
 to which she had subsequently devoted herself, and 
 had been to her almost a mother. She had seen this 
 friend pass through trial after trial with a quiet 
 fortitude, an undisturbed piety, and a sweetness of 
 temper almost angelic. Two children had been 
 taken from her in early life. Her husband, the 
 Rector of Hurst, after a life of zealous devotion 
 to his duty, had followed them to the grave ; and she 
 herself was now established in Hawkstone, dividing 
 her time between reading and charity, and in both 
 continuing to follow the principles which her ex- 
 cellent husband had taught her in the management 
 of his parish. On the dispersion of his little pro- 
 perty at his death, she had contrived, at some 
 sacrifice, to retain the greater part of his small but 
 well selected library, composed chiefly, like most 
 others belonging to parochial clergymen of a former 
 generation, of the English divines of the seventeenth 
 century. To these occasional additions were made 
 by her son, who was resident at Oxford, as a fellow 
 
 of college. And Mrs. Bevan, having little taste 
 
 for the trash of the circulating library, was content 
 to read through and through her little store, and 
 gradually became something of a sound divine, 
 sufficient at least to excite the wonder of the 
 Hawkstone ladies at her learning, and even, though 
 with no intention on her own part, to perplex Dr. 
 Grant, and still more Mr. Bentley, with an acci- 
 dental reference or question. One thing we must 
 do Mrs. Bevan the justice to add ; she was no writer. 
 She had never thought herself competent to under- 
 c
 
 18 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 take to direct the religious world by means of 
 periodical papers. If she heard of erroneous opinions 
 rising up in the Church, she did not write letters 
 to the newspapers, warning her beloved countrymen 
 against the encroaching heresy. She left tliis task 
 in the hands where God had placed it — to his own 
 ministers. Neither did she dare to frame prayers 
 and meditations for others, however much she might 
 think they were wanted. Still less did she relish 
 the idea of unbosoming herself to the public, laying 
 bare her movements, and feelings, and fancies, and 
 sympathies in a memoir, or a tour, or an auto- 
 biography, or any other similar form, in wiiich young 
 ladies as well as young gentlemen now delight to 
 come forward on the stage, uncalled for and un- 
 wished for, in the hope of obtaining some random 
 applause. She had her notions of domestic economy, 
 and very good notions they were; but political 
 economy she left to Mi'. Malthus. And she spent 
 no little portion of her time in the school of Hawk- 
 stone, and had suggested many sensible improvements 
 in the management of it ; but if it had been pro- 
 posed to her to enlighten the world on the subject 
 of education, she would probably have smiled with 
 surprise, that any one who professed to know what 
 education was, should tliink of its being discussed 
 by one who had never studied the deep principles of 
 philosophy, on which it must be based, and without 
 which it becomes mere quackery. In short, Mrs. 
 Bevan, though in her own little circle of study she 
 was a very well-read lady, was by no means a literary 
 lady. And so much the better for herself and for 
 those around her. 
 
 Her only compositions were her letters to her son 
 at Oxford; and regularly once a week Charles 
 Bevan, on his return from morning chapel, found to 
 his great delight a little folio on his table, containing
 
 HAWKSTONE. 19 
 
 the news of Hawkstone; how the school was 
 flourishing, how the clmrch was attended, how 
 opinions were improving. And when the vacation 
 arrived, and they were once more seated together 
 in the evening — Charles, with his foKo, and his paper 
 and pencil, and his mother making his tea, or en- 
 gaged in the mysteries of her work-box — she was 
 able to enter with him into the subject nearest his 
 thoughts, and to talk of his dear Oxford, and the 
 struggle which was then commencing there against 
 the follies of the day, and to follow him in his plans 
 and conjectures, and his observations on the works 
 which it was sending forth. If, indeed, at first, 
 she was startled by the earnestness and depth of his 
 views, her alarms were soon quieted by observing 
 that they were quiet, diffident, and discriminating. 
 Many of them, new to him, were old to herself. 
 She could recollect the time when, every morning 
 and evening, there was a regular service in Hawk- 
 stone church ; when, on saints' days, a sermon had 
 been preached, in compliance with an old benefaction 
 — when the very name of a dissenter would have 
 been sufficient to set the populace in commotion — 
 when the grammar school, now sunk into neglect, 
 had educated the sons of all the tradesmen and 
 farmers around, and every day the boys might have 
 been seen following the master to church, to take 
 part in the regular service. She had known Hawk- 
 stone in its simple unsophisticated state, before Lord 
 Claremont had been obliged to leave his estate at 
 nurse in the hands of trustees, and retire himself 
 to the Continent — and General Villiers had deserted 
 the Priory — and Mr. Smith had discovered the ca- 
 pacities of Hawkstone stream, and raised on its 
 banks the enormous hundred-windowed factory, 
 with its steam-engines, and spinning-jennies, and 
 smoking chimney, and haggard mob of occupants, 
 C 2
 
 20 HAWKSTONB. 
 
 which now shocked the eje of the traveller, on his 
 quitting the park paling and woods of the Priory, 
 and entering the metamorphosed town. And she 
 could sigh with Charles over the change which had 
 taken place — on the empty church — the crowded 
 meeting-houses — the squalid, vitiated, turbulent 
 population — the distracted political parties — the 
 absence of any man of birth, and property, and sound 
 principles, to keep the town in order, and devise means 
 for bringing it once more into " unity of spirit, into 
 the bond of peace, and into righteousness of life." 
 With these feelings, INIrs. Bevan could easily sym- 
 pathise with her son, when he spoke of reviving 
 again the right moral influence of the Church ; of 
 giving it new strength and additional arms to grasp 
 and bring back to its bosom the thousands whom it 
 had permitted to wander — when he talked with en- 
 thusiasm of the men by whom the thought and 
 hope of such a consummation had been roused — 
 when he described the purity of their lives, the depth 
 of their learning, the quiet, unobtrusive way in which 
 they practised what they taught, and then, almost 
 with tears in his eyes, blessed God, who even in this 
 wilful age had kept from destruction those noble 
 institutions in which the spirit that animated them 
 had been preserved alive, burning under a heap of 
 ruins. 
 
 " And so, then," some of our readers will exclaim, 
 " IMi'S. Bevan was a Puseyite." ^hs. Bevan was a 
 lady — a lady by birth, education, habits of society, 
 and refinement of mind. And no one could practise 
 better that quiet, dignified, but severe, castigation, 
 which such ladies are able to bestow on impertinence 
 and flippancy. And the young person (for old per- 
 sons do not indulge in such vulgarities) who had 
 once presumed to apply to her, within hearing, such 
 a silly and mischievous nickname, would undoubt-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 21 
 
 edly never have ventured to repeat it a second time. 
 " But slie had studied the ' Tracts for the Times,' 
 then ? " We rather believe not. Some portions her 
 son had read out to her ; and she admired the elo- 
 quence of some, hesitated as to expressions in others, 
 perhaps did not quite like the tone of speaking here 
 and there. But with the principles, which her late 
 husband had inculcated and practised, and the 
 habitual perusal of the great standard works of the 
 English Church, Mrs. Bevan found little novelty in the 
 " Tracts for the Times," and other works of the same 
 authors, and preferred, as the Tracts themselves re- 
 commended, her own course of old divinity, to any 
 modern teaching, on one side or the other. And 
 she gladly agreed with Charles, (who, at one time, 
 she feared, might be led away by his personal respect 
 for the leaders in the new movement,) when he con- 
 gratulated her that sound doctrines were now re- 
 viving independently in several parts of the Church, 
 and less necessity would exist for the guidance of 
 individual men. 
 
 All this time we are detaining our readers (we 
 would fain hope they are impatient readers) from 
 Miss Brook and the Dorcas Society. And we must 
 return in time to find Miss Brook, Avith some dis- 
 appointment in her countenance, perusing a little 
 twisted note which has just arrived to announce that 
 Mrs. Bevan was unable to attend. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Bevan unwell?" said Miss Macdougall, 
 with rather an offended look. 
 
 " She has no engagement, I know," said the 
 younger Miss Maddox, in a tone bordering on re- 
 proach. 
 
 " We must do as well as we can without her," sub- 
 joined Mrs. Maddox, with a sigh in which she in- 
 tended to convey more of sorrow than of anger. 
 C 3
 
 22 HA-VYKSTONE. 
 
 "Does Mrs. Bevan mention any reason?" asked 
 ]Mrs Lomax, pacifically. 
 
 IMiss Mabel looked again at the note, but no 
 reason appeared, only there was a postscript hoping 
 to see Miss Mabel to-morrow. The whole party 
 sympathetically said, " Well ! " and then proceeded to 
 commence the business of the evening. 
 
 This has been a longer chapter than we antici- 
 pated. And as we know that, with most of our 
 readers, reading is an uphill work, and their own 
 powers of attention not a little asthmatic, — that they 
 are either lolling in an easy chair after eating a full 
 dinner, or lying on a sofa in their club -room ; or, if 
 they are young ladies, that one is tired with reading 
 us out, while the others are yawning over their work- 
 boxes and worsted frames ; for all these reasons we 
 think it better to give them and ourselves a respite, 
 and to postpone the business of the Dorcas Society 
 till another chapter.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 23 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 ' And they proceeded to the business of the even- 
 ing.' 
 
 This business was opened by Miss Mabel Brook, 
 who brought before the society the case of JMrs. 
 Connell. Mrs. Connell was one of the poor women 
 who had been burnt out by the late fire, and whose 
 boy had been saved from the flames. She was in 
 great poverty. Her husband was a drunken, worth- 
 less profligate ; she herself near her confinement. 
 And Miss Jane Morgan, who had accidentally found 
 her in great distress both of mind and body, had 
 promised to apply for relief to the Society in her 
 approaching illness. All voices were unanimous in 
 her favour. And while the bag was maldng up, 
 Miss Jane proceeded to describe her interview with 
 the poor woman. She had given her some money, 
 and added a ticket for the Dispensary, and recom- 
 mended a plaster for the face of the boy who had 
 been scorched in escaping from the fire. Nothing 
 could be better. She had also spoken to her gene- 
 rally on the subject of religion, on the state of her 
 husband, and the duty of prayer. And she had given 
 her a Prayer-Book, with the service of the visitation 
 of the sick, and promised to mention her state to 
 Mr. Bentley the curate. But at these words, IMiss 
 Brook was alarmed to see the colour rising in Mrs. 
 Maddox's face. 
 
 " I must really beg your pardon, Miss Jane," ex- 
 claimed the matronly lady, " but you must know that 
 doing any thingof the kind is contrary to the fifth rule 
 C 4
 
 24 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 of the Society, which expressly says, that we are 
 not to attempt making proselytes." 
 
 " Proselytes !" replied Miss Jane, slightly confused, 
 " I really never thought of such a thing ; she told me 
 she had been baptized in our Church," 
 
 " Indeed! " rejoined Mrs. Maddox : "it happens 
 that poor Mrs. Connell has nothing to do with your 
 Church. She used at one time to wash for me ; and 
 ever since that, I know that she has attended our 
 chapel ; for every Sunday that she goes to chapel, I 
 told her, you know," addressing her daughters, 
 " that she was to have her dinner with our servants." 
 
 " Oh, yes, " cried the young ladies, " I assure you 
 she belongs to us." And poor INIiss Jane was 
 obliged to apologise for having given the Prayer- 
 Book, and mentioned JNIr. Bentley, to the poor suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 " Religion, indeed," subjoined Mrs. Maddox, in a 
 forgiving and placable tone, " we must all inculcate 
 in our visits. But peculiar doctrines," she added 
 with a bland smile, " you know, my dear Miss Jane, 
 we have agreed, shall never disturb our charitable pur- 
 poses." JMiss Jane, who knew nothing of religion 
 but what she had learned from her Prayer-Book 
 and Catechism, and the Bible as explained from 
 the pulpit of Hawkstone church, made at once a 
 resolution to set aside those prejudiced associations, 
 and to form a religion for herself, without any pe- 
 culiar doctrines, and which she might speak of to 
 the poor and afflicted without incurring ]\Irs. Mad- 
 dox's censures. 
 
 " I will go myself," said INIrs. Maddox, " and see 
 the poor woman, and will not trouble you, my dear 
 Miss Jane, as she is one of us. And I have no doubt 
 the Society will be glad to give her some relief 
 from the money which Mv. Bentley has placed at our 
 disposal. I will take it to her to-morrow." And
 
 HAWKSTONE. 25 
 
 though some slight misgiving came across Miss 
 Mabel at the appropriation of Mr. Bentley's donation 
 from the Offertory money, to the evident purpose of 
 keeping Mrs. Connell to the Unitarian chapel, all 
 had before their eyes the fear of being suspected of 
 a desire to make proselytes, and the grant was pro- 
 posed and carried. 
 
 The next motion related to Betsy Trotter, and 
 Miss Mabel evidently laboured under some em- 
 barrassment in alluding to it. Betsy Trotter, like 
 Mrs. Connell, was a poor woman ; five children ; 
 husband earning eight shillings a week ; an honest 
 man, — everything to recommend the case. But 
 the application for assistance had been made to Miss 
 Mabel, as secretary ; and she begged to transfer the 
 task of conveying the Society's grant to the applicant 
 to the hand of Miss Macdougall. 
 
 " I suppose," said that lady to Miss Mabel, " you 
 feel some little difficulty about Jenny ?" 
 
 And Miss Mabel owned the impeachment. It 
 appeared that Jenny Trotter had belonged to the 
 Grey School, one of those old-fashioned charities, 
 which the benevolent but illiberal founders saddled 
 with the express condition of their being extended 
 only to children in communion with the Church. 
 Now John Trotter the father worked regularly in 
 Miss Macdougall's garden. And Miss Macdougall, 
 with a laudable zeal for the spiritual welfare of all 
 her dependants, had recommended him one Wednes- 
 day evening to go and hear Mr. Bryant at the 
 Presbyterian chapel. She had also, with the same 
 laudable zeal, lent him a number of tracts, in which, 
 perhaps without the lender's knowledge, the Church 
 of England, (in which, by-the-by, poor John liad 
 been baptized,) was spoken of in no very respectful 
 terms ; its bishops were called tyrants and oppressors 
 —why and wherefore John did not know ; but never
 
 26 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 having seen a bishop himself, he could not contradict 
 the statement. Then the Litui'gy was mere popery ; 
 and John, who knew the history of Guy Faux by 
 heart, was naturally alarmed at having so long been 
 an accomplice with that wicked papist. The sur- 
 plice also, which he had seen Dr. Grant and ^Mr. 
 Bentley wear every Sunday, was called a filthy rag. 
 And though the word seemed rather strong, John 
 could not help acknowledging that very often it 
 was not so clean as it should be. And having no 
 other place to go to on a Wednesday evening after 
 he had finished liis work, and being naturally of a 
 religious frame of mind, John went again and again 
 to the chapel. And again and again he heard IMr. 
 Bryant say pretty much the same as IMiss Mac- 
 do ugall's tracts. And a good deal of what he used 
 to be told by Mr. Bentley, about faith and love, and 
 going by the Bible only, and the worthlessness of 
 forms and the sufliciency of prayer to obtain the aid 
 of God,— all this he heard from Mr. Bryant ; only 
 Mr. Bryant said a great deal more on points on 
 which jMr. Bentley had never uttered a word, and 
 on which therefore poor John was wholly at a loss, — 
 such as the duty of obedience to the Church, the 
 authority of bishops, the necessity of the Sacraments, 
 and the like. And unhappily all that jMr. Bryant 
 said made John look on these points as absurd and even 
 wicked. Then one day while he was digging a 
 border, Mr. Bryant, who had been paying a con- 
 gregational visit to Miss Macdougall, came by 
 accident into the garden, and after asking for his 
 wife and children, told him he was glad to see him 
 so often at church, and slipped half-a-crown into 
 his hand to buy him a Bible. And another time he 
 called in at John's cottage to inquire how he did ; 
 and after talking with a sad and grieved counte- 
 nance of the spiritual destitution of Hawkstone,—
 
 HAWKSTONE. 27 
 
 oiily Mr. Bentley to do all the duty, and Dr. Grant 
 rolling in wealth, and paying him only 90/. a year. — 
 Mr. Bryant shook his head in a melancholy way, 
 and took his leave with a sohloquy, which John was 
 evidently intended to overhear: "Alas! poor 
 Church of England! it ruins more souls than it 
 saves! " In short, we need not follow up the steps 
 by which John shifted his place on Sunday from the 
 cold wet pavement and narrow bench in the aisle 
 under the pulpit of Hawkstone church, and where his 
 face had been seen for years, to a warm comfortable 
 seat, provided for him by Mi\ Bryant himself, in the 
 Presbyterian chapel. And once there, he was soon 
 taught to feel as much aversion for the church as 
 he had before felt love. And conscientious and 
 honest as he was, he was resolved not merely to 
 save his own soul by quitting an evil church, go- 
 verned by those enemies to the Gospel, bishops and 
 archbishops, but to save his childi-en also. Jenny, 
 therefore, was ordered to attend him on Sundays to 
 IVIr. Bryant's meeting. In vain JVIiss Mabel, to 
 whom was confided the chief superintendence of 
 the Grey School, condemned Jenny for her first 
 absence from church, and even threatened to punish 
 her. It was her father's order ; and Miss Mabel 
 felt it impossible to inculcate disobedience to. pa- 
 rents. In vain, when the offence was repeated, ]\Iiss 
 Mabel paid a visit to John's cottage, to remonstrate 
 on the secession ; John was inexorable. And as 
 Mr. Bryant had taken care to provide his in- 
 quiring mind with texts from Scripture respecting 
 preaching the Gospel, and sundry difficulties about 
 the use of the word bishop in the epistles, besides 
 the unanswerable question whether St. Paul had 
 50,000/. a year, like the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 Miss Mabel, who knew little more of a bishop than 
 that he wore a wig, and sat in parliament, and was
 
 28 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 called my lord, and travelled about the country on 
 rare occasions of confirmation, was compelled to 
 beat a retreat for fear of being discomfited in argu- 
 ment. One more attempt she made, and then John, 
 encouraged by success, launched out in such violent 
 invectives on the Church, and every one that be- 
 longed to it, and especially on young INIr. Bentley, 
 whom she had taken under her especial patronage, 
 that, unable to suppress her indignation, she pro- 
 nounced on him a formal anathema ; and at an ex- 
 traordinary meeting of the Grey committee, Jenny 
 was dismissed from the school. 
 
 It was this which caused her present difficulty. 
 "How can I," as she justly remarked, "do kind- 
 nesses to persons whom I believe to be doing wrong, 
 who are attacking and abusing what I most value, 
 without leading them to suppose that I do not think 
 them in the wrong, or do not reverence what they 
 abuse ? I can rej)ay with kindness a personal injury ; 
 this is only the duty of a Christian : but the Trot- 
 ters I believe to be in commission of a sin. And I 
 cannot show them any mark of favour without 
 compromising my own conscience, and misleading 
 theirs. I do not find fault with them, remember, 
 for leaving the Chiu'ch — that is a question between 
 them and their Maker ; and every one should act 
 according to his conscience : but I do blame them 
 highly for abusing the Church, INIi'. Bentley, and 
 myself, and the ladies of the school, after their 
 daughter had been in it so long, and ]\L\ Bentley 
 had been so kind to them." And Mss Mabel, 
 having stated the difficulty, was silent. To this 
 difficulty. Miss jMacdougall, though she did not 
 exactly see the sin of abusing the Church, willingly 
 assented, and undertook to act as almoner of the so- 
 ciety in place of jMiss Mabel ; for the society, in its 
 corporate capacity, being precluded from entertain-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 29 
 
 ing any peculiar attachment to the Church, was quite 
 insensible to the crime of abusing it ; and, indeed, 
 being raised wholly above any distinctions of right or 
 wrong in religious matters, looked only on John's small 
 wages and his wife's large family ; and the question 
 was easily decided, — so easily, indeed, that several 
 of the young ladies could not help remarking to 
 themselves how troublesome it was to have a con^ 
 science ; and how easily all these difficulties might 
 have been removed if Alderman Brown had not 
 insisted on the children of the Grey School going to 
 church, or if IVIiss Mabel would allow every one to 
 have their own opinion on religion. Mrs. Maddox, 
 indeed, could not help saying that she hoped the 
 new charity commissioners would do away with 
 these persecuting restrictions of the Grey School ; 
 and that the children of all sects might partake 
 together of the bounties of Alderman Brown, and 
 of a sound religious education, without any peculiar 
 doctrines to disturb their mutual affigction. 
 
 " And now, my dear Mabel," she continued, with 
 a peculiar complacency of voice which indicated 
 a consciousness of success, "what is to become of 
 the bazaar ? You are always at the bottom of these 
 things, you know you are — so active — so liberal — 
 such enlarged views." And she turned to Miss 
 Mabel, who, with a little confusion of conscious im- 
 portance, protested that she was not in the secret — 
 she had nothing to do with it. Only Mr. Bentley 
 had been describing the sad destitution of the suf- 
 ferers by the fire, and she had just mentioned it 
 accidentally ; and Lady Thompson at Rosewood 
 Villa had thought it would be a good thing ; and 
 Mrs. Lomax had promised to hold a stall. Mrs. 
 Lomax bowed a grave acquiescence. 
 
 "And whom else will you have?" said Mrs. 
 Maddox, unconsciously glancing at her daughters.
 
 30 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 "Why," said Miss Mabel, equally unconsciously 
 betraying the secret that she had been engaged in 
 active correspondence on the subject, "there is some 
 hope that the Dowager Lady Sudborn will help us ; 
 and then Lady Thompson has promised to invite JVIiss 
 O'Neill to stay with her, and keep her stall, — the 
 beautiful Miss O'Neill, you know, who sold such a 
 number of things at the Fairfield bazaar." 
 
 " Miss O'Neill ! " cried a little voice from the bot- 
 tom of the table; "what! the beautiful IVliss O'Neill?" 
 
 And IVIiss Martha Beadon, who was a niece of 
 Mrs. Lomax', and was then staying on a visit to her 
 aunt, immediately entered into a low laughing com- 
 munication with two other young ladies who were 
 sitting next her. In vain JMrs. Lomax looked, and 
 frowned, and nodded. Little Martha's high spirits 
 carried her away; and even IMiss Mabel, at the 
 other end of the table, busied as she was in cutting 
 out a baby's frock, and discussing its proper length 
 with Mrs. Maddox, could overhear the words 
 " Fairfield " — " Mss O'Neill " — " two officers " — 
 " three guineas" — " pair of gloves" — " handsome 
 girl," and other stray passages, which, when put 
 together, seemed to imply some anecdote of the 
 bazaar not quite conformable to the notions which 
 Miss Mabel maintained of strict feminine delicacy. 
 After a few sentences, IVIiss Martha's voice sunk into 
 a whisper; and "oh! oh, fy! hush!" — and the 
 gravity suddenly assumed by the young hearers 
 confirmed her suspicions, and very nearly overturned 
 all her plans for a Hawkstone bazaar, together with 
 a design for a splendid kettle-holder, which she had 
 intended to work herself, and devote to the purposes 
 of the charity. 
 
 " Lady Thompson," she said in a hurry, in order 
 to stop farther tittle-tattle at the bottom of the table, 
 "was proposing a ball. She thouglit many persons
 
 HAWKSTONE. 31 
 
 wlio would not give any thing to the poor persons, or 
 buy at the bazaar, would willingly show their charity 
 by coming to the ball." 
 
 The Miss Macdougalls both looked prim, and 
 seemed suddenly immersed in the perplexity of some 
 plaited calico before them. 
 
 " We should all like a ball," said Mrs. Lomax, 
 looking to Martha, at the bottom of the table, and 
 thinking that she should probably be asked to be one 
 of the patronesses. 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Lomax, " and we might all make 
 parties from the country. ' If you remember the last 
 time we asked the Vincents and the St. Barbes, and 
 the Grahams, and they stayed with us three days ; 
 and it was so agreeable; only I remember papa 
 quarrelled at the expense of so many dinners. But 
 then it was all for charity; and the St. Barbes 
 would never have come if we had not asked them." 
 " How well," whispered Miss Maddox, " I re- 
 member that ball. You must know papa gave us 
 all new dresses, white satin timmed with blond ; and 
 only think, that awkward waiter at the Bell threw a 
 cup of coffee over mine, and spoiled it for ever : mine 
 alone cost six guineas." 
 
 " What a pity ! " exclaimed the little knot of young 
 ladies. 
 
 " And do you remember, too, how silly it was of 
 Mary Vincent: she would not go at all; and the 
 only reason was, that she had been to see the poor 
 people in the morning, and could not get their 
 distress out of her head. She said she really 
 could not dance with any pleasure while thinking 
 of them." 
 
 " How very odd ! " exclaimed the young ladies at 
 the bottom of the table. 
 
 And just at this time Miss Mabel, at the top, who 
 had been searching for some papers in an account- 
 book, read out the sums of money raised for the last
 
 32 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 misfortune of a similar kind : — Sermon at church, 
 51. lOs. A\d. Private subscriptions, 26/. Is. \0d. 
 Balance of ball, deducting expenses, lights, music, 
 rooms, and refreshments, 61. 9s. 6d. 
 
 "My own notion," she added, "was an oratorio 
 in the church. It is so much more solemn ; and 
 sacred music is so delightful. Is it not, my dear 
 Miss MacdougaU?" But that lady again looked 
 prim, and, muttering something indistinctly, was 
 again perplexed with her calico. 
 
 " Oh, do let us have an oratorio ! " cried ]VIiss 
 Mai'tha. "I shall never forget going to one at 
 Worcester Cathedral. It was the most beautiful 
 thing I ever saw ; all the famous opera-singers were 
 there, and Signor Bellini, and Signora Strozzi. I 
 remember I was so surprised ; for the last time I 
 heard them it was at the theatre, and I could not 
 help expecting to see them come dressed in the same 
 way, with helmets and plumes of feathers, and velvet 
 cloaks, and shields and swords, and all that; but 
 they were dressed just like common people. It 
 was quite disappointing." 
 
 " Do you remember, Anne," said IMrs. Lomax to 
 her youngest daughter, who Avas the musician of the 
 family, "how admirably Strozzi sang those sweet 
 things from The Messiah ? She had the finest voice 
 I ever heard. It was quite pathetic. Only" — 
 and here IMi'S. Lomax fell into a sotto voce remark 
 to her next neighbour, of which nothing was 
 audible but " sad character ! — poor thing ! — quite 
 dissolute, I assure you." 
 
 "And how well," interposed ISIiss Anne, "they 
 had arranged the seats ! All the upper part of the 
 choir was boarded over ; and as we had some in- 
 terest with the stewards, we had the most com- 
 fortable place you can conceive, just over the altar ; 
 I do believe I was exactly in the centre, just upon 
 it. And we heard so well!" Just at this moment
 
 HAWKSTONE, 33 
 
 something made Miss Macdougall look up from lier 
 work with a rather surprised air, and Mrs. Maddox 
 and Miss Catherine exchanged little glances accom- 
 panied with the slightest curl of a smile on their 
 lips. 
 
 "It would take a long time," said Miss Mabel, 
 thoughtfully, " to fit up the church." 
 
 " Yes, I think they told us at Worcester they had 
 been obliged to suspend the service for six weeks 
 or more. And I shall never forget the clattering, 
 and hammering, and the swearing of the workmen, 
 while they were pulling down the scaffolding. It 
 sounded quite strange in the cathedral." 
 
 "What we should want," said Miss Mabel, 
 thoughtfully again, "would be stewards. It generally 
 costs the stewards a tolerably round sum. At Wor- 
 cester, I believe, they usually lose about 800/. be- 
 tween them." 
 
 " But then," said Mrs. Lomax, " they gain four or 
 five hundred for the charity ; and that, you know, is 
 a great thing." 
 
 " K we have a bazaar," said Miss Mabel, thought- 
 fully as before, " we must work for it." 
 
 " Oh ! we will all work," exclaimed a number of 
 voices, in which the Misses Macdougall did not join. 
 
 " And it must not be any thing useful," added Miss 
 Mabel, — "I mean any thing one really wants ; for, 
 you know, persons always buy such things best at the 
 shops : and it would throw the poor workmen out 
 of employment, if we set up a rival establishment." 
 
 "Oh no, certainly not," was the answer. And 
 each began to consider in what she could best 
 employ her time without producing any thing which 
 should be really useful. One would paint a pair of 
 screens; another could ornament a card-box with 
 paste and paper, so as to make it look like real 
 wood ; another had learned the art of stufiing little
 
 34 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 figures of birds, and covering them with real' 
 feathers ; a fourth had already commenced the cover 
 of an ottoman, which was to consume four or five 
 guineas' worth of wool and silk, besides six weeks' 
 uninterrupted labour, morning and evening, and 
 which, when it was finished, with the border of yellow 
 and crimson, and St. G-eorge and the Dragon, in deep 
 blues and reds, in the centre, and the framework, 
 and the tassels, no one thought would be dearly 
 priced at five pounds. 
 
 Mrs. Lomax promised to give up the children 
 to their governess for a week or two, and contribute 
 a little model of a farmyard (a papyreum it was 
 called), in which were to be cows and pigs, and a 
 haystack, two ploughmen, and one milkmaid, besides 
 barns and outhouses, all constructed by some in- 
 genious process which she kept a profound secret, 
 out of silver paper, and which, under a glass case, 
 would look beautiful on a table in a di'awing-room. 
 And ]\Iiss Mabel once more reverted to her kettle- 
 holder, and almost engaged, in addition, for a patch- 
 work counterpane, provided all present would engage 
 to furnish her with fragments from their wardrobes. 
 
 " And what progress has been made in the sub- 
 scription," said Mss Catherine Macdougall, at length 
 folding up her work, and looking as if she wished 
 to go home. 
 
 " Tolerable," replied Miss Brook. " INIi'. Lomax 
 very liberally headed it with two pounds ; and most 
 of the tradespeople have given their five and ten 
 shillings." 
 
 " I assure you," said Mrs. Lomax, in a melan- 
 choly tone, " these subscriptions are ruinous. ]\Ir. 
 Lomax declared to me, solemnly, that last year they 
 had cost him no less than twenty guineas, besides 
 what he gives in charity at the door. With liis 
 family, and situated as we are, obliged to keep so
 
 HAWKSTONE. 35 
 
 much company, and with our establishment, I can- 
 not bear to see him asked for any thing which is 
 not absolutely necessary. But this is a case — no 
 less than four families without a home. Is it not, 
 my dear Miss Mabel ? " 
 
 " Five !" said Miss Mabel. " The only odd thing 
 that I have heard yet is the refusal of the stranger 
 at the Bell — the gentleman, you know, who saved 
 the child — our hero, as we call him." 
 
 " He refuse!" cried the whole party. 
 
 " How very handsome he is ! " whispered Miss 
 Maddox. "Do not you think so?" And little 
 Martha, to whom the question was addressed, coloured 
 up as taken by surprise, and answered, " Yes — no — 
 I cannot tell," though ever since the night of 
 the fire her whole fancy was running on the mys- 
 terious stranger, whom she had caught sight of in 
 the street the next morning, and at once had set 
 down as a prince, or at least a count, in disguise, 
 who might possibly fall in love with herself and 
 make her a countess. 
 
 " The fact is," said Mrs. Maddox, significantly, 
 "I know more about the circumstances than any 
 one else. And I must say, they struck me as very 
 strange — I might even say suspicious." And she 
 looked round for some mark of approbation of her 
 great sagacity. " You know how well it was 
 arranged that the subscription should be set on foot 
 without any distinction of sects or parties." This was 
 uttered with another bland smile on the amiable 
 Mabel. " So Mr. Maddox and IVIr. Lomax took one 
 part of the town, and ]\Ir. Bentley and our excellent 
 friend Mr. Bryant" — a smile at Miss Macdougall 
 — " took the other. Well, when Mr. Maddox and 
 Mr. Lomax called on the stranger at the Bell ; they 
 were shown up into his room — the best room in the 
 house, I assure you, over the coffee-room. And the 
 D 2
 
 36 HAA^TiSTONE. 
 
 waiter seemed so civil, and indeed to be quite afraid 
 of him. And IMr. Maddox said that he observed 
 several travelling-cases, and an imperial, and every- 
 thing, in fact, like a man of fortune. Nothing could 
 be more polite. Evidently quite a man of the 
 world. But on learning the object of the visit, he 
 regretted that he could not do any thing, as he 
 always gave his contributions through the hands of 
 the clergyman of the parish." 
 
 " How odd ! " cried the young ladies. 
 
 "Not very liberal, I must say," said IVIiss 
 Catherine Macdougall. 
 
 " But," continued IVIi's. Maddox, nearly out of 
 breath, and afraid lest any one should seize the end 
 of the story without her, " the strangest thing is to 
 come. When Mr. Bentley and IVIr. Bryant called in 
 consequence, he was very civil to ]Mi\ Bentley, and 
 very cold and stiif indeed to poor Mr. Bryant ; and 
 after all, on some foolish excuse or another, he would 
 not give them any thing. 
 
 " How extremely shabby ! " was the exclamation, 
 in which the voice of IVIiss Catherine, who could 
 not help feeling for Mi-. Bryant, was heard with 
 peculiar sharpness. 
 
 "But this is not' all," continued jMi's. Maddox, 
 rising from the table and becoming agitated. " You 
 know," she said, looking to Miss Catherine, who was 
 leaning forward to catch any thing which might 
 avenge the slight offered to her favourite preacher, — 
 "you know this gentleman," (and there was a 
 bitterness mingled in the expression this * gentle- 
 man,') "though he did behave very well in saving 
 the child, was seen by fifty persons crossing him- 
 self, actually crossing himself He must be a Papist ! " 
 and her voice became louder, as she reached the 
 climax. 
 
 " Certainly ! " said Miss Catherine and ISIiss
 
 HAWKSTONE. 37 
 
 Macdougall both, with a firm, decisive, judicial, con- 
 demnation of the unhappy criminal. "And you 
 know Lord Claremont is erecting a Catholic" (if 
 JMrs. Bevan had been here she would have insisted 
 on its being called a Roman) " Catholic chapel. And 
 parliament is just going to be dissolved. And now I 
 think I need say no more : you can guess who this 
 gentleman is, and what he is doing in Hawkstone ; 
 I have not a doubt he intends to be the new mem- 
 ber." 
 
 "Why Mrs. Maddox should leap so rapidly to her 
 conclusion, and feel so much interest, and speak 
 with such evident exasperation on the subject, was 
 a problem to the Dorcas Society at large ; and much 
 pondering was proceeding in secret, when the diffi- 
 dent Sarah Morgan, from the bottom of the table, 
 with a very faltering voice, which she had not 
 trusted herself to utter during the whole evening, 
 except to her nearest neighbour, and colouring at 
 thus coming forward in public, ventured to say that 
 she had heard something also which clearly proved 
 that the incognito was a Papist. Mr. Morgan's 
 housemaid was sister-in-law to the first cousin 
 of Robert, the head waiter at the Bell ; and thus 
 Miss Morgan, whose curiosity, in common with 
 all the other inhabitants of Hawkstone, had been 
 wonderfully excited by the handsome stranger, was 
 put in possession of many little facts, not known to 
 the common world. It appeared that one morning 
 Mary the chambermaid had found in arranging his 
 bedroom a little gold cross with a hair chain 
 attached to it, which he received from her Avithout 
 any confusion, and put round his neck. Moreover, 
 on Friday last when Robert after breakfast brought 
 him the bill of fare, Robert's observant eye detected 
 that nothing had been touched but a crust of bread, 
 and, to his still greater surprise, nothing was ordered 
 D 3
 
 38 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 for dinner but a poached egg : this was evidently 
 fasting. And to crown all, ]VIr. Bryant, when 
 making his visit of charity, having been shown 
 into the room before the stranger appeared, had 
 tm-ned over several books on the table, and two of 
 them were Greek folios, which Mr. Bryant did not 
 understand, and a third was mixed up with red 
 letters, and the fourth Mr. Bryant had seen by the 
 lettering was a breviary. What a breviary was, the 
 ladies of the Dorcas Society did not exactly under- 
 stand, but they had met with the word in several 
 romances connected with monks and beads, nuns 
 and crosses, and they could not doubt it was some- 
 thing bad. 
 
 We must not dwell on the ejaculations, partly of 
 pity and partly of grave condemnation, with which 
 these facts were received. The notion that a Papist 
 should ever come forward as member for Hawk- 
 stone, on which notion ]Mrs. Maddox seemed strangely 
 bent, was deemed an absurdity. " And after all, my 
 dear JVIi's. Maddox," said Miss Mabel, " we know 
 nothing of the stranger, not even his name ; he had 
 no directions on his trunks." (Hoav JNliss Mabel had 
 learned this fact was a mystery.) "He has received no 
 letters, he has never given his name to the waiter ; 
 and there is something so commanding about him, 
 that the people at the Bell are afraid to ask him. 
 All I can hope," continued she, "is that Mr. 
 Bentley may find some opportunity of speaking to 
 him ; and if any one can convert him, it must be JNIr. 
 Bentley. What a beautiful sermon he preached 
 against popery last Sunday ! — so very impressive !" 
 
 " Oh, it was beautiful ! Did you not like it ?" said 
 little Martha, looking up in the face of Miss Cathe- 
 rine Macdougall, who had left her chair for some 
 work, and was leaning over Martha's shoulder. 
 
 Mrs. Lomax coughed significantly.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 39 
 
 " Was it not beautiful, Miss Macdougall ? " 
 
 Two more coughs from Mrs. Lomax ; but Martha 
 heeded not. " I do hope, " she continued, " you like 
 ]Mi\ Bentley? I never heard such a delightful 
 preacher." 
 
 " Martha, my dear, lend me your scissors," cried 
 Mrs. Lomax from the other end of the table ; and as 
 Martha took up the scissors she met a look and a 
 frown which plainly told her she was making some 
 mistake. 
 
 " We always go to our own church," replied Miss 
 Catherine, very coldly. 
 
 " But I thought you lived in Hawkstone ? " asked 
 the innocent Martha, who, as a stranger, was not 
 enlightened on the polemical statistics of the place. 
 
 " So we do," said Miss Catherine. 
 
 " But where do you go to church, then ? " continued 
 Martha, warned in vain by a friendly foot touching 
 her under the table. " There is only one church in 
 the town, is there ? " 
 
 Here Jane Lomax took the opportunity of some 
 little movement to whisper, " They are Presbyte- 
 rians." 
 
 "Oh, she meant the chapel, then," whispered 
 Martha. 
 
 " No, my dear," said Miss Catherine, colouring, 
 who had no wish to avoid the discussion, " I meant 
 the church. Our place of worship is a church as 
 well as yours." 
 
 " But I thought," again asked Martha, " that there 
 was only one Church? Does not the Bible say 
 there is only one Church, aunt?" Mrs. Lomax 
 had no wish to reply, and was busy with her 
 work-basket. 
 
 " You know," continued Miss Catherine, " we are 
 the Church in Scotland, and you are Dissenters ; and 
 we are Dissenters here, and you are the Church." 
 D 4
 
 40 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 "But then there must be two Churches," said 
 Martha ; " and the Bible says there is but one. Is 
 not that strange?" 
 
 "My love," said IVIrs. Lomax, impatiently, "we 
 should not talk of things which we do not understand. 
 So put up your work, for it is getting quite late — half 
 past nine, I declare." And Martha proceeded to ar- 
 range her work-basket, pondering in her mind how 
 Bliss Macdougall could call her chapel a church, when 
 the Bible said there was but one Church, and resolved 
 to ascertain as soon as possible what the meaning 
 of a Church was, and whether, which she strongly 
 doubted, it meant any thing at all. 
 
 JMrs. Lomax's move seemed gladly seconded by 
 Mrs. Maddox, who had evinced for some time a little 
 fidgetty impatience, implying that she wished the 
 evening at a close. And the party had soon par- 
 taken of JNIiss Mabel's wine-and-water, adjusted their 
 cloaks, put on their clogs, and galoshes, and Glou- 
 cester boots, and wishing each other a kind, good 
 night, they made their way down Mabel's narrow 
 staircase, into the gas-lighted street. ISIi's. Maddox 
 alone found a singular difficulty in fastening her 
 cloak. And after allowing the others to depart, and 
 telling her daughter that the servant might come 
 again for her, she no sooner saw that all were gone, 
 than closing the door, she seated herself once more 
 by the fire, and announced that she had something 
 to impart of consequence. Mabel took the opposite 
 seat, and assumed the air of an attentive listener ; 
 and Mrs. Maddox proceeded. 
 
 " I want you very much, my dear Mabel, to come 
 and dine with us to-morrow — quite quietly — scarcely 
 any one but ourselves." 
 
 Mabel wondered at this being a matter of such 
 importance. But she saw evidently there was some-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 41 
 
 tiling beyond. Mrs. Maddox paused, for she knew 
 that she was on delicate ground. 
 
 " I will tell you candidly why I wish it so much ," 
 she continued. " Now, do not be angry. You won't 
 be angry, will you ? But your cousin Marmaduke " 
 (here Mabel started, coloured deeply, and drew her- 
 self up with every mark of indignation), " your cousin 
 Marmaduke," proceeded Mrs. Maddox, aiFecting not 
 to notice these symptoms, " is coming to us for some 
 days. And I should be so glad, so very glad, if I could 
 see you meet him on friendly terms, and forget all the 
 unpleasantness between you. He is such a clever man, 
 and so agreeable. And he is making his way in the 
 world, rising, I assure you, very rapidly. Mr. Lomax 
 assured me that he had been asked several times to 
 Lord Grermain's, Germain House, you know, where 
 all the clever men are invited. And the govern- 
 ment have made him one of the new commissioners 
 for inspecting the gutters, with 1500Z. a year. And 
 he writes in the Westminster Review. The very best 
 article in the last number, I am told, was his. And, 
 indeed, I should not be surprised," (here her voice 
 became mysteriously low,) " if he were to get into 
 parliament in case of a dissolution. It is such a 
 pity that you cannot meet him in a friendly way." 
 
 Mabelhad heard, or rather she might have heard, 
 all this, for she sat perfectly unmoved, drawn up in 
 a rigid posture, with a very high colour in her 
 cheeks, and a look of which Mrs. Maddox had 
 caught a sidelong view, and which she did not ven- 
 ture fairly to face. But Mrs. Maddox's eulogium 
 had no sooner ceased than her answer was ready. 
 She expressed no little surprise that Mrs. Maddox, 
 an old friend, one for whom she felt the most cor- 
 dial esteem, with whom she was more intimate than 
 any one in the world, should have thought of 
 making a proposal to her so painful and unreason-
 
 42 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 able. She had no ill-will to Marmaduke. She was 
 glad to hear of his rising in the world. She could 
 meet him, if absolutely necessary, as she would any 
 other person ; but for any thing like cordiality or 
 friendship, such a feeling as she had to the Maddoxes 
 for instance, and the Macdougalls, it was quite 
 impossible. 
 
 " You know well, my dear Mrs. Maddox," she 
 added, " the principal circumstances of his conduct. 
 You remember my poor brother Charles " (and here 
 Mabel's voice faultered, for it was her only brother, 
 whom she had doted on, of whom she was speaking). 
 " You know he sacrificed himself, I may say he lost 
 his life, in extricating Marmaduke from that dis- 
 graceful affair at Gibraltar. Charles never recovered 
 it ; and the very first thing which Marmaduke did, 
 as soon as he was released from prison, while Charles 
 was lying dead, was to vilify him, to impugn his 
 word, to prevent his brother officers from showing 
 any respect to his memory, and to endeavour to 
 overturn all the plans which Charles had been all 
 his life contriving for the welfare of his family. 
 When he came to England, his first business was to 
 sow dissension between all the branches of the family; 
 to dispute my father's will ; to try to deprive me of 
 the little pittance I possess : and all this with a show 
 of kindness and profession of liberality, which common 
 sense must see to be hypocrisy. The very last 
 words my poor father said to me on his death-bed 
 was a caution against Marmaduke'; he almost pro- 
 phesied what he would do, knowing his cold selfish 
 unprincipled sneering nature. And he intreated 
 me, or rather, I should say, he laid his solemn in- 
 junctions on me, to abstain from any communication 
 with him. I owe it to the memory both of my 
 father and my brother, to have no further association 
 with liim than is absolutely necessary. I should com-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 43 
 
 promise my own feelings and sense of right, and lose 
 myself in public opinion, and, as far as an humble per- 
 son like myself can do, lower the standard of public 
 morals, if I overlooked these acts as if they had 
 never been, and could feel or affect to feel to such a 
 man the same as to a friend. You will see this, I am 
 sure, my dearest friend, in the same light with my- 
 self, and will not urge me to place myself in a 
 position where I could not with propriety show 
 what I really feel, and yet by concealment I should 
 disgrace myself in my own eyes, and the eyes of 
 others, and only harden him in his shamelessness. " 
 
 Mabel ceased — and Mrs. Maddox was silent, for 
 she felt rather ashamed of herself ; at last she took 
 courage to hope that Mabel would not be offended, that 
 she could quite understand the feeling; and on the 
 whole she agreed that it was better for persons 
 who could not cordially sympathise with and respect 
 each other to associate together as little as possible. 
 
 " I am not offended at all," was Mabel's reply. "It 
 would take a great deal to make me quarrel with 
 you, whom I have known so long, and so intimately, 
 and love very dearly ; indeed, there is no one in 
 Hawk stone whom I live with more than yourself, 
 and I hope it always will be so," — 
 
 " Though we do differ in religious notions," said 
 Mrs. Maddox, recovering her spirits^ and smiling 
 playfully. 
 
 " Yes, " said Mabel, "though you are a Unitarian, 
 I do not think religious opinions should ever interfere 
 with our social friendship. Thank God, we are not 
 bigots in Hawkstone, and there is no one, except 
 indeed" (she checked herself) " a Papist, with whom 
 I could not live on the most affectionate terms." 
 
 " God bless you, my dear, God bless you!" was 
 the answer ; and with a hearty and mutual kiss Mrs. 
 Maddox retreated to the door, and Mabel put out 
 her candles and " retired to her couch."
 
 44 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. lY. 
 
 Mabel was roused the next morning from a dis- 
 turbed dream, in which Mr. Marmaduke Brook, 
 assisted by Mrs. Maddox, was in the act of seizing 
 her splendid kettle-holder, and plunging it in the 
 gutter, by a merry peal of bells from the tower of 
 Hawkstone church. Nothing could sound more 
 light and cheerful. Bell took up the sound from 
 bell, and each seemed to rival the other in ringing 
 out some glad intelligence to the whole country 
 round. The sun shone brightly into Mabel's room ; 
 and again the peals rang round and round, and up 
 and down, now swelling out in full chorus, and now 
 dying gently down, only to resume the happy 
 clamour with renewed life and vigour. Wliat could 
 be the reason? A marriage? No! Miss Mabel was the 
 sworn confidant of all the Hawkstone young ladies, 
 and could not be taken by surprise on such a subject. 
 Some victory, or a naval battle, perhaps ? No ! 
 Though Mabel did not devote much study to the news- 
 papers, she knew that at that time we happened to 
 be in a profound peace, and not even to have an ally 
 to conquer untowardly, or a fleet of his to destroy. 
 What could be the matter ? On looking from her 
 window, to her still greater surprise, she discerned, 
 waving on the dark grey tower, a splendid pale blue 
 banner. Mabel rang her bell ; and little Connor, 
 the Grey girl, was sent to ascertain the news, while 
 Mabel herself pursued her toilet. Connor had not 
 far to go ; for Mabel, with a truly liberal and chari- 
 table spirit, was in the habit of maintaining that 
 politics, as well as religion, ought not to be con-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 45 
 
 sidered in the friendly associations of life, and that 
 every one should be allowed to follow his own 
 conscience, whether in obeying or disobeying laws. 
 She had, therefore, felt no scruple in establishing 
 her quarters in the house of Messrs. Silkem, the 
 radical linendrapers. And Messrs. Silkem willingly 
 sent up to Mabel the Morning Chronicle, which had 
 just arrived, containing all the news. The first 
 words which caught Mabel's eye, in large letters, 
 were " Glorious Triumph of Dissenters!" The next 
 were something about "inevitable downfal of a 
 tyrannical and priest-ridden Church ! " and, without 
 much difficulty, Mabel found that the bells were 
 ringing and the flag flying on the grey tower of the 
 old church to announce that a liberal measure had 
 just been carried in parliament, by the hands of a 
 conservative ministry ; a measure on which she had 
 heard both Mrs. and Charles Bevan declare turned 
 virtually the whole question of an established reli- 
 gion in this country. It seemed strange : but then 
 there was at Hawkstone, as in other towns, a 
 radical and unitarian churchwarden ; and poor 
 old Dr. Grant was too infirm to enter into the 
 dispute on the right of ringing the bells, and 
 Mr. Bentley, of course, could not move. And so 
 Mabel, a warm Conservative at heart, and whose 
 errors were only overflowings of real benevolence 
 and piety ill instructed, was compelled to dress her- 
 self to the sound of the tuneful church bells, ring- 
 ing out merrily the downfal of the Church, and 
 with nearly a darkened room, lest she should have 
 before her eyes the spectacle of that odious pale 
 blue banner, floating over the grey pinnacles of that 
 ancient tower. 
 
 Her toilet was soon over, and her breakfast 
 despatched ; but the latter not without many move- 
 ments from the table, and searchings among heaps
 
 46 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 of papers and references to drawers, in order for 
 Mabel to lose no time, but to arrange her business for 
 the day while she was eating her meals. For this 
 day, like every other day in the week, was a day of 
 business. And sometimes Mabel sighed, and some- 
 times she asked for pity and sympathy ; but at all 
 times she felt a little excitement and sense of im- 
 portance, which might (such is the frailty of our 
 nature) rise occasionally into something like vain- 
 gloriousness, as she thought how many things could 
 not be done without her. And to-day there was 
 the Grey School committee, and the National vSchool 
 to be visited. And JMr. Bentley's new plans for the 
 Sunday School to be talked over with four or five 
 other ladies, and the last private meeting with three 
 or four others to originate a new ladies' association 
 for the discouragement of drunkenness, and the 
 accounts of the Tract Society to be audited, and the 
 report of the Ladies' District Visiting Club to be 
 drawn up ; and, greatest of all, the first meeting of 
 the Ladies' Society for the Conversion of the L-ish, 
 which was to be held in the great ball-room at the 
 Bell, and where Mr. Bentley and INIr. Bryant would 
 each make a speech, and perhaps pay a compliment 
 to her " laborious and energetic offices as secretary," 
 amidst cries of "hear!" and "hear!" and the ami- 
 able congratulations of female friends to cover her 
 natural confusion. The day was filled up to the 
 brim. Still there was another object on which she 
 resolved, not without some misgivings, to be- 
 stow the first hour of the morning. Why did not 
 Mi's. Bevan come to the last night's meeting ? Was 
 there, as she feared, an anticipation of withdrawing 
 from it ? Did Mrs. Bevan disapprove of any thing 
 that had been done ? And Mabel could not rest till 
 these questions were solved. 
 
 Attired, as she always was attired, in her respect-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 47 
 
 able economical black silk cloak, and her respect- 
 able never-wearing-out black velvet bonnet, and, 
 sole relic of wealthier days, her handsome boa, 
 Mabel sallied forth — for in novels distinguished 
 persons always move in that way — into the High 
 Street of Hawkstone. There was seemingly a little 
 bustle. Two or three persons were congregated here, 
 one or two there. Mr. Brown the grocer was holding 
 a confabulation with Mr. More the chemist and Mr. 
 Alley the shoemaker, at the shoemaker's door. A 
 little knot had gathered round the stable entrance of 
 the Bell, waiting for the arrival of the Highflyer coach 
 from London. And at the corner of Westgate Street, 
 turning down to the Bank, Mr. Morgan was in close 
 conversation with Mr. Lomax, and evidently on 
 some deep subject, for one of Mr. M.'s hands had 
 seized Mr. L.'s button, and the other was busily 
 employed in laying down the law and dictating some 
 line of conduct, with a half-patronising and half- 
 reverential air, to which Mr. L. was listening con- 
 descendingly submissive, and not without gratifi- 
 cation, though at the same time importantly grave. 
 As she passes the other little groups, they make 
 way for her with more than ordinary deference. 
 Mr. Brown takes off his hat ; Mr. More smiles sig- 
 nificantly, and retreats within the shop to avoid 
 touching her dress. The hostlers at the Bell look 
 respectful and admiring. But both the gentlemen 
 at the corner are cool — cooler than usual ; and a 
 hasty good morning is all that they vouchsafe. " But 
 then they are evidently talking on business," thought 
 Mabel, who was not used to cool looks, and by no 
 means liked them. 
 
 But what makes Mabel on a sudden start, and 
 look in wonder at that long dead brick wall which 
 runs at the back of Mr. Aspland's garden ? Why 
 does the colour come to her cheek, and her heart
 
 48 'hawkstone 
 
 begin to flutter, and she looks out to see if any one 
 is behind her ? Mabel's eyes were arrested, as well 
 they might be, by her own name, in large white 
 letters, three feet high, and half a foot broad, painted 
 with artistic skill on the whole length of that red 
 brick wall, " Brook for ever ! " Mabel rubbed her 
 eyes, but it was no delusion. There was the wall, 
 and there her name ; and there, what struck her 
 most, the magic words " for ever ! " She was greatly 
 touched, flattered, surprised ; but still modestly, and 
 with a deep sense how little she deserved such a 
 testimony of popular approbation. She knew, in- 
 deed, that she was of some little use to the town ; 
 that the poor people always liked to see her at their 
 cottages ; that the school could not do without her ; 
 that she was secretary to no less than a dozen socie- 
 ties ; that her whole time was spent in doing good. 
 Still, like the gentleman from Oxford who went up 
 to London the day after he had obtained his first 
 class, and entered the Opera-house just as the whole 
 house rose up to thunder out their applause on the 
 entrance of the king, she was not prepared for such 
 a public manifestation of popular feeling. It was 
 too much. She preferred being left in retirement, 
 doing good by stealth: and, afraid lest persons 
 should gather round her, she put her parasol before 
 her face, and, casting a side glance on the gratifying 
 inscription, she passed on. But for Mabel's mo- 
 desty there was no escape ; she had scarcely turned 
 the corner of King Street, going down Prince's 
 Lane, than once more, on the front of Mr. Eussel's 
 old malt-house, there stood the same letters — the 
 letters of her own name ; not quite so large, indeed, 
 and this time in black paint instead of white, but 
 coupled with a longer suffix, " Brook and Religious 
 Liberty ! " Quite overcome, she thought of those 
 charitable sentiments, which she had so often ap-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 49 
 
 plauded, and professed, and with which she had en- 
 deavoured to hold together the sisterly societies of 
 Hawkstone, " without distinction of sect or party ;" 
 and could not but confess that, humble as she was, 
 her heart indeed did merit this tribute to her Chris- 
 tian benevolence. A little bewildered at finding 
 herself thus the marked object of popular gratitude 
 and admiration, before she saw clearly where she 
 was going, a rough " by-your-leave " compelled her 
 to make way for a dirty, fustian-clad, ragged-haired 
 man, with a short ladder on one shoulder, a mass of 
 paper hanging over one arm, and a black paste-pot, 
 with a huge brush sticking in it, in his other hand. 
 She had just time to save her silk cloak from the 
 paste-pot, and to cast a look of reproachful wonder 
 on a rude man, who showed so little deference for a 
 person so extensively and deservedly beloved, when 
 the bill-sticker proceeded to fix his ladder against 
 the wall, to smear his paste over it, to transfer a 
 long sheet of paper from his arm to the surface, to 
 descend his ladder, and vanish in a minute. Mabel 
 looked up as she passed ; — and once again, — conceive 
 her astonishment, — her own name, M. Brook, in 
 large letters, at the foot of some copious printing. 
 What to think she knew not. Short-sighted as she 
 was, it took a little time to find her glass, and exa- 
 mine the singular phenomenon. And then, alas ! 
 the mystery was dispelled. She read at the top of 
 the paper, " To the free and independent Electors 
 of the Borough of Hawkstone." She read one sen- 
 tence, which showed her that the address proceeded 
 from her amiable cousin Marmaduke, who solicited 
 the honour of their votes at the approaching parlia- 
 mentary election. Mabel passed on hastily, very 
 much surprised, a little ashamed, a little disap- 
 pointed, half laughing at herself for suffering such 
 silly thoughts in her head, more than half angry 
 
 E
 
 50 HA^YKSTOXE. 
 
 at her cousin for presuming to come forward on the 
 radical interest and disturb the peace of Hawk- 
 stone, after having behaved so ill to herself: and 
 yet the thought flitted past — it is a respectable 
 thing to be cousin to a member of parliament ! And 
 before the thought had passed by tliere was a 
 friendly hand placed within her own, and a pair of 
 laughing eyes were looking up in her face, with an 
 ironical congratulation. It was Anne Morgan, who 
 had just returned from one of her district visits, in 
 which she had been reading to a poor sick man, and 
 endeavouring to show him the necessity of coming 
 to church, but without being exactly able to explain 
 to him why he might not j ust as well go to chapel ; 
 and Anne was not sorry to escape from her difficult 
 task of enlightening ignorance with ignorance. 
 There were kind allusions to last evening's agree- 
 able meeting — kind hopes that Mabel was not tired 
 with her gaiety — and kind hopes from Mabel Iier- 
 self, that Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and all the children 
 were well. 
 
 Yes, all well ; Mr. Morgan tolerable. " But," said 
 Anne, sinking down into seriousness, " you must have 
 heard of his being called up last night. Poor Mary 
 Vincent — extremely ill, they say, with the ty]:)hus 
 fever. A.nd my father was obliged to go there 
 again this morning. But we hope she is a little 
 better." Poor Mary Vincent ! she, who would not 
 go to the ball because she could not dance with the 
 misery of her fellow-creatures in her mind. And 
 she, it might be added, the simple, retired, pure- 
 minded, sensible girl, who was growing up in the 
 village of Hurst to be a blessing to her parents, and 
 a pearl beyond price to any clergyman wlio could 
 win her affections, and associate her with him in the 
 manifold duties of his parish. And now she was 
 lying on a bed of sickness — perhaps never to rise
 
 HAWKSTONE. 51 
 
 from it again. And many hearts, as Mabel knew, 
 were wrapt up in her as in a precious treasure; 
 and one, above all, whom Mabel thought, with com- 
 fort, that she was not likely to meet where she was 
 now going, for she believed Charles Bevan to be in 
 Oxford. 
 
 It was, therefore, with no little dismay that in 
 Mrs. Bevan's passage she observed a hat and stick 
 on the table ; and, on entering the little drawing- 
 room, which served also for a library, she found 
 himself, as usual, with his large book before him, 
 and his pencil in his hand, and his note-book at his 
 side. His mother's chair and her work-table showed 
 she had not left the room long. And Charles was 
 sitting with his back to the door, with his head 
 resting on his hand, but not reading ; for Mabel ob- 
 served afterwards that the leaves of his book were 
 blistered with tears. But Charles had been brought 
 up in a school which did not encourage scenes — 
 which looked on human feelings — real feelings, 
 that is, and innocent — too reverently to tolerate 
 display of them. If there was one thing which he 
 despised, it was theatrical sensibility. And thus 
 the sight of Mabel quieted him at once; and he 
 could enter into the common topics of a visit 
 without betraying himself. He had come down, he 
 said, from London unexpectedly last night, and took 
 to himself the blame of his mother's absence from 
 the Dorcas Society. And his mother soon ap- 
 peared to answer for herself; — her usual quietness 
 of manner, shaded over by evident sorrow, and her 
 eye glancing unobservedly on her son with an ex- 
 pression of affectionate compassion, which went to 
 Mabel's heart. 
 
 " A note from Mr. Morgan, ma'am," said the 
 servant, following his mistress into the room. And 
 Mabel saw Charles take up his pencil, and begin 
 E 2 
 
 UBR^R^ .„. ...mois
 
 52 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 writing hurriedlj, as if not daring to look up. His 
 mother's hand shook violently as she attempted to 
 open it ; but, to Mabel's great delight, her face re- 
 laxed as she read it ; and, putting it before her son, 
 with a slight pressure of the hand, returned, Oh ! 
 how warmly ! she turned to Mabel to inform her that 
 it was a line from ]Mr. Morgan, who had just re- 
 turned from Hurst, to say that things were going 
 on well, and all danger was over. Mabel only saw 
 that Charles's eyes were turned up for one moment 
 with an expression of thankfulness and piety such as 
 she had never seen before ; and then, while the two 
 ladies were in conversation, he folded up his papers, 
 and without being observed left the room. 
 
 Nearly half an hour had elapsed before he re- 
 turned, with a composed and cheerful countenance, 
 — so much so, that Mabel was emboldened to look 
 him full in the face, and even to appeal to him as 
 arbiter on the discussion which she was then hold- 
 ing with his mother. " I am explaining to Miss 
 Brook," said Mrs. Bevan, " the reasons which we 
 were talking over last night, and which have in- 
 duced me to think of leaving the Dorcas Society. 
 But I would rather she should hear them from you ; 
 for I am not quite sure that it is not an evil sign 
 where ladies undertake to be teachers, and to lead 
 instead of following." 
 
 Charles smiled, with something of an affii-mative 
 in his smile which Mabel did not like. Besides 
 this, she was not a little afraid of him, for their 
 opinions often differed; and she was conscious of 
 something defective in her own system, what it was 
 precisely she could not tell, which made her un- 
 comfortable in his superiority. 
 
 " Ai'e you aware, my dear mother," he said, 
 " what you are doing, — proposing to me to under- 
 take a war with all the ladies' societies in Hawkstone,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 53 
 
 with Miss Brook at their head, and all the liberality 
 and charity in the country to come to their rescue, 
 myself almost single handed? I must expect to 
 have my eyes torn out with the points of buckles, 
 as the Athenian ladies destroyed their rebel, or to 
 be pricked to death with scissors, like poorL'Escuyer, 
 in the church at Avignon, by the ladies of the 
 French revolution. For, whenever there is a revo- 
 lution there you will certainly find that ladies, like 
 other members of society, fall out of their proper 
 places, and that they are the cause of the greatest 
 mischief. In the Lord George Gordon riots," he 
 continued, affecting to look grave, " it is a well- 
 known fact, that the lower ranks of London ladies 
 formed the most troublesome and destructive portion 
 of the mobs — burning houses, and bursting open 
 prisons. And I need not remind you of the pois- 
 sardes of Paris, who stormed Versailles and over- 
 awed the convention, or of the more genteel Parisian 
 ladies, who subsequently petitioned the Assembly, 
 that they might be allowed to trail a pike in the 
 Champ de Mars, and who used to take their work 
 and sit every morning under the guillotine." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" exclaimed Mabel, half- 
 offended and half-perplexed. " Do you seriously 
 mean to compare us with those horrible wretches ? 
 Are these your new Oxford notions ? " 
 
 Charles smiled at her warmth. " No, my dear 
 Miss Brook, far be it from me to make any such 
 comparison; and far be it from you to lay upon 
 poor Oxford all the strange notions which strange 
 men belonging to it may take into their heads. 
 Poor Oxford has enough to answer for already, has 
 it not ?" he asked, laughingly. And Mabel looked 
 grave ; for, though she had not found time to learn 
 what Oxford notions really were, Mr. Bentley had 
 E 3
 
 54 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 preached a most powerful sermon against the new 
 heresy, as he called it, and always shook his head 
 with a profoundly melancholy expression whenever 
 the subject was mentioned, as it often was men- 
 tioned in the little Hawkstone coteries. Nor must 
 we forget that she had more than once seen the 
 Record newspaper, which distinctly charged the 
 whole University with popery ; and the statement 
 being in print, and moreover in a religious news- 
 paper, who could hesitate to believe it ? 
 
 " But you look with such contempt," she said, 
 plaintively, " on us poor women, as if we were 
 wholly useless, mere slaves, fit only to talk scandal 
 or sew silk." 
 
 " Ask my mother," said Charles, " if I speak 
 contemptuously of women." And his voice softened 
 as he spoke, and his eye became graver, and Mabel 
 thought moistened, for his thoughts just then had 
 turned on Mr. Morgan's note. " Be assured," he 
 continued, " no man ever spoke contemptuously of 
 women without having a bad heart as well as a bad 
 head. I believe that God made them to be a help- 
 meet for man, — to be his great earthly support, his 
 comfort, his encouragement in trials, his nurse, his 
 earliest teacher, his last friend, his mother, and 
 sister, and wife. And without mother, and sister, 
 and wife, what would man be ? And yet," he added, 
 " there may be a peculiar sphere in which only they 
 ought to act ; and they may overstep their duties, 
 and be too active, too zealous, too enlightened, as it 
 is called. And they may want guidance and control 
 even in their best of actions, their charities, and 
 devotions, — may they not ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Mabel ; " and yet what would 
 you do in this town of Hawkstone, for instance, if 
 it were not for ladies ? Dr. Grant paralytic ; poor
 
 HAWKSTONE. 55 
 
 Mr. Bentley fagged to death with his three services 
 on the Sunday, and all the weekly duty, and a popu- 
 lation of thousands to take care of, with only 150/. 
 a year. How can he attend to the schools, or visit 
 the poor, or manage the hundred things which are 
 implied in the care of a parish — much more now the 
 manufactories have brought here such a number of 
 poor, and there is so much sickness among them ? 
 No gentleman can attend to these things ; they 
 cannot teach in the schools, or attend to the sick, or 
 have any thing to do with cutting out flannels, and 
 distributing tracts. What is to become of the town 
 if the ladies are not to be active ? " 
 
 " And you may add," subjoined Charles, " what 
 is to become of the whole country if the towns are 
 not taken care of — if the ladies are not active 
 — if such masses of population are brought together 
 as we see throughout England, to ferment and rot 
 in heaps, without any one to give them religion, or 
 to stand over them constantly with a high and 
 parental authority, acting on them like the eye of 
 a parent on a headstrong child, not by force, which 
 soon must fail, but by gratitude, kindness, shame, 
 advice, assistance, admonition — the ten thousand 
 secret influences which regulate the human heart, 
 and which no books, no teaching, can create, nothing 
 but personal, close, constant, minute, affectionate 
 association with a power above them." 
 
 " And this, then," said Mabel, triumphantly, 
 " must be done by ladies ? " 
 
 " Much of it, undoubtedly. I fear my fingers 
 would move but clumsily, if I took my mother's 
 needle out of her hand, and set to work on that 
 white lily Avhich she is embroidering. And I fear 
 also, my dear Miss Brook, that you would be a 
 little puzzled at these strange hieroglyphics," (and 
 E 4
 
 56 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 he pointed to his Greek folio). " Each of us to his 
 natural vocation. Educating young children, nurs- 
 ing the sick, regulating families — above all, exhibit- 
 ing without your knowing it a spectacle of purity, 
 gentleness, and aifection to us whose hearts are so 
 often seared and tainted by the rough commerce of 
 the world, — these are the tasks which nature has 
 assigned to you, and with which we are not to 
 interfere. And in these you can do incalculable 
 service, both to the Church and to the country. No 
 Church can be perfect without you. And how 
 highly the Church and churchmen value you, you 
 may learn even from the simple fact, that the Church 
 itself has been named with your name, and delights 
 in assuming your relations as a mother and a 
 spouse. Therefore never charge me with speaking 
 contemptuously of women." 
 
 Mabel listened, and certainly felt flattered. But 
 why Mr. Bevan should have spoken of services to 
 the Church — why he did not say, in disseminating 
 the Gospel, or in making men Christians, or doing 
 them good generally, she did not exactly see. It 
 was one of his strange Oxford notions ; and she 
 felt sorry that he was so bigoted. 
 
 " Shall I tell you," continued Charles, as he stood 
 before her, and perceived what was passing in her 
 mind, by her not venturing to look up, — " shall I 
 tell you, why I laid so much stress on the word 
 Church ? Or are you afraid lest I should convert 
 you to popery ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly," said Mabel, half-peeping from 
 under her bonnet, and. yet a little afraid. 
 
 " I spoke of the Church," said Charles, " because 
 if we are to engage either in serving God or in 
 blessing his creatures, — that is, if we are to under- 
 take any work of any description either from piety 
 or charity, — we must undertake it as the servants
 
 HAWKSTONE. 57 
 
 of God, according as he wills, in submission to that 
 authority which he has placed in the world for that 
 purjDose. What would you say if some active clever 
 boy in the National School, wishing to benefit his 
 schoolfellows and do good, were to put himself at 
 the head of a class and insist on teaching them their 
 lessons, instead of the master, or without consulting 
 the master, or when the master forbade it, — would 
 you think the excuse sufficient that he was most 
 zealous in doing good ? Whether he did good or not, 
 would be another question. But the very attempt 
 would be an act of insubordination, would it not ? 
 and as such you would punish it. The children are 
 placed under the governors of the school, are they 
 not ? and no one has a right to interfere with them 
 but the governors themselves, or persons authorised 
 by them." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mabel, for she was one of the 
 most active governors herself, and no one was 
 more ready to vindicate their claim to an implicit 
 obedience. Not two days before Patty Sykes had 
 been sent away at her suggestion, because Patty's 
 mother had come to the school and interfered with 
 some regulations of the committee, that no parent 
 should speak with the children during school-time. 
 
 " Think also," continued Charles, " that to do 
 good to man is not an easy task. To make them wise 
 and virtuous, and religious, happy upon earth, and 
 fit for happiness in heaven, — this is not a light thing. 
 We must be sure that what we teach them is true — 
 sure that what we would have them do is really 
 good — sure that God's blessing is upon us, that he is 
 not against us, frustrating our empty efforts to do 
 good without him, or against him : and unless there 
 is God's own voice confirming us in all these things, 
 what do we know of them ? "
 
 o8 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 *' Nothing," said Mabel, " certainly." 
 
 " And how can we hear this voice," he continued, 
 " unless we hear it from his ministers, from those 
 whom he has sent himself, and specially commis- 
 sioned to deliver his message to mankind ? " 
 
 " We hear it from the Bible," said Mabel, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " We hear it from the Bible, assuredly," said 
 Charles. " But the Bible is but a document put 
 into our hands by the ministers to whom it is en- 
 trusted by God himself. If I sent to you a message 
 by a friend, and that friend gave you a paper con- 
 taining the message, but containing also an injunc- 
 tion that you should attend to the explanation of 
 that friend, ask his advice, consult his opinion, re- 
 spect him as my own representative, would you 
 say that the document alone, whether you under- 
 stood it or not, doubted about it or not, was all that 
 you would look to, — that you would listen to no 
 further information from that friend himself of the 
 interpretation I put upon the document ? " 
 
 Mabel was silent, for she had heard so often from 
 Mr. Bentley of " the Bible and the Bible alone," 
 and of the attempts of the Oxford heretics to super- 
 sede the Bible by tradition, that she knew, as she 
 afterwards declared, that something was wrong in 
 the argument, though what it was she could not 
 discover : and as Mr. Bentley had never explained 
 to her that there was a considerable difference be- 
 tween a power in human hands to decree articles of 
 faith beyond and opposed to the Bible, and a power 
 in the same hands to convey down, under suitable 
 checks against corruption, the same truths which are 
 contained in the Bible, Mabel stumbled, as other per- 
 sons less ignorant and not more well intentioned do, 
 on the fatal word " tradition," and already lamented
 
 HAWKSTONE. 59 
 
 that she had ever come within such a popish atmo- 
 s^ohere. 
 
 " But what has this to do with the Dorcas So- 
 ciety ? " she ventured to ask, in hope of escaping 
 from her difficulties. 
 
 " I wished," said Charles, as he smiled good- 
 naturedly at the sight of her perplexities (for 
 Mabel, with all her little ignorances, had too much 
 goodness of character not to be a favourite with 
 him) — " I wished to suggest that when ladies, like 
 other persons, do undertake missions of piety or 
 offices of charity, they should place themselves 
 under the guidance of the Church, that is, of God's 
 own appointed ministers of piety and charity, and 
 act as a part of that body, according to its rules, 
 with a constant reference to its welfare and prin- 
 ciples." 
 
 " Surely," said Mabel ; " but where is the Church? 
 Are not all who preach the Gospel ministers of 
 God ? " 
 
 " Not exactly," answered Charles. " K the letter 
 I send you by the messenger is stolen from him, 
 and presented to you by another person, that person 
 does not become by the mere fact of such a pre- 
 sentation my representative and minister, does 
 he?" 
 
 " No," said Mabel. 
 
 " And if persons not appointed by God do hap-s^ 
 j*%^ preach the word of God, does this make thenr 
 ambassadors of God ? " 
 
 " No, certainly?^ 
 
 " But who are appointed ? How am I, a poor 
 ignorant person, with none of those great books 
 within my reach, and if they were in my reach, 
 without means to understand them, — how am I to 
 decide who are the true ministers of God, when they
 
 60 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 all put into my hands the same Bible, and each 
 claims to be such himself ? " 
 
 What Charles's answer would have been to this 
 problem it is difficult to say ; for at this moment the 
 door opened, a morning visitor from the country 
 was announced ; and Mabel, gathering up her black 
 silk pelisse and adjusting her boa, shook hands with 
 both Charles and his mother, whether cordially or 
 not she could not exactly decide, and took her 
 leave with a promise that her question should be 
 put again at some more favourable time.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 61 
 
 CHAP. Y. 
 
 And who is the lady with the green silk cloak and 
 red-ribboned bonnet, who has seized Mr. Bentley's 
 arm at the comer of King Street, close by that large 
 house with the little house fastened on at its side, 
 and bearing on its brass plate the name of Mr. 
 Atkinson, solicitor? 
 
 It is Mrs. Maddox ; and she is busily repeat- 
 ing to Mr. Bentley, who, as chairman of the Ladies' 
 Branch Bible Society, cannot but listen attentively 
 to one of the chief members of the committee, all 
 the information which had been collected respecting 
 the mysterious stranger at the Bell. 
 
 " He is a Papist," said Mrs. Maddox ; and IMr. 
 Bentley's face assumed a rueful look. 
 
 " He wears a cross," said Mrs. Maddox ; and 
 Mr. Bentley might have pointed at the cross over 
 the church porch, but by chance he did not think 
 of it. 
 
 " He fasts," continued Mrs. Maddox. And Mr. 
 Bentley might have informed her that in one of the 
 pages of the Church of England Prayer Book there 
 were especial injunctions for fasting. But the fact 
 was, that Bentley's studies had not lain in the 
 rubric, and he never thought of it. 
 
 " He has a breviary," continued Mrs. Maddox. 
 And here again, as Bentley had never read a bre- 
 viary, he could only answer, 
 
 " You do not say so ? " 
 
 " He would give nothing to the subscription for 
 the fire," said IVIrs. Maddox. And she had intended
 
 62 HAWK STONE. 
 
 to conclude with a request, that if he should come 
 forward on Lord Claremont's interest for . the bo- 
 rough of Hawkstone, Mr. Bentley would refuse him 
 his vote, and give it to Mr. Marmaduke Brook, the 
 clever young man, who was then staying in her own 
 house ; but Bentley was obliged to interrupt her by 
 explaining, that the stranger had given something 
 — a very large sum — one hundred guineas; that 
 he had given it last Sunday among the alms offered 
 ggrthe Holy Communion, and Bentley had found it 
 in a small packet folded up with a note to himself, 
 expressing a wish that it might be aj^propriated, if 
 the clergyman and churchwardens thought fit, to 
 the relief of the sufferers by the fire. Mrs. Maddox 
 was thrown back surprised — even dismayed ; for 
 what chance could Mr. Marmaduke Brook, with his 
 1500/. commissionership, have against such means 
 and such liberality ? 
 
 " Mere bribery," she said. But Bentley checked 
 her observation. He did not think it necessary to 
 add, that in the same slip of paper there was a request 
 that eighty of the hundred should be appropriated to 
 such sufferers as were members of the Church, and 
 the other twenty only given to Dissenters in case 
 they were in considerable distress, and could not 
 obtain assistance from the frequenters of their seve- 
 ral chapels. 
 
 " Strange !" thought Bentley — " very illiberal :" 
 but so it was. And Bentley forgot just at that moment 
 the injunction of the Apostle " to do good unto all 
 men, but especially unto those that are of the house- 
 hold of faith." 
 
 For more reasons than a mere love of gossip, 
 which, as Aristotle tells us, is natural to all men, Mrs. 
 Maddox would probably have hastened away at once 
 to carry this intelligence to Mr. Marmaduke's com- 
 mittee, then sitting in secret conference in her own
 
 HAWKSTONE. 63 
 
 drawing-room. But just as she was wishing Bentley 
 good-morning, who should issue out from Mr. At- 
 kinson's brass-knockered brass-plated door, and es- 
 corted to the door with very deferential politeness 
 by the grave Mr. Atkinson in person, but the mys- 
 terious stranger himself ! He passed Mr. Bentley 
 with a gentlemanly bow of recognition, but found 
 considerable difficulty in executing the same ma- 
 noeuvre with Mrs. Maddox ; for what with the sur- a 
 prise, and the notion of being so close to a Papi^j^ ' 
 and the indignation at his standing against Mr. 
 Brook, and at the same time a little awe inspired 
 by his great dignity of manner, and a little con- 
 fusion at the consciousness of her own thoughts, 
 besides a doubt whether she ought to notice him, 
 and a resolution to toss up her head as he passed — 
 all these things so embarrassed poor Mrs. Maddox, 
 that shifting backwards and forwards from side to 
 side, she ended in very nearly pushing her parasol 
 into his eye, and compelled him, with an apology for 
 his awkwardness, to step out into the road. But the 
 apology was gracious, the voice refined, the manner 
 noble. And Mrs. Maddox, after achieving her evo- 
 lution, could not help looking back at his tall com- 
 manding figure. She then recollected (it is singular 
 how recollections of the kind do come upon us) that 
 it was her duty, a duty which she reproached her- 
 self much for having so long neglected, to call on 
 Mrs. Atkinson to inquire after the health of little 
 Jesse Atkinson, the youngest but four of Mrs. Atkin- 
 son's ten children, and who had pricked herself with a 
 thorn a full fortnight back, and had been suffering 
 from a swelled finger. She moved to the door, rang 
 the bell, and to her great delight Mrs. Atkinson was 
 at home. But Mrs. Atkinson, a plain, sensible, 
 domestic person, little stirred by curiosity, little dis- 
 posed to communicate her husband's secrets, and
 
 64 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 caring for little in the world but her own family 
 duties, and Mr. Atkinson's comfort, and her ten chil- 
 dren's health and happiness, was not the person 
 from whom much information could be extracted 
 on the subject of the mysterious stranger. She was 
 surprised at the call, for there were political reasons 
 why Mrs. Maddox did not call often, — jVIi*. Atkin- 
 son was a Conservative, Mr.Maddox aRadical, — she 
 «^ was surprised at the tender inquiry after Jesse's 
 ^fipiger, for Jesse's finger had been quite well ten 
 days ago. And when Mrs. Maddox's careless well- 
 managed " by-the-by ' ' (for Mrs. Maddox was rather 
 an intriguer, and understood diplomacy) had brought 
 forward the subject of the stranger, Mrs. Atkinson 
 knew nothing about him. She believed he had 
 some business with Mr. Atkinson — he had been often 
 to the house, closeted with Mr. A. in the library -r- 
 was fond of children. 
 
 " Oh, yes," cried little Willy, who was in the room 
 playing ; " and do you know, yesterday, when I 
 was in the library, he came in and took me on 
 his knee and asked me my name, and told me such a 
 pretty story ! " 
 
 " How artful and electioneering I " thought Mrs. 
 Maddox. 
 
 " What was his name ? " 
 
 Mrs. Atkinson did not know. 
 
 "Was he rich?" 
 
 She could not tell. 
 
 " How long would he stay in Hawkstone ? " 
 
 She had not heard. 
 
 " Had INIrs. Atkinson. seen him?" 
 
 Yes, for a minute, but only for a minute, except 
 at church, when he sat in Mr. Atkinson's pew. 
 
 " At church ! " exclaimed Mrs. Maddox. " Why, 
 he is a Papist!" 
 
 " I should think not," observed IMiss Simpson,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 65 
 
 the governess, who had been sitting by in silence ; 
 for every time that I have been to eleven o'clock 
 prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, he has been at 
 church, and also on the last Saint's day." 
 ** " How singular," thought ISIrs. Maddox, and also 
 M*s. Atkinson. 
 
 " What can a gentleman have to do at church on 
 a week day ? He is not a clergyman, is he ? " 
 
 " No :" the eldest Miss Atkinson had remarked 
 one day that he wore a light-coloured waistcoat. 
 
 " Any relation to Lord Claremont?" 
 
 No one knew. 
 
 " Had he been asked to dinner ? " 
 
 It was a bold question, and Mrs. Atkinson felt 
 offended. But Mrs. Maddox's patience was ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 " Yes ; Mr. Atkinson, she believed, without men- 
 tioning it to her, had asked him to dine last Friday, 
 which he had declined on the ground that he never 
 dined out on Fridays." 
 
 " He has been very liberal in an odd way about 
 the poor people at the fire," observed Mrs. Maddox, 
 severely. 
 
 " Has he ? " said Mrs. Atkinson. 
 
 And Mrs. Maddox in despair rose up and took 
 her leave, ejaculating mentally, or, as it has been 
 correctly defined, not ejaculating at all, but keeping 
 close within her own breast, the exclamation, " Oh, 
 that impracticable woman ! " 
 
 And in the mean time what had become of the 
 stranger ? He had turned into the high street, 
 not unfollowed by curious eyes, had crossed over 
 the bridge, passed by the huge, hideous manufac- 
 tory with its hundred windows, and its tall, smoke- 
 vomiting chimney ; from whence he had pursued the 
 high road, until he reached the old lodge gate of the 
 Priory, and here he entered, without asking leave. 
 
 F
 
 66 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " Please, sir, be you going to the house ? " cried 
 an old grey-headed man, endeavouring to pursue 
 him, and warn him from trespassing. 
 
 " Yes, my good friend," said the stranger, return- 
 ing, and seeming to recollect himself. " Pray, is it 
 shown ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the old man. 
 
 " Is any one there ? " 
 
 " No one, sir, and has not been for many a long 
 year since Lady Esther's death, — all gone away to 
 foreign parts." 
 
 The stranger said nothing, but walked on — and 
 he walked with folded arms, slowly, and stopping at 
 times, as if oppressed by a multitude of recollections. 
 And then he looked up and round with a searching 
 eye, as if to see if any thing was missing from an 
 old and much-loved picture. And as the road, 
 winding under its dark masses of wood, rose gra- 
 dually along the side of a steep declivity, he stopped 
 here and there as at well-known resting-places, and 
 seemed to search in the blue landscape, now nearly 
 obscured by trees, for a distant spire, the gleam of 
 the river beneath, the grey smoke of HaAvk stone, 
 as for old familiar objects which he longed to be- 
 hold again. At one point he struck off from the 
 road into the tangled thicket, until 1^ reached a 
 knoll projecting over the river, and commanding 
 one of its fairest reaches. And the old bench Avliich 
 he found there, decayed and fallen from its sup- 
 port, and furred with fungi and moss, he took up 
 reverentially, and replaced, as if it were some- 
 thing that he valued; And further on he stopped 
 to examine an old beech tree, under which some 
 deer had been reposing ; and the gre}- silvery bark 
 still bore on it the traces of initials which the 
 stranger stooped down to examine, and was obliged 
 to lean against the trunk and unbutton his coat, as
 
 HAWKSTONE. 67 
 
 if to recover breath from some internal pressure. 
 His walk was soon resumed. And yet his object 
 was not the house ; for on reaching the summit of 
 the hill the road turned down again between two 
 bold swelling downs tufted with beech and oak, and 
 matted in parts with brown fern and thickets of 
 holly and thorn. The deer were lying in groupes on 
 the sides of the valley : and nearly at the bottom, 
 on a gentle eminence, rose the grey, gabled, deep- 
 windowed mansion, with its avenue of cedar and 
 chestnut stretching out into the lower park, and^ 
 close by it, a small churchyard and church nearly 
 hidden in overgrown plantations of evergreens. 
 Even under a grey October sky, with the damp 
 dews upon the grass, and the sere leaf dropping from 
 the trees, it was a scene which might well attract a 
 passer-by to pause. But now all was bright and 
 summer-like, and the old windows of the mansion 
 were lighted up with a bright afternoon sun, and 
 the very air was sweet and gladsome. And the 
 stranger did pause, but only for a minute ; and then, 
 instead of descending to the house, he diverged 
 across the turf, following a narrow sheep-path almost 
 buried in moss, and threading a wild forest brake 
 which crowned the top of the park. 
 
 " Ai'e you going to the ruins, sir ? " said a shep- 
 herd boy who met him. " You won't be able to 
 find your way by yourself, sir. Can I show you, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " No, I thank you," said the stranger ; and he 
 plunged into the wood, and made his way as if he 
 knew each step, through brake and briar, and 
 matted wood and coppice, till he reached the green 
 sward again, and below him, embosomed in that 
 quiet solitary dell, with the oak and the beech 
 clustered round it, and the yew trees and junipers 
 studding every knoll, and the little stream fretting 
 F 2
 
 68 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 and chafing under its rocky bank, there stood the 
 ruin. 
 
 And as it broke upon him, once more the stranger 
 stopped, and sat, or aUnost sank down, on the trunk 
 of an old uprooted oak tree, gazing on those grey 
 relics with thoughts far deeper than mere admira- 
 tion of their beauty. 
 
 And yet they were beautiful indeed. Few mo- 
 nastic buildings had escaped the plunder and dese- 
 cration of Henry the Eighth's times so well as 
 Hawkstone Priory. Much of the outer wall, with 
 its gateway overhung with ivy, was still standing. 
 One gable of the refectory and part of its oriel 
 window hung together, but almost in the air : the 
 prior's garden could yet be traced, though a slim ash 
 had shot up by the tall chimney of the prior's lodg- 
 ings : and two arches of the cloisters, exquisitely 
 wi'ought and wreathed with ivy, had been spared in 
 the general devastation, as if to show what the 
 church had raised, and the state had destroyed. 
 But the chapel was the principal feature. The roof, 
 indeed, had fallen in, but one whole row of windows, 
 with tracery almost running wild in its richness, 
 and even fragments of painted glass still discernible 
 in the upper compartments, showed that Hawkstone 
 Priory had been the work of no mean hand. Two 
 clustered pillars still rose up from the green turf, 
 where the antechapel had stood. The great east 
 window, nearly gutted, retained only one slender 
 shaft, supporting a hanging fragment of masonry, 
 which threatened every moment to fall. But through 
 it was seen the bright eastern sky and the bank 
 beyond the river, with its grey rock and gnarled 
 trunks and brake of gorse, melted down into a hazy 
 softness. And the stranger's eye wandered over it, 
 not without thought, and then fixed on a little pro- 
 jecting oratory still perfect in all its parts, and of
 
 HAWKSTONE. 69 
 
 which the battlements and pinnacles had been even 
 recently repaired, which was attached to the eastern 
 extremity. At last he seemed to summon up re- 
 solution, descended into the dell, and as he entered 
 within the walls of the chapel, roofless as it was, 
 he reverently uncovered his head, for he stood on 
 consecrated ground, ground which no act of robbery 
 or tyranny could ever render common. 
 
 Without stopping to examine the masses of 
 carving, grotesque and luxuriant, with which the 
 ground was cumbered, he advanced at once to the 
 east end, paused before the place where the altar 
 had stood, and inclined his head, and then ap- 
 proached a strong iron-grated door, fixed in the 
 wall, and fastened with chains and padlocks, long 
 since covered with rust. Twenty years had elapsed 
 since that door had been opened ; and when last it 
 had been opened the stranger remembered well 
 how he had stood as a boy beside it, drest out with 
 the trappings of woe, and had watched with a cold 
 awe that nearly dried up tears a long funereal train 
 lower through it into its deep dark resting place 
 the coffin of the being whom he loved best in the 
 world. How many things had passed over his head 
 since that melancholy hour ! How many things 
 were yet to come, if it should please God to enable 
 him to accomplish the plans which were forming in 
 his breast ! How much must he sacrifice, how 
 much had he given up for ever, if he was to abide 
 by their execution! Should he have strength to 
 do it ? And that tall, commanding, noble form 
 turned away from the iron grate, and fell upon his 
 face before the altar, with his lip quivering and the 
 tears streaming down his cheeks, praying God in 
 the hour of temptation to be his guide and defender, 
 and even now in the day of peril to save his holy 
 Church. 
 
 F 3
 
 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 But the stranger is leaving the ruins hastily, and 
 looks back as he ascends the side of the valley to 
 listen to some merry light-hearted music — a fife 
 and flute, and even a drum, which, mingled with 
 approaching voices and the murmur of a cheerful 
 crowd, is approaching through the wood below. 
 They issue from the trees in gay procession ; first 
 the band, then a body of respectable looking men 
 in blue coats with white wands, then, four and four 
 in lengthened line, men, and women, and children, 
 all drest in holiday clothes, gay and smiling, and 
 each bearing teacups in their hands, and some of 
 them teakettles. It is the Hawkstone Temperance 
 Society, met to celebrate their third anniversary 
 by a merry and innocent tea-drinking amidst the 
 ruins of the priory. And the rubbish in the chapel 
 is soon cleared sufficiently to arrange the deal tables 
 on their tressels ; and no place so convenient as 
 the altar to light three or four fires, each with their 
 simmering kettle. And the cakes are produced 
 from the baskets, and the young persons are all 
 seated in rows with their clean cups before them, 
 so decent and quiet, so very respectable. Who 
 shall complain of the progress of society, or of the 
 state of our manufacturing population ? The signal 
 is given ; and Mr. Bowler, a neighbouring squire, 
 with his bald shining head and good-natured face, 
 is pressed by Mr. Bentley, and Mr. Bryant, and 
 Mr.Armstrong the Baptist minister, and Mr. How- 
 ell the Independent minister, and Mr. Mason the
 
 HAWKSTONE. 71 
 
 Quaker, and Mr. Priestley the Unitarian, all of 
 them pressing him (he having consented ten days 
 ago to submit to being pressed) to take the chair. 
 For who more fit to preside over a moral and re- 
 ligious social meeting than Mr. Bowler ? a good, 
 kind man, a justice of the peace, and, above all (it 
 made it so respectable, so free from party or sec- 
 tarian spirit), a layman. And Mr. Bowler therefore 
 is moved into the chair, and ]Mi\ Bentley, and Mr. 
 Bryant, and Mr. Armstrong, and Mr. Howell, and 
 Mr. Mason, and Mr. Priestley, range themselves by 
 his side. There is a grace to be said, and Mi\ Bowler 
 looks round deferentially to ask which of the clergy- 
 men is to say it ; and the other clergymen look 
 deferentially to Mr. Bentley, as if anxious to pay 
 him a compliment, and therefore Mr. Bentley says 
 grace. But, as one of the children belonging to 
 the National School remarked to the child sitting 
 next her, it was not the same grace which Mr. 
 Bentley said when the National School children had 
 roast beef and plum pudding at the coronation, for 
 then he had ended it in the same form in which the 
 prayers in the Prayer Book ended ; now he left this 
 out. They did not know that Mr. Priestley, the 
 Unitarian minister, was now sitting opposite him, 
 and that Mr. Bentley had too much delicacy to hurt 
 his feelings by introducing any allusion to peculiar 
 doctrines. The tea was drank, the cake eaten, 
 with hearty relish, but temperately, as became the 
 occasion ; and as they emptied cup after cup, there 
 was a conscious gravity about the process, and little 
 side glancings of eyes to see if others were looking ; 
 and the generality seemed to sit uneasy on the 
 benches,- as if they did not exactly know what to 
 do with their hands. And the conversation was 
 rather forced, with long pauses between, except 
 when some bolder spirit, anxious to enliven the 
 F 4
 
 72 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 meeting cried aloud for more tea, and ostentatiously 
 swallowed it, with many self-congratulations that it 
 could not get into his head. But then the Tem- 
 perance Society was a voluntary meeting assembled 
 to do that of themselves which neither God com- 
 manded nor man enforced ; and, somehow or another, 
 voluntary acts of this kind cannot be done without 
 persons thinking of themselves, and therefore at 
 times feeling awkward. But the awkwardness all 
 vanished when a loud rapping on the table was 
 heard at the upper end, and Mr, Bowler's bald head 
 and sleek good-humoured face, with all eyes up- 
 turned to it, was seen rising to address the meeting. 
 Unhappily the exact address itself has been lost to 
 posterity by the loss of the reporter's notes, but as 
 Mr. Bowler will make nearly the same speech at 
 the next anniversary, and indeed at every other 
 religious meeting in which he will be asked to take 
 the chair, those who are curious to hear it may still 
 hope for a chance of success. It began, we know, 
 with " ladies and gentlemen," at which the little 
 boys and girls, and the young men from the factory 
 made loud demonstrations of applause. It then 
 proceeded to enlarge on the incapacity of Mr. Bow- 
 ler himself for the high and distinguished office 
 which he had been invited to fill, with many humble 
 protestations of his want of talents, and learning, 
 and eloquence, in which the meeting seemed con- 
 tentedly to acquiesce, and did not make against 
 them such decided remonstrances and denials as 
 Mr. Bowler had expected : Mr. Bentley, indeed, said 
 " no, no," but it was uttered Avith a faint voice, and 
 did not reach farther than Mr. Bowler himself, who 
 bowed gratefully and modestly, but still as conscious 
 that Mr. Bentley was right and he himself was 
 wrong. 
 
 A sentence followed in a different strain, begin-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 73 
 
 ning with a "But;" and when Mr. Bowler had 
 enlarged in the most glowing and pathetic terms on 
 his devotion to the welfare of his fellow-creatures, 
 and especially of the Temperance Society, " an in- 
 stitution which formed an aera in the world, and on 
 which the safety of the world depended," all his 
 hearers felt their own importance rise into enthu- 
 siasm, and the tables echoed with hammerings, and 
 the ivy wreaths hanging round the muUions of the 
 windows actually waved with the commotion. 
 Another congratulatory remark on the harmony of 
 these social meetings — on the delight of seeing 
 around him so many clergymen of different per- 
 suasions, all agreeing to sink sectarian distinctions 
 and to unite in the common good of the people com- 
 mitted to their care, — was loudly cheered by the 
 dissenters. And Mr. Bryant, and Mr. Mason, and 
 Mr. Priestley, took the opportunity of stretching 
 their hands across to Mr. Bentley in the sight of the 
 meeting ; at which proof of fraternal charity the 
 uproar became general. And Bentley gave his 
 hand in return, though he felt somewhat embar- 
 rassed at this cordial assumption of equality ; and as 
 he looked up, his eye caught on one of the delicately 
 carved corbels — a bishop's face, quiet, but firm 
 and severe, which seemed to frown on him re- 
 proachfully. But the fancy was soon dispelled, for 
 the pith of Mr. Bowler's speech was coming ; and, 
 as with honest cheerful face he told two ludicrous 
 stories, illustrating the advantages of temperance, 
 every body laughed with him ; and every body 
 in good humour followed him as he subsided into 
 his chair with loud applause, and " one cheer 
 more." 
 
 And now the chairman, having wiped his face and 
 recovered his breath, looked at a slip of paper in his 
 hand, and then mysteriously glanced at Mr. Priestley,
 
 74 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 who had been biting his lips and affecting to look 
 unconcerned ever since ]\Ir. Bowler had been on 
 his legs. And INIr. Priestley rose, with some emo- 
 tion, and with sundry wavings of his hands, to pro- 
 pose the health of a gentleman whose name he was 
 sure would be received with cordiality, even by 
 those who did not agree with him in religious 
 opinions. Bentley felt an unpleasant sensation in 
 the palms of his hands and feet, and began playing 
 with the tea-spoon in the saucer. 
 
 " He," Mr. Priestley, " had always found IMr. 
 Bentley, his respected friend," (several of the poorer 
 classes, whom Bentley had often assisted, here 
 joined with the chairman in endeavouring to raise a 
 loud applause, but it did not succeed,) " he had 
 always found his respected friend, and he might 
 say, he hoped without offence, his brother minister, 
 most anxious to cooperate with him in all matters 
 affecting the common welfare of their flocks. He, 
 Mr. Priestley, had his own opinion, and probably 
 many who heard him had theirs, of the expediency 
 of a state religion. But, as the laws of the land 
 had decreed that one religious denomination should 
 have the ascendancy over the rest, he trusted all 
 would obey those laws so long as they continued to 
 exist." Bentley felt uncomfortable. 
 
 " If, indeed," continued the speaker, " all church- 
 men were like Mr. Bentley, Christians would, in- 
 deed, be at peace. Nothing could exceed the 
 liberality, the Christian liberality, of his sentiments ; 
 worthy a religion of which the first principle was 
 peace on earth and goodwill to men;" and he con- 
 cluded with proposing Mr. Bentley's health. 
 
 " How kind ! " said an old woman to her next 
 neighbour. — "Just as it should be," exclaimed a 
 stout, honest-looking tradesman ; " I like to see 
 good feeling among the gown ! Live and let live,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 75 
 
 is my motto; and persecute no man for his opi- 
 nions ! " Bentlej rose to return thanks ; the kind- 
 hearted, zealous, pious Bentlej, who wanted nothing 
 but instruction to understand and avoid the false 
 position in which he felt himself placed, and who 
 really was struggling (day and night) beyond his 
 strength to spread what he deemed true religion 
 among the thousands of Hawkstone, just as the 
 Irish constable threatened with his solitary arm to 
 sui'round the mob. That he said but little, and that 
 little with an embarrassed air, and in a voice too 
 low to be heard, might naturally be expected. And 
 he sat down vexed with himself, and to the evident 
 disappointment of some few and the triumph of 
 many, with only a few encouraging " hear, hear," 
 to cover his retreat. 
 
 " Quite a break down," whispered Mr. Mason, 
 the Quaker, to Mr. Bryant, who was the great orator 
 of the place, and had been assiduously writing notes 
 on a scrap of paper for some time past ; " quite a 
 break down." 
 
 And certainly, through some cause or another, 
 the Church does break down generally, when it 
 attempts these rhetorical harangues. Popular elo- 
 quence is not its forte, and never has been, for what 
 reasons we leave our readers to inquire ; but Charles 
 Bevan, if he had been asked, would have said, that 
 man, in delivering a message from his Maker, has 
 only to deliver it, and not to trouble himself with 
 the results ; to deliver it plainly, intelligibly, effec- 
 tively, so that no excuse may remain for inattention, 
 and that all the rest is in the hand of Heaven ; and, 
 therefore, popular preaching, and popular speaking, 
 and appeals to the passions, and all the trickery of 
 platform discussion and proprietary chapels, are 
 out of place in members of a Church, and only do 
 harm. Certainly, Bentley felt as if he wished such
 
 76 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 were the case, and he might not be called on again 
 to make speeches at the Temperance Society. 
 
 Not so Mr. Bryant. Another mysterious look 
 was exchanged from the chairman, and the great 
 orator of Hawkstone arose, and with a deep and 
 portentous voice he poured forth, as the newspapers 
 described it, " a flood of eloquence, which held his 
 audience in rapt attention," and " electrified them 
 with lightning bursts of feeling " for more than half 
 an hour. In fact, the chief amusement of the meet- 
 ing had depended on Mr. Bryant, and of this he 
 was well aware, for the day had been fixed pur- 
 posely for his convenience in attending. His exor- 
 dium was like Mr. Bowler's, but more pathetically 
 bespeaking indulgence for his defects and diffidence. 
 From this he proceeded to describe (and his eyes 
 opened and flashed as he advanced, and his arms 
 began to move) " the grand and solemn scene 
 which he then saw before him ; so many intellectual 
 beings congregated together under the wide vault of 
 heaven (applause), without distinction of sect or 
 party (applause again), to emancipate themselves 
 and the whole earth from the great crime of drunk- 
 enness (reiterated cheers)." Mr. Bryant, in looking 
 over his speech in the morning, had doubted about 
 " the whole earth," but it told wonderfully well ; and 
 the inhabitants of Hawkstone felt each like an Atlas 
 with a whole universe resting on his shoulders. 
 He proceeded, says the newspaper from whom we 
 borrow, to depicture in the most gratifying terms 
 " the moral and intellectual condition of his hearers, 
 free, enlightened, religious, liberal, without bigotry, 
 without vice. It was a sight to rejoice the heart of 
 Englishmen" (cheers again, though some of the 
 older members refrained, as not liking to applaud 
 themselves). From this he digressed to give a 
 graphic sketch of the drunkard " rolling in the
 
 HAWKSTONE. 77 
 
 gutter, which made the blood of his audience thrill 
 with horror," and he pointed out the absolute im- 
 portance of binding even children from their youth 
 by a solemn vow to abstain from all spirituous 
 liquors. " Impossible," he said, " to begin too 
 early ;" and Mr. Armstrong, the Baptist minister, 
 nodded a most hearty assent. He then enlarged 
 on the value and necessity of associating ourselves 
 in every good cause ; enumerated the hundred affi- 
 liated societies which had sprung from the central 
 one in London ; trusted that they should always act 
 unanimously, and keep up a close and affectionate 
 correspondence with the body from which they had 
 derived the first blessing of a temperance com- 
 mittee. Without union, the very object of the 
 society must be lost. Without the society, there 
 could be no temperance. He would intreat them 
 to stick heartily together, and mark any one who 
 ungratefully or insidiously should sow the seeds of 
 — (Mr. Bryant here paused for a moment, for the 
 word "dissension" had risen to his lips; but, for 
 some reason or another, he did not like it, and 
 luckily had time to change it) — "should sow the 
 seeds of disunion among them." — Loud cries of 
 " We will, we will ! " And here the newspaper re- 
 porter observes that some allusion was intended 
 to a feeling of discontent which had spread among 
 many of the members in regard to the conduct of 
 the committee, and which Mr. Bryant was most 
 anxious to prevent from breaking out into open 
 schism. And he therefore proceeded to point out 
 the solemn duty of not quarrelling with persons in 
 authority, especially for minor points, lest the very 
 object of the whole society should be defeated by 
 such jealousies and animosities. 
 
 Having dwelt for some time on this delicate 
 topic, he passed, to use the language of the news-
 
 78 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 paper, "with singular felicity" to the "picturesque 
 and romantic ruins within which they were that 
 day assembled." " He trusted, indeed he felt as- 
 sured," (and here he gazed round with a scrutinising 
 eye,) " it was impossible, indeed, that any papist 
 should have intruded into their truly protestant 
 assembly." — "No, no," cried the party. — "He gladly 
 accepted their answer. And yet if the Pope him- 
 self had been present, drinking tea with them, he, 
 Mr. Bryant, would have boldly stood his ground, 
 and dared him to defend his bloody and atrocious 
 system." As this was uttered with the greatest 
 vehemence, and Mi\ Bryant's clenched fist descended 
 on the table at its close with more than an ordinary 
 thump, it was followed by a round of applause. 
 And certainly he was right in supposing that few 
 true Koman Catholics would have made their ap- 
 pearance in such a heterogeneous congregation. 
 And then the speaker burst forth into the most im- 
 posing portion of his harangue. " He compared 
 the deeds of darkness which had formerly been per- 
 petrated within these walls," (how and when, he 
 would have been puzzled to say, for the simple 
 reason that he had never heard,) "and the innocent, 
 the sublime recreation of drinking tea under their 
 ruins, with tea-tables spread in the chapel, and 
 kettles boiling where the altar had stood. He spoke 
 of the enormities of monasteries, of vows by which 
 men bound themselves without any authority from 
 the Bible ; of absurd abstinences and fastings from 
 good things which God had created to be enjoyed 
 in moderation ; of silly . idle mummeries, and men 
 and women dressed up to distinguish themselves 
 from their fellow-creatures." — (And here, in the 
 ardour of his gesticulation, he nearly knocked off 
 from the breast of his next neighbour an immense 
 blue rosette, with which all the members had de-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 79 
 
 corated themselves, and especially the gentlemen 
 stewards, the bearers of white wands.) He showed, 
 and with the greatest truth, how a number of men 
 or women congregated together without the super- 
 intendence of their spiritual superiors, and, follow- 
 ing only their own will and fancy, must fall into 
 mischief, as monks and nuns had done : and from 
 thence he traced the corruptions introduced by them 
 into the pure Gospel of Christ, with which every 
 one had mixed their own notions and mere human 
 speculations, instead of adhering simply to the truth 
 as it was taught by God. Nothing could be more 
 successful than his demonstration, and admirably 
 was it received ; for Mi*. Bryant was a clever man, 
 and not an ineloquent man, and a religious man, 
 and had studied parts of the Romish system with 
 no little insight into its faults, whatever he might 
 have learnt of its virtues. One point, indeed, he 
 omitted : he had intended to speak of the absurd 
 religious processions and pilgrimages in which Ro- 
 man Catholics indulge, with music, and singing, and 
 other vain solemnities ; but the chairman, as it was 
 getting late, was obliged to remind him that they 
 had not yet sung the hymn, and that the band was 
 becoming impatient. 
 
 The hymn therefore was sung, all standing ; and, 
 as it was one of Watts's, which Mr. Priestley had 
 previously eviscerated of all peculiar doctrines, it 
 gratified all parties, and offended none. And the 
 members were just about to rise from the tables, 
 when a fresh arrival was announced which caused 
 considerable sensation. Several of the stewards 
 jumped up to receive the stranger ; several others 
 looked round for a seat. The bottom of the table 
 fell wholly into commotion, what with curiosity, 
 and what with a wish to do honour to the new 
 comer. Mr. Bryant himself and JMi'. Priestley ad-
 
 80 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 vanced hastily to the outer gate of the priory, and 
 proceeded to introduce into the chapel, and to pre- 
 sent first to Mr. Bowler the chairman, and then to 
 the gentlemen of the committee, — whom, gentle 
 reader, whom do you suppose ? Was it the tall 
 dark stranger, who had left the chapel just before 
 the society came into it ? No ! it was a young, thin, 
 pert-looking, beardless man ; not ungentlemanly in 
 his dress or manner, had it not been for a con- 
 temptuous turn about the nose and lips, and a cold 
 sneering expression of the eye. But the contempt 
 and the sneer were now meant to be subdued into 
 the most urbane and courteous demeanour ; and the 
 cordiality with which he shook hands with Mr. 
 Bryant, and the ease of his deportment to the chair- 
 man, and the perfect confidence and self-command 
 with which he surveyed the long tea-tables, and 
 then turned up his glass to look at the mullions of 
 the windows, completely won the hearts of the tea 
 party. 
 
 "A very fine young man!" whispered IVIrs. 
 Hutchings, the butcher's wife, to Miss Spence, who 
 sat by her side ; " a very fine young man, indeed ! 
 and, they say, so clever. I even heard he has 
 written a book." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said ISiiss Spence. " I hope he will 
 make a speech." 
 
 And, to the great delight of Miss Spence, she ob- 
 served a little bustle and whispering at the top of 
 the table, and a short confabulation between Mr. 
 Priestley and the chairman, which was followed by 
 Mr. Priestley rising from his seat, amid a clatter of 
 spoons, to call attention, and craving the chairman's 
 permission to propose a toast. He prefaced it by 
 some pertinent observations about " unexpected 
 honour," " duty of hospitality," " distinguished ta- 
 lents," " illustrious representative," and closed with
 
 HAWKSTONE. 81 
 
 announcing the health of Mr. Marmaduke Brook. 
 The cheering was not ^ery enthusiastic, for few 
 persons knew any thing of Mr. Brook, except that 
 he had offered himself as a candidate for the bo- 
 rough of Hawk stone at the next election, and on 
 the Radical interest. But Mr. Marmaduke received 
 it, such as it was, with considerable nonchalance, 
 and stood with his glass to his eye, and beating his 
 boot with his whip, until it had subsided. He then 
 advanced at once to the table, and, bowing round to 
 the chairman, commenced his speech. 
 
 He thanked them cordially " from the bottom of 
 his heart." (Where Mr, Brook's heart was, it would 
 have puzzled a moral anatomist to discover ; but, 
 then, persons who are poor must always talk most of 
 their riches.) " They had conferred on him an ho- 
 nour, such as he had never received before — such 
 as he should carry engraved on his heart " (heart 
 again!) "to the last day of his life. Stranger as he 
 was, coming among them thus unexpectedly, by the 
 merest accident, as he was taking his ride" — (Mr. 
 Bryant bit his lips to prevent a smile, for the whole 
 plan had been concerted that morning at Mrs. Mad- 
 dox's cabinet council, and all had agreed that no 
 better opportunity could occur of presenting the 
 Radical member to his hoped-for constituents than 
 the Temperance tea-drinking among the ruins of 
 the Priory) — "how gratifying, how inspiriting, it 
 must be to him to be welcomed by such a distin- 
 guished, and enlightened, and splendid assemblage 
 
 with such hospitality, such urbanity, such" 
 
 (Here, unhappily, Mr. Brook had forgotten the last 
 word of his triplet, and was compelled to cover the 
 blank with a cough, which the hearers, who seldom 
 heard such triplets, drowned in loud applause.) " He 
 saw among them, and he rejoiced to see, some of 
 those learned, and pious, and liberal-minded men, 
 
 G
 
 82 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 wliom, since his coming into Hawkstone, it had 
 been his good fortune to meet, and to obtain from 
 them their promise of support in his approaching 
 canvass." (Cheers from the little group of dissenting 
 ministers, Mr. Bentley remaining silent ; and one 
 or two faint cries of " Brook for ever ! " from the 
 bottom of the table, but as thej were not taken up, 
 the perpetrators of them slunk back in their seats 
 as if abashed.) " Such men were an honour to their 
 country, and he did from his heart" (heart again I) 
 "rejoice to see them sitting here side by side, sink- 
 ing all speculative differences, abjuring all empty 
 dogmas, confining themselves to the great truths of 
 benevolence and charity (hear! hear!), and pledging 
 themselves and those around them to the grand, the 
 magnificent maxim, that religion was a thing be- 
 tween man and his God ; and that every man had a 
 right to worship his Maker according to the dictates 
 of his conscience. Am I right," continued the 
 speaker, elevating his voice, " am I right, my en- 
 lightened countrymen, in declaring that you, like 
 myself, are pledged to this heaven- descended truth?" 
 (Two-syllabled epithets have always great effect on 
 a popular ear, and accordingly the remainder of the 
 sentence was lost in an uproar of applause, and 
 cries of " Yes ! yes ! " in which nothing more could 
 be heard from Mr. Brook, but something about 
 " nailing colours to a mast.") " The days of bigotry," 
 he proceeded, amidst cries of "hush! hush!" from 
 the most influential of his supporters, " the days of 
 bigotry are gone. No more should a tyrannical 
 despot trample on the. birthright of man. The very 
 spot in which we are assembled, this roofless pile, 
 
 these yawning ruins, these " (here again a cough 
 
 in the defect of a third synonyme) " speak to us with 
 a voice which should penetrate into every heart, 
 that superstition and t persecution are at an end.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 83 
 
 (Cheers.) The moment the light of reason had 
 arisen, like a sun above the horizon, carrying in its 
 orb brightness, and brilliancy, and splendour, and 
 illumination, and lustre, and light," (at this climax 
 the uproar became immense,) " it had burst with a 
 lightning torrent on these dens of superstition, had 
 torn open their inmost cells," (intense, thrilling 
 interest, and deep silence,) " had shattered these fa- 
 brics of superstition, had overturned these abodes of 
 
 bigotry, had crushed those bloody altars, had" 
 
 Here the speaker became choked either with emo- 
 tion or with having nothing more to say, and the 
 audience, though rather disappointed of the end of 
 the sentence, announced their sympathy by loud 
 rappings. And as no one knew that these were 
 only figurative expressions, by which ]VIi\ Marma- 
 duke Brook intended to say that Henry VHI. had 
 driven out a number of poor old religious men to 
 starve in the roads, had pulled down their houses, 
 turned their chapel into a cow-house, and put their 
 money into his own pocket, the sensation caused by 
 such a gorgeous description was perfectly unparal- 
 leled. Happy it was that no old monk made his 
 appearance at that moment, for in their horror of 
 persecution for religious opinions they would in- 
 fallibly have torn him to pieces. 
 
 Mr. Marmaduke having now recovered his speech, 
 proceeded to inform his hearers that on such an oc- 
 casion he should not think it proper to touch upon 
 politics ; and accordingly he proceeded to give them 
 an outline of his political opinions. He professed 
 himself a thorough reformer — a reformer of all 
 abuses, but without violence, without revolution. 
 " He trusted to the good sense, to the prudence of 
 Englishmen, to work an entire change in the pre- 
 sent corrupt system of government, without moving 
 an arm — by changing the laws," he said, "not by dis- 
 G 2
 
 84 HA"V\T{:STONE. 
 
 obeying them. So long as the laws exist they ought 
 to be obeyed ; but every nerve should be strained 
 to procure a change, as soon as possible, by consti- 
 tutional means — by moral force — by passive re- 
 sistance ; — petitions, meetings, agitation — all were 
 laudable — all were necessary — to regenerate the 
 mass of society : only abstain from violence. He 
 pointed out the enormous revenue now enjoyed by an 
 hereditary monarch and an hereditary peerage, and 
 contrasted them with the starving condition of the 
 manufacturing population — the very population on 
 which " (and here the factory men were loud in 
 approbation) "the whole wealth and welfare of the 
 community depended. They were the sinews of the 
 country ; they were its only hope — enlightened, 
 cultivated, intelligent ! How comes it," said the 
 energetic speaker, " that this important class is de- 
 graded into the melancholy condition of pauperism 
 and demoralisation in which we now behold it ?" 
 (Here Mr. Bryant, who three days before had ad- 
 ministered to the Mechanics' Institution an abridg- 
 ment of Watts' Logic in the form of a lecture, could 
 not help coughing. Something irritated his throat ; 
 and the cough had the effect of diverting attention 
 from the little paralogism with which the speaker, 
 without perceiving it till too late, had brought himself 
 too closely into contact.) " He would say a few words 
 upon the corn laws. (Cheers.) It was the corn 
 laws, it was dear bread, which had worked this fright- 
 ful effect." (Here some one jogged his arm, and on 
 casting his eye on a bit of paper slipped before him, 
 he read "Bowler — a. landlord," and upon this with 
 great adroitness he changed his tone.) " He was 
 not for destroying the agriculturist. No ! he was 
 for giving him his due ; securing him a fair remu- 
 neration. But until something was done to enable 
 the manufacturer, now ruined by competition with
 
 HAWKSTONE. 85 
 
 foreigners, to carry on that competition more fully, 
 
 — to give higher wages to his workmen" Here 
 
 a coarse vulgar voice from the bottom cried out, 
 " They'll never give us higher wages than they can 
 help ! " and Mr. Marmaduke, turning to the quarter 
 from which the voice issued, asked urbanely, " What 
 did his excellent friend suggest ? He entirely 
 agreed with him. He went with him fully in his 
 observation ; but he might be permitted to say (i. e. 
 as ]Mr. Smith, the proprietor of the factories, was 
 not present), — he might be permitted to say, that 
 the workmen had in their own hands the power of 
 increasing their wages : they might use all lawful 
 combination — lawful combination, he repeated, to 
 obtain their demand. They might assemble and 
 go before their masters, and exhibit a moral force, 
 which would extort the admiration of the world 
 (loud applause), and at the same time raise their 
 wages." " Allow me to detain you for one minute 
 with a few facts " (and the speaker searched in a 
 copious pocket-book for some papers and memo- 
 randa), " only a few statistical facts, showing how 
 you, gentlemen, would be benefited, and the agricul- 
 turists as much, by destroying the present taxes on 
 your bread. Facts are the only argument." 
 
 And then, with a great display of cool calculation 
 and accuracy, he proceeded to read them from a 
 paper a long list of figures and prices : — Wheat per 
 bushel, so much ; duty, so much ; wages, so much ; 
 cotton, so much ; brandy, so much ; which astounded 
 the hearers by the business-like learning it dis- 
 played, and enveloped the whole subject in a mist 
 of multiplication and subtraction. — " A sound man ! " 
 whispered ISIr. Bryant. — " No theorist," said JMr. 
 Priestley. — "A good practical man of business — 
 understands figures," subjoined one of Mr. Lomax's 
 clerks ; and the effect was very favourable. 
 G 3
 
 86 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " But I have detained you, gentlemen, too 
 
 long" ("No! no!" from the whole body.) "I 
 
 should have said 'ladies and gentlemen,' " continued 
 the speaker, as if recollecting himself, and dex- 
 terously resolving to relieve the diy statistics by 
 an allusion to the bright eyes and matchless beauty 
 with which he was surrounded. " How could I 
 forget," he continued, with a self-reproachful tone, 
 "those brilliant forms, the fairest portion of creation, 
 who are foremost in all good causes, and whom I 
 rejoice to see, on this most interesting occasion, 
 enjoying this innocent delicious beverage," and he 
 took up a tea cup. — "What's beverage?" asked deaf 
 Mrs. Lloyd of her clever son from the National 
 School. " Something to drink, to be sure I " said 
 the pert boy, who had been spelling the word that 
 morning, and he looked sneeringly at his mother. — 
 " What a fine thing it is to go to school !" thought 
 Mrs. Lloyd, and she eyed her boy with admiration; 
 till her attention was called back to Mr. Marmaduke 
 Brook, and, with her hand turned up to her ear, she 
 succeeded in catching the most j)rominent portions 
 of his succeeding sentence, — "eyes raining bright 
 influence" — "heaven-beaming innocence " — "fairy 
 forms" — "flowers of creation," and sundry other 
 appropriate phrases which Mr. Brook had by him 
 at all times, kneaded up in a ready-made sentence, 
 and used on all occasions, when it fell to his lot to 
 propose the health of the ladies. Magical was the 
 eifect produced by it on the ladies of the Tem- 
 perance Society, who had never 1. heard it before. 
 They blushed, they simpered, they looked down, 
 and the sensation took a palpable form on the same* 
 evening, by a resolution of the chief personages to 
 raise a subscription of sixpence a-head, and pur- 
 chase a large silk banner of the palest blue, with 
 " Reform and Liberty "worked on it by their own fair
 
 nAWXSTONE. 87 
 
 hands, to be presented to Mr. Brook himself at the 
 ensuing election. 
 
 " And now," proceeded Mr. Brook, " I will add 
 but one word more : but it is on a subject of the 
 most overwhelming importance. I am, gentlemen, 
 a decided advocate for the Ballot. (Uproarious ap- 
 plause.) I am an advocate, gentlemen, for ensuring 
 to every Englishman the right of voting according 
 to his conscience. (Hear ! hear !) But how you 
 can vote according to your conscience, if your vote 
 is to be known, I cannot discover ! What can be 
 more atrocious, more tyrannical, than for a landlord 
 to say to his tenant, or a master to his workman, 
 'You know little of politics, vote as I wish — abandon 
 your liberty of thinking' ? What can be more de- 
 rogatory to the dignity of a free and reasoning 
 being, amidst the light of the nineteenth century, 
 than to be told that he is incapable of judging on the 
 affairs of government, — that he cannot be trusted 
 with the management of his country — that some 
 
 tyrant of a landlord" Here again a friendly jog 
 
 reminded Mr. Brook of the agriculturist chair- 
 man : but as Mr. Brook turned round ready to pay 
 a flaming compliment to Mr. Bowler, as the only 
 intelligent benevolent landlord whom he had ever 
 met with, that gentleman, he saw, was fast asleep ; 
 and, indeed, his being awake would have mattered 
 little, since he had long since abandoned all trouble 
 about politics, and made a point of giving his vote 
 to the first man who asked him. 
 
 The sight, however, of Mr. Brook's slumber re- 
 minded the speaker that his speech should draw to 
 a close ; and so to a close he drew it, with the usual 
 protestations of ineffaceable gratitude for the honour 
 they had done him, — with the most profound defer- 
 ence on all points whatever to their wishes and opi- 
 nions, as the guide of his life, — and, if he might be 
 G 4
 
 88 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 allowed to propose a toast, with " the health of those 
 pious and excellent gentlemen to whom their spi- 
 ritual welfare was committed, for whom he enter- 
 tained the highest respect, and trusted thej would 
 always exert their influence in spreading knowledge, 
 and order, and peace, and charity throughout the 
 whole of this favoured land." 
 
 And here, amidst enthusiastic cheers, ISIr. Mar- 
 rnaduke bowed to the assembly, and shook hands 
 with the chairman, who had woke up just in time, 
 and was rubbing his eyes, and with ]Mi\ Bryant, and 
 Mr. Priestley, and the Baptist minister, and the In- 
 dependent minister, and, escorted by them, amidst 
 the wavings of handkerchiefs and hats, and cries of 
 " Brook for ever ! " he left the ruins. 
 
 Two horses were at the gate : himself and young 
 ]\Ii'. Thomas Maddox, who had not appeared before, 
 lest suspicions of a designed visit should be roused, 
 mounted together. Hands were again shaken, and 
 hats taken off; and as soon as they had turned the 
 corner, Mr. Marmaduke Brook burst into a loud 
 laugh, in which Mr. Thomas Maddox most humbly 
 and deferentially joined ; not a little proud to think 
 that he had been seen on horseback in company with 
 a would-be member of parliament.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 89 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 In the mean time Bentley had slipped away, soon 
 after Mr. Marmaduke Brook's appearance, and was 
 walking home alone through the park, uncomfortable 
 and dissatisfied with himself. He had heard things 
 which he did not like, though why, he could scarcely 
 explain, and had done things which he felt to be 
 wrong, though no one was likely to reproach him 
 with them. And yet what could be better than his 
 motives? There was a population under his care 
 ignorant and turbulent, and amongst whom habits 
 of intoxication, encouraged by the prevalence of dis- 
 tress and by the gambling spirit of manufacturing 
 employment, were rapidly spreading. One after 
 another pothouse after pothouse in the streets of 
 Hawkstone had been converted into splendid build- 
 ings with pillars, and carvings, and illuminated inte- 
 riors, and pawnbrokers' shops opposite, to supply 
 means for the pale, haggard beings who all day long 
 dropped in to spend their last pence in purchasing 
 a temporary forgetfulness from hunger and misery. 
 And without some efforts made to check this fountain 
 of evil there was no hope for Hawkstone. Why 
 not take advantage of an engine which had done 
 so much good in America, and was converting even 
 Ireland, by hundreds at a time, to sobriety and de- 
 cency ? What was the harm of men binding them 
 selves by an open resolution to do that which was 
 evidently right, and binding themselves all together 
 without regard to religious distinctions in a matter 
 where religious opinions clearly could not alter the
 
 90 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 duty? Bentley was perplexed for the solution, 
 and yet could not make up his mind that Tem- 
 perance Societies were the good thing which he 
 had once fondly believed. It did not occur to him, 
 and no wonder, since no one had taught him, that 
 by God himself, long prior to the nineteenth century 
 there had been founded a Temperance Society, 
 with its initiatory vow, its appointed officers, its 
 festive meetings, its solemn sanctions ; moreover 
 with an especial promise of aid and blessing from 
 Heaven ; and that Bentley himself had been created 
 an officer to govern this old society, and not to 
 supersede and destroy it by any new association of 
 his own, or of human invention : it never occurred 
 to Bentley that such a society was the Church. 
 Of the Church as an associated organised body 
 politic he had entirely lost sight ; just as if a sub- 
 ject living in the British empire, perhaps a magis- 
 trate charged with the administration of its laws, 
 were to forget some day by any strange halluci- 
 nation that he had already a Sovereign, and a Par- 
 liament, and statute laws, and tribunals of justice 
 binding him to execute his office, and were then to 
 frame or fall under some new invented constitution 
 and governor set up by a popular enthusiast, — con- 
 tinuing all the time to sit on the bench and admi- 
 nister justice in the name of the old establishment. 
 Strange contradictions and painful perplexities 
 would assuredly arise in such a conflict of relations : 
 but not more strange or more painful than those to 
 which Bentley had been exposed, when as a minister 
 of the Church he had. attempted to fulfil an end of 
 the Church by means not appointed by the Church, 
 and in conjunction with men who were in open re- 
 bellion against it. 
 
 And why was Bentley not alive to such simple 
 truths? Because, as we said before, no one had
 
 HAWKSTONE. 91 
 
 taught him. He had been brought up as a boy 
 under parents of lax principles, who never spoke 
 to him of religion ; from them he had been trans- 
 planted to a school, where, with the exception of a 
 dull sermon on the Sunday, — a sermon on morality 
 only, — and a chapter in the Greek Testament on 
 Monday, in which nothing was thought of but the 
 syntax, religion again was as if it did not exist ; and 
 all vice was allowed to flourish, without effort to 
 correct it, if it only had cunning to escape the eye 
 of a master who did not wish to see. From school 
 he went to Cambridge. And here the first germs of 
 his religious feelings began to develop themselves. 
 He was thrown (by accident) among a set of clever, 
 cool-headed, profligate young men, who formed them- 
 selves into a sort of club, of which the motto, if the 
 spirit had been expressed, would have been a di- 
 lemma between Atheism and Pantheism. He was 
 caught by their sparkling vivacity, overawed by 
 their sarcastic pretensions, involved with them in a 
 rivalry of mere intellectual power, in which he was 
 encouraged by the hope of obtaining a fellowship, 
 for which nothing but intellectual power was re- 
 quired. And the very studies of the place, engaging 
 him almost solely in mathematical speculations, 
 fostered in him a dry, critical, cold-hearted, sceptical 
 tone of mind, which was prevented from hardening 
 into avowed infidelity solely by the natural warmth 
 of an affectionate disposition, and the blessing of 
 Providence. The very circumstances of a place of 
 education, in which, as at that time was the case 
 unhappily in both universities, the externals of reli- 
 gion had degenerated into empty forms, and yet were 
 still strictly maintained as instruments of College 
 discipline, necessarily engendered doubt as to the sin- 
 cerity of its professors, and the reality of its system. 
 He saw the chapel service enforced strictly on the 
 
 ^
 
 92 HAWXSTONE. 
 
 pupils, and neglected by the tutors — attendance on 
 it selected as a fit punishment for trivial offences, 
 and a refusal to receive the Holy Communion visited 
 as a sufficient penalty by the most trifling fine. He 
 found himself within the walls of the chapel kneeling 
 side by side with an avowed Socinian, a professed 
 Jew, and an hereditary Roman Catholic. And 
 yet the authorities of the College, without hoping 
 or attempting a conversion, were satisfied with 
 exacting from them all an external act of worship, 
 which to any sincere believer, either in Socinianism, 
 or Judaism, or Popery, must have been revolting 
 and impious. He attended lectures on divinity, 
 but instead of the positive truth of the Gospel, they 
 turned on grammatical disquisitions, or evidences of 
 Christianity — evidences, which, if belief had been 
 strong in the Church, would scarcely have been 
 deemed necessary to be taught. Of ecclesiastical 
 history, of religion either as embodied in a social 
 system, or as a vital habit of the heart, he heard 
 nothing. Church livings and Church patronage 
 were the only forms under which the Church ap- 
 peared : and its political connexion with a mere Tory 
 party, who upheld it as an instrument of govern- 
 ment, rendered it peculiarly obnoxious to the con- 
 tempt of a liberal Whig ; and by liberal Whigs he 
 was surrounded. At this stage in the formation of 
 his character, when he had already done much of 
 which, at a later date, he bitterly repented, and was 
 on the eve of doing worse, it pleased Providence to 
 throw in his way one of those many biographies, 
 with which a peculiar school of Divinity has endea- 
 voured to supply the place of the Acta Sanctorum, 
 or Lives of the Saints, of Romanism. It was taken 
 up first in mere idleness: but it happened, or 
 rather it was ordained, that it should rouse a train 
 of serious reflection; and Bentley became an altered
 
 HAWKSTONE. 93 
 
 man. A new world seemed opened to him, — a 
 world of feeling and passion, to which the dry, cold 
 associations of his past life gave new zest. The 
 book which first touched his heart was read again 
 and again with avidity. Others were procured of 
 the same stamp. Hymns, sermons, devotional exer- 
 cises, preachers, doctrines, all formed on the same 
 model, were at Cambridge within reach, until he 
 had worked himself into a fever of religious excite- 
 ment, in which remorse and triumph, despair and 
 confidence, love and fear, alternated in strange con- 
 fusion, and his imagination was filled with a wild 
 phantasmagoria, obscuring all the plain duties and 
 sober realities of life. By degrees this passed away. 
 But still excitement of feeling was the predominant 
 element in his religion. He entered into holy orders 
 with a fervent zeal to redeem, if possible, his past 
 life by an entire devotion to his duty. But of this 
 duty itself he had never formed a clear and definite 
 notion. And notwithstanding his horror of Popery 
 as a religion of forms superseding the vital doctrines 
 of the Gospel by the craft of a priesthood, he fell at 
 the very first outset of his ministry into precisely 
 the same error which led to the corruptions of 
 Popery — that of making the object of his ministry 
 to be the salvation of men, instead of the plain, 
 straightforward, uncompromising enunciation of the 
 message committed to his charge. His first thought 
 was man, as if the glory of God depended on man's 
 obedience. And thus he laboured for his flock with 
 an energy exhausting his own strength and often 
 defeating its purpose. Night and day, morning and 
 evening, Bentley's thoughts and actions were en- 
 gaged in devising and executing plans for winning 
 souls to God. Sermons, — lectures, — visits, — ex- 
 hortations, — some new association, — a prayer meet- 
 ing, — attractive music in the church, allurements
 
 94 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 for charity, — besides innumerable parochial designs 
 for ameliorating the condition of the poor, in penny 
 clubs, and blanket clubs, and benefit clubs— and then 
 the schools, week-days and Sundays, — the gaol, — 
 the workhouse, — all these suggested themselves and 
 pressed on him with an anxiety which allowed him 
 no moment of respite for quiet contemplation or 
 scarcely for prayer. Measuring the rectitude of 
 his exertions by their success, and seeing them 
 constantly fail, he was constantly miserable. Every 
 new scheme was seized as gladly as if no schemes 
 had been already provided by the Church whose 
 minister he was. A character of bustle, and vacil- 
 lation, and excitement, pervaded all his under- 
 takings. His best efforts to do good were gene- 
 rally out of place. He was constantly exhorting — 
 constantly debating ; bringing religion before men 
 at all times, seasonable or unseasonable, with no rule 
 to guide him but his own conscience ; and his 
 conscience could never be at rest. 
 
 His very phraseology acquired an affected, tech- 
 nical character which destroyed its force. It was 
 violent without warmth, and strained without power. 
 And singular to say, as he began, so he proceeded ; 
 and with all his di'ead of Popery, which he never 
 ceased to denounce in the strongest and often in im- 
 proper language, he gradually adopted all the worst 
 principles of Popery, and brought them into action. 
 Like Popery, he endeavoured to bring men to reli- 
 gion by appeals to the fancy, the feelings, the reason, 
 instead of plainly and simply setting before them 
 the truths of God, and leaving them in the hands of 
 God to work their fruit. Like Popery, he learned 
 to look with contempt on the Catholic constitution 
 of the Church, and, if not to despise bishops, at least 
 to depreciate their authority. Like Popery, he 
 formed his own standard of opinion, and fixed his
 
 HAWKSTONE. 95 
 
 own centre of obedience, instead of submitting to the 
 standard and the centre fixed by God in the Catholic 
 Church. Like Popery, he had his saints and his 
 fathers, recent indeed, and selected by himself, and 
 canonised by himself on account of their agreement 
 with his own opinions, to whom he deferred im- 
 plicitly as individual men, while he stigmatised 
 as criminal any reverence for the Fathers of Pri- 
 mitive Christianity. Like Popery, he shut up the 
 Bible from the comprehension of the people. The 
 book, indeed, he distributed abundantly, but as he 
 threw each reader on his own powers of interpre- 
 tation, and cut off from them the sound comments 
 and ty|3ical illustrations of Christian antiquity, he 
 might as well have given it to them in the Arabic 
 text ; for what uneducated man could find out the 
 one true doctrine in the variety of possible interpre- 
 tations, and who could take an interest in a work, 
 which he could not understand without assistance, 
 and in which assistance was denied him? Like 
 Popery, he encouraged the growth of a multitude 
 of voluntary self-organised bodies, emancipated from 
 episcopal control, and which were intended to per- 
 form the various functions of the Church, but by a 
 different machinery; just as if a man to whom 
 nature had given legs should insist upon walking 
 upon stilts. Monastic, indeed, they were not: 
 Bentley would have shuddered at the word. But 
 perhaps they had all the evils of monasticism with- 
 out any of the good, as we may see hereafter. Like 
 Popery again, Bentley preached loudly the doctrine 
 of justification by faith, and practically inculcated 
 justification by works ; for he threw men on their 
 own internal emotions, tested their goodness by 
 their feelings, which after all are only works of 
 another kind from alms, fastings, and mortification 
 of the body, but without the advantage of pro-
 
 96 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 ducing like them external good. They produced 
 no good at all. Like Popery, Bentley indulged in 
 forms, and laid on them the greatest stress — forms 
 of speech, forms of intonation of voice, forms of 
 society, abstinence from certain amusements, as- 
 sociations with certain persons, the reading of cer- 
 tain books. Unhappily they were forms of his own 
 creation, or adopted from his party ; not the forms 
 of the Catholic Church. Like Popery, at the Coun- 
 cil of Trent, Bentley tampered with the Catholic 
 apostolical creed — added to it — omitted from it — 
 fixed his own limits as to what was essential and what 
 non-essential — and denounced an anathema on all 
 who did not subscribe to his peculiar views. Like 
 Popery, Bentley tampered with the sacraments. If 
 monasticism introduced a second baptism, a second 
 vow of obedience, a second commencement of a new 
 life, which invalidated the former, Bentley had liis 
 notions of conversion, which went precisely to the 
 same point. If Popery, in order to satisfy a curious 
 reason, explained the mystery of the Holy Com- 
 munion by the irreverent theory of transubstantia- 
 tion, Bentley had his theory likewise, constructed 
 for the same purpose, but equally destro}T[ng the 
 nature of a sacrament, by denying the inward grace 
 of it, as Popery denied the outward sign. Bentley 
 had also his confessional : not a private confidential 
 chair, in which he might guide the consciences of 
 his flock, but open confessionals, where he en- 
 couraged every one in the presence of every one 
 to recount their spiritual experiences and throw 
 open to the common gaze that sanctuary of the 
 heart which God has so carefully hidden beneath 
 the veil of diffidence and shame. And this con- 
 fessional he endeavoured to extend, by putting up 
 a box in his church to receive communications from 
 his flock, without the pain or difficulty of personal
 
 HAWKSTONE. 97 
 
 intercourse. Unliappily, this plan lie was obliged 
 to abandon, for just as monks and friars are charged 
 with leading away silly women, so Bentley found 
 his box filled with communications from ladies, 
 who, as any one might naturally expect who knew 
 his real goodness of heart, his talents, and his piety, 
 looked on him with something more than the re- 
 verence due to their pastor. 
 
 In short, not to multiply instances, or to enter 
 into the abstruser points of resemblance, Bentley 
 had by degrees become a Papist in every thing but 
 in name, and, what was more important, without the 
 power which enabled Popery to wield so long the 
 spiritual destinies of the world. He had no associa- 
 tion to fall back upon ; no organized system ; no 
 arm of terror ; no mysterious foreign authority to speak 
 to his flock from behind a veil ; no antiquity ; no pre- 
 tension to learning ; no deep knowledge of human 
 nature ; no secular force ; no wealth : and the con- 
 sequence which was necessary followed, — his flock 
 melted away under his eye. A few he retained 
 almost against their will, for they did not coincide 
 with his notions. Others attached themselves to 
 him enthusiastically for a time, and then dropped 
 off, as soon as Mr. Bryant had appeared in a new 
 chapel, and with new eloquence. The poor he 
 could not hold ; for all that he told them they 
 required, they found in a more palatable and intel- 
 ligible shape in the dissenting chapel. And for the 
 better classes he had nothing to animate activity, to 
 regulate feeling, to enforce self-denial, to satisfy 
 a doubting reason, to answer that craving which, in 
 an age of scepticism and dissension, yearns for some 
 permanent authority, some bond of union, to quiet 
 the distraction of the mind. He never placed before 
 them law — stern, injiexible, external law — a. law 
 over reason as well as over ivill — a law of God, 
 H
 
 98 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 definite and immutable^ intrusted to the custody of an 
 incorporated society, and through the hands of that 
 society to be hekl up before the eyes and grafted 
 on the heart of man. And without such a law, what 
 becomes of man's intellect, or his passions, or his 
 activity, or his happiness ? He spoke to them of 
 reason, of conscience, of feeling, of utility ; but 
 when his hearers asked themselves whose reason, 
 whose conscience, whose feeling, whose sense of 
 utility, was to be their guide, each man found it was 
 his own : and those who were satisfied with their 
 own gladly followed his premises to their legitimate 
 conclusion of self-indulgence in all things ; and those 
 who were not, looked about them weariedly and 
 anxiously for some ark of rest, — and an ark of rest, 
 of false and treacherous rest, they were about to 
 have. 
 
 As Bentley seated himself on the point where 
 the stranger had turned aside in the morning to re- 
 place the broken bench, and gazed down sadly and 
 bodingly on the town in the valley beneath, he fixed 
 his eyes on some white glittering pinnacles just rising 
 unfinished above the smoke, and recognised the 
 great object of his alarm, the new Roman Catholic 
 chapel, for which Lord Morden, the ^\Tiig minister, 
 had given the ground, and the Earl of Claremont 
 had subscribed a very large sum ; the rest being 
 supplied from some mysterious fund, of which no one 
 could give an account, but which, from the splendour 
 of the building, and the number of others of the same 
 kind which were rising throughout the country, 
 appeared almost inexhaustible. 
 
 The thoughts which passed through Bentley's 
 mind, as he gazed on this hateful object, were most 
 bitter. His ministry had fiiiled ; and he had 
 sought for the credentials of his ministry, not in a 
 formal appointment from the appointed rulers of the
 
 HAWKSTONE. 99 
 
 Church, but in the success of his labours. He had 
 found the town effete, indeed, and paralysed by 
 the long incapacity of its old rector to attend to 
 their spiritual wants; with little but a formal religion, 
 and those forms dwindled into shadows. He had 
 thought to revive the spirit of religion without them, 
 — to make men heartyzealous Christians, so as to need 
 no support from mere external ordinances, — just 
 as if, when a sick man has fainted, and the circulation 
 stopped in his limbs, we should proceed to restore 
 the circulation, and at the same time to cut off the 
 limbs. And now all had failed ; and the church, 
 lying as it did, on his first coming, in a state of 
 suspended animation, had been apparently killed, 
 and prevented from coming to life again by his zeal 
 and energy, which had cut off the channels through 
 which the life-stream was to flow. 
 
 Bentley did not see aU this ; but he did see that 
 something was wrong ; and he sighed most heavily. 
 And as he looked down on the dull red mass of 
 vapour that hung over the town, through which the 
 setting sun was now shooting its diverging rays, 
 other thoughts than of his spiritual duties rose in 
 his mind. There were, indeed, thousands of souls 
 in that large place, for which, in some shape, he, 
 and he alone, was responsible ; and he felt bitterly 
 that the account he must render of them was full of 
 evil. But there were also thousands of bodies, 
 thousands of living beings, of whom all but a small 
 proportion were in poverty and misery ; — mothers, 
 with the hearts of mothers, who were hanging over 
 starving children ; fathers, with arms of strength, 
 and hearts almost desperate with disappointment 
 and suffering. There were hundreds and hundreds 
 of children who were toiling day and night without 
 liope, without relief, like drudges in a mill, forced 
 from their beds in the cold crrev mornin«rs before 
 
 n 2 
 
 rey
 
 100 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 they had slept out their melancholy weariness, sent 
 back to their beds again to think with fear of the 
 coming day ; many worn with midnight toil, snatch- 
 ing their hasty meal of dry bread or cold potatoes, 
 apart from their parents, nnder the eye of a stern 
 task-master, and in the midst of grinding wheels 
 and tainted air, — oh ! how unlike that beautiful, that 
 merciful nature, on which Bentley himself was 
 gazing, — the hills — the woods — the green meadows 
 — the sparkling waters — the bright blue sky — the 
 glorious sun, — all which God has made for man, but 
 especially for man in his childhood, as the nursery 
 in which he might be reared under fair sights, and 
 gentle sounds, and softest colours, and a liberty of 
 innocence, to see his Maker around and above liim 
 at every step, in every thrill of pleasure, though 
 shrouded under a mystery of grandeur and of 
 beauty. 
 
 And they were left to themselves. Some hand, 
 Bentley knew not how, had severed those unhappy 
 beings from the ranks above them. He did, indeed, 
 visit, and visit daily, their miserable abodes, and 
 came back choked with tears, to sit down to his 
 solitary meal, which he could scarcely provide for 
 himself, and which was often sent away untasted to 
 relieve some famishing family. But what could 
 one hand, a hand of poverty like their own, or one 
 voice, or one mind, do with such a mass of ignorance 
 and distress ? When he stood among them, and 
 spoke of religion, they gazed on him with a stupid 
 indifference, as if asking what right an individual, 
 young and solitary like him, could have to command 
 their minds. If he gave them relief, it was snatched 
 without gratitude ; for there was nothing about him 
 to fear, and therefore little to excite love. In vain 
 he exhorted the few unoccupied persons, principally 
 ladies,twho could undertake the task, to visit and
 
 5AWKST0NE. 101 
 
 assist in relieving. Thej did assist him as they 
 could ; but they had neither authority, nor power, 
 often not judgment sufficient, to turn those visits to 
 account, in forming habits of obedience, or religion, 
 or even prudence. The population was a body with- 
 out a head, — a mass of fermenting passions, suf- 
 ferings, high stimulated desires, half-instructed 
 reason, — with no power above them to control, to 
 guide, to be the object of affection, to sympathize 
 with them, or to awe them. And not long since 
 they had been admitted to the right of voting for 
 members of parliament — to a share in the supreme 
 government of the country. And as Bentley 
 recalled these things, and gazed on the sun sinking 
 behind a hill, and thought of a declining empire, he 
 started up suddenly from his seat — for he had lost 
 his watch. 
 
 H 3
 
 102 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Unhappily for the unity of our story, our tliree 
 principal personages at this moment have diverged, 
 each in different directions, without knowing or 
 caring at all for each other's movements. And the 
 reader, who must hold in his hands the several clues 
 to their proceedings without confusing them, will, 
 we fear, be not a little puzzled. The stranger has left 
 the ruins, and wandered into the park ; Bentley, 
 while sitting on the bench, and ruminating on the 
 state of his parish, has just discovered the loss of 
 his watch ; and Miss Mabel has been occupied the 
 whole afternoon, and we must now return to her. 
 She left JNIrs. Bevan's a little ashamed, a little 
 perplexed, and, perhaps, a little angry, with the 
 lecture which she had received. But her official 
 duties were all before her, and her spirits rose with 
 the calls upon her exertions. The accounts, accord- 
 ingly, of one society were settled, and the plan for 
 the other arranged ; and the meeting for the L*ish 
 attended ; and Mabel had the satisfaction every 
 where of finding herself employed as secretary, and 
 consulted as oracle — for persons are always glad to 
 find those who will take trouble off their hands, and 
 never hesitate to consult those whom they are not 
 obliged to follow. Arid, the work of the morning 
 despatched, and an invitation being accepted to eat 
 a family dinner at Mr. Morgan's at five o'clock, 
 Mabel resolved to employ her afternoon in a visit 
 of charity. She would go and see poor Mrs. Con- 
 neUj and the burnt boy.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 103 
 
 It was with some difficulty that she made her 
 way under a dirty archway, and over a heap of 
 rubbish, through the narrow, stifling, and offensive 
 alley in which the poor family had taken refuge. 
 Some tattered linen was hanging to dry across it ; 
 heaps of dung and offal lay before the doors ; and a few 
 pale miserable faces peered out of the broken case- 
 ments, as Mabel's black silk cloak, carefully wrapped 
 round her, was seen threading the low passage. 
 Every one prepared at once their tale of sorrow or 
 complaint. One had been neglected in the 
 distribution of blankets ; another's child had been 
 whipped at the National School, and would not be 
 sent any more unless the committee would scold the 
 master ; a third had found fault with the soup ; 
 a fourth was meditating how to extract from 
 Mabel an order on the Benevolent Society for wine 
 for her sick child, then lying in a high fever ; and 
 a fifth, a masculine, red-armed Amazon, had taken 
 those arms from the washing-tub before her, and, 
 hastily wiping them, came forward, with no pacific 
 voice, to expostulate with and denounce poor Mabel 
 for having said something to Mr. Bentley in dis- 
 praise of her diamken husband. One face only, a 
 fair, soft, delicate face, still bearing traces of great 
 beauty, but worn with care and sorrow, shrunk 
 back, as if trembling and ashamed, the moment 
 Mabel appeared, and hastily withdrew up the stairs 
 of one of the most miserable of the hovels. Mabel 
 herself had caught her eye, and started, for it was 
 poor Margaret, who had been her pride and delight 
 at the National School, whom she had petted and 
 brought forward on every occasion, employing her 
 as scribe and monitor, and in a variety of other 
 trustworthy offices, even dressing her in her own 
 cast-off clothes, and turning, in fact, the poor girl's 
 head, until, to Mabel's horror, a change was per- 
 H 4
 
 104 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 ceived in her character and appearance : her quick- 
 ness became levity; her eye, naturallylivelyand open, 
 now shrunk from meeting Mabel's ; and it soon became 
 too evident that Margaret was lost. Mabel, indeed, 
 did not abandon her : exertions were made by ]Mr. 
 Bentley, and other influential persons, especially by 
 Mr. Brown, who employed George ^Tbeeler in his 
 service ; and it was some satisfaction to Mabel to 
 think that all that could be done was done, and that 
 George, who had caused her ruin, was compelled to 
 marry her. 
 
 Whatever strictness Mabel was inclined to en- 
 force in melancholy cases of this kind, she could not 
 forget that something was to blame in herself ; and 
 the moment she caught sight of Margaret's humbled, 
 penitent, anxious face of patient suffering, she re- 
 solved to do what she had not done before, and to 
 visit her again. And she was rather pleased to find, 
 when asking for Mrs. Connell, to hear that she and 
 her husband and children had been offered a shelter 
 by Margaret herself, and were now Kving under the 
 same miserable roof. Making her way past a little 
 knot of dirty ragged children, who were playing with 
 a crab-shell, and, young as they were, intermixed 
 their play with oaths and words which Mabel could 
 not hear without shuddering, she ascended the 
 ruinous staircase ; and her authoritative knock at the 
 door was answered by the bustling appearance of 
 Mrs. Connell, her black ragged hair straggling from 
 her torn cap, and many symptoms indicating that 
 she had not passed a day of that total abstinence 
 recommended by the Temperance Society. 
 
 The room, however, was neater than Mabel had 
 usually found to be the case in similar alleys. The 
 broken panes were partially covered with paper. 
 There were one or two chairs with their full com- 
 plement of legs ; a little range of crockery orna-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 105 
 
 merited one wall; a common print of a Scripture 
 subject, which Mabel recognised as one of her own 
 gifts to poor Margaret when at school, was pinned 
 over the fire-place ; and two large geraniums in 
 the window gave something of an air of refreshment 
 and comfort. It was with some little difficulty that 
 Mabel made her way past the loquacious Mrs. 
 Connell, full of her own distresses, and tales of 
 complaint against her drunken husband, to the 
 heap of straw covered with an old brown coat, 
 which lay in the corner, and on which the boy who 
 had been burnt in the fire was now stretched. He 
 was asleep, and, just as Mabel came to the bed-side, 
 a ray of light struggled through the dim casement, 
 and fell on his face. It was exquisitely beautiful ; 
 the forehead open, the lips half closed and full of 
 intelligence and sweetness, the hair clustered thick 
 in natural ringlets, the ear delicately small, the 
 nose finely formed ; and, though childhood even 
 amongst the poorest is still full of beauty, Mabel 
 was struck at something of a higher character in 
 the form before her. She stood looking on him for 
 some minutes, with that delight and composure, not 
 unmixed with melancholy thoughtfulness, with 
 which a slee23ing child, helpless, unconscious, peace- 
 ful, pure, and yet surrounded with so many dangers, 
 is regarded by a feeling mind. And she did not 
 turn away till the boy, disturbed by some noise, 
 threw out his arms, opened his eyes, and, uttering 
 an oath, and throwing from him a Bible which 
 Margaret had placed by his side, once more com- 
 posed himself to sleep. Mabel shuddered again, 
 and would have remonstrated with his mother on 
 permitting him to grow up in such habits, but she 
 had left the room ; and, on turning round to look 
 for her, she observed Margaret herself, who liad 
 endeavoured to escape observation by witlidrawing
 
 106 
 
 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 behind a screen, on which a new -washed shirt was 
 hanging to diy, and was affecting to busy herself 
 with preparing something in a pipkin over the 
 scanty fire. 
 
 As Mabel apjjroached her, she turned round, and, 
 almost sinking with shame, could not venture to 
 lift up her eyes ; and, at the few kind but sad words 
 with which Mabel addressed her, she covered her 
 face with her hands, and, sinking in a chair, burst 
 into tears. With this sight all Mabel's severity 
 vanished ; she spoke to her once more as she had 
 used to do'; and as the sound of her voice recalled 
 past days and happier times, poor Margaret's agony 
 of weeping increased, and it was with some 
 difficulty that Mabel composed her sufficiently to 
 proceed in some inquiries respecting her husband. 
 At the word " husband " all Margaret's distress was 
 again aroused. 
 
 " Where was he ? " 
 
 " He had gone to find work at the quarries in the 
 forest." 
 
 " How was he going on ?" 
 
 Margaret was silent. 
 
 "Was he kind to her?" 
 
 She faintly answered " Yes." But Mrs. Connell, 
 who had entered the room again, looked as if she 
 were very much disposed to say " No." 
 
 " Where w^as her infimt ? " 
 
 And here Margaret once more burst into a 
 passion of tears. " George had taken it with him 
 to a relation's." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " To get it taken care of." 
 
 " But why not leave it with its mother ? " 
 
 " We were starving," said Margaret, " and he said 
 it would be better off." 
 
 " Was he fond of the child?"
 
 HAWKSTONE. 107 
 
 Margaret was silent, and Mi^s. Connell could 
 refrain no longer, and said, " No," — that lie was "a 
 brute." 
 
 . Margaret sprung from her chair, and put her 
 hand before the woman's mouth. But it was too 
 late ; and, with all the feelings of an Irish mother, 
 in whom no hardship and no distress can eradicate 
 the love of her children, even of her foster-children, 
 Mrs. Connell proceeded to enlarge on George's bad 
 conduct both to his wife and his child ; but to the 
 child especially — he seemed to hate it. Mabel 
 listened with great pain. She thought how often 
 love which ends in crime turns into hatred, and 
 how little hope there is of permanent peace and 
 comfort in an union which remorse and shame must 
 embitter, and how hard it is to restore what has 
 once been broken by sin. But while IMrs. Connell, 
 unchecked by the imploring eyes of Margaret, who 
 yet could not deny her statements, was proceeding 
 in the full flow of her eloquent indignation, another 
 step, harsh and heavy, was heard ascending the 
 creaking staircase, and a short rude knock at the 
 door was followed, without waiting for an answer, 
 by the entrance of another person. 
 
 " Is your husband here ? " said a rude, stern voice 
 to Mrs. Connell, which, as Mabel's dress appeared 
 from behind the screen, was softened down into 
 something of bland hypocritical gentleness ; " is 
 your husband here, my good woman?" And, on 
 looking up, Mabel saw a middle-aged stout man, 
 with a hard iron face, rough whiskers, and bushy 
 hair, a patch upon the mouth, the eyes small, and 
 twinkling with deep lurking cunning, yet capable 
 of concealing their expression, and his dress that 
 of a butcher. But there was something about his 
 whole appearance singular and almost unnatural, 
 — a certain contrast between his dress and his
 
 108 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 manner, wliich was felt rather than understood, and 
 an evident desire to make observations upon others, 
 without being able to face others himself Mabel 
 was struck equally by his change of tone and 
 manner when he perceived who she was. He made 
 way for her as she went up to the place where the 
 poor boy lay, and his bow was that of a person 
 capable of moving in a higher situation. And it 
 appeared that he now thought it necessary to show 
 some sympathy for the poor woman. 
 
 "How is he to-day?" he asked of IVIrs. Connell ; 
 "is he better?" 
 
 And, as he came up to the bed-side, the boy 
 opened his eyes, and a greeting took place between 
 them as of an old and a young associate, familiar 
 with each other, and of whom the elder had initiated 
 the younger into much that was evil : and the look 
 with which he gazed upon the boy did not escape 
 Mabel. It passed over his countenance for a 
 moment, lighting it up with a strange expression of 
 exultation, and hate, and treachery, which made 
 Mabel feel uncomfortable in his presence. But it 
 was soon over ; and he turned to repeat his question, 
 " AYhere was Connell ? " 
 
 Mrs. Connell herself seemed to stand before him 
 in awe and fear. She faltered out, " that he was at 
 the public-house." 
 
 "As usual," muttered the man. "As usual. 
 And why do you let him go there ? " 
 
 " How can I prevent it?" said the poor woman ; 
 " he takes all he can, and leaves me to get on as I 
 can ; and it is his only comfort. He does not sleep at 
 night, and can't get work in the day ; and no one 
 cares for us ; and, to tell the truth, IMr. Pearce," she 
 said, gaining courage from despair, "it's bad days 
 with us, and it were better we were back in our 
 own country. Would to God we had never left it !"
 
 HAWKSTONE. 109 
 
 " Pshaw ! pshaw ! " was the reply, and he was 
 about to leave the room, when Margaret, trembling 
 and faltering, came up to him, and asked if he had 
 seen her husband. 
 
 " Where is George, Mr, Pearce ? " 
 
 The man started and coloured, but only for| an 
 instant. "Up in the quarries, I suppose. How 
 should I know ? " he said ; " am I to be answerable 
 for all the stray husbands in the place ? " 
 
 " But he told me," said Margaret, " that he was 
 going to see you — that you were to get him 
 employment." 
 
 "Did he?" answered the man; "then he told a 
 lie, and you were a fool for believing him." 
 
 " And you have not seen him, then ? " 
 
 " How should I have seen him, I tell you again I " 
 
 " And my baby, " once more she faltered out, — 
 " you have not seen it ? " 
 
 The man uttered a coarse expression of impa- 
 tience, and, as Margaret burst into tears, he retreated 
 hastily out of the room. 
 
 It was some little time before any one spoke after 
 this scene. At last Mabel broke the silence by 
 some observations on the sick boy, who lay with his 
 fine face buried in a rough dirty heap of clothes, 
 and apparently sulky and impatient at being made 
 the subject of remark. It was in vain that Mabel 
 addressed to him some of the usual commonplaces 
 on the duty of bearing pain patiently ; on its being 
 a warning ; on the necessity of profiting by it ; on 
 the opportunity which he now enjoyed of reading 
 the Bible and saying his prayers. He either said 
 nothing, or muttered some indistinct sounds, Avliich 
 told more of sulkiness than gratitude : and Mabel, 
 as she withdrew, could not help lamenting to Mrs. 
 Connell how little he seemed to have profited by 
 sickness, and entreated her to remember the awful
 
 110 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 responsibility of rearing up her children in the way 
 they should go, and of the misery of seeing a son 
 turn out ill. There was a strange passive indiffer- 
 ence in Mrs. Connell's face as Mabel uttered the 
 word " son," and a look of intelligence in poor Mar- 
 garet's eye, which, however, did not intend to tell 
 any tale. But Mabel observed them not ; and, after 
 leaving a trifle from the funds of a District Visiting 
 Society, and promising to call again, she withdrew.
 
 HAWKSTONE. Ill 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 As she turned the corner by the back gate of the 
 little public-house called the Bricklayer's Arms, 
 she once more caught sight of the strange man 
 whom she had just met. But the repugnance which 
 she had felt at his presence made her turn away her 
 eyes. And she did not notice that, after looking 
 up and down the street, to observe if any one saw 
 him, and whistling at the same time with an affecta- 
 tion of indifference, he slipped quietly into the 
 yard. 
 
 And we must follow him. 
 
 A nod of familiar recognition to a dirty, slipshod 
 abigail, who performed the domestic offices of the 
 public-house, and another to her equally dirty mis- 
 tress, showed that he was no stranger in the place ; and 
 he entered without hesitation a little back room com- 
 municating with the t;v^, where, round a deal table 
 covered with mugs of beer and tobacco-pipes, sat 
 six or seven ill-looking ruffianly fellows, with rough 
 caps on their heads, and dresses such as are worn 
 by navigators, excavators, and persons employed on 
 railroads. His entrance caused a movement among 
 them. One or two took off their caps ; others shuf- 
 fled with their feet, as if prepared to rise ; and all 
 seemed awkward at first, as in the presence of a 
 superior. But he nodded to them with a mixture 
 of condescension and familiarity ; and they were 
 soon placed at their ease again by his taking up a 
 dirty newspaper stained with beer, from which one 
 of them had been reading, and asking what news. 
 Before an answer could be given he had exchanged
 
 112 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 a sign with one of them who sat at the head of the 
 table, and seemed to possess some command over the 
 rest, and to be better drest. And after a few words 
 whispered between them, the other left the room. 
 
 "And so, sir, we are to have an election after 
 all," said one of the remaining party. 
 
 " And what good will an election do you?" said 
 a shrewd, cynical-looking man at the bottom of the 
 table, who appeared to have had a somewhat better 
 education than the rest. 
 
 " What good will parliament or any thing do us," 
 rejoined another, " until we get the charter ?" 
 
 " And what good will the charter do you ?" said 
 the cynic. 
 
 " Why, give us what we want, and put all things 
 straight. Is it not a crying shame that with your 
 representative government, as you call it, here are 
 we, the thousands, ay, the millions, without any 
 voice at all, or any one to represent us, or care for 
 us, or give us any thing but a jail for a poor-house, 
 and Botany Bay for a country residence? If we 
 are to have representatives, let them be real ones — 
 men who will do as we tell them, and only speak 
 what we choose to hear." 
 
 " Fine governors we should make ! " said the 
 cynic. 
 
 " And pray why not ?" was the reply. " Do not we 
 know as much of government as the king's ministers 
 themselves? cannot we find out what the people like, 
 and do it just as well as they can, and better too ? 
 We'd soon make short work of it. Down with your 
 civil list ! down with your pensions ! down with 
 your corn-laws — and your landlords, grinding the 
 poor to death that they may put their high rents 
 into their pockets ! Down with your poor-bastiles ! 
 down with your kings ! "
 
 HAWKSTONE. 113 
 
 " And dukes, and princes, and marquises, and 
 lords, and all the crew of them ! " said another. 
 
 " Here's a health to them all, Mr. Pearce ! " and 
 he turned his glass upside down, and looked up sig- 
 nificantly in the face of the last comer. 
 
 " And your taxes," rejoined Pearce himself, " and 
 your tithes, and your church-rates, and your parlia- 
 ment clergy, your archbishops with 50,000/. a-year, 
 and your bishops with 20,000/., and your parsons, 
 who, having plundered the Catholics, would now 
 willingly burn and hang them, and send over an 
 army to Ii-eland to extirpate what they call the bloody 
 papists — do you say ' down ' with these, too ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay, down with them all!" rose at once in a 
 chorus from the whole table ; " down with them all 
 — the sooner the better." 
 
 " And how will you down with them ? " asked 
 Pearce, winking, and looking at them with a cold 
 sarcastic smile on his lips ; " what is the use of 
 your talking when men should be acting ? " 
 
 " And we are going to act, are we not ? " was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Going ! " said Pearce ; " cowards are always 
 going to act. What have you done to prepare your- 
 selves when the time comes ? " 
 
 " Something," said one of the youngest ; and he 
 threw a heavy stick upon the table, which Pearce 
 took up and examined, feeling one end of it, and 
 drawing out a short pointed weapon which fixed 
 into it. 
 
 " Sharp — pretty sharp," he muttered, as he closed 
 it up. 
 
 " Sharp enough," said its owner. 
 
 " And do you intend to use this ? " said Pearce. 
 
 " Use it ?" cried five or six voices at once, lyid the 
 whole party opened their eyes as if in astonishment 
 I
 
 1 14 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 at the question coming from such a quarter — 
 " Use it ? Why, what have you sent Blacker to us 
 for, if we are not to use them ? " 
 
 " /send Blacker to you !" said Pearce. " /wish 
 you to use them ! Who ever heard me say any 
 thing of the kind ? I recommend you all to claim 
 your rights as Englishmen ; and if they attempt to 
 put you down by force, why, rather than have your 
 necks straightened on the gallows, it might be as 
 well to try something else. But my advice is, obey 
 the law. Alter the law if you can, but do not break 
 it ; it only does harm. Show yourselves in a strong 
 attitude ; let your enemies and your persecutors see 
 that you can defend yourselves. Moral force is 
 invincible. This is what I recommend, and always 
 shall. So Blacker will tell you : he is a fine fellow, 
 and you cannot have a better leader." 
 
 There was a curious mixture of blank surprise 
 and disappointment in the faces of all assembled, as 
 Pearce uttered these words and turned whistling to 
 the window. 
 
 " But I thought, Mr. Pearce," said one of them, 
 at length taking courage, " I thought Blacker had 
 orders from you ? " 
 
 " Orders from me ! " fiercely cried Pearce as he 
 turned round sharply on the speaker. " Orders 
 from me, Blacker ! " — as the man who seemed the 
 leader of the gang re-entered the room — " Blacker ! 
 have you told these men that I have given you 
 orders — that I have any thing to do with this ? " 
 and he took up the dagger stick. 
 
 " I ? " said Blacker, stammering. " No, sir, never. 
 No one ever heard me say any thing of the kind. I 
 told them you were a friend to the people, and 
 wished them to have their rights, and were no 
 monopolist or aristocrat : that is all. If any one 
 says more than this, it is quite a mistake."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 115 
 
 " Quite a mistake, quite a mistake," hastily re- 
 peated Pearce. " Moral influence is what I recom- 
 mend — peaceable pressure from without — force of 
 opinion — imposing attitude; — show your strength 
 — but do not violate the laws, do not violate the 
 laws!" 
 
 He then whispered a word to Blacker — received 
 a short answer, and, with a hurried good morning, 
 he left the room. 
 
 " Now that is what I call courage I " said the 
 cynic ; and others seemed inclined to say the same. 
 
 But Blacker took his seat at the head of the 
 table, and, making a sign for silence, soon drew 
 their attention to other things. There were signs 
 and countersigns exchanged, mysterious communi- 
 cations respecting Lodges and Brethren, and work 
 to be done. Several produced weapons like the 
 one exhibited before ; and the aspect of fierce de- 
 termination, with which they gradually regarded 
 each other and their leader, brightened with satis- 
 faction when Blacker pulled out a handful of sove- 
 reigns and proceeded to divide them. 
 
 " And now. Captain Blacker," said the cynic, as 
 he pocketed his money, " you are a great man, and 
 a clever man among us poor ignorant fellows, who 
 cannot read or write ; but may such a stupid fellow 
 as I am take the liberty of asking where all this 
 comes from ? " 
 
 " Come from ? " replied Blacker, with a laugh. 
 " Wlio minds where his money comes from, when 
 he finds it snug in his own pocket ? Do not trouble 
 yourself about that." 
 
 " Why, I do not trouble myself much about any 
 
 thing," said the cynic, chinking the money in his 
 
 hand ; " it is all the same to me, if I get my pot of 
 
 beer and my warm fire-side, how the world goes 
 
 I 2
 
 116 HA^VKSTONE. 
 
 with other people. But that fellow Pearce, they 
 say he has plenty of these," and he held up a sove- 
 reign to the light ; " and you seem to be pretty good 
 friends with him. Eh, captain ? " 
 
 Blacker laughed again, but with a look which 
 checked further inquiry, and contented himself 
 with saying that the business was over and he must 
 go. " One thing," he added, " you may be sure of, 
 my lads. There are people cleverer and greater 
 than I or jVii*. Pearce, or any one in this place, who 
 will be very glad to see you have your rights, and 
 won't mind assisting you if you help yourselves. 
 Only remember your business : mind your oath, 
 keep your counsel, do not get drunk, stand by your 
 brethren, and obey your captain. Is not this it ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, — we will, we will," — and Blacker left 
 them. 
 
 As he passed by a little room at the other end of 
 the passage, the door was ajar, and he was beckoned 
 into it by Pearce, who was standing to watch for 
 him. The door was shut after him ; and Pearce, 
 drawing himself up to his full height, and planting 
 himself with an air of determined and commanding 
 authority within a few feet of him, sternly de- 
 manded what he meant by letting those fellows 
 suppose there was any communication between 
 them. Blacker, a man clever and self-possessed, 
 but evidently under the control of Pearce, and 
 awed by him as by a master, hesitated and co- 
 loured, and began to excuse himself and deny it. 
 
 " None of your excuses or denials," said Pearce ; 
 " you know who I am, and you know that I know 
 every thing. Never tell me a lie ! " and he fastened 
 on him a look of penetrating and contemptuous sig- 
 nificance which Blacker could not face. 
 
 " You have not told them any thing," said Pearce,
 
 HAWKSTONE^ ll*t 
 
 after a pause. " I know that well enough. But 
 you have allowed them to suspect, and with us that 
 is as bad. Remember your oath, sir ; and remember 
 that if I have but two eyes in my head, I have a 
 hundred in my pocket, and hands too, — hands," he 
 muttered in a low but audible whisper, " which will 
 do any thing I bid them, and which never spare a 
 traitor." 
 
 The word "traitor" restored Blacker to his self- 
 possession. He came forward, protested against 
 deserving such a charge, acknowledged that he 
 might have been careless, promised that he would 
 take care to remove any impression of the kind ; 
 and Pearce, receiving his excuses, shook hands with 
 him at last, and apparently restored him to favour. 
 " And now go," he added, " and send that brute 
 Connell to me directly. Stop," he cried, as Blacker 
 was leaving the room ; " I have one more thing to 
 say. Come back, and shut the door. Have you 
 seen him to-day ? " 
 
 " He was at the inn this morning at eleven 
 o'clock, I know," said Blacker ; " and afterwards 
 he went to Atkinson's, for I watched him there ; 
 and canny Charles was to watch him afterwards. 
 George the hostler told me they thought he was 
 going away in a day or two." 
 
 " Did they know who he was ? " asked Pearce. 
 
 " No," replied Blacker. 
 
 " And you did not give them a hint ? " 
 
 " Not I. I merely stood about in the yard when 
 they were talking about him, and so found out what 
 he was doing." 
 
 " Has he seen Connell yet, and the boy?" 
 
 " Yes, yesterday morning. Connell told me he 
 
 came to Wheeler's wife, saw the boy, and seemed 
 
 struck with him. Connell said it was quite strange 
 
 to see him. The boy behaved ill, and swore, upoa 
 
 I 3
 
 118 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 which Connell had a sermon given him, and some- 
 thing was said about his being sent to school." 
 
 " Very good, very good," muttered Pearce ; 
 " this will do. Has he been to the Priory yet ? '* 
 
 " Not yet, I am sure," said Blacker, " for I have 
 had my eye on him ever since you ordered me, and 
 he cannot have gone anywhere without my know- 
 ing it." 
 
 " Let me know," said Pearce, " when he does go ; 
 " for it cannot be long first. And so the old Lord 
 is come back ? You will have an eye there too, 
 Blacker, and an eye on my Lady." 
 
 " I saw her go up to the Priory about an hour 
 ago," said Blacker, " in a little low phaeton, with a 
 servant on horseback." 
 
 " To the Priory?" muttered Pearce. " Humph ! 
 And where is he now ? " 
 
 " Canny Charles will tell me this evening," said 
 Blacker. 
 
 " Find out if he is gone to the Priory too," said 
 Pearce, " and let me know at once. I shall be at 
 my lodgings all the evening. And now, good 
 day." 
 
 But, once more. Blacker was called back before 
 the door had closed, and Pearce, shutting it carefully 
 after him, and looking round the room as if afraid 
 lest the walls had ears, came up to him, and laying 
 his hand on his shoulder, and looking fixedly in his 
 face, said to him in a low voice, " Are you sure of 
 Wheeler ? " 
 
 " As sure as I am of myself," was the answer. 
 
 " Humph ! " muttered Pearce. And once more 
 looking Blacker in the face, as if he would penetrate 
 into the very bottom of his thoughts, — " He knows 
 things," said Pearce, in the same low distinct voice, 
 " he knows things which he should not know, and 
 he has threatened to disclose them."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 119 
 
 " Has lie ?" asked Blacker, as if alarmed. 
 
 " It is against our laws," said Pearce — and he 
 paused. " And our laws must be obeyed," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 For a moment Blacker seemed to shudder and 
 recoil from Pearce's touch ; but Pearce, with the 
 same fixed, searching, significant gaze, retained his 
 hold of him. 
 
 " Our laws must be obeyed," he repeated, " and 
 to the letter, or all is lost. Blacker, my fine fellow, 
 there must be no flinching." 
 
 " I never thought of flinching," said Blacker 
 sulkily, and yet seemingly nerving himself to hear 
 the rest. 
 
 " I never thought you did," said Pearce ; " I 
 know you too well." And with an encouraging 
 clap on the shoulder, and a relaxation of his coun- 
 tenance, he let go his hold. Blacker seemed to 
 recover and take breath, as if from a species of fas- 
 cination. 
 
 " Keep watch on him," said Pearce — " and that 
 is all." 
 
 There was something significant in Blacker's 
 eyes, as he looked up and repeated " That is all ? " 
 
 " Yes, all — that is all : " and then, as if correct- 
 ing himself, " for the present, that is." 
 
 " Very well," said Blacker. 
 
 " Good bye. And now send Connell." 
 
 It was some time before Connell arrived, and in 
 the meanwhile Pearce paced backwards and for- 
 wards along the sanded floor of the little room, with 
 his arms folded, and resting every now and then, 
 as if in intense thought, with his forehead on the 
 mantel-piece. Once his dark, gloomy, but energetic 
 eye caught a gaudy-coloured print like a valentine 
 over the fireplace. It represented three hearts trans- 
 fixed with arrows, with the words " Mary, Jesus, 
 I 4
 
 120 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 and Joseph" over them, and a devotional inscription 
 at the bottom, containing an invocation to all three. 
 He crossed himself at the sight, muttered over 
 some form of words, which might have been an 
 Ave Maria, and then relapsed into thoughtfulness, 
 from which he was disturbed by a low knock at the 
 door. 
 
 " There are no letters, sir, to-day," said a little 
 girl who opened it with fear and trembling. " But 
 here is a parcel come by the coach. Three and 
 sixpence, sir, to pay, from Preston." 
 
 Pearce took the parcel, and eagerly tore it open. 
 Some papers containing lists of names and printed 
 tracts, apparently for circulation, he put into his 
 pocket, and then sat down to open a letter in cypher, 
 which it cost him some trouble to translate. 
 
 " The cypher changed again," he muttered. " Why, 
 they are more cautious than ever. Has there been 
 any treachery, I wonder ? " and he proceeded to read : 
 " ' You will have no more letters by the post yet, for 
 the post-office people have noticed the foreign letters. 
 Government has got wind of something. F. C. will 
 forward those from Lyons in a parcel by coach to 
 the Hen and Chickens.' Humph ! more caution. 
 * You have committed yourself to Wheeler. He is 
 not one of us, and never will be, and has his own 
 views and plans, and you will never be able to make 
 use of him as you propose. He has even threatened, 
 unless we do what he wishes. He is too sharp and 
 too wicked for you. If you cannot get the papers 
 
 from him quietly, we must not mind ' (here 
 
 was a blank). ' He might ruin us all' 
 
 " Fools ! " said Pearce impatiently. " Fools, to 
 think I needed to be told this ! ' You will send us 
 word regularly of V.'s movements. He has sold 
 his Yorkshire property, — we learned this by X. Z., 
 and has made up his mind to live at the P. You
 
 HAWKSTONU. 121 
 
 will let us know how long he remains at H., and 
 whether he goes to the castle and sees L. E. She 
 is quite firm ; and at present so is he, and there 
 seems to be no chance of any change. But they 
 have not met since they parted at Florence, and we 
 have resolved on waiting patiently a little longer, 
 and making another trial.' " 
 
 As Pearce came to these last words he laid down 
 the letter with a cool smile, which implied no little 
 contempt of the writer, and no inclination to enter 
 into his views. " Another trial ! " he muttered. 
 " Have they not had trials enough already ? Do 
 they think to bring him round now, with his ob- 
 stinacy and what he calls his conscience, when he 
 has once got out of their net ? They might have 
 done it once, when he was younger and knew no- 
 thing ; but he has fallen into other hands now, and 
 they are no match for him. No ! " and he looked up 
 triumphantly ; " those two will never be one now ; 
 and, what is more, they never shall be. Never ! 
 never! I have sworn it by my hatred and my 
 vengeance — sworn it on my knees, if my hand and 
 the power it wields can prevent it. Never, never ! " 
 and it would have given a study for the picture of 
 a fiend to have watched his face as he uttered these 
 words. But the paroxysm of passion was momen- 
 tary. He smothered it over, assumed the same 
 cold iron cast of countenance, and proceeded to de- 
 cypher the letter. " ' If all fails, and he will not 
 come over, we must try something else. He must 
 not be allowed to remain at H., where he will do 
 us great harm. He makes no secret of his inten- 
 tions, and will work against us in every possible 
 way. But you will take no steps to attack him till 
 you hear from us. If he can be brought over by 
 fair means, well and good ; if not, we must be rid of 
 him in some other way.'
 
 122 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " Rid of him in some other way! " repeated Pearce. 
 " Rid of him in some other way ! Yes, there are 
 many other ways of getting rid of him. Men have 
 been driven from their homes by disgust, by disap- 
 pointment, by threats, by abuse, by calumny, by 
 fear. There is no difficulty in this. But this would 
 not be vengeance — not my vengeance. To make 
 him drink of his own cup — to stab him with his 
 own dagger — to have him here with my foot upon 
 his neck, and tell him it was I who did it ! " He 
 stood fixed in the very posture which he would 
 have assumed had his deadly enemy been lying 
 under his feet ; and his eye lighted up with fierce 
 exultation. The letter, however, was not finished ; 
 and with the air of a man who could shake off all 
 personal feeling and apply himself at once to busi- 
 ness, he reverted to it. " ' You will beware of the 
 Abbe ; he is still at the old Lord's : but he is, you 
 know, a mere Protestant at heart, and you must 
 not trust him. "We shall soon have him removed, 
 and you may communicate freely with the person 
 who comes in his stead. Of course you will do 
 what can be done for the Liberals at the election. 
 Make use of AYlieeler's set if you can safely. But 
 again remember that he has his own plans, and 
 must not be trusted, and, unless he gives up the 
 papers, all may be lost. Write to us every other 
 day if you have any thing to communicate, and 
 send your letters under cover to X. Z.' " 
 
 Pearce had scarcely time to read the end of the 
 letter, when he heard another knock at the door, 
 and, with a heavy lumbering tread, his face inflamed 
 with habits of intoxication, his eyes bloodshot, and 
 an expression of haggardness and fear in his lip 
 and mouth, Connell came in. 
 
 " Drinking again, sirrah ! " said Pearce to him, in 
 the same cold, stern voice which he had assumed to- 
 wards Blacker. " Drinkin^r again ! "
 
 HAWKSTONE. 123 
 
 Connell, like every other person who came into 
 contact with this singular personage, seemed to quail 
 under his eye, and stammered out some excuse. 
 
 " I will have no excuses," said Pearce. " You 
 have been at the public-house aU this morning, and 
 all yesterday afternoon." 
 
 Connell attempted to deny it. 
 
 " How dare you," said Pearce, in his low, distinct 
 voice, which seemed to thrill through and fascinate 
 his hearer ; " how dare you tell a lie to me, who 
 know every thing that you say and do ? You went 
 at four o'clock yesterday afternoon to the Swan tap ; 
 you there met Roberts and Jackson ; you sat 
 drinking with them till six ; you then went down 
 by the Brewhouse lane ; you spoke to a person by 
 the way, and you told him, half-drunk as you were, 
 that you would meet him at the Ruins to-night, and 
 help him. You know whom I mean. And now, 
 when I know every word you utter, and every thing 
 you do, how dare you tell me a lie ? " 
 
 The poor wretch, as if aghast at the presence of 
 a supernatural being, listened without a word of 
 reply, and showed by his silence the accuracy of 
 Pearce's statement. 
 
 " I tell you again," said Pearce, " that I have 
 eyes in every place, and tongues to tell me every 
 thing. Never lie to me, for it is of no use. And 
 now, sirrah, give me a true account of all that passed 
 when the gentleman who saved the boy came to see 
 him. Tell me every thing, at your peril ! " 
 
 Connell, faltering and frightened, endeavoured, 
 but very imperfectly, to give a clear narrative, and 
 Pearce listened patiently without interrupting it. 
 He knew human nature too well to attempt to 
 hasten him. It appeared by Connell's story tliat the 
 stranger had made inquiries the day after tlie fire, 
 and had found out Margaret's lodging, with the
 
 124 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 view of giving the poor people some relief ; that on 
 seeing the boy he seemed struck, as Connell ex- 
 pressed it, all of a heap ; had stood gazing on him, 
 as he lay on the straw, with a look of painful sur- 
 prise, as if struggling to retrace past circumstances, 
 and bring to light some dim and indistinct vision. 
 He had lifted the cluster of brown hair from the 
 boy's forehead ; spoken to him with a voice softened 
 and sad, as if with, an interest deeper than that of 
 ordinary benevolence ; had returned more than once 
 to look on him, and had groaned heavily as a ray of 
 light fell more full on his face. It was not till the 
 boy spoke, and spoke, as he had done to Mabel, in 
 language which revolted the ear, that the stranger 
 turned away, as if in disgust and disappointment ; 
 and rebuked both Connell and his wife for permit- 
 ting one so young to be brought up in such pro- 
 faneness and vice. Even then he called Connell 
 aside, and interrogated him closely on his family, 
 the number of his children, the age of the boy, 
 where he was born, and other questions of the kind. 
 
 " To all which," said Pearce, at this point of the 
 story, " you answered properly ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Connell. 
 
 " And boldly ?" asked Pearce. 
 
 " Yes, sir, as you told me." 
 
 " Did he seem to have any doubt, or suspect any 
 thing?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered Connell. 
 
 " You are sure, nothing ?" 
 
 " Quite sure," said Connell. 
 
 " And then," said Pearce, " he offered to send 
 him to school, did he not ?" 
 
 "He did," said Connell. "And I told him I 
 must think of it." 
 
 " Very good," said Pearce. " You will let me 
 know when you see him again. And you will give
 
 HAWKSTONE. 125 
 
 no answer of any kind till I have told you what to 
 do. And now, man, tell me what Wheeler gives 
 you for helping him at the Ruins to-night ? " 
 
 Once more Connell seemed aghast at the secret 
 knowledge which Pearce possessed of all his move- 
 ments. " Five shillings, and beer," he stammered 
 out. 
 
 " And you are to carry away what you have got 
 there to the quarries to-night ? How many of these 
 things have you got there ? " And he pulled out of 
 his pocket a pikehead weapon of the same kind as 
 that which had been produced by one of the gang 
 in the other room. 
 
 " I do not know," said Connell. 
 
 " How many carts are there to be ? " 
 
 " Two," said ConneH. 
 
 " And pray how came Wheeler to trust you, a 
 drunken sot as you are, with this piece of work ? 
 Why, for five shillings and a pot of beer you would 
 betray your own father ! " 
 
 " I won't betray him," said Connell. " Why 
 should I ? What should I get by it ? " 
 
 There was a pause, during which Pearce col- 
 lected his countenance into the same piercing, sted- 
 fast look with which he had awed Blacker, and, 
 coming up close to the ruffian, he said, in the same 
 low distinct voice, " But Wheeler could betray you ! " 
 
 Connell started, as if shot. The blood forsook 
 his cheeks, and he turned to Pearce with a look of the 
 most abject, supplicating terror. Without appear- 
 ing to notice it, Pearce continued looking stedfastly 
 on him, and again uttered the same words, " But 
 Wheeler could betray you ! " 
 
 "Who told him?" exclaimed Connell. "Who 
 told him ? I never confessed to any one but the 
 priest. No one upon earth knows it but the priest, 
 and you."
 
 126 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 And in the same low distinct tone of voice Pearce 
 whispered, " Wheeler knows it, and can give you up 
 at any time. And this is why he has employed you 
 for a work which, if you chose to peach, would cost 
 him his own neck." 
 
 The poor criminal sunk down in a chair, and 
 trembled from head to foot. Pearce allowed him a 
 few minutes to recover ; but he had no intention of 
 relieving him from his fear. He puUed a news- 
 paper out of his pocket, and, casting his eye over a 
 file of notices and advertisements, proceeded to read 
 one which described Connell's person exactly, and 
 offered a large reward of more than 500/. to any 
 one who would give information which might lead 
 to his apprehension. 
 
 " Wheeler," said Pearce again, " has seen this, 
 and he is a needy man, and a cunning man ; and no 
 one here has seen it, but himself and me. You are 
 in his power, and for that reason he ventures to 
 trust you. But he has been to the police, and, I 
 suspect, about this." 
 
 Connell's hat had fallen on the floor, his arms had 
 dropt, as if lifeless, by his side, and the sweat broke 
 out in large drops upon his forehead ; while Pearce, 
 so far from comforting or encouraging him, pro- 
 ceeded to read the advertisement again, comparing 
 every point of the description with Connell's ap- 
 pearance, and going over them slowly and steadily, 
 as if wholly insensible to, or even taking pleasure 
 in, the agony of his victim. At last Connell could 
 bear it no longer, and he fell down on his knees, and, 
 wringing his hands, intreated Pearce to save him. 
 
 " You can save me, you know you can !" he cried ; 
 "you can do any thing, — you promised you would, 
 — you saved me once before, when you brought me 
 from Ireland ! " 
 
 " I can save you, I know," said Pearce, " if only
 
 HAWKSTONE. 127 
 
 we can stop Wheeler's mouth. He's a troublesome 
 and a dangerous fellow, and 5001. would soon tempt 
 him. He has seen the paper, and he knows you 
 did it, and can give information all about it, which 
 would hang you up in a minute ; and, as I tell you, 
 I have seen him talking with the policeman. No- 
 body else has seen it, and there are no placards 
 here, nor likely to be, or I can stop them ; so you 
 are quite safe, except from him." 
 
 " How did Wheeler find it out ?" asked Connell, 
 falteringly. 
 
 " I am sure I do not know," said Pearce, " but 
 he told me all about it ; told me where you hid the 
 gun after the shot was fired ; and how, when the 
 old man struggled, you knocked him back with the 
 butt-end ; and where you threw away the frieze 
 coat ; and about the marks on your waistcoat ; " 
 — and, with his eyes fixed steadily on the con- 
 vulsed countenance of Connell, he proceeded slowly : 
 " He knew every word the old man said ; how he 
 begged for mercy, and prayed you might not go to 
 hell for it ; and spoke to you of the tithes he had 
 forgiven you, and the potatoes he used to send you 
 through the famine." 
 
 Connell put his hands before his face, and groaned 
 with anguish. " Oh, Mr. Pearce ! " he cried, " if 
 you had not put it into my head, I should never 
 have done it ! He never did me any harm, except 
 putting me out of that bit of potato ground." 
 
 " I put it into your head, man ! " said Pearce ; 
 " how could I put it into your head ? I told you, 
 if a parson kept you out of your rights, you might 
 give him a little fright, that was all, — and then you 
 went and shot him ! " 
 
 " You told me," said Connell, " that he was a 
 parson, and all parsons ought to be got rid of; and 
 you said he was an enemy of our religion, and
 
 128 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 cursed by the blessed Pope, and a devil ; and that 
 there was no harm in getting rid of devils ; and 
 then jou said there would be no difficulty, and I 
 might make a clean breast of it at confession, and 
 do a little penance, and all would be right, and I 
 should get the ground, and no one be the wiser ; 
 and this was the way to make ould Ireland free. I 
 remember every word, as well as if it were yester- 
 day ; and the devil put it all into my heart. Would 
 to God I had been murdered myself rather than 
 have done it ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! " said Pearce, " what is all this 
 fuss about ? It is not the first parson who has been 
 punished in Ii-eland for keeping what does not 
 belong to him, and it won't be the last ; and you are 
 no worse than others. The only thing to think 
 about is how we shall stop Wheeler's mouth — that 
 dangerous, treacherous fellow; I would not trust 
 my own life in his hands for a mint of money. 
 " Eh ? " he added, and looked aside at Connell, as if 
 hoping that a thought might suggest itself to him, 
 without requiring to be expressed. " Eh ?" he re- 
 peated, "how are we to stop his mouth?" — and, as 
 if leaving the question to work its way, he went to 
 the window, and whistled. 
 
 Connell once more buried his face in his hands, 
 and continued silent. 
 
 " At what o'clock," said Pearce, after a pause, 
 and turning sharply round, " are you to be at the 
 Ruins to-night ? " 
 
 " Ten o'clock," said Connell. 
 
 " Any moon ?" said Pearce. 
 
 " I do not know," answered Connell, doggedly. 
 
 " Any one to be with you ? " asked Pearce. 
 
 " No," said Connell, in the same dogged way. 
 
 Pearce went again to the window, and began 
 again to whistle. " He's a vile heretic, that
 
 HAWKSTONE. 129 
 
 Wheeler," he continued, " and one that will do us 
 mischief;" and, as he uttered the words, a careful 
 observer might have detected a little faltering in 
 the voice, as if arising from a momentary swelling 
 in the throat ; but he stifled it with a short cough, 
 and the cough broke the stupor in which Connell 
 seemed sunk. 
 
 " I thought," he said, " he was a friend of your's, 
 Mr. Pearce ? " 
 
 " No friend of mine," said Pearce : " I tried to 
 bring him round, and make him usefid, but he 
 would not do for us. Blacker is the man I like — 
 a sound, honest, trustworthy fellow. Wheeler has 
 got too much of the devil in him ; and he knoAvs a 
 great deal more than is quite convenient, more 
 especially for your neck, Connell, — eh, man? A 
 rope and a gallows, and no priest to anoint you ; 
 no pleasant prospect, eh ? " 
 
 " But Wheeler won't peach," said Connell ; " why 
 should he give me up ? Why, I could give him up, 
 for all that." 
 
 " Ay, ay, so you could ; but pray what would 
 you gain by that ? How would it save your own 
 neck from paying forfeit for the parson's bullet, by 
 putting Wheeler into gaol for his tricks with those 
 arms ? And, after all, he would only be tried, and 
 perhaps acquitted ; or the lawyers would let there 
 be some flaw in the parchment ; or else there would 
 come down a warrant from the Secretary of State, 
 and he would only be sent to Botany Bay, and get 
 a good place there, or be returned to his family. 
 Why, they could easily get up a petition for him, 
 and find plenty of members of parliament to threaten 
 ministers if they did not let hira go ; and ministers 
 do not like to provoke people now-a-days. But it 
 would be very different with you, my man. They 
 may not mind much in Ireland ; but you arc iu 
 
 K
 
 130 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 England now, and English people have not much 
 sympathy with shooting at landlords and parsons, 
 though they are Protestants, and do like to let their 
 own land as they choose. I suspect, man, your 
 chance would be small." 
 
 Connell once more let his hands drop as in 
 despair. And Pearce continued standing at the 
 window, and affected to watch the drops of rain 
 which were chasing each other down the glass. 
 
 " Are you sure," he said, once more, '• there will 
 be no one but you two to-night ?" 
 
 " Not till the carts come," said Connell, " and 
 they are not to be there till ten o'clock." 
 
 "Humph!" muttered Pearce. "He's a slight, 
 weakly fellow, that W^ieeler ; I could twist him 
 round my thumb." 
 
 " Not when he has his pistols with him," said 
 Connell. 
 
 " Does he always carry pistols ?" said Pearce. 
 
 " Always, on such nights," answered Connell, 
 sharply ; and there was another pause. 
 
 " That's a deep well in the Priory court," said 
 Pearce, " by the great yew tree ; how many feet 
 water are there in it ? " 
 
 " Twenty," muttered Connell, " or thereabouts ; " 
 and they were silent again. 
 
 " There was a man," continued Pearce, " in 
 Hawkstone, some years back, who fell into a well, 
 and was never heard of again for thirty years, when 
 they found his skeleton in cleaning it out." 
 
 Connell was silent ; but something had come 
 across his mind, and he started up, and, confronting 
 Pearce, who endeavoured to avoid his eyes, said, 
 with a voice in which bitterness of suffering was 
 mingled with anger, and scorn, and defiance, " ]VIr. 
 Pearce," he said, " are you the foul fiend himself, 
 or only his head clerk ? Blood enough ah-eady, for
 
 HAWKSTONE. 131 
 
 your head and mine ! Blood enough already !" And 
 he left the room. 
 
 Pearce stood for some minutes motionless, half- 
 alarmed, half-surprised, and chilled with that 
 shame and remorse, which even the most hard- 
 ened and most guilty cannot shake off, when re- 
 buked by inferiors guilty like themselves. But 
 his was not a mind to give way to such feelings. 
 He whistled, as if to turn the current of his 
 thoughts ; and once more began pacing the room. 
 He uttered nothing ; but his thoughts were dark 
 and deep, and showed themselves in the workings 
 of his stern and malignant features. They were 
 thoughts of a vast and deep-laid conspiracy, in 
 which the fate of kingdoms was involved, and in 
 which, though a subordinate, he was an active and 
 accomplished agent. They reverted to the days of 
 his youth, when he had been taken up by one of its 
 most penetrating leaders, and tutored in all the 
 mysterious craft of intrigue — an intrigue of which 
 religion was the pretext, and ambition the main- 
 spring, and which was carried on by a machinery 
 at once so gigantic in its extent, so secret in its 
 operations, so united in its combination, so steady 
 and undeviating in its aim, and so adapted in all its 
 parts to the passions and wants of human nature, 
 that to a human eye nothing could resist it, or 
 save even thrones and kingdoms from falling under 
 the rod of a religious tyranny. He thought of the 
 lessons which he had there received ; of acquiring 
 power, and exercising it remorselessly and fear- 
 lessly, with one sole view to the aggrandisement of 
 his society ; of the modes by which the minds of 
 men might be laid open, and be made slaves to 
 those who were privy to their weaknesses and 
 crimes ; of the grand rule of all worldly ambition, 
 ^' divide et impera," set friend against friend, power 
 K 2
 
 132 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 against power, and you become master of both. 
 He took from his pocket the papers which had 
 reached him in the packet, and contemplated with 
 exultation the account there given of the progress 
 of their influence, and the increase of their reve- 
 nues ; while the governments and countries over 
 which they were stretching their arms in secret 
 sat still in unsuspecting confidence, unconscious of 
 the mischief which was working in their very 
 vitals. To be engaged in the management of such 
 a secret and gigantic plot was in itself full of in- 
 terest and excitement to a mind like his. It gave 
 him, palled as he Avas at an early age with a licen- 
 tious life, something still to stimulate his enterprise 
 and feed his imagination. It exercised all the 
 powers of a penetrating and calculating intellect : 
 it gave him a personal importance which atoned 
 for the degrading sense of dependence and in- 
 feriority, to which his low birth had exposed him 
 in early life ; and the bitterness of which, to his 
 haughty spirit, had been aggravated by the con- 
 temptuous repulses which he had encountered in 
 his effort to obtain a footing in higher classes of 
 society : and if it held out a prospect of revenge 
 upon the classes who had thus despised him, it 
 touched him also in a tenderer point ; without 
 which, perhaps, he would never have thrown him- 
 self, with his whole heart and soul, into the position 
 which he then occupied — a position of great risk, 
 requiring the utmost delicacy of management — 
 bringing him into contact with agents whom it was 
 impossible to employ without risking treachery on 
 their part, and whom he could only hope to con- 
 trol by playing them one against the other, and 
 fearlessly resolving to saci-ifice any of them the 
 moment they became dangerous. Pearce had his 
 private ends and personal ambition ; and his am-
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 133 
 
 bition was a longing for revenge. It burned in his 
 breast with a deep, steady, resolved hatred, which 
 never allowed a thought of pity to come before it 
 and its victim ; and wliich, if ever conscience in- 
 truded for a moment, threw itself at once into the 
 form of justice — of a deserved and equitable requital 
 for a deadly injury ; and assumed even the appear- 
 ance of piety, because the same blow which laid 
 the being whom he hated at his feet laid prostrate 
 also the enemy of his faith, and the determined and 
 dangerous antagonist of the religious body to which 
 he was solemnly pledged, and in whose prosperity he 
 was told that the interests of Christendom were 
 involved. 
 
 But the thoughts could not continue for ever. 
 There was work, active work, to be done. A few 
 minutes later, a respectable clerical-looking person, 
 with his face closely shaven, a dark head of hair, 
 and a pair of green spectacles which completely 
 covered his eyes, issued from a little garden gate, 
 which communicated with a back street of Hawk- 
 stone ; and, after threading one or two narrow 
 lanes without any houses in them, he opened 
 another similar door by a private key, and soon 
 found himself in the little study of the Rev. Patrick 
 O'Leary, the bland, liberal, and accomplished Roman 
 priest, who had recently settled in Hawkstone to 
 superintend the erection of what the people persisted 
 in calling a new Catholic Chapel. 
 
 K 3
 
 134 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 With Bentley^s narrow income, and the numberless 
 calls upon it, the loss of his watch, which he valued 
 also as a legacy from an old aunt, was a very se- 
 rious consideration : and he resolved to retrace 
 his steps to the ruins in the hope of recovering it. 
 It never occurred to iiim, that as the obligation of 
 the Temperance Society only bound men to abstain 
 from one sin, and this on the ground of its incon- 
 venience, a member of the society might feel no 
 difficulty about a distinct sin, particularly where 
 tempting from its convenience. And he did not 
 recollect, that, just as he was entering the arch- 
 way into the ruins, there had been a little crowd 
 and crushing of some bystanders, in the midst of 
 which it was not impossible that his watch had 
 either been stolen or forced from his pocket. He 
 walked, therefore, as fast as he was able, back 
 through the park. But the sun had already set. 
 The sound of the returning band, as it entered the 
 High Street of Hawkstone, reached him from a 
 distance, and told him that he would find the ruins 
 deserted. Twilight was coming on, and, if Bentley 
 had honestly confessed, he would have acknow- 
 ledged that he preferred a visit to the Priory in 
 broad daylight. As the thought came across him, 
 he laughed at his own folly, and walked towards it 
 so much the faster. And yet notions, and fancies, 
 and idle tales, which were current about the place, 
 would occur to him. For there was a gloom and 
 an evil destiny which seemed to hang over the spot,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 135 
 
 and the family to which it belonged; and many- 
 were the stories which tradition preserved, some 
 old and some more recent, which, mixed up with 
 popular superstitions, almost seemed to imply that a 
 curse from Heaven lay upon them. In the vault 
 underneath the Oratory there lay, not the remains, 
 but the place w^here the remains should have lain, of 
 Sir Roger de Hawkstone, the bold profligate cour- 
 tier of Henry VIII., by whose arm the monarch 
 had expelled the monks, plundered their possessions, 
 including the most sacred ornaments of the chapel 
 and the altar, and made over the whole property 
 around to his avaricious minion. And the remains 
 of Sir Roger de Hawkstone never reached their 
 place of rest in holy ground. He was seized sud- 
 denly with his death pangs in the midst of a mad 
 drunken revel, in the hall of his new house, the hall 
 which, after the example of the Protector Somerset, 
 he had built out of the fragments of the consecrated 
 cloister, and, like most of the nobility of that day, had 
 hungAvith tapestry, and adorned its sideboards with 
 chalices and plate, which he had plundered from the 
 chapel itself. He died, and the room where they 
 laid him in state caught fire with the torches : and 
 before the flames were got under, the whole wing 
 of the house was a mass of ruins ; and only one 
 blackened mutilated limb could be discerned and 
 extricated to give it the mockery of a Christian 
 burial. By that lay his two wives ; one who had 
 died by poison, administered, it was always believed, 
 by her own husband ; the other, in giving birth to 
 a still-born child. By them lay three children, all 
 childless, two daughters and one son, — the son 
 snatched away in his boyhood ; the eldest daughter 
 killed with a broken heart ; the youngest, the proud 
 haughty Lady Eleanor, childless also, and brouglit 
 to her grave with hands stained with blood and a 
 K 4
 
 136 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 tainted fame. Then followed another branch of the 
 family, of whom but one, the good Sir James, had 
 escaped the hereditary curse. His successor was 
 murdered by a mob close by the tall ash tree, which 
 shot up by the Priory's chimney. His son. Sir Hil- 
 debrand, had left behind him a name of vice, and 
 debauchery, and superstition, with which mothers 
 in the neighbourhood would frighten unruly children, 
 and threaten them with the " wicked Sir Hilde- 
 brand." Then came a son, who was driven from 
 his estate by a dishonest law-suit, and the property 
 passed into a line, which had gradually encumbered 
 it with debt, harassed the tenants, parted with some 
 of its finest portions ; involved itself in election 
 squabbles, and profligate extravagances, until, fol- 
 lowed by the hatred of all around him, the last 
 owner. General Yilliers, had taken refuge on the 
 Continent, where he died, and his only son laid 
 him, not in the grave of his fathers, but in the 
 Strangers' Cemetery at Rome. But, before that, 
 another name had been added to the melancholy 
 catalogue — a name never pronounced by any of the 
 older peasantry without an affectionate and reverent 
 sorrow — the good Lady Esther. She was the wife 
 of General Villiers, and daughter of John Earl of 
 Claremont, whose estates adjoined the Priory. And 
 like her father she was a Roman Catholic, but a 
 Catholic more than a Romanist ; scarcely tainted 
 with the sins of Popery, and a chai-acter such as 
 might be formed, and, we may trust, has often been 
 formed, in the school of Fenelon, Pascal, and Bor- 
 romeo. Even she had not escaped the general in- 
 heritance of evil : compelled by her father, against 
 her will, to marry General Villiers, she had found 
 him cunning, narrow-minded, jealous, and re- 
 vengeful. One son was born to them, whom she 
 was permitted to bring up for a few years, and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 137 
 
 whom, as far as childhood can be formed, she had 
 formed to be the image of her own character. About 
 that time the embarrassments of the General thick- 
 ened on him : his temper became soured, his con- 
 duct tyrannical ; losing all sense of religion himself, 
 the deep earnest piety of his wife provoked from 
 him only contempt and persecution. And, without 
 listening to her earnest and tearful prayers, he took 
 her child, now grown to be a boy, from her care, 
 carried him abroad, and left her to linger out one 
 year and three months in patient solitary suffering, 
 and then to be borne amidst the tears and blessings 
 of the poor to her last earthly resting-place in the 
 Priory of Hawkstone. 
 
 And even beyond Lady Esther the curse seemed 
 to continue. At the death of General Villiers, the 
 title to the large estates of Hawkstone had been dis- 
 puted. His son remained abroad for years, under 
 circumstances which no one understood ; and even 
 now, when his title had been acknowledged, and his 
 fortune increased by a considerable bequest from an 
 uncle, it was reported in Hawkstone that Ernest 
 Villiers had become himself embarrassed ; that his 
 estates in Yorkshire were to be sold ; that he was 
 about to turn Papist, if he had not become one 
 already ; and, as the only mode of escaping from 
 bis difficulties, he was to marry his cousin, Lady 
 Eleanor, — not a very probable combination: but the 
 sale of the Yorkshire estates had been announced 
 that very day in the papers, and Bentley, as he ap- 
 proached the ruins, sighed to think of the futility 
 and mutability of all earthly grandeur. 
 
 Before he descended the brow of the valley, the 
 twilight had deepened so much that he found it 
 difficult to search for his watch along the path wliicli 
 he was retracing. The stars were coming out one 
 by one ; the horizon in the west was fading into
 
 138 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 the dark sky, and a pale crescent moon just faintly- 
 peered over the stag-headed skeleton of a great oak, 
 round which the Hawkstone brook was rippling, and 
 which was known familiarly among the cottagers by 
 the name of Prior Silkstede's Oak ; for this also had 
 its tale, and a tale of sorrow. It was named from a 
 village legend of the last prior, a weak but not 
 vicious man, who had been harassed and persecuted 
 by Cromwell until, in an evil hour, he consented to 
 surrender the Priory to the king, rather than risk 
 the miserable fate of the monks of the Charter 
 House of London, five of whom had already died 
 under the hardships of their usage ; five were 
 brought, by the severity of their imprisonment, to 
 the brink of death, and many others had been exe- 
 cuted. But no sooner was the surrender made, than 
 the most bitter remorse had seized him. Wlien the 
 visitors came to carry oif the vestments and plate, 
 he had stood on the steps of the altar, and solemnly 
 denounced the sacrilege, repeating the curse impre- 
 cated by the founder of the Priory upon all who 
 should disturb his gifts. When forced to desist by 
 one of the commissioners, he had gone to the foot of 
 the old oak, and, there gathering round him the 
 peasantry assembled on the spot, had warned them, 
 with a bitter confession of his own infirmity, against 
 partaking in the evil thing, and bringing down upon 
 their heads the wrath of God. He had then left 
 them, and wandered, no one knew whither, till one 
 morning he was found lying on his face, cold and 
 stiffened, with his hands clasped, as in prayer, under 
 the old oak tree, turned to the already-demolished 
 Priory, as if he had come to die at least within sight 
 of its walls. And none of the villagers liked to 
 pass at night near the Silkstede oak. Many were 
 the fearful appearances which were recorded to have 
 been seen there ; and latterly they had singularly
 
 HAWKSTONE. 139 
 
 multiplied. When the keepers made their morning 
 rounds, the trampled grass and broken hushes be- 
 trayed that persons had been there in the night ; it 
 was generally supposed poachers. Voices had been 
 heard, and even figures seen, about the ruins by late 
 market people. And even Mr. Morgan had laugh- 
 ingly told Bentley, that, on his riding over the night 
 before to Hurst, he also had passed near them, and 
 seen a light moving about within the chapel. Bent- 
 ley was not sorry to find that it was becoming too dark 
 to search for his watch, and that his wisest plan 
 would be to cross the valley at once, and make his 
 way into the high road. He was not superstitious, 
 but he was not a scoffing sceptic, and therefore he 
 was not ashamed to feel a certain awe, and even 
 credulity, in all that related to the mystery of a 
 world of spirits. To effect his purpose it was neces- 
 sary to follow the path by the oak, and then strike 
 off along the Priory wall, passing under the great 
 east window of the chapel, and so gaining the little 
 rude bridge which crossed the brook below it. But 
 as he approached the oak he could not help starting 
 at the sight of a figure beneath it. It was a female, 
 seemingly of the lower orders, sitting with her head 
 buried in her hands, and motionless, as if in deep 
 distress. She no sooner heard the sound of foot- 
 steps than she sprang up, with a faint cry, and was 
 hastening to meet Bentley, until, as she came near, 
 she turned back suddenly, as if she had mistaken 
 the person, and diverged into the thicket, where he 
 lost sight of her. Bentley stopped to see if she 
 would appear again, or wanted any thing, but to no 
 purpose ; and he passed on, wondering what could 
 have brought a poor woman, at so late an hour, to 
 such a place. But his wonder was not to cease : as 
 he turned the corner of the north wall, and was 
 making his way, with some difliculty, over the frag-
 
 140 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 ments of the building and broken ground, on which 
 the dormitories had stood, not without fear of falling 
 into some of the choked-up vaults and arches with 
 which the ground was full, his eye turned to one of 
 the lancet windows, rich with thick painted glass, 
 and still perfect, in the little oratory adjoining the 
 chapel. Was it his fancy, or the reflection of the 
 moon ? But a faint glimmering, which struggled 
 through one of the panes, fixed him to the spot. It 
 grew in a few moments clearer and clearer ; and 
 Bentley could not doubt that there was a light 
 within. He would have gone at once to see who 
 was there, but he remembered the rusty chains and 
 padlocks with which he had seen, a few hours be- 
 fore, that the iron grate was fastened ; and he was 
 too well aware how many turbulent and evil-dis- 
 posed persons there were in the neighbourhood of 
 Hawkstone to expose himself to any collision with 
 such visitors in such a spot. He stopped, therefore, 
 holding his breath, and, it must be confessed, with a 
 beating heart. But the light remained stationary, 
 and, seemingly, was the reflection of a lantern, not 
 immediately in the oratory, but in some adjoining 
 passage. His next impulse was to move gently to 
 the window, and look in, but it was at too great a 
 height from the ground ; and his prudence then 
 suggested that it would be quite sufficient to men- 
 tion the next morning to Mr. Atkinson what he had 
 seen, and to pursue the inquiry by daylight. But 
 just as he had reached the east end of the chapel, 
 he was again startled by a clashing and fall of some- 
 thing like arms ; and a rough voice just above him, 
 seemingly from the hollow of the wall, uttered a 
 dreadful oath, to which another voice muttered out 
 a grumbling, sulky answer. Bentley drew himself 
 close to the wall, and buried himself in a huge mass 
 of elder and ivy, driving from it a flight of sparrows
 
 HAWKSTONE. 141 
 
 whicli had nestled there for the night. In another 
 minute he heard two persons jump down on the 
 pavement, and the light from the lantern streamed 
 up. Some words passed between them, which 
 Bentley could not understand, about "number nine" 
 and " fourth lodge ; " and then one of them he heard 
 departing, with a promise to return in about half an 
 hour, while the other proposed to remain. Could 
 Bentley. have seen into the chapel, he would have 
 recognised in the former the coarse, rulfianlj Irish 
 vagrant, whose boy had been saved on the night of 
 the fire. The other he might also have recognised, 
 though with difficulty. He was younger, respect- 
 ably dressed, with a quick, clever eye, but with fea- 
 tures marked with passion and intemperance, and 
 quivering at times with a lurking fear and sus- 
 picion of detection, as if he was in possession of some 
 fearful secret, and was loaded with the conscious- 
 ness of a deadly crime : and Bentley would scarcely 
 have remembered in him the sharp intelligent lad 
 at the National School, always foremost to answer 
 questions and gain prizes, who, having left the 
 school thoroughly tutored in reading and writing, 
 and thoroughly untutored in any thing else, had 
 soon plunged into a reckless career of vice, and had 
 become one of the most notorious profligates of 
 Hawkstone — a Socialist. He had covered up his 
 lantern, and was pacing backwards and forwards at 
 the east end of the chapel, whistling at intervals, 
 while Bentley, drawn up close to the other side of 
 the wall, and unable to move without making a 
 noise in the bough of ivy, was deliberating, with no 
 very comfortable feelings, what he should do. But 
 before he could make up his mind, the same brutal 
 voice which he had heard before called out, " Who 
 goes there ? " and at the same time the lantern wa3 
 flashed out upon the building. Taken by surprise,
 
 142 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 Bentley was on the point of answering, when a 
 timid plaintive voice from the bottom of the build- 
 ing uttered faintly, " It's only I, George." 
 
 " Who's I ? " said the brutal ruffian. 
 
 " It's Margaret," answered the female. 
 
 " And what do you want here with your whining 
 and pining, and spying out what you have no busi- 
 ness to spy? How came you here? " 
 
 " Connell told me I should find you here," said 
 Margaret, with her voice faltering. 
 
 " And what do you want to find me for ? " 
 
 "I want" said poor Margaret, and she ran up 
 
 to him, and put her pale, wan, anxious face into his 
 hands ; '' George ! I am starving ; I have no friends, 
 not one upon earth, and you have left me ; and I 
 am alone, and perishing, and I want I — O George, 
 George ! give me back my child ! " 
 
 And she fell down, and clasping his knees looked 
 up to him longingly and earnestly with her eyes 
 streaming with tears, and her long hair cast back 
 from a countenance where delicacy and beauty 
 were still struggling with care and sorrow. 
 
 " Fool ! what brings you here ? " was the only 
 reply which the ruffian vouchsafed, as he shook her 
 from him. " Go back quietly, and here's something 
 to keep you from starving," and he flung her a 
 piece of money. 
 
 But she heeded it not. " No, not money ; I want no 
 money ; I want yourself, George ; I want you to love 
 me — to love me as you did when you married me !" 
 
 " Married you ? " cried the wretch with a hoarse 
 laugh ; " married you ! — what's marriage ? " 
 
 " Yes, married me ! " said Margaret, with a firmer 
 and prouder voice. " I am your own lawful wedded 
 wife. No one has a right to separate us ; you can- 
 not leave me. Did you not take me to your chapel? 
 Were we not married regularly, truly joined to-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 143 
 
 gether for ever ? Would to God we had gone to 
 the church as my father and mother did before me ! 
 It could not have been so then." 
 
 " Why not?" asked the man insultingly. " What 
 have your priests to do with marriage ? What are 
 their accursed contrivances, except to fasten per- 
 sons, neck to neck, like galley-slaves, instead of al- 
 lowing them their freedom ? No, my good girl, 
 we are wiser now. Go back quietly ; find out an- 
 other husband; I give you full leave, and shall 
 never complain. Much better do this than whine 
 and Avliimper in this way." 
 
 "Never, never !" cried the horror-struck, indig- 
 nant Margaret. " George ! you did not say this 
 when you knew me first. You swore to me you 
 would never desert me. You used to kiss me, and 
 love me, and call me your treasure, and hang over 
 me, O how fondly ! Do you remember when our 
 child was born?" 
 
 " Dolt ! idiot ! " exclaimed the irritated man. 
 " Hold your tongue, and begone ! " 
 
 " May God help me ! God have mercy upon me ! " 
 faltered the poor woman as she sunk upon her knees. 
 
 "Ay, ay, that's the right thing," cried the man 
 with a horrible sneer; "go to your priests and your 
 prayers, they'll comfort you ; nothing can be better 
 for you women." 
 
 " Nor for men either," she roused herself to say. 
 " George, George ! the time will come when you will 
 die, and then you will think on me ; and you will 
 know that there is a God in heaven who avenges the 
 poor ; ay, in another world ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha!" was the answer, as he burst into a 
 loud laugh, which made the walls of the chapel 
 ring, and Bentley's blood run cold. 
 
 "Yes," pursued Margaret, "there is a hell, and 
 you will know it, sooner or later ! "
 
 144 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " And so this is what you get from your priests? ** 
 said the man. " What right have they to tell me 
 what is to become of me ? They know nothing better 
 than I do ! Don't they tell each man to judge for him- 
 self? and why am I not as good a judge as they are ? 
 Why, they do not believe what they teach themselves. 
 Here have been five or six of them here this evening, 
 keeping me from my work, all of them the best 
 friends in the world, smothering each other with 
 kindness, and to-morrow they will get up in their 
 pulpits, and swear each that the other is a liar. 
 No, woman, it's all a sham from beginning to end, — 
 a lie to cheat and frighten us, and we are beginning 
 to know it. We'll have no more priests ! " 
 
 Margaret shuddered with horror. " Oh George ! 
 where have you been since you left me, that you 
 have learned to speak in this way ? What horrible 
 company have you been keeping?" 
 
 " The company I chanced to meet," said the man. 
 "And I have learned what I have learned, and 
 am what I am, and could not be otherwise ; so do 
 not be afraid, Margaret," and he seemed softened 
 by her deep compassion for him. " Do not be 
 afraid, Margaret ; we cannot help our opinions, you 
 know. We do not form them ourselves, and no 
 one has a right to punish or blame them. Why, 
 even your priests tell you this, and your precious 
 Whig ministers, all of them together ; do not they, 
 my good girl?" 
 
 And he attempted to put his hand on her shoulder, 
 but she shrunk back as from a touch of contami- 
 nation. 
 
 " And so, George," she asked with a deep groan,- 
 " you are become an atheist ? " 
 
 " An atheist ! " said the man with an effort to 
 laugh. " An atheist ! no, not an atheist. We are 
 religionists, rational religionists, all of us. We do
 
 HAVYKSTONE. 145 
 
 just what your priests do, and tell us to do. And 
 we take their Bibles and read them ourselves, and 
 if we do not like or understand what we read, why 
 we know it is false. We use our reason, as they 
 recommend us, and think for ourselves. And as 
 for atheism — no, Margaret, so long as there is 
 good brandy in the world, and good beef, and pud- 
 ding, and a good fire, and a snug house and plenty 
 of money, why a man can't be an atheist. He can 
 worship these, you know, just as your gentlemen, 
 and your manufacturers, and your Chancellors of 
 the Exchequer are worshipping their good things. 
 What care they for any thing, if they have but 
 plenty of money ? — and a good filled purse," he cried, 
 rattling some sovereigns in his pocket, " is as good 
 a thing to worship as any other. No, Margaret, 
 never call me an atheist ! It's a mere calumny — 
 a bugbear." 
 
 "'And you are rich, then ? " faltered Margaret, 
 looking up at him with a famished poverty-stricken 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, it is better times now with me," said the 
 wretch, " than when we used to be starving to- 
 gether without a fire, and scarcely clothes to cover 
 us. And here's something for yourself. Take 
 this," and he endeavoured to put two or three sove- 
 reigns into her hands, but she let them fall without 
 notice. 
 
 " And what are you doing ? " she asked. 
 
 "Doing?" said the man; "doing a great deal 
 that one of these days you'll hear of. You should 
 have been here five hours ago, up in the wall as I 
 was, and heard that young jackanapes who wants 
 to be member of parliament tell us what we ought 
 to do. We are going to recover our riglits, my 
 girl; and we'll have a little gentle agitation, a 
 L
 
 146 . HAWKSTONE. 
 
 little moral influence, a little quiet pressure. Ah, 
 ah ! " he cried, and threw open his coat, so that the 
 light fell on a couple of brace of pistols. " A little 
 moral influence ! ha, ha ! moral influence of starving 
 mechanics, with guns on their shoulders and pikes 
 in their pockets. Hark ! " He stopped. " Is that ten 
 o'clock ? " and the distant chime of the Hawkstone 
 bells just faintly reached Bentley's ear. " Stop 
 here, Margaret," he said to the poor woman, who 
 was trembling with alarm, " and you shall see what 
 you shall see, and know pretty well what I've been 
 doing, — only," and here he uttered a horrible blas- 
 phemous oath, " if one word of what you have seen 
 
 this night ever pass your lips" and he looked at 
 
 her and put his hand on his pistols, " as sure as you 
 are a living woman ! " 
 
 " Does no one know you are here ? " said Mar- 
 garet, faintly. 
 
 " Not a soul but that Irish brute Connell, who 
 dares not peach." 
 
 " I fancied," said Margaret, " as I was waiting for 
 you, that I saw another person coming. I fancied 
 it was the parson." 
 
 " The parson ! " exclaimed the man. " How I 
 should like to catch the parson at ten o'clock at night 
 in the Priory ruins, prying into my secrets ! — if I 
 would not slit his throat from ear to ear with as 
 much coolness as he would mend his own pen I " 
 
 Bentley heard it, and at that moment the cold air 
 irritated his throat, and he was on the jDoint of 
 coughing. 
 
 "Hold the lantern, girl, and do not be frightened!'* 
 and, giving her the lantern, he lighted a match and 
 went down to another part of the ruins. And the 
 next minute the poor girl heard a rushing, wavering, 
 roaring sound, and a rocket with a prodigious train 
 of fire rose up into the air, throwing a glare of light
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 147 
 
 on the masses of walls and the grim grotesque faces 
 with which the traceries were studded. 
 
 " Did you see that, Margaret ?" said the fellow 
 as he returned ; " is not that a good blaze ? Do you 
 think we do not know how to manage our fire ? 
 and won't we make a firework of every house and 
 farm in the country, unless they do as we choose ? 
 What's the use of science, and lectures, and Mecha- 
 nics' Institutes, if they cannot teach us a little use- 
 ful chemistry? Come here, girl," and with a hoarse 
 diabolical laugh he pulled her into the antechapel. 
 
 " Now, look out there to the north, over the 
 pillar, two minutes more :" and he began to whistle, 
 and, before the two minutes had expired, the poor 
 terrified Margaret saw in the distant sky another 
 rocket shoot up, which broke and fell in a shower 
 of sparks, but at the distance of several miles. 
 
 " Do you see that ?" said the man ; " is not that a 
 clever mode of talking secrets with one's fingers at 
 six miles distance ? Now then, look there, through 
 the window, out by the hills, where the quarries 
 are. There it goes ! " he cried. 
 
 And another rocket shot up in that direction. 
 
 " Once more come along, you poor fool ! " and he 
 dragged her reluctantly to the outside of the chapel, 
 round to the east end, and within a few feet of the 
 bushes in which Bentley was hidden. " Look out 
 for the forest, there ought to be two there to-night. 
 Ay, I thought they were awake ; — fine fellows 
 those pitmen ! capital coals they work, and capital 
 hammers they have." And as two rockets rose 
 up side by side, over the dark outline of tlie moun- 
 tainous district which formed the mining part of 
 Hawkstone Forest, the man seized Margaret by the 
 arm, and almost crushed it with his violence. " And 
 now you see what I have been doing ; and if you 
 
 dare breathe a word of this I" and once more lie 
 
 L 2
 
 148 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 threw open his coat. " If I have a tongue that can 
 talk in this way, I have eyes that can see through 
 stone walls, and ears in every house in the parish ; 
 and sooner than we'd be baulked of our rights, 
 there's not a man of us who would hesitate to put you 
 quietly out of the way, in the twinkling of an eye." 
 
 " You would not murder me ?" cried the almost 
 fainting Margaret ; " you would not bear to have 
 me murdered ?" 
 
 " Murder you ! " said the villain. " What do you 
 use your cant words for ? Murder means to do 
 something wrong, and the bloody Whigs would hang 
 one up for it. No, I would not murder you ; but I 
 tell you what I would do, — I would very quietly, 
 and impelled by necessity," — (and the fellow laughed 
 at his own ethics,) " and purely under the influence 
 of circumstances, my good girl, because I could not 
 help it, you know, and for the good of the com- 
 munity at large, for the general utility, — ha ! ha ! — to 
 promote our happiness and comfort, (and what busi- 
 ness have we with any thing else, as your parsons 
 and your philosophers — ha ! ha ! — have been tell- 
 ing you for ages ?) — why, INIargaret (and he lowered 
 his voice to a deep hoarse pitch, and put a pistol to 
 her ear), " I would blow out your brains this in- 
 stant." 
 
 " Spare me, spare me!" cried Margaret, sinking 
 down on the ground. 
 
 " Spare you ? " said the man, " to be sure I will ; 
 you have not peached yet, and do not intend to 
 peach : and now get you gone, for I have some more 
 work to do, and cannot stand here chattering. 
 What are you stopping for?" he cried, with an 
 oath, as the poor woman, who had risen up almost 
 stupified, lingered and seemed summoning up cou- 
 rage to approach him again. " What do you want 
 more ? "
 
 IIAWKSTOXE. 149 
 
 And once more she ran to liim, fell at his feet, 
 and clasped his knees. " O George, George I 
 forgive me ! spare me ! don't kill me, don't be angry, 
 only tell me, and I will go away quietly, quite 
 quietly. You promised you would — O George, 
 George ! where is my baby ? " 
 
 The wretch uttered a horrible imprecation, and 
 almost stamped upon her. " What have you to do 
 with your baby, you fool ? What have any of us to 
 do with babies, when v/e are starving and dying 
 piece-meal? — men enough in the world already, 
 without having more to breed a famine!" (Mar- 
 garet's blood ran cold.) " Away with you ! " 
 
 " No ! " she cried, gaining courage with despair ; 
 " I will not away, I will not leave you ! you pro- 
 mised I should know where it was. My own child, 
 my beautiful baby ! you took it away, and you shall 
 give it me again. Would to God that I had died 
 before I slept that night ! We were starvilig, we 
 were dying ; but so long as that baby was on my 
 
 breast, I could bear any thing. And now" 
 
 and a flood of tears followed at the thought of her 
 own misery and desolation. " Tell me," she con- 
 tinued, " tell me only one thing, — is it safe ? is it 
 well ? does it seem to know you ? are they taking 
 care of it ? You promised they would take care of 
 it. You swore to me it should want for nothing ; 
 that it should be quite happy." 
 
 " Ay ! ay I " said the man, with something like 
 a groan, " quite happy ! It wants for nothing, 
 woman, take my word for it, and never will." 
 
 " My God, my God !" cried the miserable woman, 
 as she caught the gloomy expression of his eye, and 
 a bitter smile about his lip, " it is not — no, George, 
 you would not deceive me ! you Avould not kill me ! 
 
 you do not mean" ^and she stopped, choked with 
 
 her dreadful anticipation.
 
 150 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " Go along, Margaret. Go along, and ask no 
 questions. What's the use of asking questions ? 
 It's all right." 
 
 " All right — and my baby is well ? Thank God ! 
 God Almighty be praised ! bless you, bless you ! 
 dear, dearest George! — quite well — you are sure, 
 quite well ?" And her voice faltered as she caught 
 again the gloomy expression of his eye, though she 
 thought it seemed moistened for the moment. 
 
 "Ay, go away — go away! all's right — all's 
 right," said the man. 
 
 " No ! no ! " said Margaret, for she knew his 
 notions of right, and that every thing expedient 
 was right, and she trembled at his repetition of the 
 jDhrase ; for, hardened as he was, he rather wished 
 to avoid a lie. " Do not say all's right. Tell me 
 with your own lips my baby is well, cjuite well." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said the man ; " why then, quite 
 well." But the words choked liim, and he tried to 
 slur them over. 
 
 " And I may see it ? ** exclaimed Margaret. " I 
 may see it? When may I go? I am barefoot — look, 
 George, since you left me I have not had shoes to 
 my feet : but miles, oh ! millions of miles, would I 
 walk to have one sight of my darling baby — one 
 kiss ! Wlien may I go ? to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, to-night, fool ! " cried the wretch, exas- 
 perated and infuriated with her perseverance. 
 
 " And at once ?" exclaimed Margaret ; " and with 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes, woman ! " he cried, as he became furious ; 
 *' at once, and with me ! " and he seized her by the 
 arm with a horrible execration, and dashed her on 
 the ground a few yards off, close by the buttress of 
 the chapel. " There ! there ! " 
 
 And Margaret saw fresh mould and turf, which 
 had been disturbed, and the horrible truth flashed
 
 HAWKSTO^^E. 151 
 
 upon her. She raised herself up on her knees, and 
 gazed on him like a furious tigress ; and before he 
 could recover himself, she had sprung and fastened 
 round his neck. " Monster ! murderer ! Murder ! 
 murder ! help ! help ! He has murdered mj child ! 
 Help ! help ! " and her cries rang through the walls 
 of the ruin, and startled the screech-owls in the 
 wood. " Murder ! murder ! help ! help ! take him ! 
 seize him I he has murdered my child ! " 
 
 " Silence, woman ! silence ! " muttered the man, 
 as he vainly endeavoured to release his neck from 
 her iron grasp. " Silence ! " 
 
 But Margaret's shrieks and cries for help did not 
 cease ; and, without speaking, he contrived to dis- 
 engage one hand and seize his pistol. But the next 
 moment he was pulled upon his knees, and the 
 pistol went oiF. There was a man wrestling with 
 him in the bushes, wrestling desperately and fran- 
 ticly ; and as they rolled together on the ground, 
 the villain saw that it was a young figure, of little 
 strength, and unarmed. It was Bentley. " A 
 priest, by all that's holy ! " he muttered ; and throw- 
 ing away the pistol, the only one which had been 
 loaded, he coolly prepared himself for the struggle, 
 with the certainty that he must be the master. 
 " Not very wise to be here at this time of night," 
 said the wretch as he succeeded in turning Bentley 
 under him, and getting his knee upon his chest. 
 " Not very wise to be prying into other people's 
 secrets at this time of night ! " and Bentley, sicken- 
 ing with the pressure, began to relax his hold of 
 the ruffian's neck. With one hand pinning him 
 down, with the other the man began to fumble in 
 his coat, and a dreadful oath showed that he had a 
 difficulty in finding what he sought. Bentley took 
 the opportunity of springing up once more and 
 making a last desperate effi)rt; but his strength 
 L 4
 
 lo2 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 was nearly exhausted. " Down ! down I " cried the 
 villain. " Lie still ! " and he dashed him to the 
 ground : and as Bentley's eyes turned up, he saw 
 something in the murderer's hand which glittered 
 in the moonlight : his eyes closed, and, having just 
 time to utter a prayer, in the next minute he was 
 senseless.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 153 
 
 CHAP. XL 
 
 It is now time to return to the spot on the side of 
 the hill, where, in the afternoon, the stranger had 
 stopped and looked back, to catch the music of the 
 Temperance Society, as it issued from the outskirts 
 of the wood. As he saw the banners and the 
 people, a dark shade came over his countenance, 
 and with a gesture of impatience he turned away to 
 pursue his solitary walk. One only expression 
 escaped him as he stood a little farther on with 
 arms folded, as if in deep and painful thought ; but 
 our readers may like to hear it, for it was uttered 
 from the bottom of his heart. " O Rome ! Rome ! 
 thou curse of the earth ! what crimes thou hast to 
 answer for ! " and he then passed on. 
 
 But, buried in thought, he scarcely heeded even 
 the magnificent scenery through which his path 
 took him. He followed it once more to the top of 
 the park, and then struck off down a steep declivity, 
 the sides of which were furrowed into three deep 
 ravines formed by the descending waters. The 
 little streams themselves fell over masses of rock, 
 here spreading into dark pools, and there eating 
 unseen into the overhanging banks : and above 
 them the sides rose steeply, covered with old oak 
 trunks, and thorns, and fern, from which the deer 
 were startled and bounded off as the stranger ap- 
 l)roached. At one point the eye could pass down 
 over all this depth of wood, and range over a plain
 
 154 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 beyond it, then lighted up with the bright evening 
 shadows. To the west lay the forest of Hawkstone, 
 stretching in a long black ridge, and terminated at 
 one extremity by three conical mountain heights 
 folding one behind the other, between which the 
 sun was preparing to sink, and was then melting 
 down their hard clear outline into a flood of the 
 palest gold. Still nearer lay Claremont Castle, 
 with its ruined keep and broken tower, hanging 
 over the Hawkstone brook, which there Avidened 
 into a stream, and wound snakelike through the 
 meadows. Lord Claremont' s modern house was 
 not visible ; it was hidden by a projecting grove of 
 oaks : and at one time the stranger, who had before 
 scrupulously avoided looking in that direction, 
 seemed to make up his mind to face the sight, and 
 tried to discover it ; but in vain. At the bottom of 
 the ravine, just where it opened and the stream 
 made its way into the lower park, he rested against 
 a gate near an ivy-covered, old brick building used 
 by the keepers in killing the deer, and gazed on two 
 gigantic firs whose tall red stems, aU scarred and 
 peeled, bore up their mass of dark green foliage 
 from the bottom, nearly to a level with the top of 
 the bank. Beneath them, but planted so as to form 
 a group, was a fine stone pine carefully enclosed ; 
 and the ground round its roots seemed to have been 
 recently stirred, as if by some hand anxious for its 
 growth ; and as the stranger looked upon the pine, 
 his thoughts wandered off to a still brighter clime, 
 and to hours when he sat amongst the gardens of 
 Florence with another person at his side (and he 
 gave an audible groan at the recollection), gazing 
 on the tall wild outline of the same trees as they 
 jagged the blue horizon of an Italian sky. 
 
 " Lady Esther's trees, sir," said a respectable old 
 peasant, coming up and taking off his hat to the
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 155 
 
 stranger, and exhibiting one of those fine, placid, 
 sensible old faces for which the peasantry of Eng- 
 land were once famed, and which even now may 
 occasionally be seen on the Sunday in the open 
 pews of a village church, looking up attentively to 
 the preacher, and catching and applying every 
 word. " My barometers," as Charles Bevan used 
 to call them, when I wish to know if my sermon is 
 understood. — " Poor Lady Esther's trees." 
 
 The stranger turned, took off his hat also, and 
 looked mournfully on the intruder, who also seemed 
 struck with something, without exactly knowing 
 what. 
 
 " Sir Robert Haswell, the great painter," con- 
 tinued the peasant, " used to say those were the 
 finest trees in the county ; and he never caihe to the 
 Priory, but my lady and he used to come up here ; 
 and I have seen them stand half an hour together 
 close by this gate looking at them." 
 
 The stranger only answered, " Yes, my good 
 man, they are very fine trees." " And what," he 
 asked with a faint smile, " is that young tree ? " 
 
 " That, sir," said the old man — "that's Master 
 Ernest's pine — planted when he was born : and 
 please God he may come to see how it is grown. 
 Not a day passes but I look after it. But oh ! sir ; it 
 is a sad thing for the owner of this fine place to be 
 in foreign parts, and all this going to ruin ; and 
 the people caring nothing for any body, and know- 
 ing nothing of the landlord, except when they pay 
 their rents. It is not good, sir, nor right ; and 
 things cannot be Avell when we are all left in this 
 way to ourselves without our betters to take care 
 of us." 
 
 " Certainly not," said the stranger, " but we will 
 hope your master may come to live among you." 
 
 " Oh, sir, I hope he may ; but there is bad news
 
 156 HA^VKSTONE. 
 
 at the house, they say. People talk of his having 
 turned papist, and being in debt, and selling all his 
 property, sp soon after he has got it again. But 
 then, it is not my business to talk of master's aifairs. 
 And I beg your pardon, sir." 
 
 " How long has he been absent ? " asked the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Ever since Lady Esther's death, sir. I have 
 not set eyes on him these twenty years. The old 
 General took him away before, but he came back 
 then for a few days, and ever since that he has been 
 with him in foreign parts, except when he was at 
 college. And things have all gone wrong since the 
 General's death, and now, just as we thought things 
 were coming right, why, they say he's a ruined 
 man." 
 
 "I hope not," said the stranger half smiling. 
 " We must not believe all we hear." 
 
 " Oh, sir, if he would only come back and settle 
 among us, and take an interest in us, and teach us 
 what to do ! Now, sir, things are all at sixes and 
 sevens, and the bad people at Hawkstone are riding 
 over the country ; and the miners out there," and he 
 pointed to the forest, " are getting arms, and having 
 torchlight meetings. And the farmers won't pay 
 their tithes, and the church is tumbling down, be- 
 cause the parish won't make a rate, and the poor 
 care nothing for any body, for their wages are ground 
 down almost to nothing, and nobody comes to see 
 them. And if they want justice, they must go to 
 Mr. Smith the cotton man, whom they have made a 
 magistrate of, because he votes for the radicals, in- 
 stead of having it from their own landlord. In 
 short, sir, I wish it were the old times again, when 
 landlords, and tenants, and labourers all hung to- 
 gether ; and we had none of those ugly factories 
 corrupting the men and women, and no fine talk
 
 HAWKSTONE. 157 
 
 about reform, which for my part I believe is all 
 nonsense. If people want reforming, they had 
 better reform themselves, and that is the only way 
 of reforming." 
 
 " I think so too," said the stranger. " This is 
 the way to the house, is it not ? Good afternoon." 
 And the old man pointed out the path, looked after 
 him with a sort of wonder, and could not help mut- 
 tering to himself, " how very like ! " A short turn 
 of the path soon brought the stranger in view of 
 the house. It was one of those " old and reverent 
 piles," which no one has so well described as 
 Wordsworth, with deep bay windows, and wrought 
 gables, porches, and mullioned arches, high twisted 
 chimneys, and pinnacles wreathed with ivy, and all 
 the rich quaint carving of the Elizabethan age. At 
 one corner stood a fragment of an older building, in 
 the shape of a square massive tower, called Sir 
 Bevor's tower, which rose up from the terrace, and 
 recalled by its dark solid masonry the days when 
 the lords of Hawkstone had been knights in armour, 
 and Sir Bevor himself, whose figure lay cross-legged 
 
 in the cathedral of , had led a body of its yeomen 
 
 to the Holy Wars. Although an incongruity in 
 architecture, the tower formed a feature of no little 
 interest. Not so with a line of building of modern 
 Italian taste, raised on the site of the wing, which 
 had been burnt down on Sir Roger's death. It 
 connected itself with the stable-yard, and was in- 
 tended for offices. But there was a disproportion 
 and gaudiness about it which shocked the eye ; and 
 the stranger evidently regarded it with considerable 
 disgust. And yet, on the whole, fevv' English man- 
 sions were more striking than Hawkstone. Its 
 green terraces sloped up the hill behind, and were 
 connected with the house by balustrades and vases. 
 In front, beneath a rough overhanging bank, lay a
 
 158 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 small sheet of water, reflecting in that calm sunny 
 afternoon every line of the building, its oriels glit- 
 tering with the sinking sun, and the rich foliage 
 which bent over it from the back. And at the 
 corner of the tower lay a small square platform 
 studded with parterres and vases in the old French 
 taste, and commanded by a range of windows in the 
 south front, to one of which, a richly wrought 
 Gothic oriel with a small lancet adioining,the stranger 
 looked up, and gazed at it evidently with consider- 
 able emotion. 
 
 As he approached the house, he did not observe 
 that there were marks of carriage-wheels on the 
 broad gravel before the door, and that the great 
 gates which opened into the stable-yard were open. 
 The old housekeeper, who had been in the house 
 ever since Lady Esther's time, and indeed had been 
 her favourite maid, was very ill. And a young 
 grand-daughter, to whom the stranger gave a note 
 from Mr. Atkinson, the steward, led him timidly 
 through the great hall hung round with pieces of 
 armour and stags' heads, and through the ante-room 
 and dining-room, with its oriel window and huge 
 cumbered chimney-piece, and the retiring-room, 
 which more modern taste had enlivened with gilded 
 cornices and fretwork, now faded and dull. And 
 there were pictures of mailed knights, and stiff 
 ladies in ruffs and farthingales ; and venerable old 
 gentlemen in wigs and brocaded coats ; and a few 
 good busts ; and in the library, a long, oak-wain- 
 scoted apartment, opening into various recesses, 
 and dark with painted glass, there was a large 
 collection of books, on which the stranger looked 
 with evident satisfaction. The little girl could not, 
 indeed, understand liis movements. He seemed to 
 open the doors as if he knew the house thoroughly. 
 Before one or two pictures he stopped with earnest
 
 HAWKSTONE. 159 
 
 interest. The others he passed by carelessly ; and 
 she endeavoured in vain to repeat some of the lore 
 connected with them, which she had learned from 
 her grandmother. 
 
 " Would he like to see the curiosities ? the fine 
 embroidered velvet pall, which had been brought 
 from the Priory when it was pulled down, and 
 which Sir Hildebrand, the sallow dissipated-looking 
 man whose portrait, in the costume of Charles II.'s 
 time, hung on the north side of the dining-room, 
 had turned into a coverlet for his bed?" The 
 stranger declined. 
 
 " Should she show him the great gilt cup, which 
 was also brought from the same place, and which 
 Sir Roger had in his hand, and was drinking out of 
 it, at the very time when he was taken with the con- 
 vulsions of which he died." The stranger shook his 
 head; he would go upstairs into the gallery, and 
 look at the pictures there, and his little guide need 
 not follow him. He would prefer looking at them 
 by himself. And half-doubting, notwithstanding 
 Mr. Atkinson's guarantee, if she might trust him 
 there without her, and looking back wistfully, as 
 he ascended the grand staircase, she took her bunch 
 of keys, and proceeded to reclose the doors of the 
 rooms through which they had passed. At the top 
 of the staircase a pair of folding doors, with pillars 
 and richly carved capitals, opened into the long 
 gallery, ceiled with stucco-work, and lined with 
 portraits, and furnished with old cabinets and curious 
 encoignures, and high-backed ebony chairs and 
 marble tables, all of which the stranger passed un- 
 noticed. His eye was fixed on a door at the end of 
 it, which he seemed rather surprised to find ajar. 
 He opened it gently, very gently, almost as if lie 
 was afraid of disturbing some one within. It was a 
 large lofty room, hung with tapestry, containing a
 
 160 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 heavy-carved bed, heavy-carved wardrobes and 
 cabinets, old worked chairs, and a toilette laid out 
 with a rich silver apparatus for a lady's use ; and 
 over the fireplace was a full-length portrait of a 
 lady also. It was the bedroom of Lady Esther. 
 And as she looked down from the picture on the 
 cold melancholy apartment, herself all radiant with 
 youth, and beauty, and the brilliancy of her bridal 
 attire, the contrast seemed too painful to the 
 stranger. He turned to a smaller portrait, only 
 half finished, in which the same high noble coun- 
 tenance, but marked with lines of care and sorrow, 
 was bending over a young child, and watching him 
 with tears in her eyes, as he lay sleeping, not on her 
 bosom, but in the arms of a nurse ; and the tears 
 came into the eyes of the stranger likewise — tears 
 which fell faster as he stood by the side of the bed. 
 For the last time he had been in that room it was 
 darkened, and hung round with funeral lights ; and 
 he had been brought there, awe-struck and wonder- 
 ing, to cast a last look on a gorgeous cofiSn ; and 
 the time before that the room was also darkened, 
 but, instead of the trappings of sorrow, there only 
 lay upon that bed, covered decently with white, a 
 pale, cold, unmoving figure, resting as it were from 
 a great agony, and every line of sorrow softened 
 into peace ; and the stranger well remembered his 
 being lifted up upon the bed and giving a kiss ! — 
 how chill and awful ! — to that marble forehead. And 
 the day before that, he had been also brought into the 
 same room by the old housekeeper, now lying ill ; 
 and how well he recollected that hour. Years 
 had passed away, but as he now stood by the bed- 
 side, the whole scene came back upon him with 
 a vivid distinctness, which almost appalled him. 
 There was the pale faint form of Lady Esther, sup> 
 ported by pillows, turning round longingly to the
 
 HA>YKSTONE, 161 
 
 door where he was expected to enter, and waving to 
 have the curtains undrawn that the light might fall 
 once more upon the face of her beautiful boy ; and 
 he had been wrapt in her embrace for minutes 
 without either of them uttering a word, and he him- 
 self hearing nothing but the beating of her heart, 
 and feeling a stream of tears falHng on his face. 
 And then she moved him from her, and turned him 
 to the light, gazing on him with a look of sorrow 
 and affection which he had never forgotten. And 
 once more he was buried in her arms, and he heard 
 prayer on prayer, faintly, yet all distinctly, poured 
 over his head with the energy of a dying saint. 
 She had made a sign, also, to her maid, to bring her 
 something from a casket on the dressing-table ; and 
 whispering to him softly, " They will not prohibit 
 this, they will not take this from you," she put 
 round his neck with her own thin transparent hands 
 a chain of her own hair, from which hung a plain 
 little cross of gold ; and the cross she put gently into 
 his own hands, pressed them together, and looked 
 up to heaven, and once more kissing his forehead 
 with a long fervent kiss of blessing, she motioned 
 to the servant that she could bear to part with him, 
 and as she sunk back upon the pillow, he was taken 
 out of the room. 
 
 Nor were these all the recollections of that cham- 
 ber. No ! almost ashamed of himself for their in- 
 trusion, he thought of days still earlier, and of very 
 different occupations, when, as a child, he used to 
 play by his mother's side in that same room, and 
 make her show him the treasures of those silver 
 boxes, and tell him stories ; when he would sit at 
 her feet, (there was the stool before him, just as it 
 used to be, at the foot of the great ebony chair,) 
 playing with his puzzle, or learning his lesson, or 
 looking over picture-books ; not alone, but with a 
 M
 
 162 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 companion of his own age, or, as he always used to 
 call her, his little wife, his cousin Eleanor. He 
 dared not trust himself longer, but moved, with his 
 arms crossed, to another door, which opened, seem- 
 ingly, into a little sitting-room belonging to the 
 suite. The curtains were closed, and it was nearly 
 dark, but a door beyond was open, and a stream of 
 rich light from the narrow lancet window fell beyond 
 it into a small Gothic oratory, which had been fitted 
 up for the use of Lady Esther. There was the 
 richly wrought niche over the altar, containing a 
 crucifix of the purest ivory ; the canopied fan-like 
 roof, the silver lamp, the illuminated Missal, the 
 small gold candelabra, the footstool where Lady 
 Esther used to kneel, all exactly as he remembered 
 it when, as a child, he had been allowed occasionally 
 to look into this sacred recess, where, several times a 
 day, Lady Esther used to retire in the midst of even 
 her most busy avocations, and where, since General 
 Villiers had gone away to the Continent and taken 
 her son with him, she spent the greater part of her 
 time in prayer. 
 
 But the stranger saw none of these. For before 
 the altar, her back towards him, and her head up- 
 turned as in a posture of the deepest devotion, there 
 was a female figure kneeling, who did not hear his 
 approach, and yet whose thoughts at that moment 
 were full of him, were praying for him. It was 
 Lady Eleanor. He could not doubt it. It was her 
 tall, graceful form ; the exquisite shape of her head, 
 the slender neck. Even the dress he recognised ; 
 the same which she had worn when they parted, 
 three months before, at Florence. ^That a meeting ! 
 He stood for a minute fixed to the spot, not astonished 
 to see her, for he knew she was in the country, but 
 amazed that their first meeting should be in such a 
 place, so consecrated to the recollection of them
 
 HAWKSTONE. 163 
 
 both. Gathering all his resolution to bear the 
 meeting as he ought, he recollected himself suffi- 
 ciently to endeavour to withdraw from intruding or 
 disturbing her at such a moment. But the noise he 
 made in moving roused her attention. As she 
 turned round, she caught his figure retreating 
 through the outer door, and, before she knew what 
 she was doing, his name had escaped from her lips. 
 In a moment he was at her side, on his knees be- 
 fore her, covering her hands with kisses ; and she, 
 slightly endeavouring to withdraw them, was look- 
 ing as if a load had been taken from her heart, and 
 a long-hoped-for, long-delayed joy, a joy too great 
 for utterance, had suddenly arrived. But it lasted 
 only for a minute. His eye caught the crucifix 
 over the altar, and he shuddered ; and dropping her 
 hands and rising up before her, with an altered 
 tone, which made the blood forsake her cheek, and 
 leave on it a fixed look of disappointment and de- 
 spair, he faltered out, " Forgive me ! forgive me. 
 Lady Eleanor — I have no right — I am not master of 
 myself. I am much to blame — I was not prepared 
 to meet you. Forgive me for the intrusion. I did 
 not know you were here." 
 
 " They told me," said she, faintly, " that you were 
 in Yorkshire. I came here to see poor Collins, who 
 is very ill, and wished to see me before she became 
 worse." 
 
 " You have been," he said, " at Claremont, then, 
 some days." 
 
 " Yes, my father came down on Saturday." 
 
 And there was a dead pause. 
 
 " And you will stay here, then, for the autumn ?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; " perhaps all the winter." 
 
 They were silent again ; but Ernest was recover- 
 ing himself. 
 
 " We shall meet, then ; we must meet often," lie 
 M 2
 
 164 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 said, with a firm but painful effort. And a slight 
 gleam of hope came across her mind. " We shall 
 see each other very often, as in old times." 
 
 " Yes," was her faint answer, and all hope had 
 vanished, "as in old times." 
 
 "As friends?" 
 
 " Yes, as friends." 
 
 " Not as common friends ? " said Ernest. 
 
 " No," she replied, for she also was gaining 
 strength ; " as very dear friends." 
 
 " As brother and sister ? " 
 
 " Yes," was her answer, and her eyes filled with 
 tears ; " as brother and sister." 
 
 And once more he took her hand, and pressed it 
 reverentially to his lips. But the effort was too 
 much for her, and she sunk down in a seat, and 
 cried violently. 
 
 He stood by her in silence, waiting for her feel- 
 ings to find vent, and his own tears falling fast with 
 hers. By degrees her emotion subsided, and she 
 looked up, and stretched out her hand to him, which 
 he took in both his own. " This is sad weakness, 
 Ernest, sad weakness," she said ; " but you will not 
 think I wish it otherwise. Act according to your 
 duty, as I would act by mine. Do not think me 
 wicked enough to wish that you should tamper with 
 your conscience. I mean," — she corrected herself 
 (for she knew how the word conscience is abused) 
 — " with your faith, with your religion. Better for 
 us both to be miserable, separate, than to be joined 
 without God's blessing." 
 
 " Not miserable, dear Eleanor, not whoUy miser- 
 able," said Ernest ; " you will have your comfort, 
 and God will give me mine. We cannot be miser- 
 able, you know " (and he vainly attempted to smile), 
 " when we are doing His will."' 
 
 " May God forgive me the words I" she said, and 
 she lifted up her hands. " No, Ernest, we will not
 
 HAWKSTONE. 165 
 
 be miserable. We can love each other, even now, 
 as brother and sister." 
 
 " And we can pray for each other," said Ernest. 
 
 " Morning, and evening, and every hour," 
 she exclaimed fervently. " Ernest! if you 
 
 knew " but here her voice failed. "Let us 
 
 come out," she resumed soon, " out into the open 
 air. This room is stifling." 
 
 And he gave her his arm, and, by a winding stair- 
 case at the corner of the tower, they made their 
 way out on the terrace. 
 
 It was a still delicious hour. The birds were 
 carolling in the trees, the waters glittering in the 
 sunshine, the swans on the lake oaring their way in 
 little fleets, the deer lying under the oaks with no 
 footstep to disturb them. One solitary fleecy va- 
 pour was sailing gently across the setting sun. The 
 flowers looked up, as they passed, as if delighted to 
 waft their fragrance to them. The very air breathed 
 like balm upon their heated foreheads, and Ernest, 
 much as he loved at all times to dwell with nature^ 
 felt that he never before had known the power of 
 its soft gentle music in lulling a troubled heart, 
 where the heart was right with God. The turret 
 clock struck four as they came out upon the ter- 
 race. It was five before they left it. Now that all 
 hope was over, Eleanor, quieted and resigned, could 
 almost talk to him as she used to talk ; could begin 
 to feel to him as she used to feel before she had 
 ever thought of him except as a playmate and a 
 brother. He asked for the good Abbe St. Maur, 
 who was still at Claremont with the Earl. He 
 spoke of foreign scenes, where they had travelled 
 together. He even ventured to tell her much of 
 what had passed since they parted at Florence, 
 while still there was a lingering thought that he 
 might yet be converted into the Romish commu- 
 M 3
 
 166 HAA^TKSTONE. 
 
 nion, and thus claim Eleanor's hand on the only 
 terms on which Eleanor, with all her love for him, 
 would listen to his affection. And then he entered 
 on his plans ; told her why he had remained in 
 Hawkstone privately, partly in his dread of meeting 
 her until all his arrangements were settled, but 
 chiefly that he might compare by himself the real 
 circumstances of his two estates, and decide which he 
 should part with, that he might reside entirely on 
 the other. 
 
 "You know," he told her, and Eleanor looked 
 up to him with a pride which she no longer at- 
 tempted to disguise, " that I hold the possession of 
 land a most solemn and responsible trust. A land- 
 lord is the king of the soil, and as a king, he cannot 
 have a divided empire without doing injustice to 
 one portion of it or the other. I have, therefore, 
 resolved to sell my estates in Yorkshire. They are 
 quiet, comparatively happy, compared with these ; 
 here, every thing is turbulent, and full of evil, I 
 fear of serious danger. And I have chosen to sta- 
 tion myself here, and by God's help, I hope to try 
 what can be done in one little spot, at least, to save 
 us from the iniquities, and follies, and approaching 
 curses, of this unhappy land — done," he said, (and 
 once more a pang went to Eleanor's heart, but he 
 was resolved that, cost what it may, his decision 
 should be definitively known.) " done as a Protestant 
 may do it — as a devoted son of the English branch 
 of the Holy Catholic Apostolical Church may hope 
 to do, and may pray for God's blessings on his la- 
 bours." 
 
 " May you have them, Ernest," was her only 
 reply. " And you shall have my prayers, and you 
 will give me yours ? " 
 
 He said nothing, but pressing her hand led her 
 to the carriage, which had just drawn up, and the 
 meeting was over.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 167 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 The carriage rolled away ; turned down the syca- 
 more avenue out of sight ; and then it was, that 
 Ernest felt the struggle which he had been mak- 
 ing. The excitement was gone : the delight of 
 seeing her, of walking by her, witnessing the purity 
 and elevation of her thoughts, feeling that she 
 loved him, though she could never be his — the 
 consciousness that he was sacrificing himself to 
 what he believed his duty — all seemed to vanish 
 with her, and a cold dreary blank fell upon his 
 heart. The very sun itself, and the bright land- 
 scape which had soothed him so before, now became 
 melancholy and inanimate. The whole of life 
 seemed stretched before him as a long, dreary, te- 
 dious waste. And more than once his resolutions 
 failed ; more than once an evil tempter whis- 
 pered to him, that forms of faith were not essential 
 to religion ; that charity was the essence of piety ; 
 that opinions are not controllable, and, therefore, 
 are not to be censured ; that marriage is a civil 
 ceremony, convenient and conducive to the tran- 
 quillity and morality of states, but that no solemn 
 spiritual union is implied in it, which should prevent 
 it from joining as one body those of different com- 
 munions in spirit, or rather, a living member of the 
 Church and one who was cut off from its fountain 
 of life by heathenism, or heresy, or scliism. Happily 
 he had been well taught, and' he repelled the sug- 
 gestions manfully. 
 
 M 4
 
 168 
 
 HAWK STONE. 
 
 And now we must ask forgiveness for a long, a 
 very long parenthesis, to interpret much that has 
 passed, and all that is to come. 
 
 Some outline of Ernest's history the reader must 
 have gathered already. He was the only child of 
 Lady Esther : as such, and as heir to the large Vil- 
 liers' property, he was reared up from his infancy in 
 habits of command, which, but for the watchful care 
 and discipline of his mother, would have moulded 
 him into a little tyrant. He had within him the 
 proud haughty spirit of all the Villierses. Around 
 him he saw nothing but obsequiousness to his wishes, 
 and a stiff ceremonious mode of life, not relaxed, 
 but rather increased by the strict adherence of 
 Lady Esther to the principles of the Roman Ca- 
 tholic Church. So long as he continued as a child 
 under her care, his imperious disposition was kept 
 down by her rigid but affectionate superintendence. 
 But when the General, soured in temper by pecu- 
 niary embarrassments, and incapable of sympathising 
 with her devotional habits, insisted on executing the 
 miserable condition proposed at their ill-assorted 
 union, of bringing up the boys in the religion of 
 the father, and the girls under the wing of the 
 mother, Ernest was taken from her, and placed 
 first under a well-intentioned but injudicious tutor, 
 who endeavoured to eradicate any seeds of Popery 
 which might have been implanted by his mother's 
 influence, and to form him to habits of religion by 
 violent appeals to his feelings, and by continual theo- 
 logical controversy, which his mind was not capable 
 of bearing ; for few persons seem to understand, 
 in the education of children, that the religious frame 
 of mind, not the religious knowledge, is the effect to 
 be sought for — that a child's religion consists not in 
 quoting texts of Scripture, or in making long prayers,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 169 
 
 but ill reverencing, loving, and obeying the parents 
 and teachers whom God has placed over them ; in 
 worshipping God through them and in them ; and see- 
 ing Him dimly and faintly beyond them as a mystery, 
 and only as a mystery, which gradually clears up into 
 open day as obedience to His earthly representatives 
 prepares the heart and soul for obeying Himself. 
 Young as Ernest was, his feelings were chilled 
 rather than warmed by these efforts to excite them. 
 And with a sagacity common to children, he soon 
 detected the latent weakness and even insincerity, 
 which must exist, wherever there is an habitual 
 forced effort to excite religious feeling by outward 
 professions of it. He was, in fact, even as a child, 
 disgusted with religion ; and, if at any times he 
 thought of it with pleasure, it was in the recol- 
 lection of his mother — of the little simple hymns 
 which he had learned at her knee, of her own un- 
 affected devotions, of the prayers rather than the 
 preaching which formed her religious exercises both 
 by herself and with him, and especially of that tone 
 of unhesitating, unsuspecting authority with which 
 she always spoke, and which, he knew not how, 
 seemed wanting in his tutor's admonitions. 
 
 From his tutor's he was sent to Eton. And at 
 Eton, as he rose to the top of the school, his talents 
 developed themselves gradually, and with them the 
 imperiousness of his temper, which made him stand 
 aloof from the rest of his companions, and confine him- 
 self to the society of one friend who was of a similar 
 disposition to himself; and which soon brought him 
 the reputation of a haughty and overbearing boy. 
 And yet Ernest was not overbearing in the com- 
 mon sense of the word. To weaker boys he was 
 kind and gentle ; to the generality careless ; to his 
 superiors really haughty. His companions dis- 
 liked him, and the masters could not understand
 
 1 ( HAWKSTONE. 
 
 him. And there was only one occasion, a rebellion, 
 on which he came forward prominently, and by a bold, 
 independent act, which set all the school at de- 
 fiance, prevented considerable mischief. But for 
 the most part he lived alone ; his walks were soli- 
 tary, his reading generally at night, when others 
 were gone to bed. He seldom joined in games; 
 and when he did, it seemed to be as if in scorn of 
 himself, though no one excelled him in any sport 
 which he chose to undertake. 
 
 From Eton he came to Oxford. And still the 
 same reserved and exclusive mood made him re- 
 garded with fear by inferior men, and with dislike by 
 nearly all. The one or two friends, indeed, who were 
 admitted to his rooms, spoke of him with enthu- 
 siasm. But when thrown into general society there 
 was a sarcastic expression about his lips, a thought- 
 ful irony in his language, and a gloominess on his 
 brow, which repelled every approach. Gloomi- 
 ness, we said, for Ernest was far from happy. He 
 had nothing to fill his mind. Ordinary follies and 
 dissipations he had none, for he had too much pride. 
 Against worse excesses he was saved by the daily 
 and almost hourly recollection of his mother, whose 
 picture hung over his fire-place, and who seemed, 
 to his fancy, to embody the perfection of pure, 
 delicate, dignified, and commanding woman. He 
 made no effort to obtain any distinction ; left com- 
 petitors whom he might easily have vanquished 
 to carry off* prizes without rivalship, chalked out a 
 line of reading for himself, and attended to his lec- 
 tures only sufficiently to avoid censure. He always 
 took his place in the class-room on one seat, rather 
 out of sight, which no one else ventured to appro- 
 priate ; and when a tutor spoke to him, he answered 
 with a reserve which, without the slightest dis- 
 respect, discouraged all attempts to gain his confi-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 171 
 
 dence. And in the mean time his imagination was 
 running wild in an endeavour to find some realisa- 
 tion for dreams of ambition, and knowledge, and 
 goodness, without which life seemed to him a waste. 
 Ai'ound him all was mean and petty — meaner and 
 pettier the more it was compared with the marks of 
 giants' heads and giants' intellects stamped upon those 
 remains of past generations, beneath the shade of 
 wliich he was living. He saw statesmen succeeding to 
 the helm of the greatest empire formed by man, and 
 yet bowing to each gust of popular clamour, dreading 
 to assert a truth or hazard a principle ; hiding in 
 false shame or falser fear the grandeur of their own 
 destination, and breaking and frittering up a glorious 
 system in vain attempts to purchase (from a mob) 
 security for the superstructure by surrendering in- 
 stalments of the foundation. Still nearer he be- 
 held in his own university a congeries of grand in- 
 corporations armed with wealth, talent, influence, 
 and dignity, capable of commanding the education 
 of the country, of beating, as it were, almost as the 
 heart and pulse of the British empire, and of spread- 
 ing its arms to grasp on every side the command of 
 all its moral movements ; and yet no grand scheme 
 of improvement — no organised resistance to the mis- 
 chiefs which were gathering on the country — scarcely 
 a recognition or sense of the awful responsibilities 
 laid by Providence on the rulers of such a body, 
 seemed to break the dulness and repose, in which 
 the constituted authorities of Oxford clung to the 
 narrow lines of existing associations and habits. 
 " What," thought Villiers to himself, " what would 
 Oxford have been made at such a crisis in the hands 
 of Popery!" Nor, when he turned to his book- 
 shelves, filled as they were at each return of the 
 season with the newest publications, and searched 
 through on each fresh arrival to discover some sa-
 
 172 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 tisfaction to his longing after energy and power, 
 did he find what he required. Novels, reviews, 
 magazines, trumpery histories, autobiographies, 
 Scotch metaphysics, and, still worse, Scotch oecono- 
 mics, met him till he turned from them with loath- 
 ing. Once he caught with delight at one of Carlyle's 
 publications ; and plunged into a course of German 
 studies, till here, also, he discovered the same hol- 
 lowness, and vanity, and coldness, though masked 
 under a more pretending mysticism. And his final 
 refuge lay in the old and great writers of Greece, 
 whose empire orer the human mind he seemed to 
 share, as he was enabled to stand by their side and 
 to appreciate the justice of their conquests. From 
 Philosophy (the step was necessary), he came upon 
 Theology. And the controversy of the day, which 
 brought before him as the one prominent object, 
 the Image of the Church, seized at once upon his 
 mind, and opened to his fancy all that he had so 
 long been dreaming of. Here, then, was the power 
 for which his heart was yearning, and for which all 
 Nature seemed to cry aloud, — a power divine, 
 though upon earth, bearing in its hands the keys of 
 Truth, opening and closing at will the fountain 
 springs of good and evil, swaying the hearts of 
 men, and overruling the oscillations of their reason, 
 and capable of binding into one the straggling ele- 
 ments of society, till all affections should be ab- 
 sorbed in one object, and every movement subdued 
 to one law. It was a grand conception for a grand 
 mind ; and from the moment that Yilliers realised it, 
 he became an altered being. A load seemed to have 
 been taken from his breast ; the world wore a 
 brighter aspect ; life had an object, and reasoning a 
 foundation in truth. He could now venture to do 
 what before he had often feared to do — to think and 
 to inquire into the destinies of man and the Provi-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 173 
 
 dence of God. And it was in this frame of mind, 
 before he had time or opportunity to study the reali- 
 sation of his idea in the history of the Church, and 
 to penetrate deeply into the differences of the va- 
 rious communities of Christians, that he was sum- 
 moned to join his father at Rome.
 
 174 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 It was a warm and brilliant evening, about a month 
 after his arrival there, that he stood on the steps 
 which lead up to the Palace of the Senators : but 
 not alone. With him, but a little retired behind 
 him, and watching him with deep earnestness, stood 
 a pale, calm, silent figure, in the garb of a Roman 
 ecclesiastic. His thin lips were compressed in 
 thought : his eyes, deep set, and filled with a sin- 
 gular lustre, were fixed on every movement of 
 Villiers : his hands were not merely crossed on his 
 breast, but clasped and folded, it seemed in prayer : 
 and over all his face, on which high intellectual 
 power and purity was stamped, there was spread a 
 chastened yet ardent humility, strongly contrasted 
 with the bold and commanding contemplativeness 
 of his companion's eye. One seemed bowed down 
 by a weight above him, beneath which he never- 
 theless moved with power and willingness, not 
 without enjoyment : the other stood as lord and 
 monarch of all around him, free and bold to move 
 in any direction, to search into any mysteries, to 
 mould every thing according to his will. 
 
 " And this, then," said Villiers after a long si- 
 lence, "this is the Capitol — the Capitol of Ro- 
 mulus and Numa, of Scipio and Marius, of Cicero 
 and Augustus. And here, then, was the throne of 
 the world ! " 
 
 And as he turned to look upon the paltry modern 
 edifices by which it is disfigured, a slight tinge of 
 sarcasm fell from his look upon his companion.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 175 
 
 " And there," said his companion, stretching out 
 his arm toward the dome of St. Peter's, " there is 
 the Capitol — the Capitol of Rome and of all Chris- 
 tians ! " 
 
 " And where," asked Villiers, "are its triumphs? " 
 
 " Not," said his companion, and his eyes turned 
 up to Heaven, — " not where our heathen triumphs 
 have now passed for ever. Those which are gone 
 are passed into heaven, and those which are upon 
 earth are before you. Look," he said, and pointed 
 to a long procession of pilgrims (it was a year of 
 jubilee) which was winding its way between the 
 colonnades of St. Peter's. 
 
 As Villiers turned to look at his companion, his 
 eye met from him a steady, piercing, but sad and 
 anxious gaze ; and even his own proud spirit quailed 
 before him. Neither of them spoke for some mi- 
 nutes ; and the silence seemed scarcely broken by 
 the deep and almost internal, thrilling, low voice 
 with which the ecclesiastic asked him when he in- 
 tended to leave Rome. Villiers felt that a fascina- 
 tion was upon him — how, or from whence, he 
 scarcely knew — and he tried to break it by an- 
 swering coldly, " In a week." But the effort was 
 vain. 
 
 " And you will go from hence," said his com- 
 panion, still in the same charmed voice, " to 
 Athens ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Villiers ; and he affected to answer 
 as if he did not feel the spell. " I must tread the 
 ground where Plato taught ; where Socrates died ; 
 where ^schylus dreamed ; and where the people 
 that have subdued the minds of ages are now lying 
 in the dust. Athens has been before me, as the first 
 place of my pilgrimage, ever since I read the 
 Pheedo." 
 
 " You have visited, then," continued the cede-
 
 176 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 siastic, "the tombs of the Holy Apostles. You 
 have studied all the wonders of that art, and the 
 history of that wisdom, with which this place has 
 enlightened the earth. Have you descended into 
 the JCatacombs ? " 
 
 Villiers felt all that was meant, and simply an- 
 swered " Yes." 
 
 " And from Athens," continued his companion 
 in the same low unearthly voice, " you will go to 
 Delphi, the oracle of the heathen world, to Egypt, 
 to the Pyramids." 
 
 " I hope to do so," answered Villiers. 
 
 " To stand," continued his companion, " on the 
 summit of mighty structures, on which the storms 
 of ages have beaten, and beaten in vain ; and to 
 bring before your eye at one glance the mystery of 
 time absorbed in eternity — of change coeval with 
 immortality ? " 
 
 " Such have been my thoughts," said Villiers." 
 
 " And such are mine," replied his companion. 
 " But I need not quit this spot. Are we not at 
 this moment at the Oracle of the Christian World 
 — at the Pyramids of human empire — one and the 
 same empire, whether its throne be placed on one 
 side of the Tiber or the other ?" 
 
 Villiers made no answer, but the thought struck 
 deep ; and his companion knew it, and refrained 
 from disturbing it for some minutes. 
 
 " You are young," he continued at last : " who 
 would have expected thoughts so deep from one so 
 young ? Have you ever thought that, as time may 
 be swallowed up in eternity, and yet both co-exist 
 together, so extension may be swallowed up, and 
 space all but annihilated, and yet exist ? You have 
 railroads in England," — and a faint contemptuous 
 smile played on his cold lips : '•' are you not proud
 
 HAWKSTONE. 177 
 
 of them, as triumphs over the greatest of fetters 
 cast on man's soul by God, the fetters of space ? " 
 
 " Thej are grand proofs," replied Yilliers, " of 
 the power and dignity of man." 
 
 " Yes," replied his companion ; " to see beyond 
 the vision of the eyes, to hear beyond the hearing 
 of the ears, to stretch out our arms over the world, 
 removing mountains and bridging oceans without 
 moving from our place, — is not this ubiquity, and 
 is not ubiquity an attribute of Deity ? And so far 
 as science and machinery enable man to realise this 
 problem, so far they bring him nearer to the per- 
 fection of his nature. It is, indeed, a wonder. 
 Look," he said, and he took from his pocket a packet 
 of letters : " one post this morning has brought me 
 letters from every quarter of the globe." And with 
 calmness free from all ostentation he showed Vil- 
 liers the post-marks on nearly twenty. 
 
 " Your correspondence is extensive," said Villiers. 
 " Must you reply to them all ? " 
 
 " They must be replied to," said his companion 
 (and Yilliers observed that he did njot say " / must 
 reply"), "to-day." 
 
 " I observed one," said Villiers, " from England ; 
 from a place well known to me — from Hawkstone. 
 May I ask if you know any one there ? " 
 
 The ecclesiastic slightly coloured, and, simply 
 saying that his letter was accidentally put into the 
 post there, he proposed that they should descend 
 the steps of the Capitol and pass on to the Campo 
 Vaccino. 
 
 The conversation of that hour sunk deep into the 
 mind of the ambitious, thoughtful, imaginative Vil- 
 liers. The next day and the next found him again 
 with his friend, who had been introduced to him, 
 soon after his arrival, as a countryman of his own 
 belonging to the English College; and had con-
 
 178 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 trived, without any appearance of intrusion, and as 
 sought for rather than as seeking him, to become 
 his daily companion. Without any seeming design, 
 sometimes in the pursuit of amusement, sometimes 
 in a plan of study, sometimes by accidental coinci- 
 dences, Villiers found himself through the means of 
 Macarthy brought into contact with all that could 
 most engage the affections and stimulate the imagi- 
 nation in the papal city. All its ancient lore was 
 even more familiar to Macarthy than to himself. 
 When Villiers entered with avidity on an examina- 
 tion of its ruins, Macarthy seemed to have made 
 them for years his favourite study. He carried him 
 to unexplored recesses, illustrated half obliterated 
 inscriptions, brought forth from an inexhaustible 
 memory quotation on quotation ; and whenever 
 Villiers was at a loss for a point of history, if Ma- 
 carthy omitted for the time to supply the informa- 
 tion, he was sure the next day to revert accidentally 
 to it, and to show that he was master of that sub- 
 ject. Villiers did not know that the paleness of 
 his cheek and thinness of his frame were due par- 
 tially to the midnight studies with which he pre- 
 pared himself to be in all points the assistant, and 
 at the same time the master of his companion. The 
 versatility and multiplicity of his talents (still with- 
 out officiousness, or bustle, or ostentation, for Ma- 
 carthy was discharging what he conceived a duty 
 to his Superiors, not thinking of himself,) engaged 
 even more the admiration of Villiers. If Villiers 
 expressed an admiration for Dante, in a few days 
 Macarthy would lead round the conversation to 
 him, and pour forth stanza after st mza of his most 
 exquisite poetry. If he proposed to devote a day 
 to the sculptures of the Vatican, the morning slipped 
 past unheeded, as Macarthy illustrated their history 
 with anecdotes and theories of art. At one time
 
 HAWKSTONE. 179 
 
 Villlers expressed an inclination to play billiards, 
 and to his surprise, when after some days' delay 
 Macarthy allowed him to find a table, and after 
 some reluctance was induced himself to play, Vil- 
 liers was beaten by him. One law Macarthy seemed 
 to have laid down to himself. He never entered 
 on any subject, nor took part in any pursuit, in 
 which he was not Villiers' superior. Villiers was 
 young ; and the society of Rome at that time was 
 gay and brilliant. Without any departure from 
 propriety or clerical gravity, Macarthy did not hesi- 
 tate to share it with him, and whatever attention 
 was paid to the handsome, and noble, and wealthy 
 Englishman, Macarthy was not long in any com- 
 pany without drawing the chief interest round him- 
 self, and bringing Villiers to stand beside him, the 
 spectator and admirer of his power. But Villiers 
 one day spoke with enthusiasm of the austerities of 
 a monastic life ; and by some seemingly natural and 
 accidental circumstance, he was led to call on Ma- 
 carthy late on a cold wintry night, and found him 
 without a fire, with a single candle to light his 
 studies, his solitary meal evidently untasted, and 
 the door of his bedroom open, through which Vil- 
 liers could not avoid seeing a rude hair shirt, not 
 displayed, but apparently lying casually, ready to 
 be put on. And let us do Macarthy justice. In 
 all that he did, however calculated to raise himself 
 in the eyes of Villiers, there was neither aflfectation 
 nor selfishness. He was placed by those to whom 
 he had sworn obedience, and whom he regarded in 
 the place of his Heavenly Master, to play a part, to 
 accomplish a work, and that work the fascination 
 of Villiers : and as the whole powers of his mind 
 were thrown into his duty, the afifections of his 
 heart became involved likewise. And Villiers 
 could not have found in the world one who more 
 N 2
 
 180 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 dearly loved him, or would have sacrificed for him 
 more readily all that he valued, excepting only the 
 one absorbing interest of his Society and his Church. 
 He could not witness Macarthy's private devotions ; 
 but they were never uttered without prayers, and 
 often tears, for him — prayers that he might one 
 day be brought home to the bosom of what Macar- 
 thy deemed the true Church, and that Macarthy 
 himself might be the instrument of his salvation. 
 One night, when they were making an expedition 
 in the Abruzzi, and were compelled to occupy the 
 same room, Villiers was startled to hear his name 
 repeated again and again in the disturbed dreams 
 of his companion, in tones of affectionate anxiety, 
 and mixed with entreaties for blessings on him, 
 which went to Villiers's heart. At another time, as . 
 they were crossing a winter torrent in the moun- 
 tains, Villiers's foot had slipped from a wet rock, 
 and he was plunged headlong in the stream, inca- 
 pable, from the fury of the waters, of exerting his 
 powers of swimming. In a moment Macarthy was 
 by his side, and by their joint efforts he reached 
 the bank. From that day the charm was completed ; 
 and it began to work. 
 
 " How are you advancing ? " was the question 
 put soon after to Macarthy by the superior of his 
 Order. " Why did you not bring him here last 
 night, to see the washing of the feet of the pil- 
 grims ? " 
 
 Macarthy sighed, and answered, " that he had 
 every hope of bringing Villiers over in time, but 
 that his was not a mind to be dealt with rudely." 
 And while he uttered these words, something of 
 pain and shame flushed across his face, as if, even 
 in the conversion of a soul, trickery and artifice 
 were unwortliy either of man or of the Gospel. And, 
 indeed, nothing but Macarthy's real and deep belief
 
 HAWKSTONE. 18 1 
 
 in the rectitude of his own views, which gave 
 warmth and sincerity even to his most elaborate 
 manoeuvres, could have prevented Villiers from de- 
 tecting and revolting against his ingenious artifices. 
 
 At one time, Macarthy would take him to an hos- 
 pital, where, among the sick and dying, instead of 
 unfeeling hirelings taken from the lowest orders, he 
 saw young and delicate women habited in a reli- 
 gious dress, and ministering with tenderness and 
 devotion to the poorest sufferers. And as they 
 came out, penetrated with the spectacle, Macarthy 
 would ask, as if inquiringly, whether there was any 
 thing of the kind in London, or, as he would correct 
 himself, among the Protestant sects. 
 
 Another morning, the newspapers had brought 
 word that some treaty of commerce had opened a 
 port in China to European settlers. And scarcely 
 a day elapsed before Macarthy called on Villiers, to 
 tell him that he might now have an opportunity of 
 witnessing the consecration of a bishop, which was 
 to take place immediately. " We are sending out 
 a bishop and seven missionaries to China," he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 " So soon ? " asked Villiers. 
 
 " And are we to leave the poor heathen a day," 
 asked Macarthy, gravely, " without preaching to 
 them the Gospel ? " 
 
 " And how can you manage this ?" asked Vil- 
 liers. " In England, it would take years even to 
 propose such a plan, much more to complete it." 
 
 " We have our colleges," answered Macarthy, 
 " and devoted men always ready to go in bodies 
 wherever they are sent. We are not under the 
 crown." 
 
 And Villiers was silent, but he treasured up the 
 fact. Oftentimes Macarthy would speak to liim of 
 his mother, as of one with whose character lie was 
 N 3
 
 182 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 familiar ; and as the tears came into Villiers's ejes 
 at the recollection of her sainted life and sainted 
 death-bed, Macarthy would turn aside ; and not in 
 affectation or hypocrisy, but in deep unfeigned pain, 
 would silently breathe a prayer, that the son might 
 yet be restored to the communion of the mother ; 
 and Villiers understood his thoughts. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Macarthy to him one evening, 
 " you had better not come to-morrow, as usual, to 
 hear the music in our chapel. There is a com- 
 memoration of tlie dead ; and one name you would 
 hear mentioned in our prayers, which might affect 
 you painfully. Lady Eleanor was a benefactress to 
 our Order. And I fear,** he continued, " you could 
 not join with us in praying for her now." 
 
 It was almost the only bitter word which Ma- 
 carthy had ever used, but it went to Villiers's 
 heart. 
 
 At another time, when Macarthy perceived that 
 his friend was suffering under depression of spirits, 
 and with the acuteness habitual to his Order had 
 discerned that there was something on his mind — 
 some remorse which required to be calmed — Ma- 
 carthy led him through a church by a confessional, 
 where a penitent was kneeling. Something in- 
 duced him to stop to look at a piece of sculpture, 
 and to decipher a long inscription ; and, as he 
 glanced round to observe Villiers, he saw that the 
 shaft had struck him. They left the church, neither 
 of them speaking : not a word passed till they found 
 themselves in the open Campagna, beneath the soli- 
 tary sky ; and, as Macarthy sat down to rest himself 
 on the fragment of an old ruin, Villiers, with a 
 deep groan, knelt down before him ; and, hiding his 
 face in his lap, entreated him to hear his confession. 
 A by-stander might have observed a look of joy 
 and exultation in Macai'thy's lustrous eye pass into
 
 HAWKSTONE. 183 
 
 tenderness and sorrow, almost into a tear, as he 
 bowed his head down upon Villiers, and prayed 
 God to bless him ; but he knew too well the art of 
 fascination. 
 
 " No," he replied, to Villiers. " I understand 
 you ; I know youi' wants ; I mourn for you ; but I 
 cannot give you relief. Your faith, if so it may be 
 called, repudiates that holy sacrament, cuts you off 
 from that blessing to penitent sinners, and you must 
 bear the burden ; I cannot relieve you. If you 
 need confession, and can conscientiously receive ab- 
 solution, you should have recourse to your own 
 clergy. There is Mr. De Courcy, who preaches at 
 your chapel." And he named a young, gay, fashion- 
 able clergyman, who nominally under the pretext 
 of his health, but in reality to indulge his amuse- 
 ments, affected to take the spiritual charge of the 
 English residents at Rome, by reading prayers to 
 them on a Sunday, and rehearsing a sermon of 
 Blair's. 
 
 No physician watching the crisis of a deadly dis- 
 order ever studied so deeply each shade of symp- 
 tom ; touched so delicately on every spring which 
 could work a favourable change, gave himself up so 
 completely to the perplexities of a varying and com- 
 plicated disease, as Macarthy, preserving all the 
 time a profound silence on any point of controversy, 
 watched over Villiers. Villiers had launched one 
 day with enthusiasm into the vision of an empire 
 placed in the hands of one great mind, unshackled 
 by the fetters of a popular government, and devoted 
 with honesty and self-devotion to the good of man- 
 kind. The same afternoon, Macarthy stopped in 
 their walk at the gate of one of the colleges in 
 Rome ; and, after some little delay, they were led 
 into a small cell. The stone floor simply matted 
 over, the single wooden chair, the simple deal table 
 N 4
 
 184 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 covered with papers and books, the image of the 
 Virgin under a niche, with a lamp burning before 
 it, and the fireless hearth, even in the midst of 
 winter, were familiar to Villiers ; and he felt no 
 surprise. But he was not prepared for the noble and 
 almost awful figure of the occupant of that humble 
 apartment ; for the command with which he raised 
 himself from his seat, and bestowing no look on 
 Macarthy, who stood trembling in his presence, 
 pointed to a map of the earth before him, and with 
 his eyes fixed upon Villiers — " Beware," he said, 
 " young man ; remember that it is nothing to gain 
 the whole world, and to lose your own soul." He 
 then waved his head for them to withdraw ; and 
 Villiers learned from his still awed companion, that 
 he had seen the general of the Jesuits. 
 
 There were many Germans at Rome ; and Vil- 
 liers, who did not understand the German language, 
 endeavoured to converse with them in Latin. 
 
 " Oh ! " sighed Macarthy, " if but one language 
 could be spread over the whole world, to unite us 
 all together in our devotions as in our converse, 
 would it not be a blessing ? Would it not almost 
 repeal the curse of Babel ?" 
 
 They spent morning after morning before the 
 works of art, with which every palace in Rome is 
 filled ; and while other curious visitants passed 
 rapidly through the galleries, some chatting idly on 
 common matters, others scanning, with absurd pre- 
 tensions to criticism, the grandest works of the 
 great masters of painting and sculpture, and others 
 lounging lazily on sofas to gaze, through opera- 
 glasses, on the sufferings of saints, and admire the 
 anatomy of the muscles in the form of a crucified 
 Redeemer, Macarthy would draw Villiers apart, 
 and fix him before some figure of the Blessed Vir- 
 gin ; tell him how in its softness and its dignity it
 
 HAWKSTONE. 185 
 
 was a type of the Church ; and, as he watched the 
 picture, drawing into itself, by degrees, the thoughts 
 and affections of his companion, Macarthy asked 
 himself how any system of religion could rule the 
 heart of man which did not appeal to his imagin- 
 ation through his senses. With great care and 
 judgment he withdrew Villiers from the popular 
 spectacles of religious ceremonies, and from every 
 thing which could suggest to him the too painful 
 system of artifice and deception with which Popery 
 amuses and controls its followers. He showed him 
 no relics ; led him through no tawdry churches ; 
 carefully prevented his reading any popular books 
 of devotion ; spoke soberly and sadly on some im- 
 postures, which at the time were claiming to be 
 miracles ; and only on one occasion had committed 
 a mistake, when Villiers had remarked with some 
 severity on the exhibition of a dirty doll hung 
 round with beads, and crowned with paper flowers, 
 before which a crowd of market-women were pay- 
 ing their devotions. He had made a faint apology 
 for it — the usual apology of Popery — Populus 
 vult decipi, et decipiatur. But the indignant and 
 astonished look with which Villiers turned round to 
 see if he were speaking seriously, — his demand to 
 know whether God has given to the Church commis- 
 sion to deceive, — to do evil that good might come, 
 — to rule by lies, — as they startled Macarthy him- 
 self, threw him also on his guard ; and though the 
 principle had been laid deep in his own mind by the 
 whole system of his religious education, he never 
 broached it again. But to one spectacle in particular 
 did Macarthy accompany his companion. It was the 
 ceremony of the Pope's blessing the people in the 
 great area before St. Peter's : and as the venerable 
 old man rose from his seat over the grand entrance, 
 and the multitude fell down before him hushed into
 
 186 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 the profoundest silence, Macarthy felt Villiers kneel- 
 ing by his side, and kneeling even after the cannon 
 from St. Angelo had broken the trance, and the 
 shouts and cries of the struggling crowd around 
 them had dispelled the magic of that wondrous scene. 
 But Macarthy did not lose the opportunity. The 
 next day, as they parted, he left in Villiers's hand 
 a note-book, closely and carefully written through. 
 
 " Yesterday," he said, " we both were kneeUng 
 side by side, I to receive the blessing, and you, I 
 trust and believe, not scornfully resolved to reject 
 it, of a poor old man, You think," he continued, 
 " that the whole was a delusion. And, if you did 
 not love me, you would despise me for becoming the 
 slave of such an imposture as the papal supremacy. 
 This is the language of Protestants. I do not like 
 that you should despise me. 1 have therefore brought 
 together in this book the testimonies of antiquity, 
 — of Catholic antiquity," he repeated, — "to the 
 truth of our doctrine ; and, perhaps, you would like 
 to look at them." 
 
 The next morning Villiers received a note from 
 him, to say that he was called away suddenly from 
 Rome. Days passed, weeks passed, two months 
 passed, and Macarthy did not appear or write. He 
 had planted the seed securely, and he was too wise 
 to stand by and disturb the process of germination. 
 Villiers himself, with the departure of his compa- 
 nion, disappeared from the general society of Rome. 
 He was intently occupied, in the mornings, in the 
 libraries to which he could gain access, in his soli- 
 tary walks involved in abstracted thoughts, and far 
 beyond midnight his lamp was seen burning in his 
 room, till his countrymen of the Piazza di Spagna 
 spoke of him as a prodigy of learning, or as a 
 recluse soon likely to be involved in the net of Po- 
 pery. One only Englishman might be seen with
 
 HAWKSTONE. 187 
 
 him at times, climbing feebly the steps of the 
 Piazza, for he was just recovering from a long ill- 
 ness. And as the passers-by saw him, with Vil- 
 liers's assistance, mounting the acclivity, and ob- 
 served his sunken cheek and glassy eye, they marked 
 him as one who would add another to the victims of 
 the stranger's burial-ground. He was a clergyman of 
 middle age, bearing no marked character upon his 
 features or figure, quiet, equable in temper, re- 
 signed and cheerful, as one whose past life had 
 neither been rufiied by great shocks of sorrow, nor 
 stained by memories of evil, and whose knowledge, 
 accurate and sound rather than universal, had been 
 obtained by a patient, steady, undeviating course of 
 study, in which he was seeking not for the display 
 of talent, or the satisfaction of a presumptuous curi- 
 osity, but to prove and develope truths which he had 
 already embraced heartily under the teaching of his 
 Church. In this good, simple-minded, sensible man, 
 a type of the character of the English Church in 
 general, Villiers became deeply interested. His 
 perfect simplicity, his freedom from effort, his ab- 
 stinence from all attempts to display himself or to 
 influence others, the tranquillity with which he retired 
 unnoticed in society, and the openness, not without 
 thoughtfulness and discretion, with which he spoke 
 in private, fell upon Villiers with a degree of novelty 
 and freshness. It was a relief after the depth and 
 brilliancy which had marked the conversation of 
 Macarthy ; and from the profound carefulness with 
 which his every movement seemed to have been 
 regulated, as if some design and object lay beneath 
 each action. But there were other bonds of union 
 between them, and each week more and more time 
 was spent by them together ; and as Beattie's health 
 improved, before tables thickly strewed with books, 
 till the day which brought to Villiers a letter from
 
 188 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 Macarthy. It was short, but ardent and affec- 
 tionate. He apologised for not writing before, by 
 the pressure of business ; made no allusion to any 
 thing which had passed between them, and only 
 hoped that he should see Villiers as soon as he ar- 
 rived in Rome ; or that, if he had left Rome, Villiers 
 would carry with him, wherever he went, the re- 
 membrance of one who dearly loved him. Villiers's 
 brow worked painfully as he cast his eyes over the 
 letter. He was in Beattie's room, immersed with 
 him, as usual, in a pile of folios ; and as he laid the 
 letter down, and rested his face upon his hands, 
 Beattie looked up quietly, and saw by the close 
 pressure of his fingers that he was engaged in some 
 internal struggle. At last he recovered himself, and 
 simply saying that it was a letter from Macarthy, 
 who would be in Rome next week, he resumed his 
 writing. 
 
 On that day week, Macarthy arrived in Rome. 
 If any one had imagined from his absence or his 
 silence that he had lost sight of Villiers, he would 
 have done him grievous injustice. His absence 
 had been contrived for the very purpose of giving 
 free unsuspected scope to the working of the sug- 
 gestions which he had made to him. A double 
 time had been allotted to the prayers in which he 
 entreated a blessing upon his labours, and as he 
 fondly deemed it, upon the head of his friend, by 
 his restoration to the unity of the Church. His 
 asceticism was increased ; his voluntary penances 
 made more severe. And though, too often, a chill 
 and deadness of feeling hung upon him, as if his 
 devotions would be unheard, at times he mistook 
 the excitement and enthusiasm of overwrought sen- 
 sibility for a divine inspiration within, and solaced 
 himself already with the thought of embracing his 
 friend, as his own work, and as such, adding him
 
 HAWKSTONE. 189 
 
 as a wortliy conquest to the triumphs of his idolised 
 Society. His heart beat as he entered the gates of 
 Kome. It throbbed quicker, under an outward 
 veil of perfect composure, as he ascended the stair- 
 case to his apartment, almost expecting that Yil- 
 liers would be there to meet him. But the room 
 was empty, the evening past, and Villiers arrived 
 not. The next day came, and though Macarthy 
 remained within, listening to every step that ap- 
 proached his door, it closed in blankness and disap- 
 pointment, and all his dreams seemed vanished. 
 And yet, in what way an honest ardent mind like 
 Yilliers's, bent upon simple truth, and ready from 
 inclination to receive it, could escape from the over- 
 whelming evidence which Macarthy believed that 
 he had placed before him in favour of the funda- 
 mental article of his own religious creed, it was 
 hard to imagine. Should h^ go himself and seek 
 Villiers? But Macarthy was too proud to seek, 
 where he desired to be sought, and too prudent to 
 risk repulsion by an officious over-zealous attempt 
 to attract. The third morning relieved his anxiety 
 in some degree. It brought him a little note, 
 simple, and cold, and avoiding even the usual 
 formal expressions of regard — to say, that if Ma- 
 carthy was disengaged, Villiers would come to him 
 that evening ; and he did come. But, from the 
 first moment of his appearance, Macarthy saw that 
 all his feelings were changed, and that something 
 had occurred to break the spell of his own personal 
 influence over him, and that Villiers was no longer 
 his captive. The formal apology, the hand laid 
 coldly in his own, and suffering motionless the 
 pressure of Macarthy's — a pressure which Macarthy 
 instantly checked — sufficiently told the tale of some 
 secret estrangement. Macarthy's pride came at 
 once to cover his disappointment, and enabled him
 
 190 IIA^VKSTONE. 
 
 to meet the cold and severe look of Villiers with 
 equal reserve and self-possession. 
 
 " I am come, Mr. Macarthy," said Villiers, and 
 his voice faltered as he said Mr., and something of 
 his former tenderness seemed returning, — "I am 
 come to replace in your hands a little book, which 
 you were good enough to trust me with before you 
 left Rome. You intended, I am well aware, that I 
 should study it thoroughly, and I hope, therefore, 
 you will excuse me if I have interleaved it, and added 
 to it suggestions and corrections of my own." And 
 as he placed the volume in Macarthy's hand, and 
 met Macarthy's eyes, surprised, and yet unflinch- 
 ingly fixed to meet his, some misgiving arose in 
 Villiers's mind as to the justice of his severity. Ma- 
 carthy said nothing, but opened the book. He 
 found it, indeed, interleaved, interlined, filled with 
 MS. notes in Villiers's handwriting, and with refer- 
 ences, which had evidently been drawn from a very 
 deep and extensive course of reading. 
 
 " And is there," said he, " any thing in this book, 
 Mr. Villiers, which should have worked the change 
 which I cannot but perceive — any thing which 
 should destroy our former regard for each other? 
 It was drawn up with a very different intention."^ 
 
 " I do believe it," replied Villiers ; " I cannot have 
 been insensible to your anxiety^ a well-meant but 
 iU-regulated anxiety, to win me over to your own 
 form of religion. I neither complain nor condemn. 
 It is a good and a Christian zeal, when conducted 
 with reverence for truth ; but I do lament, lament 
 bitterly, Macarthy, that you should have endea- 
 voured to convert me, even to what you believe to 
 be the truth, by an imposture." 
 
 Macarthy's colour leaped into his face, and he 
 half started from his chair, but sat down again, con-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 191 
 
 fronting Villiers with an open indignant look which 
 demanded explanation. 
 
 " May I ask," said Villiers, " if this collection of 
 authorities and testimonies to the doctrine which 
 you desire to impress on me was compiled by your- 
 self from the original writers?" 
 
 " It was made," said Macarthy, " as I intended 
 to express at the time I gave it to you, from our 
 own controversialists. I wished you to see the line 
 of argument which they adopted, and the evidence 
 on which they proceeded." 
 
 "And you have never verified them yourself?" 
 said Villiers. 
 
 " I have not," replied Macarthy ; " I have myself 
 faith in my teachers, and am willing to accept their 
 statements. It is our practice, and our first lesson, 
 to discard doubt in the honesty and correctness of 
 those who are placed to rule over us." 
 
 " And as a collection from your controversialists 
 you gave it to me? " said Villiers. 
 
 " Most assuredly," replied Macarthy. " I never 
 imagined that you would mistake it for any thing 
 else, or myself for a man of so much learning." 
 
 Villiers's face in a moment resumed all its old 
 cheerfulness and affection. " I have done you wrong, 
 Macarthy, a grievous wrong ; but you must forgive 
 me ;" and he stretched out his hand, which Macarthy 
 met and took, but did not press, for he was offended 
 as well as amazed. 
 
 " I did you a grievous wrong, dear Macarthy," 
 continued Villiers, " and I must make a full re- 
 paration for it." 
 
 " May I ask first," said Macarthy, " for an ex- 
 planation of this rather singular conduct ? " 
 
 " Macarthy," said Villiers, " when I first took up 
 your volume, I was overpowered with the accumu- 
 lation of evidence which it brought to bear on your
 
 192 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 favourite dogma. I found an array of names, whose 
 authority it was impossible to dispute ; distinct enun- 
 ciation of the doctrine from the earliest times, which 
 no art could misinterpret ; and quotation on quota- 
 tion which, it seemed clear, no opposite testimony 
 could overcome, or even balance. For one day you 
 had conquered me. But I happened to return to it, 
 and to light on a passage quoted from St. Cyprian, 
 a striking and overwhelming testimony, as you 
 have there extracted it, to the papal supremacy. A 
 copy of St. Cyprian was lying, may I not say pro- 
 videntially, by me, and I turned to the passage in 
 the original. What was my astonishment to find 
 that the words on which necessarily turned the whole 
 propriety of the application of his expressions to the 
 See of Rome were acknowledged as a well-known 
 interpolation even by the Romanist editor, and were 
 carefully excluded from his text, — the very text, 
 remember, to which your reference was given." 
 
 Macarthy's eye continued firmly facing Yilliers ; 
 and he proceeded : " One discovery," he said, " of 
 this kind induced me to examine further, — to ex- 
 amine laboriously and honestly, and not without 
 assistance, but with a single desire to discover truth. 
 And shall I tell you the result ? " 
 
 Macarthy begged him to proceed. 
 
 " I found," said Yilliers, " that nearly every im- 
 portant passage was garbled in the same manner, and 
 in the face of direct warnings against the corrup- 
 tions, which corruptions it was impossible to doubt 
 had been originally fastened upon the text by papal 
 transcribers and editors. I found that other passages 
 which were not garbled were yet wholly misapplied 
 — that what the ancient Fathers had spoken of the 
 whole Catholic Apostolic Church, without any re- 
 striction to the branches in communion with the 
 Bishop of Rome, was employed as if those epithets
 
 HAWKSTONE. 193 
 
 had been used, as you abuse them now, exclusively 
 to designate your own peculiar branch. I found that 
 spurious documents were appealed to as genuine ; 
 and obvious interpolations of , whole sentences ad- 
 mitted without a hint or warning. I catalogued 
 the list of authorities, and affixed their dates, and to 
 my astonishment discovered the art with which an- 
 cients and moderns — Fathers of the Catholic Church 
 and doctors of the Romish schools — were mixed to- 
 gether, to present an overwhelming catena of testi- 
 monies, out of which but two or three were valid, 
 as legitimate evidence. And when I compared the 
 real accounts of the constitution of the Church in the 
 ages which we are bound to follow with your own 
 description of them, I could find little but direct 
 contradiction. Pardon me, Macarthy, if, as I read 
 this compilation of forgeries and deceptions, (for I 
 can call it little else,) and imagined you to have been 
 the author of it, and this for the purpose of in- 
 ducing me to embrace a system of religion based 
 upon this one foundation, I did resent it, and did 
 forget all that I had formerly felt for you. When 
 we have been deceived in one point, we suspect deceit 
 in all. Before this, others endeavoured to persuade 
 me that pious frauds were an essential part of your 
 system. But I never could willingly believe it. 
 And when once there fell from your lips that hate- 
 ful maxim, Populus vult decipi, et decipiatiir^ I 
 persuaded myself that you were speaking in irony. 
 May I believe so still, and that your controver- 
 sialists alone are responsible for this cheat ? " 
 
 Macarthy did not look up. A slight pang crossed 
 him as he felt that the maxim so hateful to Yilliers 
 had been uttered by him, not in irony, but in sober 
 seriousness ; and that if the imposition, of wliich 
 he had been the unintentional aider, was gross 
 and enormous, it was still in perfect consistency 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 with the principles of that dominion over men by 
 human arts, though for religious purposes, which 
 his life was devoted to maintain. But the shock to 
 his mind was great. He received the book, care- 
 fully locked it up, and then taking Villiers's hand, 
 " I never intended to deceive you," he said, simply : 
 " are we friends again ? " 
 
 And the pressure of Villiers's hand showed that 
 his confidence was restored.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 195 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 But in Macarthy's own mind confidence was not 
 restored. Yilliers from that hour made no attempt 
 to resume the subject. Whatever fascination had 
 been previously thrown round him by the apparent 
 grandeur, unity, and splendour of the Romish sys- 
 tem, the discovery of the hollowness and vanity of 
 its fundamental assumption, and of the artifices with 
 which it was supported, had dispelled the whole 
 illusion. He now walked the streets of Rome 
 almost with loathing, as a scene of imposition piti- 
 able and pardonable in the deceived, but frightful 
 and impious in the deceivers. As he examined the 
 doctrinal errors of its system, he could detect in all of 
 them the element of popular influence which the lust of 
 rule required, and to which, and not to truth, it clung 
 with such vigorous tenacity. And as he read the 
 history of modern days, and especially of his own 
 country since the Reformation, he could enter with 
 heartier sympathy into the struggles, and compas- 
 sionate with more indulgence the errors, of the minds 
 by which, in one portion of the globe, popery had 
 been resisted and exterminated, though not without 
 loss. But theology, as yet, had been taken up by 
 him only as a theory — as a vision for the imagin- 
 ation ; and when the first vision which lie had 
 formed broke up before his eyes, he was left in a 
 state of dreary doubt and coldness, without any 
 foundation on which to rest — any positive system, 
 either to realise in himself, or to inculcate upon 
 others. The thought, therefore, of bringing Mac- 
 O 2
 
 196 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 arthy from error never occurred to him ; and even 
 if it had occurred, the natural delicacy of his mind 
 would have shrunk from obtruding on a task to 
 which he was not called, and for which he possessed 
 little fitness. Even if he had undertaken it, what, 
 according to his then views, could he offer Macarthy 
 in exchange for the system which he would abandon, 
 and which, false and hollow as it was, was still a 
 splendid falsehood ? 
 
 In the mean while Macarthy's own mind was 
 working upon itself. It is not true that the quarrels 
 of friends are the renewal of friendship. Friendship 
 is a delicate plant, and every rude touch, though it 
 does not uproot, shakes and mars it. And the sus- 
 picion and resentment once felt by Yilliers, though 
 cast away at Macarthy's frank declaration, had left 
 the shade of an evil association with his name, which, 
 unreasonable as Villiers confessed it to be, he could 
 not altogether dispel. Their intercourse became 
 less frequent ; and Macarthy himself pleaded occu- 
 pation and study in excuse for it. And when they 
 did meet, Villiers was pained to see a marked alter- 
 ation in his manner and appearance. He became 
 gradually reserved and silent ; his mind was appa- 
 rently engaged in abstracted and anxious thought ; 
 and his eye was restless, and no longer possessed of 
 that singular power of penetration with which he used 
 to fascinate those with whom he conversed. Lines of 
 care began to mark his countenance. From a frank, 
 open apology of occupation, he seemed driven to find 
 excuses for avoiding a meeting with Yilliers. If he 
 came to him, it was late in the evening ; and in the 
 day-time he never walked with him, as before. 
 When Villiers called on him, he evinced impatience 
 and anxiety for his departure. And at last, after 
 having been informed several times by the porter 
 that Mr. Macarthy was not within, Villiers received
 
 HAWKSTONE. 197 
 
 an embarrassed note from himself, pleading that he 
 was peculiarly circumstanced at present, and must 
 deny himself the pleasure of seeing him so often. 
 VilHers, of course, acquiesced, with some surprise, 
 and still more of offended pride. In his thoughts he 
 charged Macarthy with foolish resentment at the 
 refutation which had been given to his polemical 
 theories. Alas ! he little knew the misery which he 
 had caused to him, and the fiery trial through which 
 he was now passing. Weeks had passed without his 
 seeing him, when, on sending once more to know if 
 Mr. Macarthy was in Rome, an answer was given 
 that he had left it, and would not return for some 
 little time ; and Villiers gave up all hope of seeing 
 him, and prepared himself for his journey to Naples. 
 He was to depart the next morning. But before he 
 quitted the Eternal City, he gave himself up to spend 
 one more evening among its ruins, to stand once 
 more by moonlight on the steps of the Capitol, to 
 listen once more, in the cool silence, to the plashing 
 of the fountains among the colonnades of St. Peter, 
 and to sit once more on the topmost range of the 
 Colosseum — that image of the fortunes of Rome — 
 that concentration of its wonderful history, and still 
 more wondrous character. 
 
 The moonlight was streaming in masses through 
 the dark piers of that gigantic structure. The 
 distant hum of the corso scarcely reached his ear 
 as he ascended to a favourite point, from which his 
 eye could command the whole area. There was the 
 enormous pile, reared by human art to gratify the 
 meanest craving of an enormous ambition. There 
 was the ground polluted with the blood of hireling 
 gladiators, to slake that thirst for excitement, that 
 avidity for power, which converted even the theatre 
 of Rome into a butchery and charnel-house. There 
 was the scene of martyrdom ; and Villiers blessed 
 o 3
 
 198 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 himself that the day of persecution had passed for 
 ever, till he remembered the Inquisition. He sat 
 immersed, not in thought, but in a dreamy, melan- 
 choly, trance-like stupor, under the immediate pre- 
 sence and eye, as it were, of an awful spirit, which 
 seemed to fill and haunt the ruins. And he heard 
 no step behind him till he was touched on the 
 shoulder, and a low hollow voice sounded in his ear, 
 " Villiers — dear Villiers ! " 
 
 He turned round, and, disguised and enveloped 
 in a large cloak, he saw Macarthy. As the moon 
 emerged from a cloud and fell upon his face, Villiers 
 was shocked, and startled to see its haggard cast and 
 ashy hue. It was the image of secret anguish ; 
 and every trace of coolness and resentment vanished 
 from Villiers's mind in compassion. 
 
 " You are ill," he said, " Macarthy ; how came 
 you here at this hour ? They sent word to me, only 
 yesterday, that you had left Rome." 
 
 " Did they ? " said Macarthy. " I knew nothing 
 of it ; but, thanks be to Heaven, I am here. I have 
 escaped them. Only you are yourself in danger. 
 This is no safe place," he said, looking round him, 
 " for any one, much less for us. These dark pas- 
 sages and cells have a bad reputation ; and two men 
 were stabbed in them last week." 
 
 Villiers knew it, but he was fearless. 
 
 " I could not leave Rome," he said, " without 
 once more coming here by moonlight. But you are 
 ill, Macarthy, dear Macarthy ; what is the matter?" 
 
 " Not ill," replied Macarthy, " not ill, only in 
 torment. But I have borne it. I have gone through 
 the worst ; and if I can but breathe another air, I 
 shall be well." 
 
 " And what have you suffered ? " said Villiers. 
 
 " It is a long tale," replied the other, " and I 
 have but a few moments. Hush ! " he continued,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 199 
 
 " we are observed. Did you not see a figure moving 
 round that corner ? " 
 
 Villiers looked, but all was still. 
 
 " There are two of us," he said ; " and we can 
 have given no cause of offence to any one. Be not 
 alarmed." 
 
 Macarthy drew breath more freely, but pro- 
 ceeded in a low voice, almost in a whisper — 
 
 " You," he said, and his voice faltered tenderly — 
 " you whom I loved so dearly, whose name has 
 been in all my prayers, the thought of whom has 
 been the last to soothe me at night and to wake me 
 in the morning, — you whom I have sought to make 
 my own, until I have at times forgotten my God, — 
 you have been my destroyer ! " 
 
 Villiers looked up with amazement. 
 
 " You have made me," Macarthy continued, with 
 a sepulchral voice, " an Infidel. No," he conti- 
 nued, after a pause, and drawing himself up once 
 more to stand as he used to stand when he would 
 command and rivet his hearers, "not an Infidel. 
 Thanks to my God, thanks to better thoughts 
 and prayer, I have not lost all. Something is true 
 within me in what we have learned and felt of 
 Christianity : but what, or how much, or where, or 
 how it may be found, I know not. I cling to it as 
 to a flitting shadow, which I expect will every mo- 
 ment vanish also from my grasp ; and but one 
 thing on earth am I sure of — that Popery is a lie ; 
 and they know that I know it ; and I have been in 
 their hands." And Villiers shuddered at the tone 
 of mingled terror and loathing with which Macarthy 
 uttered his last words. 
 
 " Ij have been in their hands, Villiers," he con- 
 tinued ; and he bared his arm, and Villiers saw that 
 it was blackened and almost paralysed as by some 
 dreadful torture. 
 
 o 4
 
 200 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 " They found my book — your book," he said. 
 " They watched my reading as I followed it. They 
 had their confessional ; they wrung from me every 
 thought of my heart. I had been their chosen mi- 
 nister, in the possession of their secrets. Judge, 
 Villiers, if they would spare me ! " 
 
 And he again looked trembling behind him to 
 catch a creaking sound, which seemed like a step 
 creeping stealthily along the dark vaulted passage 
 at his back. 
 
 " Move out," he said to Villiers, " into the open 
 air. It is better in the light." 
 
 " And how, then, are you here ? " asked Villiers. 
 
 " I have been bound down," he said, — " solemnly 
 and awfully bound down ; and one voice was raised 
 to save me, or I should not be here. But I am 
 escaped from them — escaped for the present, 
 though every movement is watched. I saw you 
 from the wretched place where I have taken refuge 
 for the time, and traced you here to wish you fare- 
 well, — to tell you that you may think of me when I 
 am gone. But it is at the peril of my life. As you 
 value it, do not come near me, nor write to me. 
 You are yourself in danger, and should leave Rome 
 without delay." 
 
 " And why not leave it with me ? " asked Vil- 
 liers. 
 
 " I cannot," said Macarthy ; " I am bound hand 
 and foot, and dare not stir. And if I could escape, 
 where am I to go ? " 
 
 " To England," said Villiers, " to your own 
 country, with me." 
 
 " And what could I do there ? " said Macarthy. 
 
 " Our church," said Villiers, "is open to you. 
 We do not deny your orders." 
 
 " No," said Macarthy, " you do not deny our 
 power to^minister ; but will you, can you, trust to
 
 HAWKSTONE. 201 
 
 US to minister, at least for years, till you have tried 
 us ; and meanwhile — hark again, surely that was a 
 footstep?" 
 
 And Villiers advanced to look into the dark pas- 
 sage, but all was still and silent, and only the hoot- 
 ing of a solitary owl broke the breathless calm that 
 reigned around them. The unhappy man sunk 
 down and buried his face with his hands, till Vil- 
 liers once more suggested his endeavouring to reach 
 England. 
 
 "England!" said Macarthy, "where the pri- 
 soner is freed by the very touch of the soil on 
 which he stands! England, the refuge of the world !" 
 And he seemed to revive at the thought. 
 
 " And our church," repeated Villiers, " is still 
 open to you." 
 
 " Yes," muttered Macarthy, " if it be true. And 
 if truth be found upon earth, I would fain hope that 
 it is there, though at present all is dark around me. 
 I can believe in nothing. I can only suspect and 
 disbelieve;" and he heaved a deep groan. "Life 
 and the world, and earth and heaven, are all a 
 blank." 
 
 " Will you not examine further and inquire ? " 
 asked Villiers, tenderly. 
 
 " Inquire ! " cried Macarthy, with a bitter laugh 
 of irony. " Have I not inquired once ? And what 
 has been the end ? " 
 
 And then, after a pause, he resumed, as if the 
 possibility of so doing had dawned upon him. 
 
 " And if I could inquire, where should I be 
 meanwhile? Outcast, degraded, despised ; rejected 
 with suspicion by those to whom he comes, and 
 persecuted even to the death by those whom he 
 abandons ; his heart broken ; his mind distracted — 
 friendless — without books — without support or 
 guidance — shut out even from the channels of aid
 
 202 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 from God, if such there be ; starving, perhaps, and 
 destitute of all things ; — you bid the wretch whom 
 you have shaken from his faith and tempted to 
 your own — you bid him inquire ! Villiers, is it 
 not a mockery ? Do you remember," said Mac- 
 arthy, after a long silence, " do you remember that 
 miserable man" (and he alluded to a case which they 
 had witnessed), " the apostate priest ? Do you recol- 
 lect his shame and his sins, when he was di-iven 
 from the shelter of his Church, and exposed naked 
 and defenceless to the temptations of the world, 
 which he had never known before ? Why should 
 not my end be like his ? " And he sprang up in 
 desperation, and stood trembling on the very verge 
 of the precipitous wall, till Villiers seized his arm, 
 and, entreating him to be calm, reminded him of the 
 hour and scene when his own life had been saved 
 by Macarthy's arm. 
 
 " Can you," he said, looking stedfastly into his 
 distracted eye — "can you speak of poverty, and 
 destitution, and friendlessness, while I am living ? " 
 
 Macarthy's pride, controlled and subdued as it 
 had been by his former position, in which the 
 grandeur of the body of which he was a member 
 compensated for the humiliation of the individual, 
 had now resumed its sway, and almost scornfully he 
 withdrew his arm. " I cannot," he said, " be de- 
 pendent even upon you." But, recovering himself, 
 he continued ; " One thing there is which you might 
 do, and which I could accept without shame. You 
 might procure me admission for a time to one of 
 your colleges." And his eye turned up in hope as 
 the thought struck him. " There I might be safe 
 for a time, and at peace ; and there, with the neces- 
 sary help, I might perhaps — once more — " he 
 stopped — and then added faintly, "inquire." 
 
 Villiers did not understand him, and looked at 
 him for an explanation.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 203 
 
 " Our colleges?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Macarthy, "you have literary col- 
 leges, where there are libraries, and religious ser- 
 vices, and good associations, and discipline, and 
 shelter from temptation, and learned men, and 
 means of living with quiet and respectability at least, 
 upon comparatively humble means. Ours are always 
 open to receive any converts from your faith to ours : 
 they are admitted to a shelter immediately ; and in 
 that awful crisis which must take place in the tran- 
 sition from one communion to the other, they are 
 nursed, and watched, and disciplined, until they 
 are strong enougli to return once more into the 
 world. You must have such refuges in England ; 
 and in them I might still be saved." 
 
 " Alas ! " said Villiers, mournfully, " I know of 
 none such. Colleges, indeed, we have, wealthy and 
 numerous, but they have not been used for such a 
 purpose ; perhaps they could not be." 
 
 "Not one?" asked Macarthy again, "not one? 
 not a single place of refuge for the miserable beings 
 whom you are daily almost execrating for remain- 
 ing in popery, and calling on them as their only 
 salvation to come over to your Church ? And do 
 you thus cruelly endeavour to break down the roof 
 and walls of the home in which they are sheltered, 
 and to turn them adrift and naked upon the world 
 without caring where they go? And when they 
 come and sit down before your own doors, craving 
 for some shed to cover them, you bid them wait 
 and inquire. Oh, Villiers, can this be the Church 
 of England — of England, the merciful and the 
 Wise.'' 
 
 Villiers sighed deeply, but could make no reply. 
 
 " Then," said Macarthy, after a lengthened silence, 
 " all is lost." He started up and listened, as a frag- 
 ment of stone detached from the wall fell down in
 
 204 
 
 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 the dark passage through which they had passed, 
 and both fancied they heard a suppressed cough. 
 
 " Come," said Macarthy, " let us separate. I 
 have been followed and watched for days ; and to 
 be seen with you might ruin me." 
 
 " And why ? " asked Villiers. 
 
 " Because," replied Macarthy, " I know all their 
 designs upon you. Beware, Villiers, how you trust 
 to any one. Leave Rome immediately. At Naples — 
 even in England — even in the farthest part of the 
 globe, remember that there is a power seated here 
 which has a thousand eyes and a thousand arms, and 
 can walk the earth invisibly, working its will at 
 any moment and in any place ; and its eyes are 
 fixed on you." 
 
 Villiers understood the allusion, for he knew 
 that Macarthy was a Jesuit. But why he should 
 himself be their object he could not imagine. 
 
 "Are you not aware," said Macarthy, — "can you 
 have been so long in Rome, so long with me" — (and 
 he groaned again), "without seeing the intense 
 avidity with which every Englishman of rank and 
 influence is brought within the range of their fasci- 
 nation ? Upon England their eyes are fixed as on 
 the one great hope of restoring their empire. Every 
 concession to an insane toleration, every popular 
 movement, every trembling and shaking of the 
 boughs of the English Church, every foreign alli- 
 ance or foreign commerce which threatens either the 
 downfal of the old English antipapal system, or the 
 revival of a papal influence, they watch and foster 
 with an art which almost defies detection, but in- 
 sures success. Your name is on the list of those 
 from whom it hopes much. Your mother's memory, 
 your last associations at Oxford, and all which they 
 have witnessed in you here, have marked you as 
 their victim. Beware of every one. Beware " —
 
 HAWKSTONE. 205 
 
 But before the word was finished, there was a rush 
 behind. Macarthy staggered and fell into the arms 
 of Villiers; and before Villiers could disengage 
 himself, a figure, muffled up, leaped past him into 
 one of the deep dark passages on the other side. 
 Villiers sprung after him, and all but grasped his 
 neck, but with a tremendous eifort the assassin 
 shook him off, shot down the steps, and disappeared 
 in the labyrinth. Villiers rushed back to find Mac- 
 arthy bathed in blood, and stretched dead upon the 
 ground. His arms were crossed as if his last thought 
 had been prayer. But the dagger had reached his 
 heart, and life had fled.
 
 206 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 As the spring of that year came on, the loiterer on 
 the Chiaia at Naples might have observed, day after 
 day, at a certain hour, an English carriage drawn 
 up before one of the principal houses on that deli- 
 cious suburb. After delays, often very capricious, 
 a little, thin-visaged, mean -looking old man, with a 
 soured and fretful countenance, would be assisted 
 into it by his valet for his morning drive. And if 
 the loiterer had also loitered before in the Piazza di 
 Spagna at Rome, he might have recognised the 
 same carriage and the same old man at the hotel, 
 which was then occupied by General Villiers ; but 
 the valet had been changed. Just before the Ge- 
 neral left Rome his former courier, upon some pre- 
 tence or other, expressed a wish to remain behind, 
 and to recommend in his own place the present 
 stout, active, useful, obsequious, and accommo- 
 dating, close-shaven, though rather sinister-looking 
 person, who, after almost lifting the fretful General 
 into his carriage, and arranging his large silk hand- 
 kerchief, his muff, his snuff-box, his cane, his news- 
 paper, and his poodle, without a murmur at the 
 General's angry complaints at the cold air or the hot 
 sun, took his seat behind the carriage with the air of 
 one who was now master of the vehicle and of all that 
 it contained, and ordered the coachman to drive 
 as usual towards Pausilippo. The same loiterer 
 might also have observed, that on one or two occa- 
 sions a young man, singularly contrasted with the 
 feeble and pinched figure of the General, tall, and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 20^ 
 
 nobly formed, but with a deep melancholy im- 
 pressed upon his countenance, and dressed in 
 mourning, had taken his seat on the opposite side 
 of the carriage, but with a look of weariness and 
 ennui. Little conversation passed between them, 
 except some tart remarks of the old man on the 
 dress or gesture of his companion, on his still con- 
 tinuing to wear mourning, or on some accidental 
 interference with the silk handkerchief, the cane, 
 the snuff-box, or the poodle, which seemed to con- 
 stitute the only interest in the eyes of the decrepit 
 valetudinarian. His remarks on passers-by were 
 snarling and ill-natured. His observations, when 
 made on the contents of the newspaper, of which 
 he carefully perused all the advertisements, scarcely 
 went beyond some faded reminiscence of past 
 gaiety recalled by the columns of the Morning Post, 
 or the price of stocks. He dozed during a great 
 part of his ride ; and if, when he woke up, he found 
 his companion engaged in reading, he made some 
 angry complaint that he could find no one to talk 
 to him ; or would ask, sneeringly, if that was one 
 of the new popish books from England, and when 
 the young man intended to turn monk. 
 
 With ill-disguised impatience, and sometimes with 
 less of respect than became a son toward a father, — 
 even a weak, fretful, irreligious, and mean-minded 
 father, — Villiers either answered shortly or re- 
 mained silent. And the drive seldom concluded 
 without some suggestion from the General that, if 
 he could not make a more agreeable companion, 
 he might as well remain at home — a suggestion 
 which Villiers would gladly have adopted, had not 
 his father, in the cat-like spirit of a mouse-tor- 
 mentor, whenever he found him engaged in some 
 study or interesting occupation, called on him to come 
 out and accompany him. Each day, and almost each
 
 208 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 hour, brought with it some little vexation of this kind, 
 which fretted Villiers's temper, and disturbed even 
 his own self-respect. In his own mind miserable 
 and doubting, still suffering from the shock which 
 the frightful scene in the Colosseum had given to 
 him, with no grand object before him to occupy his 
 life, and with the daily presence of littleness and 
 lowness in all that he saw of man, whether in the 
 vicious infirmity of his father, or in the habits of a 
 Neapolitan population, he became morbidly sensi- 
 tive to the annoyances to which he was subjected 
 even in the presence of society. His father's life 
 had been more than idle or useless ; it had been 
 vicious ; and Villiers knew it. And in old age a 
 paralysis of mind was coming on which extinguished 
 all hope of repentance. He had been a cruel hus- 
 band to the mother whom Villiers adored. And in 
 more than the little habits of daily intercourse, in 
 threats of casting off his son, and depriving him of 
 his inheritance, he was a tyrannical father. One 
 person only in the house seemed to bear with him 
 imperturbably. It was Pearce, or ]Mr. Pearce, as 
 the servants, who di-eaded him as much as they 
 disliked their master, universally called him. It 
 was he who slept in his master's room, who arranged 
 his gouty stool, unfolded and dried his newspaper, 
 purchased his peculiar snuff at a peculiar shop, made 
 his posset, and administered it at night — even fed 
 his poodle, and shaved his beard, without extorting 
 from the old man any very violent outbreak of 
 anger. A spell seemed to be laid upon the General 
 by the very presence. of Pearce. There was some- 
 thing in his look penetrating and cunning, and yet, 
 when he chose, commanding, which at first dis- 
 gusted even Villiers himself, as it overawed his 
 father. But Pearce to his young master was more 
 than attentive ; he was obsequious and flattering,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 209 
 
 as clever servants can be even to intelligent mas- 
 ters. He made himself useful in a thousand little 
 ways, gradually superseded Yilliers's own man in 
 many trifling offices, which the cleverer eye and 
 head of Pearce better understood. And at last he at- 
 tained the grand point which he had gradually but 
 unsuspectedly worked up to, of paying Villiers's little 
 bills, obtaining free access to his room, and at times 
 even copying for him a letter, or writing out some 
 extract from a book which Villiers might wish to 
 preserve. Villiers could not like him, but could 
 not deny that he was a very clever, very obliging, 
 and very useful fellow. Nor was his appreciation 
 of his attainments diminished, when one day, having 
 received from Pearce a transcript from a passage 
 in Burke, in which a Latin quotation had been mis- 
 printed, he found that the error had been corrected 
 by Pearce, who, on Villiers expressing surprise, 
 informed him that he had been taught Latin when 
 a boy. 
 
 And in the meanwhile what were Villiers's own oc- 
 cupations ? He could scarcely tell himself. Stunned 
 and horror-struck at what he had witnessed at 
 Rome, he had delayed his departure in the hope of 
 finding some clue to the murder of poor Macarthy, 
 but could reach none. Strange obstacles and de- 
 lays were thrown in his way by the police them- 
 selves. Once, when a cap had been found in the dark 
 passages of the Colosseum, and a hope was raised 
 that it might serve to trace or identify the assassin, 
 it disappeared from his possession, and he could 
 never find it again. Nor, indeed, was assassination 
 so uncommon an event at Rome as to create gene- 
 rally the interest and suffering which it had caused 
 in himself. He was at last advised by a "udicious 
 Italian, and advised with a degree of significance, 
 that his search was hopeless, and that it would be 
 VOL. I. r
 
 210 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 necessary to abandon it ; and with a sickened, loaded 
 heart he followed his father to Naples. 
 
 Youth, by a strange elastic power, soon recovers 
 even from the most frightful shock. But Yilliers, 
 even at Naples, did not recover. By degrees, in- 
 deed, the horrible vision, with which his dreams were 
 at first haunted, died away. He no longer heard 
 Macarthy's last " Beware ! " ringing in his ears, or 
 saw his ghastly haggard face gazing on him through 
 his curtains at midnight, and almost reproaching 
 him with his death. Though at the first moment 
 all the tenderness of affection, which he had once 
 felt, seemed to revive, afterwards the later train of 
 association resumed its place. And especially as his 
 temper and patience became embittered by the trials 
 of his father, he found himself at times almost re- 
 garding poor Macarthy's memory with the same 
 resentment as if he really had meditated the de- 
 ception which he involuntarily practised. It is a 
 sad and awful trial, heaviest perhaps of all to which 
 human nature can be exposed, when a bold, noble, 
 ardent mind is placed under a feeble, petty, con- 
 temptible government, which it cannot reform, and 
 may not shake ofi". One only blessing can enable 
 it to be borne, when the bold mind is actively en- 
 gaged in some high and energetic work, which makes 
 all other things seem little, and sanctifies and ele- 
 vates the temper to be patient even as its Divine 
 Master. But Villiers had no such work. His first 
 dream of grandeur and of truth dispelled, and dis- 
 pelled so horribly, he fell back into a state of dreary 
 inactivity. He could take no interest in the an- 
 cient associations of Naples, and all that surrounded 
 it, for the study reminded him of Rome and of Ma- 
 earthy ; and he was obliged, as the thought struck 
 him, to close his book, shut his eyes, and take re- 
 fuge in the crowded noisy streets of the luxurious
 
 HAAVK STONE. 211 
 
 city. Here he could find nothing to elevate, little to 
 attract, but everything to effeminate and sensualize. 
 At times he plunged into violent bodily exertion, 
 mounting his horse, and penetrating, though with 
 vacant eye and indolent mind, the distant scenes of 
 the surrounding country, or taking with him some 
 young boatmen and sailing on the bay at midnight, 
 when his solitary dinner with his father, and the 
 still more solitary evening, while his father was 
 dozing in his arm-chair, had left him at liberty for the 
 enjoyment of real solitude — the solitude of a vision- 
 peopled nature. And these moments, when he threw 
 his mind as it were upon a couch, and casting off 
 all exertion of thought, all memory, and all fore- 
 castings of the future, gave himself up to the luxu- 
 rious influence of that delicious climate and glorious 
 scenery, became at last his only enjoyment. They 
 soothed and tranquillized him, and yet excited his 
 imagination — acting almost like an opiate on his 
 distracted mind, and filling him with a dreamy lan- 
 guor, full of luxurious sensibility, but full also of a 
 deadly poison. His religious feelings, however 
 crushed and chilled by what had passed, happily were 
 not destroyed. They had been, and continued to 
 be, his safeguard through all the worst forms of 
 temptation to which, amidst a dissolute society, 
 separated from all the influences of his Church, and 
 from all examples of high rectitude in his own 
 countrymen, he was necessarily exposed. Once, in a 
 moment of intense weariness and self-reproach which 
 followed a scene of contemptuous vexation from his 
 father, and almost of recrimination on his own side, 
 (for Villiers's sense of dutifulness was rapidly sink- 
 ing,) he happened to be drawn by an acquaintance 
 to a gambling-table, and had all but given himself up 
 to the impulse of gaming himself; but a vision of 
 his mother, of her prayers and injunctions, came
 
 212 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 across bim, and he left the room with precipitation. 
 At other times, when, as he fondly thought, a better 
 spirit was moving within him — a spirit of peace and 
 love, undisturbed by idle controversies, and resting 
 calmly in the great truths of rehgion, in which 
 all creeds united, — he would abandon himself, not to 
 the contemplation, but to the soft gentle influences 
 of nature, tracing a hand of love and a vision of 
 glory in all her works, in the bright stars, the breath- 
 less night, the eternal ocean, the soft air that fanned 
 his brow as 'he lay stretched in his boat upon the 
 sea, or sat listlessly on some wave-eaten promon- 
 tory, listening to the lulling waters, or inhaling 
 fragrance from a flower. Startled as he would have 
 been to hear the right and only name due to such 
 vague and idle dreamings, he was sinking into a 
 species of Pantheism, but knew it not. And mean- 
 while, as the luxury from without was creeping on 
 him, the strength within was dying away. His 
 energy was gone, his sense of duty deadened, his 
 self-command and self-respect powerless against the 
 continued annoyances of his father's society. In 
 later years, when, proved and disciplined by suffer- 
 ings, Villiers looked back upon the scenes of this 
 period, it was always with a keen and deepening 
 remorse — remorse which in the secrecy of his own 
 chamber found vent in stated days of humiliation 
 and penitence. He was not indeed led to any open 
 violent breach of filial respect, though to this he 
 was often tempted ; but his good taste saved him 
 from it — it would have been ungentlemanly. But 
 the cold reply when his father asked him some 
 painful question ; the dead silence to which he 
 abandoned liimself during their meals ; the reluctance 
 to meet half-way even the occasional overture of his 
 father to a more amicable communication ; the irri- 
 tation which betrayed itself towards any of the in-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 213 
 
 numerable frivolities with which his father endea- 
 voured to beguile the lingering weariness of an old 
 age without a hope and without a virtue ; at times 
 even the tart and harsh replj ; the neglect of any 
 attempt to soothe, or amuse, or elevate, his father's 
 mind ; and the forgetfulness of prayer — of that 
 prayer for his correction and amendment which 
 might have availed, even when all human help 
 seemed vain, — all this came back to Yilliers v/hen 
 his father was gone for ever, when he had fergotten 
 the bitterness of feeling caused by the hourly exhi- 
 bition of his father's frivolities, his whims, his 
 weaknesses, the offensive habits into which a self- 
 indulgent old age too often sinks, and the petty 
 wearying spirit of revenge with which he consoled 
 himself for the acknowledged superiority of his son. 
 and displayed his mean jealousies and resentments 
 by thwarting and almost insulting him. It came 
 back on him when the realities of religion had been 
 unveiled before him ; and as he stood by his father's 
 grave, he asked where his spirit then was, and 
 whether he himself might not have done something 
 to rescue it while it was upon earth. 
 
 By degrees also, as his father's infirmities in- 
 creased, instead of redoubling his attentions, and 
 devoting himself more assiduously to enliven his 
 sick room, Villiers was tempted to absent him- 
 self, and to enjoy his freedom by prolonging his 
 rides or boatings. To Pearce — the active, obse- 
 quious, ever-ready Pearce, who understood all the 
 old man's humours, and had now obtained a com- 
 plete command over him, so that the poor decrepit 
 being, sinking into dotage, scarcely dared to move 
 without asking permission and advice from his hire- 
 ling, — Villiers abandoned his father. The excuse for 
 retiring himself was easy and ready, thougli it was 
 not without some pang of self-reproach. His father 
 p 3
 
 214 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 disliked himself, and liked Pearce. His own pre- 
 sence only seemed to cause irritation, or his pa- 
 tience was so exhausted that he required repose 
 and relaxation. Alas ! how easily we can excuse 
 what we like. 
 
 One evening the General had been more than usu- 
 ally querulous and sarcastic upon the companion of 
 his tete-a-tete dinner, until it amounted to rudeness ; 
 and Villiers's suffused face showed that he was trea- 
 suring up a store of bitter feeling. As it grew later 
 the old man's weariness increased. One by one, 
 Pearce endeavoured to engage him with the many 
 childish but expensive gew-gaws, in which his frivo- 
 lous mind still endeavoured to find relief from the mo- 
 notony of existence. The parrot repeated its lesson, 
 the poodle had performed its tricks ; and as Villiers 
 lifted up his eyes from some poetry which he was 
 reading, an involuntary expression of scorn rather 
 than of compassion rose to his lij^s, but was checked 
 in time. The heat of the room became oppressive 
 and the air offensive. Again and again Pearce was 
 summoned to shift the valetudinarian in his deep- 
 cushioned easy chair. His gouty stool required 
 moving : Villiers left it to be arranged by the ser- 
 vant. He wished to be lifted round ; and another 
 arm was required. Villiers, when requested to assist, 
 coldly complied, but without any expression of 
 thankfulness from his father or of acknowledgment 
 on his own part. He was evidently treated as a slave. 
 Again he was required to leave his book to ring the 
 bell, and Villiers became fretful. The poodle nearly 
 threw him down as .he returned to his seat ; and 
 Villiers pushed it aside, and almost kicked it, which 
 drew a howl from the little ugly animal, and the 
 howl drew a violent coarse exclamation from the 
 impatient General. Villiers closed his book, and 
 prepared to leave the room ; but his father authori- 
 tatively called him back. Villiers coldly pleaded an
 
 HA^TIvSTONE. 215 
 
 engagement, and escaped. But he was overtaken at 
 the top of the stairs by Pearce, who delivered some 
 bitter and insulting message to him, which the artful 
 messenger took care should assume its full force of 
 provocation, and should sting Villiers more deeply 
 by coming from a servant. Villiers bade the man 
 begone, and closing the door violently behind him, 
 issued into the street. 
 
 The hurried passionate step with which he paced 
 the long avenues of the royal garden, into which 
 he had entered as the first place of refuge, gave way 
 by degrees to more quiet and composure. The 
 evening was calm and warm; all the stars above 
 him seemed to look down on him, as if to sooth him 
 with eyes of peace and love. The hum of the city 
 was dying away, and except the roll of an occa- 
 sional carriage, few sounds but the plashing of the 
 sea disturbed the stillness. As the cool air played 
 upon his forehead, his resentment sunk by degrees 
 into that morbid state of self-pitying, self-congra- 
 tulating sensibility, in which, forgetting our own 
 faults, we consider ourselves the victims of the faults 
 of others, and, instead of rising up to battle with 
 our temptations, indulge our vanity and indolence 
 by contemplating ourselves as interesting sufferers. 
 If Villiers could not realize his dreams of ambitious 
 action, he could find some gratification of his vi- 
 sions in this placid and painless self-martyrdom. It 
 soothed him, flattered him, enabled him to dwell 
 dangerously on the trials to which he was exposed, 
 and on his father's conduct, and permitted still to lurk 
 within him all his disrespectful unfilial feelings of 
 resentment and contempt, without calling them out 
 so prominently as to ensure their reprobation by his 
 conscience. He sat down by the side of the water, 
 and as he gave himself up to the melancholy luxu- 
 riousness of indolent sensibility, and felt the charm 
 r 4
 
 216 HAAVKSTOXE. 
 
 of nature, in calming his troubled thoughts, they fell, 
 as they often fell, into poetry. And he all but com- 
 pleted a beautiful and pathetic sonnet, in which he de- 
 scribed his own broken spirit — weary, sick, helpless, 
 hopeless, the sport of idle tlioughts, and chained to a 
 sinful world ; while the spirit of Nature was invoked 
 and blessed as his mother, as his nurse, watching over 
 him, notwithstanding his follies and his faults, with 
 tender pity, soothing every pain, bearing every in- 
 firmity, and leading him on with a mother's hand 
 to a liigher and nobler state of being. It was a 
 picture full of fascination. Villiers contemplated 
 it again and again. Again and again a vague wild 
 feeling of devotion rose up to the spirit of Nature ; 
 he gazed with a visionary eye upon the stars above — 
 with a mysterious sense of infinity and power on 
 the ocean before him — with tenderness and sym- 
 pathy even on the orange blossoms, which exhaled 
 odours on each side, as if they felt for his sorrows, 
 and delighted to minister to his relief In the mean- 
 while his father was calling for him to assist him to 
 his bed. But Yilliers had forgotten the reality in 
 the dream, as persons often do who write poetry. 
 
 He found some perplexity and entanglement in 
 arranging his last line, so as to express with suffi- 
 cient vividness the intensity of his feelings ; and, as 
 the night was becoming cold, he rose to return 
 home. The gates of the gardens in which he had 
 been lingering had been long closed, but he had 
 been favoured with a private key ; and as he passed 
 along, and within the iron railings, to the gate 
 through which he was to obtain egress, he observed 
 two persons, one of whom resembled the figure of 
 Pearce, and the other was a young and seemingly 
 delicate female, in the dress of a peasant, standing 
 on the pavement, and engaged in deep conversation. 
 As Yilliers opened the gate, Pearce, whom he did
 
 HAAVliSTONE. 2l7 
 
 not recognise, had just seized the hand of his com- 
 panion, which seemed reluctantly yielded up to him, 
 and he had put it to his lips. But he was startled 
 by hearing the gate grate on its hinges ; and with a 
 few hasty and affectionate words the two separated. 
 The young girl, as she passed Villiers, dropped a 
 slight courtesy, as if recognising him ; and as the 
 light of a lamp before an image of the Virgin fell 
 by accident (no, not by accident ; for things which 
 in moments of indolence or sin lead us into temjD- 
 tation, and end in misery, are not accidents) fell by 
 some mysterious overruling providence full on her 
 features ; and Villiers beheld a tender and pensive 
 face of exquisite beauty, which timidly glanced up 
 at him as he passed. He did not turn to look, for 
 his mind was one of singular delicacy in all that 
 regarded woman. But that face, once seen, was 
 fixed before his eyes. The sight had given to him 
 a strange mysterious impulse, which seemed to touch 
 a hidden chord, and to awake a new spring of life 
 within him. He had never been sensible of any 
 thing like it before. He dashed liis hand across his 
 brow, and walked hastily on, but the face was still 
 before him. It came that night and looked upon 
 him in his dreams, and his first thought on waking 
 fell on the same vision. The next afternoon the 
 carriage came to the General's door as usual ; the 
 General himself was lifted in ; the muff, the hand- 
 kerchief, the snuff'-box, the cane, the poodle — all 
 were deposited. Pearce was at the door waiting to put 
 up the steps; the General was feebly and querulously 
 demanding where Mr. Villiers was, that he might 
 drive with him, and read the newspaper to him, but 
 no Villiers appeared ; his servant only came to say 
 that his master had an engagement, and could not 
 come. The angry General, in a passion, ordered 
 Pearce to lift him out again, and the carriage was
 
 218 IIAT^-KSTONE. 
 
 sent awaj ; and the sick man was deprived of his 
 drive and fresh air, ahnost the only thing which re- 
 cruited and supported him during the day. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, Villiers himself was 
 floating indolently in his boat, on the blue glad 
 waters of the Bay of Naples ; and, as he lay stretched 
 at his ease in the stern, with his Petrarch open 
 before him, and his eyes half shaded from the sun, 
 the boatmen rowed him gently, as if the very plash- 
 ing of the oars disturbed his repose ; and followed, 
 as he bade them, the line of coast, entering into 
 every little bay, and bending round each ruin- 
 crested promontory, while Villiers gave himself up 
 to his usual luxury of dreaming. But this day his 
 dreams were not of empire ; empires had lost their 
 charm. Solitude, retirement, sympathising hearts, 
 domestic affection, had found their way into his 
 thoughts. Nations he could not find subjected to 
 his will, and ready to be moulded by his hand. But 
 one human heart — pure, gentle, delicate, and de- 
 voted, if such there were upon earth — might still 
 be his ; and he might lay one head upon his bosom to 
 find there shelter and repose from the dangers of the 
 world. He might nerve his arm to fight battles, or to 
 endure toils, for the one weak and helpless being who 
 might look up to him as her only strength. And 
 he might find one mind docile, and susceptible, and 
 unperverted by the cold maxims of a false refine- 
 ment to hang upon his lips as the fountain of truth, 
 and to image in every thought and action the maxims 
 which he could teach her. Still he might be a 
 sovereign. And as the hope flashed across him, he 
 closed his Petrarch, laid his head back upon the 
 stern of the boat, and, as he closed his eyes, there 
 came again before him that fair, and pensive, and 
 exquisitely beautiful face whicli had glanced up at 
 him on the night preceding, beneath the lamp of
 
 HAAYKSTONE. 219 
 
 the Virgin. He was roused by the sound of oars 
 from an approaching boat, a little fisherman's boat, 
 apparently returning from Naples. It neared them, 
 rowed by a single old man, but rowed vigorously 
 and steadily ; and in the stern of the boat, amidst 
 baskets of fruit, and singing to her father, as he 
 rowed, her hymn to the Virgin, there sat (it was a 
 strange coincidence, and coincidences act as spells 
 and charms upon the strongest mind) the same 
 figure, the same exquisitely beautiful face, which 
 he was striving to recall to his fancy. Villiers 
 sprang up, rubbed his eyes, watched the boat as it 
 passed them, and exchanged a greeting with his 
 boatmen. And again the beautiful face glanced up 
 timidly, as if expecting possibly a recognition from 
 Villiers. And as the little boat shot round a pro- 
 montory and disappeared, Villiers ordered his own 
 boat to follow. It seemed a providence — and a 
 providence it was. But in the world are two powers 
 of providence ; and the good is discernible from the 
 evil only by the holy energies with which we strive 
 to turn accidents into virtues. 
 
 The boatmen were gaining rapidly on the little 
 bark, when Villiers, as if recovering himself from a 
 momentary impulse, ordered them to stop. And 
 affecting to be busily engaged in disentangling and 
 examining some sea-weed, which had gathered round 
 the rudder (for passion is full of craft, and even 
 Villiers, proudly and fiercely honest as he was, could 
 not allow his boatmen to see what was passing in 
 his mind), he made them rest on their oars until 
 the little bark ran alongside a broken flight of steps 
 in the cliff. The old man moored it fast, took out 
 his daughter in his arms, and with her basket on 
 her head, and still singing, she tripped lightly up 
 the steps, and entered a little cottage hung with a 
 trellis-work of vines, which stood on tlie verge of
 
 220 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 the precipice. Villiers waited, still busily exa- 
 mining the sea-weed, but finding nothing that he 
 wanted. And when no one appeared again at the 
 door of the cottage, he gave the signal for their 
 return to Naples ; and as he returned, the boatmen 
 observed that he did not throw himself back to 
 dream with closed eyes in indolence, but sat up 
 with his head buried in his hands, thinking. He 
 was engaged to dine that day with the ambassador, 
 to meet the Duke of Newburgh and Prince Castel-a- 
 Mare, and all the rank and brilliancy of Naples. 
 And Villiers sighed at the burden which awaited 
 him, and at the dulness, formality, and heartlessness 
 of high rank and fashionable life ; and his fancy 
 Vv^andered off to a little cottage trellissed with vines, 
 and a seat scooj)ed out in the native rock, from 
 which he might gaze upon the blue sea and the 
 glorious sky, free and untrammelled, but not alone, 
 — with one to whom he might himself give dignity 
 and honour, instead of receiving it from others. 
 But the dream was broken by the boat touching 
 land, and the first sight was the obsequious Pearce, 
 with a face not merely of feigned but sincere con- 
 sternation (for his schemes as well as his gains were 
 at stake), who had ran down to the beach to inform 
 him that his father had been seized with an attack of 
 paralysis. He had been violently excited by Villiers 
 declining to drive with him ; had indulged, Pearce 
 took care to inform him, in expressions which Vil- 
 liers was obliged to command him to desist from 
 repeating, and in the midst became speechless. 
 
 Villiers soon stood by his father's bed-side, not 
 without remorse, yet still excusing himself. The 
 physicians were present, and all agreed that by 
 avoiding any future excitement, and with great care 
 the patient might recover. And Villiers no sooner 
 heard it than the load passed from his mind, and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 221 
 
 lie found his fancy again wandering off to tlie trellised 
 cottage and the bhie sea. One year before had any 
 one told him that he could stand by what might 
 seem to be the death-bed of his father, and that in 
 that awful moment a single thought of self or self- 
 enjoyment could intrude upon him, he would have 
 spurned the charge with indignation : but admit self 
 in little things, and great things will not exclude it. 
 
 The patient did recover, so far at least as to 
 resume his usual habits ; and with the usual habits 
 came the former temper, and with the former temper 
 came Villiers's former trial. And at first the shock 
 and warning which he had once received operated 
 as such warnings are designed to do. He bore with 
 his father more patiently, if not more humbly, from 
 the fear of bringing upon himself more future re- 
 morse, if not from filial duty and Christian afiection. 
 But the health of the poor old man seemed at last 
 quite re-established, the memory of the sick-bed scene 
 died away, Villiers's heart was full of other things ; 
 it was possessed by a feeling — and possessed persons 
 are not masters of themselves. 
 
 As the spring came on, he himself became an 
 altered man. Even his common acquaintance ob- 
 served that his eye was lighter and his stej) firmer — 
 that life seemed to have a charm, and time an object 
 for him. He mixed indeed in the general society of 
 the place far less than ever ; but when he was in- 
 duced to join a party, he was cheerful, and even 
 playful, instead of reserved and abstracted. His 
 pride and coldness seemed to be thawed by some 
 better and happier influence. There was more of 
 natural dignity and command in his mannei*, as if 
 he was conscious of standing in relations and a 
 position which give to men individual consequence 
 and character. Even the Countess of Lurley slopped 
 one day behind the screen, as she came into her
 
 222 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 drawing-room, to observe him tete-a-tete with her 
 little boy, playing with him upon the carpet, and 
 taking the child with fondness to his arms, as it 
 screamed out with delight at some little frolic with 
 which Yilliers was amusing it. 
 
 " You ! exclaimed the Countess, " you, whom we 
 are all so afraid of, playing with my child l"*^- What 
 can have haj^pened to you ? " And the lady smiled 
 significantly. But Villiers faced the look calmly and 
 steadily, and only remarked, that persons when 
 happy in themselves were generally fond of chil- 
 dren ; and that he was, he thanked God, very happy. 
 And again the lady smiled significantly ; but Vil- 
 liers shook his head ; and he was not a person 
 whom even the gay and lively Countess presumed to 
 banter. 
 
 If the servants of the General's establishment had 
 been examined on the subject of their young master's 
 change of feeling, (and servants in general know 
 more than any other persons in the house, and, 
 though treated as unworthy of any respect, yet must 
 be admitted, whether we like it or no, into our 
 greatest secrets,) they would have brought together 
 a number of little facts, which they had themselves 
 frequently put into a conjecture in the servants' 
 hall, and might have constructed from it a tale. 
 The groom would have stated, that soon after the 
 General's illness Yilliers had resumed his rides, but 
 the groom's attendance was dispensed with, and the 
 horse's head was always turned in one direction. 
 His master's daily ride, without variation, was along 
 the road which winds to the north, by the side of 
 the bay ; and the groom also had remarked that the 
 horse, Villiers's favourite Mameluke, never bore 
 marks of having gone to any great distance. The 
 cook would have complained that now, when the old 
 General was ordered to dine early and in his own
 
 HAWKSTONE. 223 
 
 room, her young master's late dinner was again and 
 again spoiled by waiting for him. Frequently none 
 was ordered, and when ordered little was tasted. He 
 had also asked her to write out a recipe for some 
 little delicacies, which she had often tasked her skill 
 to provide for him (for the servants all were fond of 
 their young master, though not a little afraid of 
 him), on the pretext that he knew a friend who would 
 perhaps like to have them. The housekeeper, the 
 good-natured fat Mrs. Boucher, knew nothing that 
 was going on out of doors, but when bruised fruits 
 and bad vegetables were brought into the kitchen, 
 she never ceased to wonder why her poor little 
 Pauline did not make her appearance again, with 
 the finest melons and newest eggs that ever came 
 into the Naples market. And when the name of 
 Pauline was mentioned, the housemaid would look 
 significantly and resentfully at Mr. Pearce, and 
 Mr. Pearce would bite his lips and leare the room. 
 Pearce's manner, indeed, had undergone a great al- 
 teration. He could seldom or ever obtain leave to 
 absent himself from the General's side. If he left 
 the room, the bell was rung instantly to recall him 
 for some trivial purpose, to pick up a book, or move a 
 chair, or what was more frequently the poor old man's 
 real wish, to amuse him with some of the Naples 
 gossip, which, partly forged and false, and partly 
 collected from various sources known only to himself, 
 Pearce was always able to retail, and to insinuate in 
 the midst a variety of little hints which it was his 
 object to impress upon the old man's mind. At last 
 his master's confidence had reached so far that he 
 was called on even to open and read the letters 
 which Pearce brought from the post. And this 
 advance was a great satisfaction to Pearce, for it 
 saved him some little trouble, and enabled him to 
 bring the letters direct from the post to his master,
 
 224 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 without delaying, as he had before been used to do, 
 in his own little room, with bolted doors, and the 
 keyhole carefully closed, before he made his ap- 
 pearance with the budget. He was only surprised, 
 just about this time, to find that no more letters 
 arrived for his young master ; and on inquiring at 
 the post-office, he was informed that Mr. Villiers 
 had given orders for them to be delivered to none 
 but liimself. 
 
 It was about a month after the General's attack of 
 paralysis that Pearce obtained leave one evening to 
 go into the country. He was seen to take the road 
 which runs along the north side of the bay. And 
 it was late when he returned. As the footman 
 opened the door for him, he was surprised to see 
 his face distorted with passion, his eyes full of ma- 
 lignity, his lips almost bloody with the compression 
 of his teeth. He went hastily into his room. When 
 the General rang for him he pleaded illness ; and was 
 heard by Villiers's man all the night striding up and 
 down the room, muttering incoherent exclamations of 
 jealousy and revenge. He made his appearance the 
 next morning, ill-disguising, notwithstanding his 
 wonderful powers of self-concealment, the passion 
 under which he had spent the night. And there 
 was a fierceness and strangeness of manner in his 
 mode of addressing Villiers, which almost amounted 
 to insolence, and which Villiers, unconscious as he 
 was of what was really passing within him, or of 
 any cause of provocation given by himself, was 
 disposed to attribute almost to incipient insanity, 
 and desired his own man to keep an eye upon him. 
 This manner continued for some days ; and during 
 them Pearce was employed, as often as he could 
 escape from the General's room, (even to whom he 
 showed an impatience and violence of temper which 
 the old man could not understand,) in writing long
 
 HAWKSTONE. 225 
 
 letters, wkicli he took to the post-office himself ; 
 some of them, as the clerk at the post-office ob- 
 served, being addressed to a female, and the others 
 to persons at Rome, Lyons, and England, espe- 
 cially to a town called Hawk stone. Nor was he 
 without receiving letters in return ; and after pe- 
 rusing them in his own little room, some he would 
 carefully burn, picking up and destroying every 
 fragment which escaped the flames ; and others he 
 locked up anxiously in a little box, which he depo- 
 sited in a corner of his room, under a loose plank 
 in the floor, over which he never forgot to draw 
 a huge and heavy bureau. By degrees his manner 
 became more calm and subdued ; a change which 
 he attributed, as he told the General, to some fa- 
 vourite medicine which the General had recom- 
 mended him as an admirable specific for the head- 
 ache, which he pleaded as a cause for his altered 
 appearance. And the General was pleased and flat- 
 tered by his own success in working a cure. To 
 Villiers also he resumed his usual deportment, was 
 still more assiduous and obliging, even made him a 
 humble apology for his former manner, and attributed 
 it to indisposition, a rush of blood to the head, to 
 which he was subject from a child ; asked if he could 
 get his letters from the post as usual (which Vil- 
 liers declined) ; and but for a dark malignant scowl 
 upon him, which he seemed to indulge, as if in- 
 demnifying himself for perpetual self-restraint, 
 whenever he looked back on Villiers passing him, 
 no one would have remarked in him anything but 
 the officiousness of a remarkably clever, bustling, 
 and rather fawning servant, who seemed, as he often 
 acknowledged was the case, to have known better 
 days. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 226 HAAVKSTOXE. 
 
 CHAP. XYI. 
 
 In the meanwhile Yilliers, unconscious that he had 
 caused suffering to a single human being, was en- 
 joying what he had never before enjoyed in his life 
 — happiness. The vision which he had pictured to 
 himself — the vine-trellised cottage, the seat scooped 
 out from the living rock, the gazing on the deep blue 
 sea, the face, the exquisite face of innocence and 
 beauty, not yet indeed to lie upon his bosom, but to 
 look up into his eye with wonder and all but ado- 
 ration — the mind simple and docile, which he 
 might mould like wax to take from him every stamp 
 of truth — the one idolized object on which he might 
 pour, unchecked, the whole tide of his affections, — 
 all this some mysterious hand had realized for him ; 
 and earth to him was now a heaven. 
 
 "Will he not come to-day, father?" almost whis- 
 pered the poor Pauline, as one evening the old man 
 and herself had stood for more than an hour on the 
 rock beneath the cottage watching for the approach 
 of Villicrs's little boat, rowed now only by himself. 
 " Will he not come to-day ?" and she crept into her 
 father's arms, and he felt her hot tears stealing 
 down her cheek. 
 
 " My child ! " he replied, " my darling child ! even 
 these tears I am thankful for. Your happiness is too 
 great, and every pain mixed with it is like an expia- 
 tion for it. If you suffer as well as rejoice, your joy 
 may yet be lasting." And as he bent his reverend 
 grey head over her delicate neck, and gave her his 
 blessing, Pauline looked up fearfully but fondly to
 
 HAWIvSTONE. 227 
 
 ask liim with her look why he should speak so 
 
 My child," he continued, " I am old, and have 
 seen the world, and know what lies in human na- 
 ture ; and though now we are living lonely on this 
 little nook of rock, in better times I have served in 
 armies, and walked with nobles in courts and palaces. 
 And yet, if there rose before me all whom I have 
 ever known of noble beings — and Providence per- 
 mitted me to choose for you the noblest and the best, 
 — I scarcely know that I could fix on one to whom 
 I could consign you for ever with so much hope and 
 so much joy as this young Englishman." And as he 
 said this, he felt the poor girl's face laid closer on 
 his bosom, as if thankful and proud of his praise. 
 " But that such a lot," he continued, " should have 
 fallen upon you, so young, so poor, so destitute of all 
 help," — he corrected himself, and reverentially taking 
 off his cap, added, — " of all help but heaven, this 
 is to me strange and almost fearful. And I tremble 
 lest so great a seeming good should be only a tempt- 
 ation, and should end in evil." And he lifted up her 
 face and looked gravely and steadily into her eyes yet 
 wet with tears. "My child, he is rich, and you are 
 poor ; he is young, and I am old. AVhen I die, 
 and I shall soon die, will he still be to you all that 
 I have been ?" And Pauline shuddered, and once 
 more buried her face in his bosom. 
 
 " Have you told him," he continued, " all that he 
 ought to know ? " 
 
 Pauline faltered " Yes." 
 
 " Everything ? " asked the old man, searchingly. 
 
 " And again she answered " Yes. How, father, 
 could I help it ; how could I hide anything from 
 him — from him who loves me so dearly?" 
 
 And Pauline spoke the truth. Almost one of 
 the first questions which Villiers had put to her, 
 Q2
 
 228 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 wlien he dared to do so, and felt that now their 
 whole souls should be open to each other, was the 
 one so natural to a devoted and therefore a jealous 
 heart, and yet so hard to ask and to answer : " Was 
 the hand now to be his own never devoted to an- 
 other?" Villiers knew not how to frame it — had 
 hesitated — had asked it more by looks than words ; 
 and Pauline understood it, rather by her own wish 
 to answer it than by his expressions. And though 
 her reverence for him was so great, that often, 
 when he led her to speak of herself, she would hide 
 her face, and sit beside him without the power of 
 doing more than answer " Yes," to his interro- 
 gations : now her look sprang up with confidence 
 and courage, and meeting his anxious and inquiring 
 eye without shrinking for a moment, she said to him, 
 that there were things which she wished to tell him, 
 which he had a right to know, but that she could do 
 it only in writing. A pang struck to Villiers's heart. 
 He withdrew himself coldly and proudly from her 
 side, and walked from the seat where they were rest- 
 ing to the edge of the cliff. It seemed as if the 
 glory of his vision was departing, and some rude 
 hand had swept the brightness from the blossom of 
 his beautiful flower. But he heard a sound as of 
 a sob near him. And Pauline stood a little way be- 
 hind him, as not daring to approach, her face co- 
 vered with her hands, and the tears streaming 
 through her delicate fingers. 
 
 " You are angry with me," she said, faintly (and 
 all his fondness returned). " You are angry with me 
 for not telling you at once. I will tell you now — 
 this moment — anything rather than that you should 
 be angry. I can bear anything but this ; " and she 
 burst into a flood of tears. " I know," she conti- 
 nued, taking her hands from her face, " I know 
 what you would ask me. Never, never ! O that
 
 HAWKSTONE. 229 
 
 you could look into my heart ! Never till you 
 came." 
 
 Villiers's heart leaped with joy. And he sprang 
 forward to catch her to his bosom ; but he checked 
 himself, for she was not yet his ; and with a super- 
 stitious reverence he would not allow even his own 
 affection to presume on her exquisite delicacy. He 
 thanked her, and blessed her fervently. 
 
 " Stop," she said, you have not heard all ; " there 
 has been one who was kind and good to me — kinder 
 than I deserved. And my poor father is old, and 
 soon will be unable to work ; and he feared for me, 
 if he should die and 1 should be left alone. But 
 when I told him that I would rather die myself, he 
 did not urge it. And the person who was kind to 
 me once is kind to me no more. He knows that it 
 is vain to ask for what I have given to another." 
 
 Villiers understood the tale, short and broken as 
 it was. One impatient question came to his lips ; 
 but as he checked it, Pauline herself anticipated it. 
 
 " You must never ask me," she said, " who it 
 was, for I could not tell it — no, not even to you ; 
 and I know you will not ask me." 
 
 And as she looked up firmly, and with unsuspect- 
 ing confidence, to demand his promise, Villiers 
 gave it readily, and kept it honourably. 
 
 " And now, my darling child," he said, " your 
 father is calling us. Let us go to him ; and I will 
 read to you, and you shall sing to me your own 
 dear hymn." 
 
 " And you are not angry with me now," she said, 
 timidly. And as she caught his look of deep affec- 
 tion, her heart bounded within her, and she sprang 
 off like a fawn to seek her father, and find her 
 lute. 
 
 Two years afterwards, Villiers was lying in a 
 miserable stifling chamber, bound hand and foot, 
 Q 3
 
 230 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 and his brain on fire. And in the midst of a 
 paroxysm of raving, in which even the stern sturdy 
 men who were placed to guard him coukl scarcely 
 prevent him from bursting his bands, the voice of 
 some poor singer in the street, led there as by a 
 pitying angel, commenced the same simple strain. 
 Villiers caught it, and strove to sit up upon his 
 low pallet. His eye gazed wonderingly around 
 him ; and, as the simple music still fell on his ear, 
 tears began to flow ; and visions, far other than those 
 which had nursed his phrenzy, came gently on him. 
 He was sitting on the seat scooped out of the living 
 rock, and his own Pauline beside him ; and behind 
 them was standing the venerable old man, listening 
 to their solemn vows, and blessing them : and then 
 he was floating with them both on the smooth swell- 
 ing waters at evening, just as the moonlight began 
 to ripple on the sea; and a fairy, gentle voice was 
 singing the same sweet hymn. And then they were 
 both tending together a sick bed in a vine-trellised 
 cottage, watching over the patient sufferings, sooth- 
 ing every pain, bearing with every infirmity of a 
 dying father — Pauline's father, not his own. The 
 scene changed, and there was a holy chapel — a 
 holy ceremony — a stoled priest. And then they 
 were both kneeling again before the same dying 
 bed ; and the old man was lying with his arms 
 crossed, looking up gratefully to heaven, and bless- 
 ing God that now he could depart in peace. But 
 the music ceased — another thought came upon Yil- 
 liers ; and with a shuddering groan he sprang up in 
 agony, and called wildly for his child ; and the 
 keeper sternly bade him lie still, and not make a 
 noise. 
 
 TVliile these delicious moments, so bright and so 
 soothing, even when recalled in dreams, and gone 
 for ever, were gliding on, where was the aged,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 231 
 
 miserable, sinful father of the young, happy — and as 
 his own deceitful conscience whispered — innocent 
 young man. He was sinking daily into his dotage. 
 As if still further to remove the obstacles which 
 might have embarrassed or embittered the full en- 
 joyment of the happiness to which Villiers was now 
 abandoning himself, almost, thought Villiers again, 
 by a good providence (as if a good providence ever 
 administered to us pleasure, except that it may 
 nerve us to duties), the General, instead of wish- 
 ing for his son's presence, expressed more openly 
 his aversion to him, and frequently passed whole 
 days in his own room without seeing him. Pearce 
 was acquiring, every hour, more influence over 
 him — was becoming more necessary to his comfort ; 
 and from suggesting advice, and hinting opinions, 
 he had now assumed the right of dictating to his 
 master. And his master faintly and timidly suc- 
 cimibed to all that he proposed. Something in this 
 beyond the mere art of ruling, Avhicli Pearce had so 
 deeply studied, might have been discovered by one 
 who knew all that passed in the long confinement 
 of the old man's room, to which Pearce unmurmur- 
 ingly devoted himself. He felt that it could not 
 last long ; and the gradual approach of success in his 
 grand object encouraged him to discharge the most 
 wearying and even offensive offices, without exhibit- 
 ing more impatience than was necessary to keep the 
 old man, as he called his master, in proper order. 
 
 Pearce, like Villiers himself, knew (for things of 
 the kind are known far wider than we imagine, 
 when we hide our eyes and think we are not 
 seen) that the General's life had been one of vice. 
 But he knew nothing of particulars. And among 
 all the various arts which he employed to obtain 
 the knowledge of this important secret, in con- 
 formity with the leading principle and policy of 
 Q 4
 
 232 HAYv^KSTOXE. 
 
 the religious school in which he had been brought 
 up, none had succeeded in throwing clear light 
 upon the subject, until one day's post, among a 
 number of letters, brought one written in a coarse, 
 vulgar hand, and marked private. On this occasion 
 Pearce did not proceed, as usual, direct to his mas- 
 ter's room. He retired first to his own, and there, 
 with bolted door and the key -hole carefully closed, 
 he found little difficulty in mastering the secret. 
 He had been employed before in a foreign post- 
 office, and had there learned much, which he found 
 eminently useful to him in after-times. As he 
 placed the packet of letters, as usual, on the little 
 table by the General's easy chair, where he sat 
 propped up with pillows, his thin, peaked, wrinkled 
 features peering malignantly from a large fur cap, 
 and his legs wrapped carefully in blankets, Pearce 
 retired where he could command a view of what 
 passed, in a large mirror, without being supposed to 
 watch him. He saw the thin bony fingers, almost 
 like claws, of the old man stretched out to grasp 
 the letters, which he could scarcely hold. The spec- 
 tacles were shifted, and Pearce himself was called 
 to wipe them. The letters once more were feebly 
 taken, and laid one by one aside, as the old man 
 scrutinised the post-mark, till he came to the one 
 marked private. His pale face became of an ashy 
 hue ; his hand shook violently ; and casting a cow- 
 ardly side glance at his obsequious servant, to see 
 if he was looking, he thrust the letter under the 
 folds of the blanket. Pearce waited in vain to be 
 asked to open and read the letters as usual. He 
 then proposed it himself ; but the unhappy old man, 
 in a trembling husky voice, told him he might go 
 and leave him, for that he wanted to sleep. His 
 bell rang again for Pearce, about an hour after ; his 
 countenance had then resumed its ordinary look,
 
 HAWKSTOXE. 233 
 
 and Pearce observed nothing, but that he must 
 have moved from his chair himself (an exertion 
 which he had been incapable of making for weeks), 
 and that the remains of burnt paper were lying 
 under the grate. The look of exultation which 
 Pearce cast upon his prey, now completely in his 
 hands, was even heightened, as the old man asked 
 for his son, and Pearce could inform him that he had 
 been absent for several days, and (as he took care to 
 add, maliciously,) that he was seldom at home now, 
 since the General had become worse. No one 
 knew where he went to. 
 
 This was a falsehood, for this secret also Pearce 
 had long penetrated. It was a spot which he him- 
 self had known — respecting which he had himself 
 indulged dreams and visions — visions far different 
 from Yilliers, but which never occurred to his mind 
 without filling him with the spirit of revenge and 
 jealousy almost to madness. 
 
 On that day he said nothing more. Two days 
 after he was summoned to read a letter from the 
 General's lawyer, alluding to a power reserved to 
 the General in some marriage settlement of leaving 
 his property to another branch of the family. And 
 Pearce took care to sigh. And when the General 
 fretfully asked him the meaning of his sigh, he hesi- 
 tated, and at last was compelled reluctantly to la- 
 ment that Mr. Villiers did not show as much re- 
 spect and affection for his father as became a young- 
 man, heir to such an estate. Another night the 
 General's rest was broken by a ringing of bells and 
 disturbance in the house, and Pearce took care to 
 inform him that it was caused by his son, who con- 
 stantly came in late. Another time he went still 
 farther ; and appearing with a face of astonishment 
 and reserve, as if possessed of some melanclioly se- 
 cret, which he was resolved to hint, but not to disclose,
 
 234 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 he permitted the General to extort from liim a con- 
 fession that tliere were sad stories about Mr. Villiers, 
 and he feared he was going on ill. And a few words 
 were enough to suggest all that he wished to the old 
 man, whose mind with readiness suspected in others 
 all that he had been guilty of himself. With vice, in- 
 deed, even in his son, he could readily have borne ; 
 he would have admitted it as a matter of course: 
 but when Pearce hinted at something else, at the 
 possibility of his son abandoning himself to an in- 
 fatuation, as he called it, and throwing himself 
 away for life in a degrading connexion, he touched 
 a chord in the old man's mind which lay entwined 
 with all his favourite schemes, and awoke his most 
 violent passions. Mean and paltry as his usual 
 habits were, since from the extravagances of a lux- 
 urious youth he had become calcidating and selfish, 
 he had formed and cherished for years one plan 
 having a show of dignity — the marriage of his son 
 with his cousin. Lady Eleanor, and the reunion of 
 the old family estates of Claremont and the Pri- 
 ory. We all know how deeply an idea once admit- 
 ted, and allowed to shoot out into fancies and 
 dreams, in the morbid indolence of a sick room, or 
 an unoccupied old age, will take possession of the 
 whole man. To touch this, to hint a doubt of the 
 possibility of realizing it, was to throw the General 
 into a violent outbreak of temper. This had been 
 one of the most embittering subjects on which he 
 had harped to his son, till even the natural incli- 
 nation which Villiers might have felt towards the 
 project gave way beneath the tormenting and over- 
 bearing indelicacy in which liis father dwelt upon 
 it. And in his heart of hearts he had resolved that 
 no such mercenary thoughts shoukl ever be con- 
 nected with that marriage tie, which, whenever 
 and to whomever it should bind him, he recognized
 
 HAWKSTONE. 235 
 
 as most sacred and most ennobling. On the same 
 subject Pearce himself, thoroughly master of his 
 tactics, had at first indulged his master in assist- 
 ing his fancy, and joining in his calculations. And 
 now, as if seizing on every opportunity to exasperate 
 the poor enfeebled man, on this he artfully touched 
 each day, contriving to separate the two objects, 
 and to present to the general's mind the possibility 
 of realizing one if not the other ; and if he could 
 not effect the marriage through his son's wilfulness, 
 at least of uniting the estates. There was one diffi- 
 culty, one prejudice, as Pearce well knew, most diffi- 
 cult to surmount : Lady Eleanor was a Roman Ca- 
 tholic ; and though the old man, careless of religion, 
 could have borne to see her united with his son for 
 the purpose of uniting the estates in the person of 
 his own heir, he was not yet prepared to throw his 
 own property into the hands of a Papist. His pre- 
 judices against popery were strong, and vulgar. Of 
 its really deadly and destructive nature he knew 
 nothing. But he disUked it — disliked it the more 
 from the vexation Avhich his union with Lady 
 Esther had brought on him ; and this obstacle Pearce 
 was to remove. It was not a mere thought of his 
 own. If we could have obtained possession of that 
 mahogany box, buried under the loose plank, and 
 covered with the huge bureau, in Pearce's little 
 room, and could then have perused the letters, 
 which, with the Roman postmark upon them, he had 
 received from time to time, we might have obtained 
 a deeper insight into the springs and objects of his 
 conduct. But whatever caution and slowness he 
 had originally shown, his success became more and 
 more apparent each day. The poor old man was 
 soon entirely at his disposal. A hint dexterously 
 thrown in one day, and accompanied witli one 
 of those significant looks which Pearce could so
 
 236 HA-SVKSTONE. 
 
 well assume, revealed to the terrified General 
 that the secret, which he thought was buried in his 
 own bosom now, and would be buried for ever in 
 his grave, was known also to another person, and 
 that person his servant. In vain he endeavoured 
 to persuade himself that his conscience had taken 
 alarm too quickly — that Pearce's words meant 
 nothing. Pearce understood it all, and contrived 
 without delay to repeat the hint, dropping also a 
 little circumstance, which removed all doubt. Far- 
 ther he did not go. He never threatened, or pre- 
 sumed upon his possession of this knowledge ; though 
 the General would have purchased his silence by 
 any humiliation. His attentions were redoubled ; 
 his manner still more obliging than ever. And the 
 General became bound to him, and ready to comply 
 with all his suggestions, far more than any menaces 
 or violence could have made him. It suited, how- 
 ever, Pearce's purpose cautiously to open the subject 
 of religion. With a most artful and delicate hand 
 he contrived to touch even the seared and hardened 
 conscience of his victim by fear. He himself affected 
 and exhibited a devotional spirit. At times he led 
 the General to ask questions, which brought on 
 some tale of superstition, some thoughts which 
 awakened in the unhappy man fears of a future 
 state, and longings for more safety in the prospect to 
 which he was compelled to look forward. Pearce 
 dwelt with energy and fluency on the peace and 
 comfort of his own mind, relieved from all the bur- 
 den of past sins by the absolution of his priest, and 
 secure in the intercession of the Saints. The old man 
 listened, and wondered at the new tone of liis ser- 
 vant, now almost become his companion ; but the 
 ideas were not lost. They came home to him more 
 and more when his rest began to be disturbed at 
 night by strange noises, which Pearce, always
 
 HAWKSTONE. 237 
 
 ready by his bed-side, took care to interpret and 
 comment on, till the old man shook in his bed, and 
 the cold sweat stood on his brow. Then Pearce 
 would drop suggestions of the peace and comfort 
 which were ensured to all who were members of the 
 One Church. But the old man gave no signs of 
 change. And the noises became more frequent, and 
 his rest more disturbed. At last he was awakened 
 from his sleep one night by a figure standing by 
 his bed-side. The old man started up in an agony 
 of terror. The figure motioned him to remain still 
 — uttered some words to him, and disappeared. 
 And Pearce, awakened, or rather affecting to be 
 awakened, by his cry of terror, found him senseless. 
 A few days after that, he had a long interview 
 with his son, in which he violently and peremptorily 
 insisted on Villiers immediately abandoning the 
 connection which he had formed, and returning to 
 England, that he might prosecute his favourite plan 
 of a union with Lady Eleanor. Villiers steadily 
 refused. His father menaced him with the conse- 
 quences of his refusal. Villiers begged that he would 
 act as he thought fit. His father bade him depart, 
 and almost imprecated a curse upon him. And 
 Villiers proudly left the room, and never again saw 
 his father ahve. Pearce had heard all that passed. 
 As Villiers came out of the room, stung to the 
 quick with the language which his father had used 
 towards the being whom he cherished most upon 
 earth, exasperated most of all by the violent effort 
 with which he had compelled himself to leave his 
 father in ignorance of the real nature of his con- 
 nection with her, that he might not irretrievably 
 provoke him to do that which would so deeply injure 
 her, Pearce met him, and for a moment the fierce 
 passion of the vindictive wretch overcame his 
 caution ; he uttered something which made the
 
 238 HAAYKSTOXE. 
 
 veins in Villiers's forehead swell almost to bursting, 
 and his ejes flashed fire. 
 
 " Villain ! " he cried, " whom did you say ? going 
 to whom ?" And Pearce no way intimidated by the 
 arm that was lifted ready to crush him, with bitter 
 and insulting sarcasm, asked of him again if he was 
 
 going to his Before he could finish the offensive 
 
 word he was levelled on the ground. "To my 
 lawful wedded wife ! " said Villiers ; and, spurning 
 the fellow from him, he rushed out of the house. 
 
 Two days afterwards the physicians ordered the 
 General to remove to Rome. And solitary, with 
 none but Pearce now with him, and sitting by his 
 side, the miserable old man di'ove for the last time 
 from the Chiaia, bearing upon every feature of his 
 face the mark of terror and of death.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 239 
 
 CHAP. XYIL 
 
 It was late one night, nearly twelve months after- 
 wards, that a calash covered with mud, and the 
 horses ready to drop with exhaustion, drove rapidly 
 into the Piazza di Spagna. As they whirled round 
 the corner, the single traveller who was in it 
 stretched himself out to catch a sight of a house before 
 him, in which, while all the other windows in the 
 square were dark, and the inhabitants buried in 
 slumber, two windows were still lighted, though 
 thickly curtained. As the carriage stopped at the 
 door, without waiting for the exhausted postilions, 
 who could scarcely get off their horses to put down 
 the steps, Villiers sprang out of it, haggard, pallid, 
 and in the deepest mourning. He tottered as he 
 entered the house, and caught sight of the face of a 
 servant, full of that mysterious gloominess and 
 forced sympathy which is worn by domestics when 
 death is approaching, or has akeady fallen upon a 
 family. The servant opened gently the door of the 
 saloon ; but Villiers made an effort to pass by, and 
 proceed at once to his father's bed-room. But the 
 servant detained him. " Persons were with him," 
 he said. And when Villiers asked if there was any 
 hope, the man shook his head. He would have 
 asked if the last awful moment was close at hand ; 
 but there is a strange and awful feeling which it is 
 no superstition to observe and realise when death is 
 near us, a stillness and creeping of tlie flesli, we 
 know not how, which told Villiers tliat liis father 
 was now lying in Ids last agonies. The servant left, 
 promising to come back the moment Villiers could
 
 240 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 be admitted into the sick room ; and Villiers knelt 
 down, overpowered with awe, and in that awe almost 
 forgetting his own misery. But a smothered cry of 
 great agony and terror from the adjoining cham- 
 ber struck upon him ; and he could bear the delay 
 no longer. The next moment he was in his father's 
 bed-room. The curtains of the bed were open : by 
 the bed-side stood the nurse and Pearce ; and two 
 priests, habited in their vestments, were preparing to 
 administer the rite of extreme unction. But it was 
 too late; Villiers glanced upon the bed, and saw 
 that all was over. The ghastly features, the convulsed 
 mouth, the eyes still staring, the hands clutched 
 fiercely on the bed-clothes, the hair standing on end 
 — Villiers saw it all, and sank again upon his knees 
 in intense agony ; for now, when it was too late, he 
 asked himself if this might not have been averted. 
 
 He was roused from a stupor by the necessity 
 of removing from the room. And as he was passing 
 to his own apartment which he had occupied before, 
 Pearce came up to him, and insolently ordered the 
 servant to prepare a bed for him in the north room. 
 The servant stared at the person who presumed to 
 give orders in a house where Villiers himself was 
 now master. But Pearce repeated the order, and 
 desired Villiers to make himself at home. And 
 Villiers, unheeding everything, and staggering under 
 remorse as well as suiFering, looked at him, scarcely 
 knowing what he said, and was persuaded by the 
 old housekeeper to retire and lie down, though not 
 in sleep. 
 
 Sleep, indeed, except in rare and feverish fits, 
 had not visited him for weeks. The moment he 
 closed his eyes there came before him that one 
 vision, that pensive, delicate, exquisitely beautiful 
 fiice, which had haunted him so blissfully ever since 
 its first appearance. But only once or tAvice did it
 
 HAWKSTONE. 241 
 
 appear in all its beauty, radiant with joy, as when 
 he first called her his own, or calm in the pen- 
 sive enjoyment of deepest happiness, as when he 
 sat by her side on that seat of rock, and tanght 
 her lessons of goodness from his ow^n manly, up- 
 right heart. These were the appearances which he 
 dreaded most; and by a secret instinct, whenever 
 they approached, he started from his broken slumber, 
 not daring to face the agony which would await him 
 on awaking. More frequently the vision came in a 
 very different guise ; but Villiers could bear it better, 
 for there was no deceit in it, no frightful revulsion 
 from the dream to the reality. It came pale, and 
 wan, and feeble, but still beautiful ; sometimes attired 
 as one who, sickening under a fatal disease, was 
 still able to be removed from her bed, and propped 
 up with pillows to breathe fresher air; sometimes 
 with a sleeping child lying in her bosom; — then 
 with a few sweet flowers strewed upon her forehead, 
 the lips motionless, the eyes closed, the head en- 
 veloped in its grave-clothes. But to-night it came 
 in a form more fearful. The delicate beautiful 
 face came, indeed, and looked upon him as before, 
 but it changed suddenly into the horrible and ghastly 
 figure which he had witnessed on his father's death- 
 bed. It seemed to utter on him fearful reproaches ; 
 to imprecate a curse upon himself and on his chil- 
 dren, with the same voice with which his father 
 had bade him depart, in the last words which he 
 had spoken to him while alive. The eyes glared 
 frightfully upon him ; claws were stretched out to 
 seize him ; a cry — the cry of agony which had 
 pierced him to the heart from his father's room — once 
 more rang in his ears ; and shaking from head to 
 foot, the big drops standing on his forehead, his 
 heart beating with terror, and his breatli gasping, he 
 
 #«
 
 242 hawkstonp:. 
 
 struggled out of liis sleep and looked wildly round 
 him. 
 
 A clock was ticking on the^ mantel-piece, and a 
 few flickering gleams strugged from the dying 
 embers on the hearth. He sat up on the bed, and, 
 breathing more freely, attempted, not to sleep again — 
 for this he dared not do — but to pray for forgiveness 
 for the neglect, the undutifulness, the harsh, unforgiv- 
 ing spirit, which, as a son, he had shown to his now 
 miserable father — for the self-indulgence in which 
 he had abandoned him to the artifices of a menial — 
 for the proud unbending temper with which he had 
 kept aloof from him ever since he had left Rome, 
 receiving no letters except a rare statement of his 
 father's health from a physician ; and resolved on 
 making no overtures for a reconciliation, lest he 
 should be supposed to be actuated by mercenary 
 policy. At the time all this had appeared to him 
 innocent, even high-minded and just. Now he knew 
 that it was sin ; and sin the beginning of all others — 
 the dishonouring of parents, even of parents who 
 are sinful themselves. And then for the first time 
 it struck him that the judgments of God are just. 
 He had forsaken his father for a device of his own 
 heart, and a desire of his own eyes : and the desire 
 of his eyes had been taken from him. The punish- 
 ment had fallen just when the sin was consummated. 
 And he who had left his father alone in the world, 
 to sink into his grave in the arms of hirelings, and 
 with no consolation but the delusions of an anodyne 
 for a guilty conscience, purchased by an act of apos- 
 tacy, and after all snatched from him at the last, 
 was now himself left alone in the world, stripped 
 of his dreams, his hopes, his affections — like a 
 wreck abandoned by its crew, and tossed idly on the 
 waters. 
 
 One little gleam of soothing thought — soothing,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 243 
 
 because it revealed a duty as well as an enjoy- 
 ment — stole on him when he remembered that, 
 widower as he was, he was still a parent. And 
 as the fondness of the father awoke in him a train 
 of softer feelings, the tears coursed each other down 
 his cheek. He rose, threw his dressing-gown 
 around him, and, opening his writing-case, among 
 papers which he never left behind him, and which 
 were carefully labelled and concealed in a secret 
 drawer, he sought for a miniature, delicately fi- 
 nished, over which he hung in silence, recalling all 
 the scenes with which it was associated, — the light 
 step, — the look of pensive sweetness, varying with 
 each thrill of afiection into deep devotion for him- 
 self, — the delights of those hours when he had hung 
 over her as she sang, or when she had seated herself 
 at his feet, looking up archly but docilely to hear 
 what he would read or teach her, — the thousand 
 little acts of love with which she had solaced the 
 last days of her venerable father (for she, thought 
 Villiers, with a pang, never despised and never ne- 
 glected the author of her being), — the simple look 
 of wonder with which she had listened to his question, 
 when he told her that perhaps poverty might be their 
 lot ; and would she still love him ? — and then the lin- 
 gering illness, the patient suffering, the tears for him 
 alone, the prayers over the head of her child, the 
 fervour with which she commended it to him, with 
 her memory as its safeguard — all these recollections 
 stole out one by one like stars upon an evening sky, 
 till he seemed once more to be living in the midst 
 of the reaUties — to have an object and a being still 
 before him, whose presence would rule his life and 
 elevate his thoughts — whom he might almost adore 
 now, even as he adored her when living. And his 
 heart, once touched with this emotion, passed on to 
 a higher region, and to the only Being who is 
 K 2
 
 244 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 present always, and can elevate and sanctify the 
 soul, and whom the heart of man may indeed adore. 
 He knelt down, and prayed earnestly, not only for 
 forgiveness of past sins, but for strength to bear 
 their punishment, and to atone for them, as far 
 as men may atone, by humility and dutiful obe- 
 dience for ever after. He prayed also for a reunion 
 with her whom he had lost ; for a blessing on his 
 child: and by degrees all his thoughts and aifec- 
 tions concentred round his infant ; and he felt 
 that it was an object which might absorb him wholly, 
 and be to him liis happiness and life. 
 
 He was still kneeling, with his face upturned to 
 heaven, and the lamp which he had lighted had 
 flickered and died away in the socket, leaving only 
 the gleam from the ashes of the wood fire, when he 
 heard a slight noise in a distant corner of the room, 
 and looking up, observed a thin streak of light stealing 
 on the wall. At first he thought it a reflection 
 from the fire ; but it grew wider and stronger, and 
 the heavy tapestry curtain behind which it ap- 
 peared visibly moved. At another time Yilliers 
 would have advanced without a fear to examine the 
 cause. But all that he had suffered and witnessed — 
 the thought of what was lying at that moment beneath 
 the same roof — the recollections which had so long 
 haunted him — now chilled him with a superstitious 
 awe. He remained motionless, and hidden by the 
 huge chair before which he was kneeling, with his 
 eyes fixed on the increasing glimmer of light. An 
 exclamation almost escaped him as the curtain was 
 slowly withdrawn, and a human face peered out 
 from behind it. It looked round cautiously — 
 advanced — the whole figure appeared, and Yilliers 
 saw that it was Pearce. His eye glanced first upon 
 the open writing-case and the packet of papers, as if 
 he would willingly have seized upon them. Then,
 
 HA^VKSTONE. 245 
 
 furtively looking round the room, he stole to the 
 bed-side, and, gently peeping through the curtains, 
 started back, and almost stumbled and fell, as Villiers 
 sprang up from his kneeling posture and demanded 
 what he wanted. An ordinary person would have 
 required some little time to recover from such a 
 shock ; but Pearce, in emergencies of the kind, was 
 not an ordinary person. Prej)ared and composed in 
 a minute, he answered that he had heard Villiers 
 moving ; was afraid that he was ill ; had come to 
 see if he could be of any service. Villiers eyed him 
 with some suspicion. But Pearce still preserved 
 the same composure. And on Villiers assuring him 
 that nothing was the matter, Pearce begged his 
 pardon, and retired through the regular entrance. 
 Villiers did not return to his bed till he had examined 
 the passage behind the heavy tapestry curtain, and 
 finding a secret door in the wainscot communicating 
 with a narrow staircase, he contrived to block it 
 up with some furniture. But it was daylight before 
 he was able again to close his eyes. 
 
 It was late the next morning before any one would 
 venture to approach Villiers's room. His bell had 
 not rung. And it was only the good-natured house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Boucher, who had courage at last to 
 take him some breakfast without his asking for 
 it. She found him dressed ; but so pale, so thin, so 
 thoroughly wretched in appearance, that the poor 
 woman, after placing the tray on the table, could not 
 refrain from sitting down in a chair ; and, hiding her 
 face in her apron, she burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! Oh, master Ernest !" she cried, as she 
 sobbed violently, "if you had but been here, this 
 would not have been — if you had but answered the 
 letters!" 
 
 Villiers himself was leaning his face upon the man- 
 tel-piece, and the tears streaming down his cheeks 
 K 3
 
 246 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 But at the mention of letters he raised liimself up 
 to ask " What letters ? " 
 
 " Ours, sir," said Mrs. Boucher, " which we, that 
 is I and the butler, made bold to write to you, to 
 tell you what was doing." 
 
 Villiers had never received any. " I had," he said 
 " but one or two letters from here, and they came 
 from Signor Villetti, the doctor ; and they all told 
 me things were going on well, till I heard from INIr. 
 Beattie, and then I came here immediately. 
 
 The poor housekeeper seemed amazed. " Then, 
 sir," she said, "there has been some foul play, and 
 that Italian doctor ought never to have been brought 
 here. It was not we who sent for him, but that 
 man, — I suppose we must call him ]Mr. Pearce now. 
 And the General, poor man, would never hear of 
 any one else." 
 
 And the ice once broken, the motherly, loquacious 
 "Mrs. Boucher proceeded to explain to Villiers all 
 that had passed in his absence ; how they had been 
 ordered suddenly to Rome, no one knew why ; but 
 Pearce had pretended some advice from the doctors ; 
 how, when they reached Rome, no visiters were 
 admitted but one or two Englishmen, whom the 
 servants had not seen before, and, by degrees, a 
 priest from one of the colleges ; how Pearce had 
 contrived to take the whole management of affairs 
 upon himself, carefully excluding the servants from 
 even seeing their master, except when they caught 
 sight of him as Pearce assisted him down the stairs 
 to take his usual drive ; how, more than once, 
 Pearce had brought with him a sort of lawyer, and 
 IVIrs. Boucher, on passing the door of her master's 
 room, as it stood ajar, had seen him with a pen in 
 his hand, and Pearce standing by to guide it as he 
 signed a paper; — and then came complaints of 
 Pearce's increased arrogance and domineering habits,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 247 
 
 which none of the other servants coukl endure, — 
 just, Mrs. Boucher said, as if he was master of the 
 house. " Oh, sir ! " she concluded, " I am afraid there 
 has been foul play, and you will find things very bad." 
 Villiers scarcely entered into the latter part of 
 the sentence, but the former struck him to the heart. 
 And he asked to what she alluded. Upon which 
 Mrs. Boucher proceeded to enumerate many little 
 facts. As she passed the General's door one day, 
 she had heard high words between Pearce and his 
 master ; and when the General wanted to di'ive one 
 way, Pearce would order the carriage to drive ano- 
 ther. And the old man was not allowed to see any 
 of his old friends ; and the doctor, Signor Villetti, 
 would prohibit him from having things to eat and 
 drink which he used to be fond of. " And then, 
 sir," she continued, sinking her voice to a whisper, 
 and looking anxiously round the room, " one day, 
 as I was going up stairs, and Mr. Pearce had gone 
 out, I was standing just by his door ; and what should 
 I see, to my wonder, but the door softly open, and 
 your poor father himself looked out. It was in this 
 very room, which Mr. Pearce had put him into. 
 And he made me come in. He could hardly walk ; 
 and there he sat down in that arm-chair ; and there 
 was nothing about him comfortable, no book or any 
 thing ; and they had taken away his dog Fido, sir, 
 that you remember — a little ugly thing it was, and 
 always getting in the way. I remember one night 
 it nearly threw me down the stairs. It was the 
 night we got to Rome : I was coming up stairs in the 
 dark." And where Mrs. Boucher's reminiscences 
 would have carried her no one could have prophe- 
 sied. But Villiers recalled her to his father. " Oh, 
 sir ! I was going to tell you what he told me, and what 
 I got the butler to write off by tliat night's ])ost. I 
 would have written myself, sir, only my liandwriting 
 R 4
 
 248 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 is bad. And yet I had some good schooling, and 
 my father was in very comfortable circumstances, 
 and brought me up well. I used to go to school at 
 the Park -gate — old INIi-s. Bond's, close by the great 
 elm near the Priory ruins." 
 
 And once more Yilliers impatiently recalled her. 
 Mrs. Boucher begged pardon, and at last Villiers 
 learned from her that the General had complained to 
 her of ill-treatment ; had said that he was very much 
 afraid of Pearce; that Pearce had become a tyrant, and 
 he could bear it no longer. Only when ]\Ii's. Boucher 
 had proposed that he should be sent away, the un- 
 happy man turned pale, and said, "No, that could not 
 be." And then the good woman had ventured to 
 say something about IMr. Ernest, and that he ought 
 to be sent for. And the General had seemed sad 
 and downcast ; and complained that every one had 
 deserted him — that even his son would! not come 
 near to him. And Mrs. Boucher added, " He seemed 
 to speak, sir, as if he would have given a great deal to 
 see you. And I do think he loved you, sir, though he 
 was rather hasty at times. But then sons ought 
 to bear with their father : I am sure I did with my 
 poor old mother, who was bed-stricken for years." 
 
 Villiers groaned aloud, and shuddered, as he still 
 stood with his face covered with his hands, and rest- 
 ing on the mantel-piece. He lifted it after a pause, 
 during which Mrs. Boucher sat with her hands folded 
 
 in her black silk apron, and asked her if he dared 
 
 not name his father ; and checked himself to say, 
 " Had there been much suffering ?" 
 
 Mrs. Boucher shook her head mournfully, and 
 once more proceeded. " He had been much dis- 
 turbed at nights. A servant, who slept over-head, 
 had often been kept awake by his groaning ; and 
 there were sometimes hard words from Pearce, as if 
 he were threatening instead of comforting him.
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 249 
 
 One night he had been taken very ill, and Mrs. 
 Boucher had been summoned to assist. It was a 
 long time before the doctor came, and Mi'. Pearce, 
 who seemed extremely impatient for his arrival, had 
 left the room to hasten the messenger. 
 
 " And then," continued Mrs. Boucher, " as the 
 poor old gentleman looked up, and only saw the 
 other nurse in the room, he made signs to me to 
 send her away, which I did ; and then, though he 
 could scarcely move, he put his hands so-together, 
 and shook his head. It was the most piteous sight 
 I ever saw. He was so pale and thin, and his hair 
 quite white. And then he made signs to me to 
 give him his keys, which I did, and he pointed out 
 one, and making me lay my ear almost down to his 
 lips, he whispered, ' When I am gone, give this to 
 him — you know whom I mean. He has not been 
 kind ; but I won't be hard to him : let them do what 
 they choose.' And just then Mr. Pearce came back, 
 and was quite angry that I had been in the room 
 alone. He took up the keys, as they lay on the bed, 
 and I never saw them since. Hark, sir I there is some 
 one at the door." 
 
 The knock was repeated, and Mrs. Boucher 
 bustled up to make way for Pearce himself, and 
 another person, seemingly a notary. It was with a 
 face of almost savage exultation, scarcely intended 
 to be stifled, that Pearce announced to Yilliers that 
 he was come to seal up some drawers. Yilliers him- 
 self, almost forgetful as he had been of any other 
 circumstance, in the thought of his father, was now 
 aroused to demand by what right he entered on this 
 office. And nothing further was needed to induce 
 Pearce to enter at once on the real object of his 
 intrusion ; and desiring his companion to open a 
 black portfolio, he placed before Villicrs a formal 
 document, which he requested him to read. Villiers
 
 250 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 did read it — read it with his eyes almost blinded 
 with tears, for he saw his father's signature, shaken 
 and abrupt, as of a person in tlie extremity of ill- 
 ness. It was formal, however, correct, without a 
 flaw, duly signed, and witnessed. Villiers knew 
 nothing of law, but, to all appearance, it assured 
 him that the menace held out by his father had been 
 fulfilled, and that he was a beggar. All that could 
 be left away was given to the Jesuits' College at 
 Rome, with the exception of a large legacy to 
 Pearce. The landed property was given to Lady 
 Eleanor, and Villiers himself not mentioned. He 
 was a beggar ; and tlie effect was, for the moment, 
 stunnino^. That wliich for months he had thought 
 of, and spoken of as possible, was realized ; but 
 reality is a very different thing from imagination — 
 and he found it so. 
 
 It required, however, but little time for him to 
 recover himself sufficiently to return the document, 
 and to request that he might be left alone, and not 
 subjected to intrusion upon questions of business at 
 such a moment ; and Pearce retired, taking care, as 
 he looked him in the face, to lift up a mass of hair 
 from his own forehead, and to exhibit a scar, which 
 had been there ever since the evening when Villiers 
 had last left his father's house at Naples. 
 
 It was a dreary and fearful interval wliich en- 
 sued between that hour and the day when his father's 
 remains were deposited in the grave, according to 
 the rites of the Romish church. One person only 
 was admitted to him — Beattie, who was still at 
 Rome, in recovered health, and to whose judgment 
 Villiers willingly committed the task of making the 
 necessary inquiries into the validity of the will. 
 There were moments of stupor, of amazement, such 
 as falls upon the mind when some great shock has 
 chanfijed the whole face of the world around us.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 251 
 
 Then came attempts to realize the present and the 
 future ; then some object before him brought back 
 all the past : and, for the moment^ the present 
 seemed a dream, till the reality once more flashed 
 upon him. At times came a conflict between his 
 conscience and his suffering. Angry thoughts would 
 rise ; the recollection of past ill-treatment ; efforts 
 to excuse himself; then recollections of his own joys, 
 and his own sorrows ; then he was once more sitting 
 on the rocky seat, or under the shade of the vine- 
 trellissed cottage, till he started up to find himself 
 in his dark, dreary chamber. Once, only, the vision 
 returned to him again, and again bringing something 
 like peace — the vision of his motherless child ; and 
 the thought that there was still a centre, round which 
 his affections might gather — a being for whom he 
 might toil, though in poverty and pain — who might 
 look up to him, and love him, and cling to him, and 
 cherish him when he was old and in sickness. But 
 here a pang shot across him ; for what hope could 
 he have of meriting that filial duty towards himself, 
 which he had himself denied to his own parent. 
 Every thing ended in remorse ; and even remorse 
 was sweet, for it was real, and true : it bore on it 
 no delusion. And as he bowed himself to the ground, 
 and prayed, Villiers began to feel what religion is ; 
 he felt it in its first beginning — sorrow and shame. 
 He left his room but once. It was after everyone 
 in the house had gone to bed ; and even the nurses, 
 who were sitting in the chamber of the dead, were 
 appalled when they marked the agony in his coun- 
 tenance, as he oi:)ened the door and motioned them 
 to withdraw. They listened at the outside, and 
 heard him draw the bolt and prostrate himself on 
 the ground, and then all was silent ; only at times a 
 suppressed groan reached them : but they dared 
 not enter. And the cold grey dawn striiggl«d in
 
 252 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 tlirough the curtained windows before lie opened 
 the door and returned to his own room. But from 
 that night Villiers was an altered man. Even 
 Beattie was surprised to see the calmnegs and self- 
 control, the almost childlike gentleness with which 
 he did and suffered all that was necessary in the 
 distressing scenes through which he was obliged to 
 pass. He made only one request — that Pearce might 
 be prevented from coming near him. Every thing 
 else, which, in a former day, would have galled and 
 stung him to the quick, he now submitted to patiently 
 and meekly, as under punishment — a punishment 
 which he recognised as just. He requested only a 
 single alteration in the arrangement of the funeral ; 
 but it was intended to express more respect and 
 honour for the dead. And during the last melan- 
 choly ceremonial, except the strong and almost con- 
 vulsive grasp with which he kept his hand within 
 his bosom, clasped on that which Beattie knew to 
 be a little golden cross, Beattie himself would have 
 observed little in his manner but quiet resignation 
 and sorrow. Villiers, even in his youth, was no 
 friend to scenes and exhibitions of emotion. 
 
 The second evening after all was over he was 
 sitting alone in Beattie's room, reading — reading, 
 because he was expecting every moment that Beattie 
 would return and bring him information of the cir- 
 cumstances relating to the will. Not indeed that 
 this had ever formed a prominent feature in the 
 bitter thoughts which forced themselves on him ; 
 but when at times an almost Quixotic feeling of 
 contempt for wealth, and insensibility to liis worldly 
 position, had obtruded themselves, the thought of 
 his child came across him — of his duty to others — 
 and of the necessity for ascertaining and enforcing 
 right wherever it seemed to have been violated. 
 And he admitted with Beattie the obligation of
 
 HA^TIvSTONE. 253 
 
 obtaining sufficient information as to the validity 
 of the document. As Beattie's step was heard 
 coming up the stairs, a slight pulsation of the heart 
 revealed to Villiers that his composure was not 
 entire indifference ; but it ceased the moment he 
 caught sight of his friend's face, and saw in it that 
 the case was hopeless. Nothing, Beattie explained 
 to him, could be more correct or formal than the 
 will. He had indeed made inquiries of the servants ; 
 and from them had ascertained much which Mrs. 
 Boucher had stated to Villiers himself, and which 
 awakened no little suspicion of unfair influence having 
 been employed to obtain the present distribution of 
 the property. Hesitatingly and carefully watching 
 the effect of the suggestion on Villiers's countenance, 
 Beattie added that litigation might be possible ; but 
 Villiers shook his head reluctantly. And Beattie 
 then added that he had suggested the possibility of 
 this to the parties now interested in the will, and 
 had not hesitated to express an opinion that it 
 might be overturned ; but he had been met by a 
 threat — a threat of disclosures most painfully af- 
 fecting the poor General's character ; and Villiers 
 impatiently stopped him, exclaiming, " Never ! 
 never ! " 
 
 He sat down without delay to write two letters, — 
 one to Lord Claremont, to inform him that he had 
 no intention of endeavouring to disturb the will, 
 and making one request which he knew would be 
 granted, that he might be allowed to possess the 
 picture of his mother which hung in her bed-chamber 
 at the Priory. The other letter was to his uncle in 
 Yorksliire, an old, penurious, singular character, 
 who possessed, however, some parliamentary in- 
 terest, and being himself unmarried, had oiten 
 shown symptoms of attachment to his nephew, even 
 to the extent of contemplating him as the heir of
 
 254 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 his property. Villiers asked of him nothing but to 
 obtain some situation or commission in the army, 
 which might enable him to support liimself. And 
 the letters sealed, he took leave of Beattie for the 
 night, promising to see him the next day before he 
 left Rome for Naples, to make the necessary ar- 
 rangements for placing his child in some fit and 
 elisjible care.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 255 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 It was not, perhaps, till his arrival in his own 
 room at the hotel, that Yilliers for the first time in 
 his life felt what poverty was. He was to part with 
 his servant. And as his servant took his wages, and 
 a donation far beyond what he might have expected, 
 Villiers was pleased with the honest hearty way in 
 which the man thanked him, as having always been 
 a kind and good master. He had tasted scarcely 
 any thing that day, and his spirit having returned 
 with the removal of suspense and the necessity of 
 exertion, he would have asked for something to eat, 
 but the thought came to him of his child, and of 
 the necessity of depriving himself of comforts for 
 the sake of that dear being, and he checked the 
 order which he had been on the point of giving. 
 His servant insisted on remaining to pack his trunks ; 
 and Villiers, who had been nurtured in habits which 
 made him peculiarly sensitive to the distinctions of 
 rank, and to the refinements of life, once more felt 
 the reality of his altered position when he gave 
 orders that his portmanteau should be carried to 
 the place from which the vehicle of a courier, 
 with whom he had engaged a place, was to start the 
 next morning. He was young, and still amenable 
 to false shame ; and as, accidentally, he met an 
 English acquaintance just as he was mounting tlie 
 vehicle, and noticed the curiosity and hauteur Avitli 
 which his friend's glass was levelled at him, and 
 the cold bow (his circumstances being known) with
 
 256 HA^VKSTONE. 
 
 which his own distant recognition was returned, a 
 momentary chill, followed by indignation, came 
 over him at the thought of the heartless world 
 with which he was now to grapple ; but it was mo- 
 mentary only. Once more he remembered that he 
 had been sinful, and was under punishment, and his 
 equanimity returned. 
 
 Side by side with his humbler companion, on 
 whom but a short time before Villiers would have 
 looked, not indeed with contempt, but with some- 
 thing of wonder and curiosity as a being of a dif- 
 ferent species (for Villiers had been nurtured in some 
 of the worst habits of an exclusive English aristo- 
 cracy), now he exchanged the little courtesies of 
 fellow-travellers, and, notwithstanding the oppres- 
 sion on his spirits, endeavoured to ask him ques- 
 tions, and even to take an interest in the willingness 
 with which the honest and sensible man opened to 
 him his ideas and history, till he came to explain that 
 he had engaged in a life which he did not like, and 
 had sacrificed much that he enjoyed, even postponing 
 a marriage with a young person to whom he was 
 engaged, and all to enable him to support an aged 
 father, who had lost everything by imprudence. 
 But as he came to this part of his tale he observed 
 that Villiers had buried himself in his cloak, and 
 was sitting with his eyes closed and his brows knit, 
 as if in great pain ; and with a tact not uncommon 
 even to uncultivated minds which are familiar with 
 the world, he contrived to stop, and, as the vehicle 
 was mounting a hill, to jump down and walk by the 
 side, leaving his companion to his thoughts ; and 
 those thoughts were, as if at every step an eye were 
 opening and a tongue were planted in every mouth, 
 to witness and proclaim one crying sin to a remorse- 
 ful heart. Just as the vehicle reached the top of 
 the road which crosses the Monte Albano, and Gui-
 
 HAWlvSTONE. 257 
 
 seppe, the courier, was about to jump into it again, 
 a light calash drove rapidly round the corner be- 
 hind them, and nearly grazing the wheels of the 
 other carriage, galloped on, as if in great anxiety 
 to reach the next stage before them. Villiers him- 
 self had scarcely noticed it, he was so plunged in 
 thought. But Gruiseppe made some remark on the 
 speed with which the horses were going, and also 
 on the sinister looks of a single traveller who had 
 ensconced himself in the corner, and, as he passed 
 Villiers's vehicle, had thrown a large red handker- 
 chief over his face, which Giiiseppe had only been 
 enabled to see by observing it peering from the 
 glass behind, as if unwilling to be recognised, and 
 yet anxious to observe. 
 
 '• I never knew," he muttered to himself, as he 
 once more seated himself by Villiers's side, " I never 
 knew any good connected with such quick travel- 
 ling ; there is always some mischief before or be- 
 hind." But Villiers made no reply. And the rest 
 of the journey was spent in silence. Guiseppe un- 
 derstood that his companion was in distress and 
 sorrow ; and respectfully forbore to intrude on him, 
 except by little attentions which Villiers noticed 
 with kindness, and which left upon his mind the 
 valuable lesson for after-life — that no class is so 
 humble in which courtesy and benevolence, and 
 even delicacy of feeling, do not exist. It did much 
 to re-awaken a sympathy between himself and his 
 inferior fellow- creatures. Meanwhile, as he receded 
 from Rome, the sufferings of the past week began 
 to soften and die away under the influence of the 
 open air, the beautiful scenery, and the rapid mo- 
 tion. His thoughts wandered forwards ; and though 
 he dreaded the bitter recollections whicli awaited 
 him at Naples, the thought of his child, whom he 
 was going to rejoin, and from henceforth intended 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 HAA\Ts:STONE. 
 
 to devote himself to rear, gained on liim every hour. 
 It was the star still left in the horror of thick dark- 
 ness which had fallen on him — the spark from which 
 a fuller light might hereafter be kindled — the 
 centre round which alone uj)on earth his memories 
 and his hopes might gather, and find happiness and 
 duty still. He thought of it as lying in its dear 
 mother's arms, as he had first beheld it ; as learning 
 to stretch out its little arms to him, even though 
 unable to speak ; as laughing brightly at his approach ; 
 as playing with the hair of his head, and crying 
 to be taken by him and tossed ; as reviving many a 
 little trace of that face, pensive and exquisitely beau- 
 tiful, which had first entranced him ; and as about to 
 become an image — of himself, Villiers would have 
 said, had he dared to conclude the sentence : but 
 then came the consciousness of his sin, of his own 
 undutifulness and cruelty (he would have used no 
 lighter word) ; and he could only breathe a prayer 
 that his child might not be the image of himself. 
 
 It was with such a thought in his heart that the 
 vehicle drove into the dirty narrow street of Fondi. 
 He had passed it more than once before, and was 
 well acquainted with the formalities attending pass- 
 ports. It was therefore with some surprise that he 
 found Guiseppe detained in the police-ofiice for a 
 considerable time, and with still greater that he 
 saw him come out accompanied by one of the offi- 
 cers, who informed Villiers that there was an in- 
 formality in his papers, and that it was impossible 
 for him to proceed till they had been examined fur- 
 ther. There was a singular hesitation and strange- 
 ness in the man's manner ; and when Villiers begged 
 to know the nature of the informality, he could only 
 reply, vaguely and impatiently, that there was sus- 
 picion, irregularity, and that there must be some 
 delay.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 259 
 
 " How long ? " inquired Villiers. 
 
 " Perhaps three days," was the answer. 
 
 At another time, Villiers's indignation would have 
 vented itself abruptly, and not very wisely. But 
 his temper had been schooled, as well as other de- 
 fects in his character ; and after endeavouring to 
 remonstrate calmly, and to explain, but to no pur- 
 pose, he took leave of Guiseppe, and removing his 
 portmanteau, submitted to be shown to a miserable 
 little albergo, there to content himself with remain- 
 ing until the difficulty could be removed. 
 
 On looking round the wretched room, which was 
 all the accommodation supplied him, he was him- 
 self surprised to find how little such external ap- 
 pearances affect us when the mind is occupied with 
 either deep sorrow or deep joy ; especially how 
 estranged it becomes even from the thought of 
 them, when there is a consciousness within of 
 having acted wrong — of being under punishment. 
 Punishment in a palace is a mockery ; and to feel 
 that he was suffering a punishment, — to resolve on 
 bearing it manfully, and patiently, and gratefully, 
 and to look up to the hand which inflicted it with 
 the prayer, that such a spirit might be perfected 
 within him, was becoming every hour more and more 
 the temper of his mind. 
 
 In the evening he strolled out to relieve his thoughts, 
 painfully depressed and overwrought by several 
 hours spent among papers, and arrangements which 
 were full of bitterness for the future as well as for 
 the past, and with only one bright thought of conso- 
 lation — the thought of his child. As he returned 
 into the narrow dirty street of the little town, close 
 by the Dogana, a crowd was collected round a door. 
 A few faces seemingly more adventurous than the 
 rest were prying into a hovel ; but the most part 
 with countenances indicative of alarm and coustcr- 
 s 2
 
 260 HAAVKSTOXE. 
 
 nation, mixed with that curiosity and fascination of 
 terror Avhich is so common in uneducated minds, 
 were standing aloof, and spreading the news of 
 some disaster to every passer-by. On Villiers 
 inquiring the cause, he found that the first case 
 of a fever, which had been for some time antici- 
 pated, had just broken out, and one of the persons 
 employed in the Dogana had been its victim. The 
 poor fellow was alarmingly ill. But no one dared 
 to approach him. And it was only on Villiers 
 going into the miserable place, where he lay, and 
 summoning the terrified by-standers to assist him 
 in moving the sufferer, and in providing him with 
 some comforts, that they ventured to risk the in- 
 fection. It was some relief to his mind to be 
 engaged actively in a work of charity. The tending 
 by a sick bed brought back to him the memory of 
 two other sick beds, both of them associated with 
 remorse. In this case there could be none. And 
 as the only old woman who could be found to re- 
 main with the sufferer as nurse was timid and 
 inexperienced, Villiers himself sat up with the sick 
 man during the night. The poor woman, who 
 was a Roman Catholic, and had, therefore, been 
 brought up in pious horror of heretics, among whom 
 she had been taught to class the members of the 
 English Church, was surprised to see him spend 
 no little part of the time on his knees. She had 
 been told that Protestants never knelt in prayer 
 — that they never prayed at all ; and her amaze- 
 ment was great. The morning came, and the pa- 
 tient was better. His gratitude was intense to 
 Villiers ; and in expressing it, he added to him a 
 warning, which surprised him, but to which he 
 paid little attention. He told him that his deten- 
 tion had been brought about apparently by a tra- 
 veller, who had preceded him by a few houi's, and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 261 
 
 who had had some secret conference with the chief 
 of the office, and he hinted to him the necessity of 
 being cautious, if he had any secret enemy, or was 
 conscious of offences against the government. Vil- 
 liers smiled, and thanked the poor fellow for his 
 advice ; but did not thiniv it worth while to make 
 further inquiries of him respecting a suggestion so 
 obviously unfounded. Nor, indeed, could the man 
 have given him any further information than the 
 vague notion which he had gathered from some 
 incidental remarks of his superior. He was, indeed, 
 too ill to be communicative, and though better, 
 when Yilliers the next day took leave of him, on 
 receiving his passport, and with it apologies for the 
 delay, nothing more passed between them. 
 
 It was a bright and joyous afternoon, as Villiers 
 once more re-entered Naples. The sun was dancing 
 on the blue waters of the bay. The fringe of glit- 
 tering suburbs, which stretched round its magnificent 
 curve, flashed on the eye like marble. Vesuvius 
 towered in the distance, curling up a thin wreath 
 of smoke upon the golden sky. The road was full 
 of gay-dressed peasants, with their brilliant many- 
 coloured costumes and antique ornaments of gold 
 and pearls. The lazzaroni, capped and buttoned, 
 were lying about, basking their swarthy muscular 
 limbs among the painted stalls of water-melons 
 and summer fruits. The Chiaia was swarming with 
 equipages, and gay boats were skimming about the 
 bay. The whole spectacle was luxury and enjoy- 
 ment. But to Villiers, over it all, there hung a 
 black, motionless, fearful veil like a pall. He sat 
 back in the humble conveyance with his eyes closed, 
 his brow knit, his lips compressed in anguish, and 
 a weight pressing upon his chest, which compelled 
 him every now and then, to the alarm of his fellow- 
 travellers, to heave a deep groan, and stretch his head 
 s 3
 
 262 HAWTvSTONE. 
 
 out of the window, as if gasping for breath. He 
 had answered so gently to their first inquiries, if he 
 was ill, and yet with such firmness, that they at 
 last permitted liim to remain unnoticed. The ve- 
 hicle stopped on the Chiaia ; and Villiers, muffling 
 himself up, called to him, from among a group of 
 fishermen, an old familiar face, which recognised 
 him at once. He bade the man see his portmanteau 
 removed ; and having sunk down in a little boat, 
 which was drawn up on the beach, they were soon 
 launched upon the bay. The honest fisherman saw, 
 and partly understood, the cause of his evident 
 anguish ; and though he remained silent, a by- 
 stander might have seen him dash away sometliing 
 from his eyes as he looked upon Villiers, and ob- 
 served the tears streaming down through the hands, 
 in which his face was buried. He held his arm for 
 Villiers to rest on, as he rose to step from the boat, 
 at the little moorings, close by the steps in the cliff, 
 under the trellissed cottage, and the seat of rock ; 
 and Villiers caught at it, for he was ready to 
 fall. But as his foot touched the ground, a better 
 thought seemed to nerve him, and he sprang up 
 the narrow path, impatient till he could see all that 
 now remained to him of joy and hope upon earth, 
 and could clasp his child to his bosom. He faltered 
 for one moment as he passed the seat in the rock ; 
 but the next he was at the door of the cottage. It 
 was closed. He rapped, that Marie, the nurse, who 
 had the care of the child, might hear him ; but Marie 
 was evidently out. He looked in at the window, 
 but could see no one. The cradle was there, but 
 it was empty. Once more he rapped, but to no 
 effect ; and while waiting in expectation of an 
 answer, he observed that the flower-bed in the 
 front had been trampled on, seemingly by men's 
 feet. He was startled by a little cry of surprise
 
 HAWKSTONE. 263 
 
 and dismay from a young girl, whom lie recognised 
 as the daughter of a neighbouring peasant, and who 
 endeavoured to run away when she saw him. But 
 he compelled her to come to him ; and on inquiring 
 for Marie, the nurse, he could at first obtain no 
 answer. Evidently there was something to conceal. 
 At last the girl stammered out that Marie was at 
 their own house. And Yilliers hurried to it. A 
 scream of dismay from the poor woman was the 
 first greeting. The few incoherent words which 
 he could extract from her were sufficient to inform 
 him that his last hope was gone. Two nights 
 before, a false alarm of fire had been given at the 
 door of Marie's cottage. Startled from her sleep, 
 she rushed out with the child in her arms : two 
 men, who had given the alarm, met her at the door, 
 offered to hold the child while she ran back to se- 
 cure her little property ; and while she was hastily 
 collecting what w^as most necessary to save, they 
 had disappeared. A small boat had been seen 
 moored at the bottom of the steps, which was never 
 seen again. Every spot had been searched, and all 
 the neighbouring cottages — every inquiry made — 
 but the child was lost. 
 
 It was past twelve on the following night, when 
 a man and his wife, who had been employed at 
 times in the establishment of General Villiers while 
 he was at Naples, and who still lived in the house 
 to take care of it while untenanted and unfurnished, 
 were coming home from a rustic fete. As they came 
 within the light of a lamp which hung before an 
 image of the Virgin — the same lamp which had first 
 revealed to Villiers that face which he never forgot — 
 they saw a figure leaning against the wall, the hat 
 slouched over the face, and the legs bent as if un» 
 able to support themselves. It was evidently a 
 person ill. He moaned as they approached; and 
 s 4
 
 264 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 suffered them to raise his hat, and to rereal a face 
 ghastly with suffering of body and of mind, but 
 which they still were able to recognise as their 
 young master's. He scarcely replied to their asto- 
 nished inquiries ; and, on their asking if they could 
 take him home, he sank down, muttering faintly 
 that he had no home. A passer-by aided them in 
 raising him, and carrying him to the house ; and, 
 on the arrival of a physician, they learnt that he 
 was in a high fever — partly the result of infection, 
 from his watching over the sick man at Fondi, but 
 aggravated greatly by agony of mind, and the 
 violent exertion with which he had exhausted him- 
 self in endeavouring to trace his child. 
 
 We need not dwell upon the days and weeks 
 which followed — on the wanderings of mind upon 
 past scenes — the incoherent ravings — the violence 
 with which it became necessary to coerce him — the 
 wretchedness of every thing around him, in a large 
 deserted house, with none but its two poor inmates 
 to soothe and nurse him ; and then the di-eadful 
 dawning of returning reason, only to reveal to him 
 again the misery of his lot. Providentially, with 
 the passing of the crisis there came some relief 
 to him in the person of his friend Beattie, who had 
 traced him out, and followed him from Rome. He 
 watched by him at night ; held his forehead when 
 splitting with pain ; administered his medicines ; 
 read to him, prayed with him and for him ; led his 
 thoughts quietly and gently to see the dispensations 
 of an overruling goodness in their true light; 
 opened to him future prospects of usefulness and 
 duty ; and, by his simple and unaffected piety, 
 wrought upon the mind of his friend even more 
 than Macarthy had wrought with all his brilliancy 
 and force of genius. 
 
 It was one evening, after Villiers, leaning on
 
 HAWKSTONE. 265 
 
 Beattie's arm, had returned from his first attempt 
 to venture into the open air, that he asked Beattie 
 if he might now be allowed to look at some letters 
 which had arrived for him, and which his physician 
 had prohibited him from reading before. He felt 
 stronger, and able to bear it ; and Beattie gave them 
 to liim. One was from Lady Eleanor. She did not 
 say that she was compelled to write herself, because 
 Lord Claremont had sternly refused to do so : but 
 with high-minded, yet feminine dignity, she ex- 
 pressed her full conviction that the disposal of 
 General Villiers's property had been influenced by 
 the wrong suggestions of others ; and her earnest 
 desire that, if possible, the will might be set aside, 
 and the estates revert to Villiers, instead of coming 
 to herself. Villiers smiled as he pointed out the 
 paragraph to Beattie. But the first lines which he 
 wrote, when able to take a pen in his hand, were to 
 express, not only his admiration and gratitude for 
 his cousin's noble disinterestedness, but the impos- 
 sibility of his permitting any change to take place 
 in arrangements, in which he felt it his duty patiently 
 to acquiesce. Another letter was from his uncle, 
 dated from England, and informing him that he had 
 obtained a commission for him in the army, as the 
 only thing which he could procure. Another was 
 from the Horse Guards, ordering him to join the 
 regiment, to which he had been appointed, in Canada, 
 without delay. And the fourth was from Pearce, 
 with some insolent inquiry about a matter of busi- 
 ness, which Villiers read patiently, and replied to 
 briefly without a single expression of indignation at 
 the insult. 
 
 The letters read, he raised his eyes, and looking 
 steadfastly upon Beattie, told him that he was now 
 ready and able to bear his answer to one more in- 
 quiry. Every search had been made ; the assist-
 
 266 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 ance of the police had been obtained ; communica- 
 tions had been made in every direction. Had any 
 trace whatever been discovered of the child? 
 
 Beattie shook his head mournfully : and Yilliers, 
 clasping his hands, and closing his eyes for a few 
 minutes, during which his lips were moving in 
 silent prayer, endeavoured to compose himself to 
 entire submission. As he opened his eyes again, 
 he found Beattie was kneeling by his side, looking 
 on him with the deepest affection and commi- 
 seration, and prepare'd to pray with him, as the best 
 mode of soothing and comforting him. And by an 
 hour afterwards Villiers was able to turn his atten- 
 tion to matters which required immediate arrange- 
 ment, and to prepare composedly and steadily to 
 enter on the new line of life to which he seemed to 
 be called.
 
 HAWKSTONE. 267 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 Twelve years passed away ; and we may pass from 
 tlie sick bed of Villiers to the saloon of the English 
 ambassador at Florence. It was brilliantly illu- 
 minated for a state dinner on a Friday. The tables 
 glittered with plate. Wax lights in alabaster vases 
 threw a soft moonlight radiance on gorgeous pic- 
 tures, and marble statues, and jewelled guests. The 
 cool plash of fountains, amidst pillared porticoes and 
 perfumed flowers, mixed lullingly with soft strains 
 of music. And the exquisite taste of the noble 
 ambassador, who was a notorious profligate, threw 
 round the scene an air of refinement and fasti- 
 diousness, which almost oppressed enjoyment. The 
 gorgeously-dressed domestics moved in silence on the 
 velvet carpets. Even the creaking of a door or the 
 derangement of a dish seemed to inflict pain on the 
 sensitiveness of the voluptuous host. Every one 
 spoke in a low voice, as if a sound beyond a whisper 
 was an infringement on the solemnity of the fes- 
 tival ; when the countenance of the illustrious 
 ambassador was seen to assume a haughty gloom, 
 as he observed a very ill-disguised yawn distorting 
 the countenance of one of his youngest guests in 
 the regimentals of a distinguished corps. Captain 
 O'Brien really was extremely tired. He had en- 
 joyed, or rather suffered some little experience 
 of state dinners, when aide-de-camp to his uncle, a 
 late Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. But with all his 
 habits of society and good breeding the young vi~ 
 vacious Irishman was not proof against the som-
 
 268 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 nolent influence of the ambassador's grandeur. He 
 endeavoured to rouse himself by obtaining the at- 
 tention of a very lovely and elegant woman who sat 
 next him, and whose conversation had been hitherto 
 engrossed by an elderly white-headed gentleman on 
 the other side of her. Pie observed that she refused 
 every dish presented to her ; and the second time 
 that O'Brien offered her some preparation of meat, 
 she asked for vegetables only. O'Brien trusted she 
 was not ill ; and with perfect unaffectedness she re- 
 plied that she did not eat meat on fast-days. O'Brien 
 for a moment opened his d^rk animated eyes with 
 some degree of incompetency to understand her. 
 
 " I thought I had the pleasure," he said, " of ad- 
 dressing an English lady, or, though we are aliens 
 in Ireland, may I not say a countrywoman?" 
 
 The lady smiled, and only replied that he was not 
 mistaken; but that English ladies might be Ca- 
 tholics. 
 
 O'Brien coloured, and apologised. 
 
 " We are commanded by our Church," she con- 
 tinued, " to practise these little self-denials ; and I 
 have often thought it might be very beneficial if 
 other religious communities enjoined them likewise. 
 But English Protestants, I believe, have entirely 
 discarded them." 
 
 O'Brien knew little either of Roman Catholics 
 or of English Protestants, in matters of theo- 
 logy. 
 
 " One person," he replied, " I knew, who was a 
 Protestant, and who always fasted on Friday. I 
 knew it well, for it was connected with matters of 
 deep interest to myself By the by," he said, for- 
 getting the solemn quiescence which reigned around 
 him, and speaking across the table to an old miHtary 
 oificer covered with orders, " how delighted I am to
 
 HAWKSTONE. 269 
 
 hear that Villiers has come into possession of his pro- 
 perty again. I saw it in the papers this morning." 
 
 The ambassador's face assumed a deeper gloom 
 than before. The old General shilj answered " Yes," 
 and coughed, as if to intimate that the subject might 
 as well be dropped. But the warm-hearted young 
 Irishman had fallen on a subject very near his 
 heart. 
 
 "Have you heard the circumstances?" he con- 
 tinued. " The property was left away by his father 
 to his cousin, and his cousin has given it back to 
 him ; and there was some statement of a paper being 
 found in a cabinet. But one thing is certain, that 
 Lady Eleanor has behaved most nob " 
 
 But before he could finish the word, the am- 
 bassador, near whom he was sitting, in a very cold 
 and formal voice of condemnation, begged to in- 
 troduce him to Lady Eleanor Howard, who was 
 sitting by his side. O'Brien's fine features were 
 once more suffused with a very becoming flush. 
 But Lady Eleanor soon relieved him from his mo- 
 mentary embarrassment. 
 
 " Mr. Villiers, I presume," she said, " is a friend 
 of yours." 
 
 " A very dear friend," said O'Brien. 
 
 " You must not then think too well of his cousin," 
 said Lady Eleanor. " I am sorry to say she has 
 had no opportunity of acting nobly ; and the news- 
 papers, those miscalled sources of information, have, 
 in this case, as in most others, been egrcgiously 
 wrong." 
 
 O'Brien bowed, and was prepared to make some 
 lively compliment. But Lady Eleanor, with quiet- 
 ness and simplicity, continuecl : — 
 
 " As Mr. Villiers's friend, you will be happy to 
 hear that he is in Florence."
 
 270 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 O'Brien almost clapped his hands ; but a look from 
 the ambassador froze him into quietude. 
 
 " He arrived this morning," said Lady Eleanor, 
 " and will, I hope, meet us here this evening." 
 
 " And may I ask," said O'Brien, " if the state- 
 ment respecting the recovery of the estate is true ? " 
 
 " It is true," was the reply, " in its principal facts. 
 But the recovery is simply owing to the law. Ge- 
 neral Villiers, it was only recently discovered, had 
 no power to alienate the English estates. He had 
 overlooked a codicil in his grandfather's will ; and to 
 me it has been a great satisfaction that they should 
 still be retained in the original line." 
 
 " And there was no paper, then," asked O'Brien, 
 " found in an old chest ? The whole story sounded 
 so like a romance, that I distrusted it from the 
 first." 
 
 " There was a paper found by Mr. Beattie, an in- 
 timate friend of Mr. Villiers, but found some years 
 back, which implied that the General's will had been 
 made under undue influence ; and this probably 
 would have had the effect of overturning the will 
 itself, if it had been brought into litigation. But 
 you are ]VIi'. Villiers's friend, and you will not be 
 surprised to hear that he refused to take advantage 
 of it. There were circumstances connected with 
 it, which would have involved fui'ther discussion of 
 matters, which it was more honourable to the me- 
 mory of those who are gone to preserve in privacy." 
 
 " How like him ! " exclaimed O'Brien. " Lady 
 Eleanor must pardon me if I intrude such questions ; 
 but Villiers is the best and dearest friend I have 
 in the world. And they laugh at me for raving 
 whenever he is mentioned." 
 
 Lady Eleanor was interested in her companion's 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " Is it. possible," he continued, lowering his voice,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 271 
 
 " to tell you a very long story without drawing the 
 attention of this whole solemn meeting ? " 
 
 " If you are repeating what is good of him," re- 
 plied Lady Eleanor, "you need not be alarmed. 
 I fear, generally speaking, it is only scandal which 
 attracts attention." 
 
 " And may I begin at the beginning ? " asked 
 O'Brien, laughingly. 
 
 Lady Eleanor prepared to listen, and O'Brien, re- 
 lieved from his ennui, delighted at having obtained 
 the attention of liis fair neighbour, and still more at 
 being indulged with the full expression of his ad- 
 miration and affection for his friend, proceeded, with 
 all the natural eloquence, energy, and vivacity of a 
 well-educated Irish gentleman, to recount his 
 story : — 
 
 " We were quartered," he said, " in Canada some 
 years since, when Villiers first joined the regiment. 
 At that time, and in our own regiment, duelling 
 was a prevailing fashion. Scarcely any one was 
 allowed to join us without being compelled to en- 
 gage in this, which now I will call detestable, practice 
 of murder. But then I thought differently. When 
 Villiers first came out he was just recovering from 
 illness, and evidently in great distress of mind. At 
 that time I did not know the cause ; but he was 
 allowed for some weeks to remain much to himself. 
 And yomig and thoughtless as we were, we felt it 
 right to give him some indulgence. But you must 
 be aware how little young men of high spirits, and 
 thinking only of amusement, can bear with melan- 
 choly and gloom in others. Villiers was always 
 gentlemanly, kind, and considerate, but he was re- 
 served and depressed ; and there was a superiority of 
 mind and manner about him which we construed as 
 haughtiness. A month or two passed, and wc became 
 impatient of his continued retirement. In particular, 
 we observed that he never joined the mess on a Fri-
 
 272 HAAYKSTONE. 
 
 day; and as this was a convenient day for parties, his 
 absence became marked. I need not say how soon, 
 where offence is sought, offence may be taken. And 
 I, as one of the youngest and most hot-brained 
 — I will add a stronger word, as one of the most 
 unprincipled of the party — boasted that I would 
 compel him to attend the mess or insult him. It 
 was not difficult to find an opportunity. Lady 
 Eleanor will have no wish to hear details, of which 
 I shall always be ashamed. But I did, (and O'Brien 
 lowered his voice, and with the colour mounting to 
 his face, hung down his head as he proceeded,) I did 
 at the mess-table make observations which he could 
 not avoid overhearing, and which led to a gentle 
 expostulation on his part, to some insulting reply on 
 mine ; and at last, when he rose to leave the room, 
 to language for which, in the ordinary code of 
 society, no reparation could be given but bloodshed. 
 '•' I was sitting in my room late that night, having 
 made all necessary preparations in case I should fall, 
 and wondering that I had not yet received any com- 
 munication to fix the meeting for the morrow, when 
 I heard a rap at the door, and drawing myself up to 
 receive, as I expected, Villiers's friend, to my ex- 
 treme astonishment I saw ViUiers himself. He was 
 perfectly calm and self-possessed ; and there was a 
 gentleness and dignity in liis manner which gave to 
 him such a superiority over me, that I could only 
 escape from it by rudeness. ' I am come,' he said, ' Mr. 
 O'Brien' (for I was then only a lieutenant), * to express 
 to you my forgiveness for your having insulted me 
 to-day as you have done : I am willing to believe 
 that the act escaped you in a moment of thought- 
 lessness. But I am come also to express to you with 
 my own lips that no such act, whether proceeding 
 from thoughtlessness or deliberation, will induce 
 me, I trust, to comply with that false code of ho-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 273 
 
 nour which thinks it possible to wipe out disgrace 
 only by committing either suicide or murder. When 
 you have been visited as I have been, you will feel, 
 I cannot doubt, that there is another code, far 
 higher and far more awful in its chastisements than 
 that of human society, and to which we are all 
 amenable. By this code I am not only bound to 
 abstain from seeking your life in revenge for an 
 injury offered to me, but I am bound to give you 
 my free and hearty forgiveness, which I now tender 
 you ; and to seek the first opportunity, in some le- 
 gitimate' way, of evincing that this forgiveness is 
 not one of words only, and that my present act 
 is not the act of a coward. Until that opportunity 
 is presented I must be content to remain under 
 the stigma which your act has thrown on me. I 
 perceive,' he continued, as he observed me about to 
 indulge in some expression of irritation and con- 
 tempt, ' I perceive that it will be useless to prolong 
 this explanation.' And before I could give vent to 
 my violence he had withdrawn. 
 
 " * Coward ! hypocrite ! fool ! ' were the first words 
 which came to my lips. They were repeated by the 
 greater part of the mess, when the story became 
 known. Villiers himself was of course shunned and 
 sent to Coventry ; and the commanding officer was 
 only prevented from showing similar feeling by his 
 private connection with Villiers's family. In the 
 mean time Villiers retired from our society, without 
 seeming to shun it. I thought his manner was tliat 
 of a man struggling against a violent temptation, 
 and suffering under bitter mortification. But he 
 was calm and patient in his exterior, and refused to 
 notice the little acts of insolence and contempt with 
 which the youngest among us now ventured to mo- 
 lest him. He bore with it for at least six weeks. 
 At the end of that time my corps was ordered on 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 an expedition. Our business was to occupy New- 
 town height, which commanded the river at Toronto, 
 and the rebels were in great force underneath it. I 
 shall not easily forget the march we had, in the dead 
 of night, through the woods, and a morass in 
 which we sank up to our knees, expecting every 
 moment that the enemy would fall upon us. It was 
 the most perilous expedition of the whole war. 
 Here was the height — there the river — here we 
 passed through the forest." And O'Brien, once 
 embarked in his military manoeuvres, endeavoured 
 to assist Lady Eleanor's comprehension by ranging 
 bonbons and comfitures on the table, much, if we may 
 venture the pun, to the discomfiture of the refined 
 ambassador, and not a little to Lady Eleanor's dis- 
 appointment, whose thoughts were far less engaged 
 with the military tactics than with the anecdote of 
 Villiers. 
 
 " Just as we were on the point," continued 
 O'Brien, " of debouching from the forest (de- 
 bouching, you should know, means issuing out, 
 and is a military phrase,) — just here, by this green 
 bonbon, you see, the alarm was given, and in an 
 instant we found ourselves surrounded. I had ad- 
 vanced before the rest, and was cut off from behind. 
 Four of the rebels fell on me. I received a wound 
 across my sword-hand — here it is" (and he held up 
 his hand), " which completely disabled me ; and I 
 was on the jDoint of being cut down between them, 
 when one of my assailants was cloven across the 
 head with a sabre-blow. An officer threw himself 
 before me, bidding me make my retreat, and he 
 would cover it. A "second assailant was stretched 
 by him on the ground. But before any of our own 
 men, whom he had rallied, could come to our assist- 
 ance, I received another blow, under which I fell to 
 the ground, stunned and senseless. When I reco-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 275 
 
 vered my consciousness, I was lying on a bed of 
 leaves in a deep thicket, the light of morning just 
 dawning, and only one person with me, who was 
 employed in bandaging my wounds, — and that per- 
 son was Yilliers. I was perishing with thirst. He 
 had procured some water in a hollow stone, and 
 some biscuit, which I afterwards found was all that 
 he had for himself. And when, with a mixed sen- 
 sation of resentment, indignation, and shame, I in- 
 terrogated him as to the reason of his presence, he 
 charged me to be silent, for that we were still near 
 the enemy's outposts, and that we must wait tiU night 
 before we could venture to move." 
 
 " Wliat had brought him on the expedition ? " 
 
 " I found subsequently that he had learned, after 
 we had left our quarters, that we should probably 
 be surprised ; had obtained permission from the 
 commanding officer to follow with a few men ; had 
 come to my personal rescue : and when the rest had 
 been compelled to retire, he had thrown himself, 
 with me, into the wood, had dismissed those who 
 carried me, and had remained himself watching by 
 me till a reinforcement could be sent, and I could 
 be removed. And, now, will Lady Eleanor excuse 
 a stranger, if he has taken up her time with a tale 
 of such a man ? " 
 
 " And you both escaped ? " asked Lady Eleanor. 
 
 " We lay covered alA that day, not daring to stir ; 
 and in the evening a movement was made by our 
 troops, which compelled the rebels to decamp, and 
 we escaped to head-quarters." 
 
 " And from that day," continued Lady Eleanor, 
 " I presume, you date your friendship with Mr. 
 Villiers?" 
 
 " No," replied O'Brien, " not from that day. It 
 was too noble, too oppressive kindness. What with 
 shame, and Avhat with gratitude, I could not feel to 
 T 2
 
 276 IIAATKSTONE. 
 
 him as a friend. I wished to apologise to him pub- 
 licly, but he would not hear of it. Of course, he 
 was received among us again ; and every one spoke 
 of him as a fine, noble-hearted fellow. But those 
 who have injured seldom forgive ; and I could 
 scarcely forgive him, even for saving my life by an 
 act of heroism which made me so immeasurably his 
 inferior. And he knew this ; and never sought to 
 do me any more kindnesses till I was taken seriously 
 ill : and then, when all my other noisy companions 
 deserted me, or only came to pay a hurried visit, 
 and excuse themselves for not staying above a few 
 minutes, I was left alone, terribly depressed, and 
 would have given worlds for any society. He never 
 came near me, however, till one day the nurse 
 begged him to come, and said she knew I should 
 like it, — and I did like it. If he had been my own 
 brother, he could not have been more kind, more 
 affectionate. As soon as he found that I took plea- 
 sure in seeing him, he had his bed moved into the 
 next room, and was with me constantly. And from 
 that time he has been my friend. Such a friend," 
 he continued, looking on Lady Eleanor with his 
 
 large full eye suffused for a moment, " as 
 
 But I must not weary you with my enthusiasm." 
 
 Lady Eleanor was not wearied ; she was any 
 thing but Avearied : but there was one question which 
 she longed to ask, but scarcely dared. 
 
 " My little observation respecting fasting," she 
 said, " has brought from you a very interesting 
 anecdote. Mr. Villiers was then a Protestant ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said O'Brien ; " he never was any thing 
 else. But he used to do a number of things which 
 I am afraid are not very common among Protestants. 
 I know he associated very much with an American 
 bishop, near whom we were stationed ; and I suspect 
 what he saw in America very much confirmed him
 
 HAWKSTONE. 277 
 
 in many of Lis opinions. I have private reasons 
 for knowing that he regularly set apart a tenth of 
 his income, and it was very small, for charitable 
 and religious purposes ; and he often urged me to 
 do the same. He used regularly to stay at church." 
 
 And the young officer, in using the ordinary ex- 
 pression applied to the most solemn act of Christian 
 devotion, little thought of the censure it implied 
 upon the great mass of Christian congregations who 
 do not stay, but go away. 
 
 " I have known him," continued O'Brien, " ride 
 twenty miles for the purpose on a Saturday, and 
 return on the Monday. He had regular hours when 
 he used to disappear ; and even in the middle of the 
 day I am convinced that he was in the habit of 
 praying. I was young and thoughtless," continued 
 O'Brien, " and have been worse than thoughtless ; 
 but I have learnt from him lessons which will be a 
 blessing to me to the end of my life." 
 
 " His Excellency will drink wine with you, sir," 
 interrupted the plumed chasseur of the noble host, 
 whose indignation at his young guest's vivacity was 
 considerably mollified when he observed the atten- 
 tion paid by Lady Eleanor, whom his fastidious taste 
 recognised as a model of refinement, to O'Brien's 
 animated conversation. The interruption, however, 
 did not prevent O'Brien from returning to his fa- 
 vourite theme. 
 
 " I fear," he said, " that with all his goodness he 
 is, and has been, very unhappy. I rarely saw him 
 smile." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Lady Eleanor, " his unhappiness 
 may have been the cause of his goodness ?" 
 
 " It was not goodness," replied O'Brien, " if I 
 might trust his own account, which caused his un- 
 happiness. He never recovered the loss of his child 
 and wife." 
 
 T 3
 
 278 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 " "Wife ! " repeated Lady Eleanor, thrown off her 
 guard, and her eye lighting up as if a weight had 
 been removed from her mind. O'Brien looked sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, " I am betraying confidence. 
 But I know what falsehoods are often circulated. 
 He certainly was married in Italy to a young person, 
 whose portrait in a moment of great distress he 
 once showed me. She must have been exquisitely 
 beautiful. Poor thing ! she died of a decline within 
 a short time after her marriage, and the child was 
 lost in some extraordinary way." 
 
 He was silent, and Lady Eleanor would have 
 willingly induced him to continue, but knew not 
 how, without betraying the deep interest which she 
 felt in the tale. 
 
 " She was the daughter," added O'Brien, " of an 
 officer in the Spanish army, of high rank, but who 
 had been driven from his country through political 
 disturbances in which he had become involved." 
 
 " I had heard something of this," replied Lady 
 Eleanor ; " but I had fancied she was of low birth." 
 
 " No, certainly not," answered O'Brien. " They 
 were reduced to great poverty, and the father sup- 
 ported himself by his own hands ; but there was 
 certainly good blood." 
 
 Once more there was a pause. 
 
 " He seems," said O'Brien, " to have doted on 
 his child, though it was so young. I shall never 
 forget a scene I witnessed, and which led to his 
 telling me these facts ; for otherwise he was very 
 reserved, and rarely spoke of himself or his own 
 affairs, even to his most intimate friends." 
 
 Lady Eleanor begged him to proceed. 
 
 " There was a young soldier," he continued, " in 
 the regiment, who was very ill-conducted and dis- 
 sipated; and after a number of reprimands and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 279 
 
 slighter punishments, it became necessary to have 
 him flogged. Villiers happened to be the oificer 
 who was ordered to superintend the execution of 
 the sentence — never a very pleasant task ; but 
 though most gentle in himself, he was remarkably 
 firm when it was necessary to punish. I have seen 
 him do things, without moving a muscle, which our 
 greatest disciplinarians would have shrunk from. 
 In this case something led him to have a communi- 
 cation with the poor culprit before the flogging 
 commenced. He heard his story, — who he was, — 
 how he had been brought into his present state. It 
 appeared that he had been kidnapped from his 
 parents when young, and had been thrown into 
 every kind of temptation, and ruined by bad com- 
 pany. I shall never forget Yilliers's face as he 
 came upon the ground after the interview. It was 
 pale as ashes. His lips were nearly bitten through. 
 But he took his position, — gave the signal, — never 
 shrunk, till after the tenth lash, when the poor 
 fellow uttered a hideous cry, and Villiers di'opped 
 to the ground. He was taken up senseless ; and I 
 never saw such agony as, he evinced when he re- 
 covered. It was this which brought me to know 
 the circumstances which had occurred to him before 
 he joined the regiment. What made him feel most 
 acuxely the loss of his child was the sense that he 
 himself had been undutiful to his own father." 
 
 Lady Eleanor sighed deeply. 
 
 " But I am distressing you," said O'Brien, " by 
 these melancholy reminiscences. And here is the 
 signal for breaking up our solemn festivities — for 
 a more solemn dinner I never saw." 
 
 " Who is that distinguished-looking man ?" asked 
 the Duchess of San Lorenzo, as she reconnoitred 
 with her glass the brilliant groups whicli began to 
 T 4
 
 280 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 fill the ambassador's saloons on the breaking up of 
 the dinner party. 
 
 " Do you mean," asked a lively conceited little 
 abbe, who had attached himself to her side — "do 
 you mean that tall mustachioed Russian bear, who 
 is leaning against the pillar ? " 
 
 " No, — the one on the other side by the win- 
 dow." 
 
 " Oh, that slim youth with the long flowing hair 
 and the collar turned down to expose his Byron 
 neck ! That is the young English lord who writes 
 the verses for the fashionable albums." 
 
 " How can you suppose I mean him ? " pettishly 
 replied the duchess. " Who would apply such an 
 epithet as distinguished to him ? " 
 
 " Is it the robust figure who is taking snufi" out 
 of a gold snuff-box, with a hand covered with gold 
 rings, and brushing off the dust from his gold bro- 
 caded waistcoat ? " 
 
 " How can you ask such a question ? Do you 
 see Lady Eleanor Villiers ? " 
 
 " If your Grace were not in the room," replied 
 the little abbe, " I should say how can I possibly 
 see any one else when she is here ? " 
 
 " Well, look to the right of her, — not the young 
 officer ; that is Captain O'Brien ; but the person in 
 black — rather dark — without any thing very 
 marked about him, — so simple and quiet, and yet 
 with such an eye. See, the ambassador is coming 
 up to him. He must be some one of consequence, 
 for I never knew our punctilious host throw away 
 such urbanity and condescension on ordinary mor- 
 tals. See, Lord Claremont is introducing him. I 
 declare the ambassador is shaking hands with him ; 
 and old General Fitzwilliam is moving towards 
 him. Do find him out, and bring him to me." 
 
 And the little abbe fidgetted away to execute the
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 281 
 
 duchess's orders, full of the gratitude which he 
 should excite in the interesting stranger, by intro- 
 ducing him to the great leader of the fashionable 
 world of Florence, whose fiat, notwithstanding 
 her frivolity and levity, stamped consequence on 
 any one whom she condescended to notice. As he 
 approached Lady Eleanor, Villiers and O'Brien 
 were conversing with her, — O'Brien with his usual 
 animation, and Villiers even cheerfully. He even 
 laughed at some story which the young Irishman 
 was relating ; and Lady Eleanor looked pleased to 
 see him shake off his gravity. The little abbe found 
 no difficulty in insinuating himself into the group, 
 requesting an introduction, and offering his assistance 
 in exploring the classical scenes of Florence ; all 
 which courtesies Villiers received gently, but with 
 a little distance of manner which might easily have 
 been mistaken for hauteur. But the abbe could 
 not be repelled. He proposed an introduction to 
 the duchess ; but Villiers bowed coldly, almost 
 sternly ; and expressing to Lady Eleanor his hope 
 that he had sufficiently done his duty in paying his 
 respects to the ambassador, he shook O'Brien by 
 the hand, and retired, unobserved, from the gay 
 throng.
 
 282 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 When Villiers came to Florence, it was for a week 
 only, in order to conclude some necessary business 
 with Lord Claremont connected with the restoration 
 of his property. But the week passed, and matters 
 were still unsettled : the month came, and he was 
 still there. It became necessary to fix the period 
 of his return to England, and he found himself still 
 postponing his departure ; each day becoming more 
 loth to leave the place. Why ? he never thought 
 of asking himself. But day slided into day unob- 
 servedly : at last some private business rendered it 
 necessary for Lord Claremont and Lady Eleanor to 
 go for a short time to Venice. Yilliers, by Lady 
 Eleanor's request to her father, was not a.sked to 
 join them. It was proposed that he should remain 
 at Florence till their return ; and the good Abbe 
 St. Maur, the French Roman Catholic priest who 
 resided in the family, proposed to remain with him. 
 Villiers found, to his surprise, that he would gladly 
 have accompanied his uncle to Venice ; he found 
 also, to his no less surprise, that with the departure 
 of his cousin the whole charm of Florence disap- 
 peared ; and that the house, which before was so 
 full to him of animation and enjoyment that he 
 could not bring himself to quit it, had become a 
 dreary vacuity. He was not indeed without thoughts 
 and occupations which filled his mind ; but even 
 these had lost their absorbing interest, until, in one 
 of the blank moments of chilliness which fall on us 
 when a vacant chair reminds us of an absent being, 
 a light flashed across him ; and the good Abbe ob-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 283 
 
 served that, after a silent breakfast, Villiers walked 
 for more tlian an hour up and down the same walk 
 in the garden, his eje occasionally glancing up to a 
 particular window, and his pace hurrying after each 
 glance. The Abbe was an attentive observer ; but 
 he never intruded upon confidence : and except that 
 he looked into Villiers's face with more of kind and 
 affectionate interest than usual, as Villiers brought 
 him his stick and covered his silver hair with his 
 hat, previous to their going out for their usual 
 walk, there was nothing to betray what was passing 
 in the mind of the benevolent and simple-minded 
 ecclesiastic. Perhaps, however, something of this 
 might be gathered from a letter which he sat up 
 that night to write, and which we can insert at 
 length, because, by our usual faculty of ubiquity, 
 we were present at the post-office at Rome when a 
 stout, sinister-looking person, no other than Mr. 
 Pearce himself, came there to ask for letters for the 
 Rev. Mr. O'Dogherty, then an inmate in the Jesuits' 
 College ; and by the same faculty we followed Mr. 
 Pearce into a small house, previous to his returning 
 to the College, and by means of a process familiar 
 to himself, were there able to read the letter with 
 him before it was resealed and taken to its original 
 destination. It ran thus : — 
 
 " My dear O'Dogherty, 
 " I received your last letter with some surprise, 
 and reply to it with much pain. But, as a Christian 
 minister, I cannot hesitate to speak what I feel. I 
 never can take a part in any intrigue or plot, how- 
 ever desirable the object may seem. I do not think 
 that plotting and intriguing can ever be serviceable 
 to the Church of Christ, or to the cause of His truth. 
 And, devotedly as I am attached to our holy Church, 
 I have lamented most deeply that others have so
 
 284 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 frequently endeavoured to assist and support it by 
 what I must consider artifices unworthy of such an 
 object. Surely we have suffered enough already for 
 such conduct. I can well understand that the per- 
 son of whom you speak should be an object of inte- 
 rest to all those who are concerned in restoring 
 England to the unity of the faith. I have seen 
 enough of him here to be assured that, wherever he 
 is placed, he must exercise a powerful influence. 
 His high-mindedness, his integrity, his firmness, 
 his conscientious strictness, his ardent enthusiasm, 
 and his command of property and rank, would render 
 him a most important convert ; and I should rejoice, 
 like yourself, to see him received into the bosom of 
 our holy Church. More than this, it is my duty, at 
 proper times, and in an open honest manner, to set 
 before him the truth, and to lead him, as I may 
 have opportunities, to embrace it. But this is very 
 different from becoming a spy upon his actions, 
 communicating his thoughts to others, or under- 
 taking any secret manceuvres to accomplish such a 
 desirable result. I deeply grieve that you should 
 have known me so ill as to make to me such a pro- 
 position ; for however cautiously your letter is 
 worded, I cannot read it in any other sense. And 
 I will frankly declare, that no zeal for your order, 
 or vow of obedience to your superiors, or prospect 
 of benefit to the Church, can justify your engaging 
 in such schemes. I must distrust, and deplore, and 
 deprecate, any organisation, or religious association, 
 which proceeds upon such principles. It is founded 
 in falsehood and deceit, and must end in heresy and 
 schism. You will call me a Protestant ; but my 
 heart is Catholic as your own. I would even charge 
 you to abstain from these intrigues, by the hope 
 which I have that they are not required ; and that, 
 if all things are left to the hand of Providence, He
 
 HAWKSTONE. 285 
 
 will bring out the end which we all should desire. 
 His mind is at this moment any thing but settled. 
 He has been shocked in America by the full deve- 
 lopment of what is commonly called Protestantism. 
 He abhors that licence of self-will and of private 
 judgment which casts off all deference to authority, 
 all belief in the testimony of the Church, and in the 
 social principle by which the Church, as a body po- 
 litic, exists. And he is too acute not to see that it 
 must lead to every kind of dissension and heresy ; 
 and, with the banishment of truth, must banish 
 order, and goodness, and religion from the world. 
 All this he thoroughly understands, and requires no 
 one to teach him. Much of it, I suspect, he derives 
 from early impressions ; much from his own ge- 
 nerous nature : and he speaks often to me of an 
 American bishop (so called), who appears to have 
 exercised considerable influence over his mind, and 
 to have taken pains to point out to him the working 
 of these principles of mischief in that unhappy 
 country. I have also reason to believe that he has 
 friends in England, a Mr. Beattie in particular, 
 whom he consults on these points, and who is very 
 much tinctured with the new notions that are spring- 
 ing up in the English Church. I mention these 
 things that, if your views with respect to him are 
 simply to extricate him from error, your mind may 
 be in some degree relieved. It would be idle, how- 
 ever, to disguise that he is at present a strict con- 
 formist to the English communion, and carries out 
 its rules with far more scrupulousness than I have 
 ever observed in any of his countrymen. He is, 
 indeed, so conscientious, that I cannot imagine his 
 becoming a member of any society, least of all of a 
 religious society, without endeavouring fully to act 
 up to its spirit and its rules. At the same time, I 
 cannot but perceive that he has once entertained a
 
 286 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 strong predilection for our holy Church ; and though 
 some degree of repugnance to it succeeded in conse- 
 quence of circumstances which occuiTcd to him some 
 years back, (circumstances, let me remind you, 
 which had their origin in the artifices and intrigues 
 then employed to win him over,) since he has been 
 in Florence, and especially since he has seen the 
 conduct of Lady E., I have reason to think that his 
 feelings are very much mitigated. He often speaks 
 to me of the possibility of such a reform in the 
 Church as would restore the unity of Christendom. 
 Unity appears to be his chief thought. He dreads 
 the anarcliical spirit which is rising up against the 
 truth ; mourns over the impotency of secular go- 
 vernments to arrest the torrent of change ; longs to 
 see once more the Church of his own country re- 
 asserting her spiritual power, and gathering the 
 people under her wing. And this, he thinks, cannot 
 be achieved until its arm is strengthened, and its 
 spirit renewed, by the restoration of peace and con- 
 cord to the whole Church of Christ. So much I 
 am at liberty to tell you without violating con- 
 fidence. Nor, indeed, am I possessed of his confi- 
 dence further than that he seems to take pleasure in 
 conversing with me on such subjects. You hint at 
 other things — at the influence which Lady E. may 
 have upon his mind, and the probability of this 
 winning him over, even if every thing else failed. 
 Once more let me warn you not to engage in such 
 speculations, or in any manceuvres to efiect such an 
 object. If such a union as you contemplate should 
 be ordained by Providence, I can imagine few more 
 likely to be blessed, as I have never seen persons 
 apparently more suited to each other, more pure, 
 more high-minded, more able to appreciate, and 
 support, and improve each other's character, and to 
 give a wonderful strength and support to the cause
 
 '*- HAWKSTONE. 287 
 
 of our Church in England. But let us leave such 
 designs to Providence : let us leave to Him also 
 to accomplish the great end we have in view — the 
 conversion of England. I pray for it as you pray. 
 But I cannot bring myself to view the Church of 
 England as you do, or to confound it with that hete- 
 rogeneous and fearful mass of heresy and dissent 
 which has overrun that unhappy country. It has, 
 indeed, severed itself from the see of Rome ; but so, 
 also, our own Church in France has denied much 
 that you, on your side of the Alps, consider essential 
 to a right fixith in this article. The English Church 
 has preserved the creeds, the four first councils, 
 her apostolic succession, (all this, strongly as you 
 would deny it, I cannot, in common honesty, re- 
 fuse to allow,) her respect for primitive antiquity, 
 though individually it may have been neglected, 
 the Holy Scriptures, and a sound principle of in- 
 terpreting them by the aid of the teaching of the 
 Church. I know how strongly you repudiate such 
 concessions ; but as I differ from you in many other 
 points, so I lament, and can only anticipate evil from 
 a refusal to acknowledge in others palpable good. 
 It is not honest ; it is not Christian. And sadly as 
 the individual teachers and members of the English 
 Church have neglected or misunderstood her teach- 
 ing, sadly as her rulers may have failed to enforce 
 her discipline and to uphold her authority, I can no 
 more charge the sins of individuals upon the com- 
 munion itself than I can reject our own Church, be- 
 cause, as we all confess, its rulers from time to 
 time have so deeply sinned. If this spirit of con- 
 cession and of charity prevailed among us — if our 
 own Church would acknowledge that the English 
 Church was a true branch of Christ's Catholic Body, 
 and would seek to restore communion with it by 
 correcting what is amiss in itself, and by abstaining
 
 288 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 from troubling the peace of others, I cannot but 
 believe that the English Church also would rejoice 
 to see the wounds of Christendom healed, and would 
 not hesitate to remove any thing in her own practice 
 which might reasonably offend a sister or a mother 
 church. But so long as we violently condemn what 
 we are not called on to judge, and cut off from sal- 
 vation those whom the early Church would not 
 have excluded, and confound those who at most are 
 erring in inferior matters with gross heretics and 
 deliberate offenders against Christ's laws, and send 
 out emissaries to trouble the peace of Christian 
 communities, — so long, I must think, that we are 
 sinning against God, and though a zealous and affec- 
 tionate son of our Holy Church, I cannot ; expect 
 that a blessing will be vouchsafed upon her labours. 
 I know to what I should expose myself if these 
 my opinions became generally known. But I am 
 now old, and life has no longer any thing to tempt 
 me. I have thought deeply and honestly on these 
 things ; and when I am called on, I shall not hesi- 
 tate to declare my conviction. I pray, as you pray, 
 for the restoration of England to the unity of the 
 Church ; but I pray also that we may discharge our 
 duty in preparing for this great work by cutting off 
 our own offences. England indeed is important, 
 and you are right in directing towards her your chief 
 thoughts. Her wealth, her intelligence, her weight 
 in the councils of Europe, her science, her com- 
 mand of the seas, her vast empire, her commerce 
 and her colonies, which would give Christianity 
 access to every part of the world, her language, 
 which is spread over the whole continent, her gi- 
 gantic resources of every kind, her very position on 
 the globe, point her out as the strong arm of Christ's 
 Church — as the great sanctuary of Clu-ist's truth. 
 With England doing its duty for the cause of the 
 Gospel, what triumphs might we not expect for
 
 HA^YKSTONE. 289 
 
 that Gospel even to the end of the world ? In all 
 this we heartily agree. But beware lest your zeal 
 for Rome make you the preacher of another gospel 
 than that which Christ and his Apostles preached. 
 Seek not to make England a handmaid of the Pope 
 rather than a handmaid of Christ. Think not 
 of a spiritual empire over the minds and bodies 
 of men, but of proclaiming to them truth, and truth 
 only. And then you will not be tempted to en- 
 gage in those plots and conspiracies (I cannot call 
 them by a milder name) in which none take refuge 
 but those who have objects at heart which they 
 cannot trust to God's providence to accomplish, or 
 who have not faith in his power. You know that I 
 have always remonstrated against any such means 
 of effecting Christian objects. They have brought 
 upon us already hatred, shame, persecution, con- 
 tempt, and punishment — punishment most de- 
 served, though most severe. They have arrayed 
 against us not only kings and princes, but people 
 and priests. They have made the very name that 
 you bear a by-word for falsehood and cunning. 
 And the principle on which they were adopted at 
 the first has led to other acts and other doctrines, 
 which have roused even bishops and fathers of our 
 Church to protest against your system as against 
 tlie Antichrist, which is to come. Forgive me this 
 freedom. But as an old and beloved friend — as 
 one with whom I have borne much, and whom I 
 cannot believe to be yet entangled irremediably in 
 the meshes of a most dangerous policy, — I warn you, 
 and pray for you, that you may yet be preserved in 
 the simplicity and innocency of Christian charity. 
 My letter of course you will destroy. And my 
 secret, so far as ray opinions may be a secret, is, 
 I know, safe in your hands. 
 
 "From your affectionate brother in tlie Lord, 
 
 " PiEiiRE St. Mauk." 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 IIAAVKSTOXE. 
 
 The effect of this letter upon the person to whom 
 it was addressed, it is unnecessary at present to ex- 
 plain. One thing also may be observed, that it was 
 not destroyed. The admissions in it were too im- 
 portant to permit their being lost. And the simple 
 unsuspicious St. Maur little thought, that in making 
 such a communication to a bosom friend he was 
 betraying himself to a whole community. In the 
 meanwhile the absence of Lord Claremont and 
 Lady Eleanor threw him every day more into the 
 company and cenfidence of Villiers, whose respect 
 for his office, for his age, for his singular simpli- 
 city and piety, and for the absence of all bigotry 
 and bitterness from the strictness of his religious 
 opinions, was increased as he became more ac- 
 quainted with the trials through which he had 
 passed. By degrees each opened his mind more 
 freely to the other. And St. Maur felt no scruple 
 in suggesting to Villiers all the considerations which 
 rendered the union of the Church under the Eo- 
 man Pontiff an object of such paramount interest 
 and importance. He pointed out the impotency of 
 any national church to resist the aggressions of the 
 civil power. He showed the necessity of its allying 
 itself with that civil power, if left without any otlier 
 arm to strengthen its authority. He recounted the 
 temptations of Erastianism, and the corruptions and 
 laxity of discipline which such secularity involved. 
 He dwelt much on the same grand view of Chris- 
 tian unity which Macarthy had before with pic- 
 turesque effect, and all the eloquence of cntliu- 
 siasm exhibited to Villiers at Eome. He asked 
 how doubts could be resolved without some one 
 authoritative expositor of divine truth — how dis- 
 sensions and schis'^ms could be prevented where 
 doubts were permitted — how the picture of the 
 Church, as delineated in the Jewish polity, could
 
 HAWKSTONE. 291 
 
 be developed except by establishing within it some 
 visible centre of unitj. with one Great High Priest 
 and one glorious Temple. All the ordinary pro- 
 cesses by which the Scriptures have. been pressed 
 into the service of Romish controversialists were 
 familiar to him ; and he adopted them with a sim- 
 plicity of faith and sincerity of conviction which 
 gave, at times, even to vague inferences and meta- 
 phorical analogies, the force of argument. Vil- 
 liers listened. And when he brought forward the 
 result of his own inquiries on primitive antiquity, 
 and with a noble indignation protested against the 
 forgeries and falsehoods by which the papal supre- 
 macy had been maintained on this ground, the 
 honest, unreserved St. Maur threw him off his 
 guard at once, by conceding the point, by allowing 
 the doctrine to be a mere modern development, but 
 a development of expediency. 
 
 " Development ! " repeated Villiers to himself ; 
 " Development ! " and he dropped the abbe's arm as 
 they were walking in the gardens of the Palais Pitti ; 
 and while the old man rested himself against a vase, 
 Villiers was thoughtfully pacing the terrace before 
 the grand fountain, which shot up a column of water 
 high into the air, and tlien spread it out and deve- 
 loped it in a fan-like canopy and dome of silver. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 HA\YKSTOXE. 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 " Development ! " again repeated Yilliers, " Deve- 
 lopment ! " as he stood the next morning watching 
 a young orange-tree which was shooting out its 
 tender leaves from a newly-planted stem, when a 
 servant came to announce to him that a gentleman, 
 with letters of introduction from England, was in 
 the saloon. Yilliers's thoughts were still upon the 
 subject of development, when he found himself 
 facing a young man with an easy rather than a gen- 
 tlemanly address, and a disagreeable sneer upon a 
 cold sceptical countenance, which made Yilliers, 
 who was sensitively alive to such physiognomies, 
 throw into his manner all the coldness and reserve 
 which was consistent with his usual politeness. The 
 gentleman had brought an introduction to Lord 
 Claremont from an under secretary of state, with 
 whom he had become acquainted by writing a po- 
 litical pamphlet in defence of the Ii'ish education 
 system. And he introduced himself by a name 
 which Yilliers had never heard before, but with 
 which our readers are already acquainted, Mr. Mar- 
 maduke Brook. 
 
 ]Mi\ Marmaduke Brook was what is commonly 
 called a man of the world. He had raised himself 
 from a comparatively obscure rank to a certain po- 
 sition by the address with which, both at school 
 and at college, and in after-life, he had insinuated 
 himself into the acquaintance of persons of rank, 
 and attaclied himself to them. As is usually the 
 case, his liberal and democratical theories were per-
 
 HAT^TISTOXE. 293 
 
 fectly compatible with a profound and fulsome re- 
 verence for rank in itself, and a great degree of 
 soreness and discontent at the reflection that he did 
 not possess it. But, clever and acute as he was, he 
 soon learned that intimacy and influence with the 
 fashionable and aristocratic world, which constituted 
 the great object of his earthly ambition, was not to 
 be attained by mere servility. He affected, therefore, 
 considerable independence ; never condescended to 
 flattery, except where he saw that this was the only 
 bait which he could offer ; and assumed a tone of 
 equality, and even of superiority, which threw ordi- 
 nary companions off" their guard, and in which, 
 however surprised at first, they soon learned to 
 acquiesce. The same policy he proposed to follow 
 with Villiers ; but for once in his life he found him- 
 self completely baffled by the simplicity, but cold- 
 ness, of Villiers's manners. His talent, however, 
 and a certain power of accommodating himself to 
 the tastes and habits of any society, enabled him by 
 degrees to force himself even upon Yilliers, whose 
 acquaintance he soon found it was important for 
 him to obtain. And notwithstanding the repug- 
 nance, amounting to antipathy, with which Villiers 
 regarded his selfish and worldly character, and his 
 avowed principles of liberalism, both in religion 
 and in politics, it frequently happened that Mr. 
 Brook was permitted to intrude his company upon 
 the abbe and himself after the introduction of the 
 first day had been attained. 
 
 It was on one of these occasions that the abbe 
 and Villiers were standing in the gallery of Florence, 
 watching a young artist who was copying, on a large 
 scale, the celebrated " St. John." The ardent intel- 
 ligent features of tlie boy — for he was scarcely more 
 — had struck Villiers; and he had been led, as he 
 usually was led by such a spectacle, to inquire into 
 u 3
 
 294 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 his history, with something more than common 
 curiosity, as if some secret hope, which nevertheless 
 he knew to be vain, was still to be fulfilled by the 
 inquiry — as if he were about to find something which 
 he had long lost. But the boy's story was still un- 
 finished, when the abbe came up and stood with 
 him, watching the young painter's progress. 
 
 " And you are copying this picture at large," said 
 Villiers, "for an altar-piece?" 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And it is to be four times the size of the ori- 
 ginal?" 
 
 The young artist assented. 
 
 Villiers paused a little. " Suppose," he continued, 
 taking the abbe's arm — "suppose that in effecting 
 this enlarged copy — this development, you were to 
 insert a feature, or a colour, or a portraiture of your 
 own, what would your employer say to you ? " 
 " I suppose, sir, he would not buy my picture." 
 " And suppose," added Villiers, " that in copying 
 the face you left the eyes of the same size as the 
 original, while you made the nose of the magnified 
 proportion, what would you produce ? " 
 
 The boy laughed, and answered that it would be 
 a monster. 
 
 " You would not call it," said Villiers, " a deve- 
 lopment, but a destruction of the original?" 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " So that there are two laws," said Villiers, 
 "which you observe in your process of deve- 
 lopment, — first, to insert nothing of your own; and 
 secondly, to develope the whole together, not omitting 
 any part?" 
 
 The abbe smiled, for he knew what was passing 
 in Villiers's mind. 
 
 "And will not these laws," Villiers continued, 
 turning to the abbe, — " will not these laws apply to
 
 HAWKSTOXE. 295 
 
 the office of the Church in developing the doctrine 
 and the discipline of the Gospel? Must she not 
 beware of introducing anything of her own in the 
 pure simple word of Revelation ? And when she 
 does expand and illustrate its general doctrines, 
 must she not take care to embrace them all, to 
 omit none, to bestow equal attention, and develope 
 in equal proportions all alike, lest she make not a 
 copy, but a monster ? " 
 
 The abbe assented. 
 
 " How far your Church," continued Villiers, " has 
 observed the first rule, might be a separate question. 
 But consider only the second. You say that in the 
 fourth and later centuiies the doctrine of the unity 
 of the Church was developed into the papal supre- 
 macy. Were there not other doctrines which should 
 have been developed also, and which you have suf- 
 fered to remain in less than their original proportion — 
 the doctrine of the authorityof the whole college of the 
 Apostles, of their Apostolical privileges separately, 
 of the Episcopal power, of the independence of the 
 civil state, of the authority of Scripture ? Were not 
 these essentially parts of- the system of primitive 
 Christianity, and have you not so neglected these, 
 while you expounded the doctrine of the visible 
 unity of the Church, that they have been overlaid, 
 as it were, and suppressed under the partial exag- 
 geration of a single counterbalancing feature ? " 
 
 Before the abbe could satisfy himself with an 
 answer, Mr. Brook, who had seen and joined the 
 little group, ventured, in defiance of Villiers's very 
 cold recognition, to take a part in the conversation. 
 " You are speaking, I find, of the new doctrine, which 
 is causing such a sensation in England. It is sin- 
 gular to see how you high churchmen are coming 
 round by degrees to the truth." 
 
 Villiers opened his eyes widely, and looked at him. 
 u 4
 
 296 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " Mr. Brook must excuse me for begging that 
 he will not apply to me any title but that of 
 churchman. I know nothing either of high or low ; 
 and it is the use of such party words which has 
 already done incalculable injury to the cause of 
 truth and peace." 
 
 Brook quailed under the eye of Yilliers, but soon 
 recovered himself. " And yet you must allow," he 
 said, " that there are parties in the Church, and that 
 those who have adopted what are called High Church 
 views are also putting forward their doctrine of 
 development." 
 
 " We must allow," said Yilliers, " that a few in- 
 dividuals who have hitherto maintained principles 
 in accordance with the great body of the Church 
 are now running into extravagances, and endea- 
 vouring to propagate error. But we must be very 
 cautious whom we confound with them." 
 
 " I confess," continued Mr. Brook, " that I am 
 rejoiced to see any approach at last to liberality and 
 freedom of view. Why is religion, any more than 
 any other art or science, to be excluded from those 
 improvements and expansions, which the progress 
 of knowledge and civilization must produce ? We 
 know how experience increases knowledge, how pre- 
 judices are removed, and errors corrected, by the 
 advance of time. You speak of antiquity ; but Ave, 
 as Bacon truly says, are the real ancients. Surely 
 there is no reason why dogmas of theology may not 
 be amended and corrected as well as theories of any 
 other philosophy ? " 
 
 " But one reason," said the abbe, gravely, — " that 
 religion, the Christian religion, is a revelation, and 
 that philosophical theories are discoveries : one 
 comes from God, the other from man ; one is given 
 to us perfect at once, tlie other is imperfect, and 
 perfected only by degrees."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 297 
 
 " All ! " said Brook ; " but then you take for 
 granted the foct that your theological dogmas — for 
 instance, your Athanasian Creed — are revelations." 
 
 Yilliers coloured indignantly. 
 
 " Mr. Brook will feel," he said, " that, in speak- 
 ing to a clergyman, and even to a lay member of 
 the Church, who heartily believes what he promised 
 to believe at his baptism, it is at least becoming to 
 speak with respect of the faith which they profess. 
 Whether there are not higher motives for reverence, 
 whether the bare possibility of such doctrines having 
 come from Heaven may not be sufficient to alarm 
 us against treating them with sneers and sarcasm, I 
 will leave it Mr. Brook's own good taste to judge." 
 
 Brook had not been accustomed to hear levity 
 on such subjects rebuked, and he was rather sur- 
 prised. But his courage was not daunted. 
 
 " I can assure you," he replied, " that I had no 
 intention of giving offence ; far from it. But may 
 I venture to ask the abbe how he proves the fact of 
 the revelation of this or that doctrine ? " 
 
 " Assuredly," said the abbe ; " by the testimony 
 of the Church." 
 
 " Testimony to what, my dear abbe ? " asked 
 Yilliers. 
 
 " To the particular doctrine," replied the abbe, 
 " which is called in question — testimony that it has 
 been handed down from the Apostles ; and their 
 supernatural commission, of course, is attested by 
 their miracles." 
 
 " That it has been handed down ! " asked Yil- 
 liers. " Then this would imply that it has been 
 transmitted unchanged. You must identify it, must 
 you not, throughout?" 
 
 " Certainly," said the abbe. 
 
 " And is it easy," asked Yilliers, " to identify it 
 without preserving it unchanged ? If a messenger
 
 298 IIAAVKSTONE. 
 
 comes to me from a friend with a letter, stating that 
 he is to bring me a young infant, and, when I ask for 
 the infant, he produces me a full-grown man" 
 
 " You mean the development of the infant," inter- 
 rupted Brook, laughing. But there was something 
 in the illustration which had suggested itself that 
 seemed to have pained Yilliers, and he was silent. 
 The abbe was evidently perplexed, but recovered 
 himself. 
 
 " Surely," he said, " if you were in India, or 
 some still more remote country, and a considerable 
 time had elapsed between the writing of the letter 
 and the arrival of the messenger, you would not be 
 surprised to find that the child had grown? You 
 would not doubt its identity because it was no 
 longer a mere infant ?" 
 
 " 1^0," said Yilliers ; " because in the child itself 
 there is a principle of growth ; and its alteration is 
 so necessary that it must be implied in the original 
 message." 
 
 " And is it not so," asked the abbe, " with divine 
 truth? Has not that also within it a principle of 
 growth ? TYas not the seed sown by our Lord upon 
 earth, and left by Him expressly to be developed, 
 after his Ascension, by the Holy Spirit in the mind 
 of His Church ? " 
 
 " Of His Apostles, assuredly," said Yilliers. " But 
 the question at issue is, whether any, since the 
 Apostles, have been entrusted with the same power 
 of developing it ? " 
 
 " What do you understand by development ? " 
 asked the abbe. " What is precisely the process of 
 it ? and then, perhaps, we may obtain more insight 
 into the truth." 
 
 " I mean by development," said Yilliers, " the 
 application of a general rule, or a general principle, 
 to the particular cases which fall under it. Thus
 
 HATVKSTONE. 299 
 
 the Fourth Commandment, and indeed all the other 
 Commandments, are given to ns in the form of 
 specific enactments, which virtually, and by natural 
 implication, contain in them, like the Trojan horse, a 
 whole host of legitimate inferences and precepts of 
 conduct. The duty of observing the Sabbath in- 
 volves the duty of obeying all other positive com- 
 mands of God ; and the duty of obeying positive 
 commands in general applies to every instance which 
 occurs of the kind. So the doctrine of the divinity 
 of our Blessed Lord involves a multitude of other 
 doctrines ; — as, that he is most humbly to be adored; 
 his atonement — that he is to be blessed and loved by 
 us ; his humanity — that he is to receive from us all 
 such regards and expressions of affection as are due 
 to a perfect human being, partaker of the same 
 natm-e with ourselves. So, also, when two or more 
 doctrines are put together, from these new relations 
 and combinations Avill flow out new deductions and 
 conclusions, just as all the theorems in Euclid are 
 drawn out of the first axioms, problems, and defi- 
 nitions, by means of arranging them in various 
 groups and forms ; just as chemical elements pro- 
 duce an infinite diversity of effects, according as 
 they are thrown into different mixtures and propor- 
 tions. Saltpetre and charcoal, separately, are harm- 
 less : combined, they explode in fire." 
 
 " You are right," said the abbe. " And is not tlie 
 whole process of Christian instruction, and of Chris- 
 tian obedience, such a process of development ? 
 Has Almighty God given to us any more than the 
 first general principles of conduct to guide our, 
 moral life, and the first general truths of the Divine 
 nature to embrace in our intellect, leaving it to our 
 conscience and our understanding to draw them out 
 and apply them to our practice ? " 
 
 Villiers assented.
 
 300 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 "You teach a child his creed," continued the 
 abbe. " Is he to learn nothing more ? You im- 
 press on him the Ten Commandments. Will they 
 alone suffice without some process of development ?" 
 
 Villiers shook his head. 
 
 "Where, then, do you condemn us," asked the 
 abbe, " if we think, that in the polity of the Church, 
 as in many portions of its teaching, something, nay 
 much, may have been left, at the first preaching of 
 the Gospel, to be expounded and drawn out in suc- 
 ceeding generations ? " 
 
 "Precisely so, precisely ! " interrupted Mr. Brook. 
 " I am delighted to hear you. This is precisely 
 what we contend for. You think with us, that 
 there is no necessity to adhere blindly and bigotedly 
 to old formularies of dogmatic teaching — that new 
 light may from time to time stream in upon the 
 truth, — that we, in fact, in the nineteenth century 
 may be much more capable, after longer experience, 
 and with our increased civilization, of distinguish- 
 ing between truth and error than our ancestors 
 1800 years since. This is the very principle which 
 our great dissenting divines, and, indeed, all our 
 best modern philosophers, are anxious to establish, 
 and which what are called the orthodox chm-ch- 
 men are so peremptory in condemning." 
 
 The abbe seemed startled at such zealous ap- 
 probation and support from a person whose prin- 
 ciples were fully as obnoxious to himself as they 
 were to Villiers. "You forget," he said to Mr. 
 Brook, " one very essential diiFerence ; it may be 
 necessary that doctrines should be developed. But 
 it is not the same whether they are developed by 
 an individual, or by the Church. You would leave 
 them to the tender mercies of private judgment; 
 each man thinking and inferring, and applying for
 
 IIAWKSTONE. 301 
 
 himself. With us, this privilege is reserved to a 
 proper ecclesiastical authority." 
 
 " You object, then," said Mr. Brook, " to our 
 theory, because it places the determiuation of truth 
 in the hands of an individual ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the abbe. 
 
 '• Because," continued Brook, " you think an in- 
 dividual is not competent to decide, and that he re- 
 quii'cs correction, assistance, external rule ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And in whom, in the view of a great portion 
 of your Church, does this power reside ? Is it not 
 in the Pope ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the abbe ; " such is the doc- 
 trine of many." 
 
 " And in the Pope, as an individual independent 
 of councils ? " 
 
 " Not with us," said the abbe ; " not with the 
 Galilean Church, but with Jesuits and ultramon- 
 tanes." 
 
 " And you repudiate their view ?" asked Villiers. 
 
 " Assuredly." 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " Because I can find no promise made to justify 
 such an infallibility." 
 
 " Have you not," asked Villiers, " promises as dis- 
 tinct, and language as decisive, in the opinion of 
 many, as you have for the papal supremacy gene- 
 rally?" 
 
 " We adhere," said the abbe, " to the practice 
 and principles of many past generations, in the 
 Church, in conceding to the Pope great power and 
 authority, though it may be difficult to limit it pre- 
 cisely." 
 
 " But you profess," continued Villiers, "to regard 
 the whole body of the Church assembled in her 
 councils^ as the authorised expositor and developer
 
 S02 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 of divine truth — not the individual Pope. The 
 Pope is, with you, only an important member — a 
 voice in the Church? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "And you condemn and excommunicate us," 
 continued Villiers, "not because we reject the au- 
 thority of the Pope, but because we reject the au- 
 thority of what you conceive to be general councils, 
 and therefore, legitimate representatives of the 
 whole church? " 
 
 The abbe was unwilling to make the con- 
 cession, but could not refuse. He made some ob- 
 servations respecting the importance of recognising 
 the papal authority as an element in the tribunal of 
 the Church, but was compelled to acknowledge that 
 it was difficult, or almost impossible, to define accu- 
 rately its extent, or to say when disobedience 
 became a crime. 
 
 " And yet," concluded Villiers, " you do not 
 hesitate to excommunicate us, and to cut us off 
 from salvation, because, in our own judgment of 
 the doctrines and practice of the Primitive Ca- 
 tholic Church, and according to the practice of our 
 own immediate ancestors, we have not allowed to 
 the Pope such an extent of prerogative, in a matter, 
 by your own confession, never accurately defined, as 
 he himself would claim. You have done the same, 
 have you not ? You do not, in the Gallicau Church, 
 allow to him what is claimed by him in Italy. What 
 right have you to modify or circumscribe his pre- 
 rogatives, which we have not in England? And 
 if we have committed a deadly sin, are you not 
 guilty likewise? And yet you join in excommu- 
 nicating us. Is this Christian ? " 
 
 " We are justified," said the abbe, " by the general 
 voice of the church, which you have rejected." 
 
 "I know not," said Villiers, "where you will
 
 HAWKSTONE. 303 
 
 find such rejection. It has been our professed and 
 recorded deske to adhere to the general voice of 
 the Church. But the voice which we recognise is 
 that of the old Church of the AjDostles, and of the first 
 centuries, not that of modern days. And it was not 
 because the Council of Trent developed Christian 
 truth, but because it altered and corrupted it, that 
 we discard its decrees." 
 
 " You agree, then," said the abbe, " that Chris- 
 tian truth must be developed, and developed by the 
 Church?" 
 
 " Assuredly." 
 
 " We have driven away Mr. Brook," remarked 
 the abbe, as that personage retired to join another 
 group at the other end of the gallery. " Tell me 
 now, for we can speak more at ease, what are your 
 real objections to our theory of development." 
 
 " First," replied Villiers, " as I before said, that, 
 in professing to develope, you change and alter. 
 Secondly, that you claim for those to whom you 
 assign the task of development an authority and 
 weight as a representative of the Avhole Church, 
 when in reality they form but a part of it. Thirdly, 
 that not content with requiring to their teaching 
 such amount of moral respect as is fairly propor- 
 tioned to the goodness and wisdom of human teachers, 
 you impose their dogmas as infallible decrees, and 
 made the reception of them essential to salvation. 
 Fourthly, that in so doing you transgress the ex- 
 press commands and warnings of the early Church, 
 which drew a broad and distinct division between 
 that portion of the Christian faith which was to be 
 imposed on and received by all as essential to sal- 
 vation, and that which, however true in itself, or 
 correctly deduced from fundamental credenda, was 
 not itself established as fundamental by God. 
 Fifthly, that you transgress by the same act not
 
 304 HAWK STONE. 
 
 only the commands of God, but the whole analogy 
 of the Church. When we would rear an oak, we 
 know that we must plant an acorn ; and that acorn 
 is itself the oak in a certain stage of development. 
 But if we buried a young tree as we bury the acorn, 
 would it live ? And when we would rear up in the 
 mind of man the full expansion of Christian truth, 
 we must plant in it first the general principles, the 
 filaments of all truth, organised and concentred as in 
 a seed or germ ; for instance, as we find them in the 
 Creed ; but not expanded in a more developed system. 
 In this manner we do not load the mind with more 
 than it can bear ; we do not exact from it more 
 implicit faith than is necessary ; — above all, we do 
 not require its assent to the correctness of the lo- 
 gical faculty in man as exercised upon divine truth, 
 in which attempt it must, by its nature, be liable to 
 err, and has no guarantee against error from a 
 divine promise. AYe require truth only in histo- 
 rical testimony — that such and such doctrines have 
 been received from God. We leave the logical 
 faculty scope to exercise itself subsequently, and 
 the various ramifications and details of doctrine to 
 shoot out and grow, according as they are required, 
 under the care of a teacher and the labours of the 
 pupil conjointly. But you, my dear abbe," con- 
 tinued Yilliers, as he hastened to close the convers- 
 ation on observing the return of Mr. Brook — 
 "you, that is, your Church, would plant in every 
 mind at once the full-grown tree ; and if the mind 
 is incapable of receiving it, if it hesitates to place 
 as much confidence in the reasoning of man as in 
 the word of God, you cut it off" from salvation. 
 And thus you compel the mind either to an un- 
 limited credulity, or an unlimited scepticism. And 
 Romanists, in proportion as they enter zealously 
 and heartily into the spirit of their system, and are
 
 HAWK STONE. 305 
 
 not saved from it by some happy inconsistency, 
 which perpetually embroils and perplexes them as 
 in the Galilean Church, must become either infidels 
 or fanatics." 
 
 " And yet," said the abbe, " if authority has been 
 given to the Church thus to develope, and thus to 
 impose its development on its members " 
 
 " If ! " replied Villiers, " But in that if, how 
 much is included. You cannot show me any such 
 authority in the Scriptures conceded, to say the 
 least, to any but the whole Church as the full repre- 
 sentative of the Apostolical body ; and your Church 
 is but a part. The Romish see, and those who 
 have acceded to it, form but a portion of the Chris- 
 tian body, are representatives but of one Apostle. 
 You cannot produce any such practice from the 
 Primitive Church ! for I deny that the Nicene Creed 
 was a development — it was a statement. It was 
 no more a development of doctrine than Magna 
 Charta in its own language was a development of 
 the English constitution. It was a declaratory law 
 — declaratory of facts and doctrines already in ex- 
 istence. And the reasonings of the Council of Nice 
 did not tend to draw out new positions from the 
 Scriptures, but to justify old. And if by the inspir- 
 ation of the Holy Spirit they were authorised to 
 decide at all on such an essential point as the amount 
 of credence requisite for salvation, they were au- 
 thorised also to decide that that amount should not 
 be exceeded. With the anathemas — the most so- 
 lemn anathemas — of the Church which you profess 
 to follow protesting against you, how can you ap- 
 peal to it ? Did not the half of Christendom separate 
 from you on this very ground, that you tampered 
 with the creeds ? Either you are condemned by 
 the voice of the ancient Church, or, in despising its 
 condemnation, you own yourself to be a new 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 Church ; and with a new Church comes a new doc- 
 trine ; and with a new doctrine where remains the 
 faith once ' for all delivered to the saints ? ' ' the tra- 
 ditions which we are bound to hold fast ?' ' the 
 Gospel, one and unchanged^ which cannot be 
 preached other than as it was preached by the 
 Apostle, though preached by an angel from Heaven.' 
 It is because your doctrine of development destroys 
 the very fact of revelation — that it overthrows the 
 very foundations of truth and faith, that therefore 
 it is so fearful. And yet upon it your doctrine of 
 the supremacy is founded, and all your departures 
 from the faith and practice of the primitive Chris- 
 tianity — departures, as they appear to us — are at- 
 tempted to be justified. Your worship of saints, 
 your adoration of images, your terrors of purgatory, 
 the licentiousness of ^^our indulgences, the frightful 
 blasphemy of your language to the blessed Virgin — 
 every thing which compelled the Reformation, and 
 with the Reformation brought on the frightful ex- 
 cesses to which sectarianism and infidelity have 
 proceeded in these later times." 
 
 '' You are still discussing, I find," said Mr. Brook, 
 as he resumed his position by the side of Villiers 
 with a mixture of freedom and servility. " T must 
 take my stand with the abbe. We find in England 
 that there are no greater friends to liberty of con- 
 science and general toleration than the Catholics." 
 
 " Roman Catholics, I must beg to call them," 
 said Villiers ; " unless, indeed, such a name implies 
 a self-contradiction." 
 
 " Oh ! " replied Brook, " I have no objection to 
 any name. What is there in a name ? Words are 
 but signs: and one of the strange absurdities of 
 the present day is the contest for names." 
 
 " You do not think it an absurdity, do you ? " 
 said Villiers, turning to the abbe. " You would
 
 HAWKSTONE. 307 
 
 not allow me to call you any thing but a Catholic, 
 without remonstrance, I am sure ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," said the abbe ; " for Catholic is 
 the title of the Church given to it in the Creed ; and 
 if 1 am not Catholic, I am not a member of it." 
 
 " And if not a member of the Church," continued 
 Villiers, " you are not, we shall both allow, an heir 
 of salvation ? At least, you have no promise or 
 assurance of it ? " 
 
 " Assuredly," said the abbe ; while Mr. Brook 
 listened with a sarcastic expression of contempt. 
 " You are one, then," said he, " of the new Oxford 
 
 school— the P " 
 
 " Sir," interrupted Villiers, " I am afraid you 
 are proceeding to apply to me an expression which I 
 never permit to be used to me. For the same reason 
 that I objected to your useof the word Catholic, I must 
 protest against any one applying to me another word 
 which, besides that it calumniates a good man as 
 being the leader of a party in the Church, condemns 
 all who accept it as being followers of an individual 
 teacher, instead of being followers of Him whom 
 only we may recognise as our Master. It is vir- 
 tually to unchristianize them ; at the least it repre- 
 sents them as schismatics. You will oblige me by 
 never employing it when you are choosing to de- 
 scribe any religious opinions which you may suppose 
 me to hold. I beg to wish you good morning." 
 
 " You have been rather severe on Mr. Brook," 
 said the abbe, as he took Villiers's arm to assist 
 himself down the stairs. 
 
 " I did not mean to be severe," said Villiers ; 
 " I have no right to be severe on any one. There 
 is too much here " (and he put his hand to his 
 heart) " to humble and shame me, for me to under- 
 take the office of a censor. And yet I am naturally 
 hasty ; and they used to call me haughty. But it 
 X 2
 
 308 HAAVKSTOXE. 
 
 certainly is a trial to me to meet such men ; and 
 the present day abounds with them. I can bear 
 enthusiasm of any kind, for it must contain good, 
 and only requires to be rightly tempered and di- 
 rected ; but the cold, sneering, unfeeling, flippant 
 sophistry which has crept into the spirit of the day, 
 
 and which men call liberalism, is However, we 
 
 gain nothing by speaking of it." 
 
 " I fear you have offended him ?" said the abbe. 
 
 " It is very possible," answered Yilliers ; " but I 
 must risk his offence rather than permit him to 
 indulge in that tendency to give nicknames, which 
 has done more harm to the Church, by forcing men 
 into parties almost in despite of themselves, even 
 than heresy itself. It is the fomenter of all 
 schism." 
 
 " But I thought," said the abbe, " that you and 
 all other Protestants cared little for schism. Surely 
 your Church is overrun with it ; and what have you 
 done to prevent it ? " 
 
 " My dear abbe," said Yilliers, " why will you, 
 an educated, well-informed, and conscientious Chris- 
 tian, suffer yourself to think and feel of the English 
 Church as the Romish communion, whether in 
 ignorance or design, teaches the most violent of 
 her members to speak ; misunderstanding or mis- 
 representing our principles, and confounding us 
 with those sectarians who have gone out from 
 among us, but are not of us ? We, by the voice of 
 our Church, are as deeply interested in the cause of 
 unity — are as solemnly pledged to maintain it — as 
 you are. If we differ in the mode of preserving it 
 — if we think that the creation of a visible centre 
 of unity in the person of one supreme bishop is 
 neither consonant to the divine form of Church 
 polity, nor conducive to the end desired — if we 
 would rather adhere to the old apostolical system
 
 HAWKSTONE. 309 
 
 of the first centuries, than adopt your new developed 
 theories — and if, owing to your violent attacks 
 upon us and to our own weakness and individual 
 faults, we have been unable to retain within our 
 fold a large number of our sheep, as you yourselves 
 have been unable to retain the branches of the 
 reformed communions — this is no proof that we 
 repudiate or despise unity, but that we have been 
 unwilling to preserve it by a wrong principle, and 
 unable to preserve it by the right." 
 
 " And you will not, then, accede," said the abbe, 
 " to the theory of development ? " 
 
 " I think it," said Villiers, " the most insidious, 
 the most fatal, the most fertile in mischief of all 
 those rationalistic principles on which Romanism 
 has built up its system. Grant this doctrine, and 
 you grant a power to subvert the faith, to destroy 
 truth, to erect a spiritual despotism of superstition 
 and tyranny, which must end in a spiritual anarchy. 
 You grant, I think, the very principle for which all 
 heretics, and schismatics, and infidels, are clamour- 
 ing ; and upon it must be charged those odious 
 excesses and crimes which have disfigured the 
 Christian Church since the Romish supremacy was 
 established, both in those who have upheld and in 
 those who have resisted it." 
 
 " Andyet," said the abbe, " you allow the necessity 
 of some development ? " 
 
 " Assuredly," said Villiers, as they reached the 
 house, and stopped under the gateway. " Assur- 
 edly. If I were to sum up my own view of it, it 
 would be that development itself is an operation 
 contemplated by God himself" (and Villiers re- 
 moved his hat as he mentioned the holy name) 
 " in his whole scheme of Christian instruction. 
 But development confined properly to the Church, 
 limited by laws which will prevent it from either 
 X 3
 
 310 HAT\TvSTONE. 
 
 adding, or taking away, or altering, from becoming, 
 in fact, any thing but development — when carried on 
 by individuals, subject to the watchful control of the 
 Church ; and when enunciated by the Church, to be 
 enunciated without any such sanction or enforce- 
 ment as would alter the terms of communion pre- 
 scribed by the Apostles, or narrow the gates of Hea- 
 ven, or enlarge the articles of the Christian faith, 
 which by them were selected as fundamental, and 
 enforced as essential to salvation. The Epistles are 
 in this way a development of those forms of doctrine 
 which were taught to candidates for baptism before 
 the Scriptures were completed. They were written 
 by Apostles, of whose inspiration there is no doubt. 
 And yet even they were not enforced upon Chris- 
 tians as terms of salvation. The catechumen was 
 pledged to the Creed, not to the Scriptures. And 
 can a privilege not claimed by Apostles be claimed 
 by a single bishop, or by any of their successors ? 
 Let the Romish church develope her system of be- 
 lief as we have developed ours in our Articles. Let 
 her, if she chooses, impose her development upon 
 her own clergy and teachers. She may reason 
 rightly or wrongly, and be responsible before the 
 Almighty for her error. But she will not be guilty 
 of the sin with which she is now charged, of fixing 
 arbitrary conditions of salvation for which she has 
 no sanction but her own voice, and so cutting her- 
 self oif from Christendom by cutting Christendom 
 off from herself. Remove your excommunication, 
 and you restore peace and unity to the Church." 
 
 The abbe sighed deeply. " I fear," he said, 
 " that these are dreams which can never be re- 
 alised." 
 
 " Let us pray," said Villiers, " that they may be 
 realised — realised without compromise of truth. 
 And to earnest prayer who can deny that even this
 
 HAWKSTONE. 311 
 
 great boon may be granted by Him who is the 
 * Author of peace and lover of concord ? ' But how, 
 I often wonder, how can you offer to him your 
 prayers for such a blessing, when your acts are the 
 daily cause of discord and confusion ?" 
 
 " In what way ?" asked the abbe. 
 
 " In this way," answered Villiers. " You begin 
 with forming an unauthorised theory of church 
 unity. To justify this you are obliged to recur to 
 your theory of development : to sanction that, you 
 must claim infallibility ; and infallibility being pre- 
 sumed, you. cannot escape from intolerance : and 
 thus you place yourselves in hostility to all around 
 you who are not of you ; and you introduce enmity, 
 and with enmity persecution, wherever your faith 
 prevails. For, be assured, it is not possible for 
 Christians to be deeply and sincerely religious, and 
 yet to live in love and charity — perfect love and un- 
 disturbed charity — with those whom they believe to 
 be in the wilful commission of deadly sin, and aban- 
 doning their own salvation. How can subj ects exercise 
 a true loyalty to a monarch whom they regard as a he- 
 retic, and therefore, perhaps, as worse than an infidel? 
 How can provinces live together happily and affec- 
 tionately, as parts of one and the same empire, when 
 they are distracted by the claims of a foreign alle 
 giance, involving the peril of their souls ? How can 
 
 parents and children, wives and husbands " 
 
 But here Villiers stopped. A memory of the past 
 came to his mind, and a thought for the future ; 
 and, hastily closing the conversation, he returned to 
 his room. 
 
 X 4
 
 312 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 
 It often happens that an accidental conversation 
 does more than weeks of reflection to bring out, and 
 arrange, and fix principles which shape our conduct 
 through life. And so it was with Villiers. General, 
 vague, and desultory opinions, strong, indeed, and 
 permanent, but not consecutively combined, on the 
 subject of Romanism, had possessed him for several 
 years. The subject had occupied his attention, 
 painfully and anxiously, of late. It had mixed itself 
 with many floating day-dreams. He felt that it was 
 intimately connected with his futm-e plans and wel- 
 fare. But he was remarkable for seizing on the 
 clue of an argument, and following it out rapidly, 
 and tracing the connection between its several 
 stages. And his discussion with the abbe had led 
 him to a somewhat connected view of ditferent fea- 
 tures in the system of Romanism, which, separately, 
 he had always regarded with great aversion. The 
 doctrine of development had presented itself to him 
 as a speculative question. But excommunication, 
 intolerance, the bitterness of sorrow, if not of hatred, 
 which the Romish theory fosters in its children 
 towards all who differ from them, and the conse- 
 quent impossibility of forming any social union 
 where Romanism is an element amidst contending 
 systems — this now pressed upon him with tenfold 
 force. The remainder of the day after the conver- 
 sation with the abbe he passed in his own room. 
 It was over the apartments occupied by the abbe, 
 
 Q
 
 HAWKSTONE. _ 313 
 
 whose own mind was anxiously engaged in watching 
 every turn of the young Englishman's opinions and 
 feelings ; and who knew not whether to augur well 
 or ill for the object nearest to his heart, as he heard 
 Villiers pacing backwards and forwards with an 
 agitated step ; now stopping, as if to think ; now 
 throwing open his window, as if to calm the turbu- 
 lence of his feelings by gazing out on the bright 
 sky, and cypress terraces of the garden of the pa- 
 lazzo. More than once the abbe caught the sound 
 of a suppressed groan, as he threw himself on his 
 knees and remained in prayer — praying that he 
 might be enlightened in the truth ; praying as fer- 
 vently that he might be guided now in the path of 
 duty, and be enabled to withstand the strong tempt- 
 ation to which he felt that he was exposed every 
 day that he remained in a spot where Lady Eleanor 
 was present. He sent his apologies to the abbe for 
 not joining him at dinner ; and when the abbe 
 ventured to seek him in his own room in the even- 
 ing, he met Villiers's servant carrying the letters 
 just arrived from the post, and preparing his master's 
 travelling apparatus. 
 
 " Are you leaving us at once, so soon ?" exclaimed 
 the abbe ; " packing up ! " 
 
 But Villiers did not hear him. He was hastily 
 opening a letter in Lady Eleanor's handwriting. 
 He read it ; and turning to the abbe, said, " I was 
 going away to-morrow morning ; I have lingered 
 here too long, and ought to be in England. But 
 this letter must detain me. My uncle is ill. They 
 are bringing him here at once, and expect to arrive 
 to-morrow. Of course I cannot leave him. But," 
 he continued, with a deep sigh, " I must remain 
 here no longer than is absolutely necessary." 
 
 The abbe understood him, and did not press for 
 any explanation.
 
 314 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 When Lord Claremont's travelling-carriage drove 
 into the court-yard the next day, Yilliers was on 
 the steps to receive him. He assisted Lady Eleanor 
 out with outward calmness ; only she observed that 
 his hand shook as it took hers, and was withdrawn 
 in a moment. And her own mind was as much 
 alive as his to every little sign which might indicate 
 what passed within. Lord Claremont was assisted 
 to his room. His medical attendants were soon with 
 him. But when Villiers waited to see them after 
 their consultation, he was shocked to hear that 
 the illness was of a more serious nature than had 
 been apprehended, and might probably terminate 
 in paralysis. He was to be watched carefully. The 
 uncle had done little to win the affections or com- 
 mand the gratitude of the nephew. He was a cold, 
 dull, formal, uncharactered man, who seemed inca- 
 pable of being touched by any thing but the claims 
 of the Whig party to his vote in parliament, and 
 the influence of his daughter, to whom he occa- 
 sionally showed signs of attachment far beyond 
 what could be expected from his selfish, phlegmatic 
 nature. But Villiers had been taught a lesson. He 
 spent the night on a sofa in his uncle's room, with- 
 out permitting any one but the servants to know it. 
 And he was comforting himself while dressing the 
 next morning in his own dressing-room with the fal- 
 lacious hope that the patient was better ; when he 
 was alarmed by the hasty ringing of bells, and the 
 hurry of footsteps along the passages. Before he 
 could ring to inquire, his own man knocked hastily 
 at the door, and entreated him to make haste — Lord 
 Claremont was in a fit — was dying. Villiers was 
 in a moment by his bed-side. The poor old man 
 lay insensible, and one side of his face was dis- 
 torted by a seizure of paralysis. Lady Eleanor, her 
 hands clasped round him, was chafing his temples,
 
 HAWKSTONE. 315 
 
 and though evidently in fearful agony of mind, did 
 not permit it to render her incapable of giving the 
 requisite orders. Villiers took his place at her side, 
 assisting her in all that she did, or hastening the 
 arrival of the physicians. Half an hour elapsed 
 before they came. Lord Claremont showed no signs 
 of recovery, and Lady Eleanor's firmness was evi- 
 dently giving way. She neither wept nor spoke, 
 except to ask for something seemingly required by 
 the patient. But Villiers saw, by the working of 
 her lips, that the suppression of feeling could not 
 last much longer. The physicians came, and at 
 their request he led her from the room. 
 
 This is not a love-story; and we have no wish 
 to involve our readers in the details of love-scenes. 
 Both Villiers and Lady Eleanor possessed strong 
 minds — strong both in the energy of their emo- 
 tions, and in the control which they exercised over 
 them. 
 
 But the strength must have been superhuman 
 which could have preserved the secret of their 
 hearts wholly unrevealed from each other at such a 
 moment. Every word of encouragement and con- 
 solation on the part of Villiers, however anxiously 
 guarded by him, conveyed volumes to Lady Eleanor's 
 mind. And even the violence which she put herself 
 on her own feelings, and the embarrassment with 
 which she listened to him, and the tremulousness 
 of her voice when she begged him to return to her 
 father's room and obtain a report from the phy- 
 sicians, was sufficient to assure Villiers that hap- 
 piness was within his reach ; that he needed only 
 to ask for it and obtain it; but — and with the 
 but, instead of joy, there came intense misery. 
 He had made no declaration. She had uttered 
 nothing like confession. But both knew what the 
 other felt ; and both knew also that there was a
 
 316 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 gulf between them which neither could pass. The 
 first thought of each upon separating was a fear 
 lest a betrayal had taken place — a betrayal which, 
 unaccompained by any farther declaration, might 
 compromise the happiness of the other. The second 
 was a resolution to make the explanation instantly, 
 if it could be done. The good abbe was at hand ; 
 and he was the first person to whom, as to her con- 
 fessor, Lady Eleanor committed the secret of her 
 aff'ections, entreating him to take some opportunity 
 without delay of assuring Villiers of her unalter- 
 able resolution never to engage in marriage with 
 one whose religion was different from her own. The 
 abbe lost no time. The next day Lord Claremont 
 was better, and the abbe insisted on Villiers leaving 
 the sick room, and coming out for fresh air. 
 
 Villiers — distracted, absent, almost vacillating, 
 and recovering from his vacillation only to be filled 
 with remorse at his weakness — suffered the good old 
 man to take his arm. They strolled into the great 
 square ; and the abbe led him up into the gallery, 
 as to the place most likely to occupy and amuse 
 him. He brought him into the tribune, and soon 
 commenced a conversation with the young boy 
 whom Villiers had seen there on his last visit, and 
 who had excited his interest by his skill in copy- 
 ing the " St. John." The abbe led him on to 
 tell his story. Villiers became gradually interested 
 in it. It was a tale not unlike that of his own 
 parents, though in humbler circumstances. There 
 had been a marriage between a Romanist and a 
 Protestant — then had followed the usual estrange- 
 ment of atfection, which ended in bitterness and 
 persecution, as soon as religion, which at first 
 was a mere name both with the husband and the 
 wife, became a passion and a duty. There had been 
 the same separation of chikben — the son following
 
 HAWK STONE. 317 
 
 the faith of the father, the daughter that of the 
 mother. Then came the sickness of the Protestant 
 father, his death-bed, and the poor boy's account of 
 his mother's agony of mind ; and the torture and 
 persecution to which his father was exposed by her 
 relatives, even in his last moments, to induce him 
 to change his faith, did more than any arguments 
 could have done to steel Villiers in his resolution. 
 The father died ; the child had received his last 
 injunctions to remain steadfast in his faith. The 
 mother, dotingly fond of him, and bent on saving 
 him from a state, as she conceived, of utter ruin to 
 his soul, strained every nerve to win him over to her 
 communion. Her efforts were seconded by all the arts 
 and influences which could be exerted by the priests 
 with whom she was surrounded, but in vain. The 
 boy had doted on his father ; his father's last words, last 
 look, the solemnity and fearfulness of his last hours, 
 had all impressed themselves indelibly on his mind. 
 He was proof against reasoning, against prayers, even 
 against his mother's tears ; until exasperated and in 
 despair, and resolved, at the suggestion of a priest, 
 to make one final trial of severity, she drove him 
 from her door, and almost threatened to lay her 
 curse upon him. But it was all in vain. He left 
 her (this had happened in Ireland), and took refuge 
 with the clergyman of the parish, who had sup- 
 ported him through all his trials. By him the talent 
 which he })0ssessed for painting had been discovered ; 
 and he had been introduced to the notice of a no- 
 bleman, who had enabled him to come abroad to 
 study. The tale was short, simply, but affectingly 
 told. And as Villiers turned away in thought, the 
 abbe made a general remark on the evil and misery 
 of mixed marriages ; which led him to speak of his 
 own })articular opinions — of his own private re- 
 commendations to those over whom he possessed
 
 318 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 influence — of the satisfaction which he had in know- 
 ing that those in whom he was most deeply inter- 
 ested — one especially, who was his own chosen 
 charge (and Villiers understood the allusion), parti- 
 cipated fully in his views, and was unalterably 
 resolved to act on them. The good abbe sighed 
 with affectionate compassion, as he made the com- 
 munication ; and there mixed with the compassion 
 a pang of disappointment at the breaking up of his 
 most darling hope ; but his conscience reproved him. 
 And Villiers, thanking him, and giving him to un- 
 derstand that he comprehended his meaning, assured 
 him also of his own unchangeable determination to 
 act upon the same principle, and of his desire that 
 it should be known. 
 
 It had struck twelve the sam.e night ; the light 
 was still burning in Villiers's room, and his servant 
 was hurrying backwards and forwards with prepar- 
 ations for packing, when the abbe, to whom a 
 letter had just been delivered, knocked gently at 
 the door, and begged five minutes' conversation. 
 
 It was the good old man's last opportunity, his 
 last effort. Wholly as he had composed himself 
 more than once to face the disappointment of liis 
 dearest hopes, and to leave Villiers to himself, as 
 the moment of Villiers's final departure approached, 
 he had received another command from a quarter 
 which he was bound to respect, and resolved to 
 make one more attempt, to speak openly and fully, 
 and urge what still remained to be urged, that the 
 young Englishman might be won over to the Church 
 of Rome, and (what the abbe would scarcely dare 
 to confess to be equally the object of his prayers) 
 might be united with Lady Eleanor. 
 
 It was no sui'prise to Villiers to see the abbe. 
 "Where minds are severally engaged in the same 
 thoughts they fall together into the same acts. He
 
 HAAVKSTONE. 319 
 
 placed tlie abbe in an easy chair, sat by his side, 
 took his hand, and witli affectionate respect en- 
 treated him to speak without reserve, if he had any 
 thing to communicate. And the grey liglit of dawn 
 began to steal in through the half-closed curtains 
 before that communication was closed. Villiers, 
 on his leaving the room, threw himself on the bed, 
 agitated, exhausted, alarmed, uncertain, full of va- 
 cillation once more ; and at every wavering thought 
 came in the vision of Lady Eleanor. He had gone 
 through the other trials of his faith ; had exposed 
 the historical fallacies of Popery ; had witnessed 
 and shuddered at the moral perversions which fol- 
 lowed upon its theory ; had sifted the rationalising 
 speculations on which its claims to empire were 
 founded: one point remained untouched, and to 
 this the abbe had addressed himself. Villiers closed 
 his eyes ; and in a feverish, distracted dream he 
 fancied himself standing in a venerable cathedral ; 
 the service of the Church of England fell on his 
 ears. He was kneeling, praying, when the build- 
 ing shook from its base ; the pillars tottered ; the 
 roof cleft open till the stars were seen through the 
 crevices ; great masses of mortared stone, frag- 
 ments of arches, bosses, columns, tombstones hurled 
 themselves around him ; a black chasm yawned be- 
 neath the altar and swallowed it up ; the worshippers 
 and priests iled with cries of terror : and as there 
 gathered round him in their place a host of frightful 
 demon visages screaming in triumph, Villiers saw 
 through a distant aisle a figure — a female figure — 
 beautiful, pure, innocent, and holy — the figure by 
 whose side he had watched over his uncle's bed — 
 beckoning him to escape, and to escape with her. 
 It was the weakness, the distraction, the coldness, 
 the irreverence, the a])i)roaching ruin of the English 
 Church, which the abbe had been urging on his
 
 320 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 thoughts. A ray of light fell on his eyes, and he 
 awoke up to the sense of his trial. Alas! how- 
 many bitternesses, how many weaknesses, how 
 many pangs of remorse and fear crowd often into 
 that moment of awaking ! Till he had raised him- 
 self from his pillow, partially dressed himself, knelt 
 doAvn, read, meditated as usual, even in spite of 
 wandering thoughts and distracted affections, Yil- 
 liers thought of postponing his departure ; of re- 
 maining ; of considering all that the abbe had urged, 
 quietly and impartially with him. He would not 
 see Lady Eleanor, he said to himself, more than 
 was absolutely necessary. He could command his 
 feelings. He need not suffer her to know what 
 passed in his own mind : and it was cruel to desert 
 her in the moment of her trial. He was bound to 
 remain with his uncle : and to refuse to listen to 
 the truth was obstinacy. He was bound to give to 
 the objections of opponents a fair and candid con- 
 sideration. His hand was on the bell to counter- 
 mand his carriage, but his eye fell on the open 
 Prayer-book on his table — on the words " Lead us 
 not into temptation ; " and when his servant came, 
 his first word was to hasten the horses. He went 
 to his uncle's bed-side, who was still asleep, and 
 much recovered. He sent Lady Eleanor's maid to 
 ask if she had any commands for England ; but 
 Lady Eleanor only sent a kind verbal message in 
 reply. The carriage drove into the court -yard ; 
 and when the abbe pressed his hand while he yet 
 lingered on the steps, and asked him if he would 
 think on what he had heard last night, Villiers, 
 with a deep sigh, replied, " I go to think ; go to 
 inquire. — God bless you ; and bring us both to the 
 truth. Drive on." And the postilions whirled the 
 carriage through the gate on its road to England.
 
 HA^\aCSTONE. 321 
 
 As it turned the corner of the street Villiers's 
 eye caught that of a man dressed — it almost seemed 
 disguised — as a Jew, who stood with a young 
 shabby boy in his hand, apparently watching the 
 carriage. It was an eye whose expression he knew. 
 Even in the boy there was something which 
 touched him, he knew not why. He looked back 
 as the carriage drove on ; but the man had disap- 
 peared. Yilliers did not know that he had been 
 lurking round the house the whole morning, or that 
 he had been ever since Yilliers's arrival in daily 
 communication with the Italian porter, or that, as 
 he followed the carriage with his eyes, his teeth 
 firmly set, his face scoAvling with malignity, he had 
 been secretly imprecating curses on him, curses on 
 the abbe, curses on all that belonged to him. He 
 did not recognise him as Mr. Pearce. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 322 HAAVKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 The great bell of Christ Church had long ceased 
 to toll ; the streets of Oxford were silent and de- 
 serted ; and all but a few lights were extinguished 
 
 in the dark quadrangle of College, when 
 
 the sleepy porter was summoned to answer a hasty- 
 knocking at the gate. It was opened to a tall gentle- 
 manly figure, apparently just arrived from a long 
 journey, and still in his travelling cloak and cap. 
 He asked for Mr. Beattie's room. 
 
 "No. 12., one pair of stairs to the left," answered 
 the obsequious porter, who suspected a stranger of 
 rank, and proceeded to show him to the narrow 
 archway and stone stairs which led to Beattie's 
 room. The stranger tapped, heard the usual words 
 '' Come in ;" and as he stood before Beattie himself, 
 who rose from his large reading-desk, and shaded 
 his eyes from the candle to receive his visiter, it 
 was some seconds before they mutually exchanged 
 recognitions. 
 
 " My dear Villiers ! " 
 
 " My dear Beattie ! " 
 
 " Where did you come from ? " 
 
 " Before I answer your questions," said Villiers, 
 " will you give me some tea ? " 
 
 Beattie's tea-things, untouched, stood on a side- 
 table, and his kettle was simmering on the hearth. 
 And Villiers was soon installed in a large leather 
 reading-chair, from which Beattie was obliged to 
 remove its usual occupants, a heap of folios : and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 323 
 
 tlie solitary reading-lamp having been exchanged 
 for brighter lights, the simple-minded Beattie placed 
 his stool by Villiers's side, and asked for an account 
 of his movements. Yilliers repeated to him every 
 thing. When he told him of the recovery of his 
 fortune, Beattie made no remark, offered no con- 
 gratulations, only looked on him with more of 
 melancholy, affectionate interest, as if such an event 
 only exposed him to more perils and heavier re- 
 sponsibilities. When he spoke of his feelings to- 
 wards Lady Eleanor, Beattie seemed alarmed, but 
 was relieved by the frank and firm tone in which 
 Villiers declared his resolution never to unite him- 
 self (he was compelled in a low voice to say "again ") 
 with one who was not united in the same church 
 communion with himself. But when at last Villiers 
 entered on the subject of his conversation with the 
 abbe, on his doubts, his anxieties, his misgivings, 
 Beattie covered his face with his hands and sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 " You saved me once," said Villiers ; " you gave 
 me peace and satisfaction once : can you give it me 
 
 now ? Peace and satisfaction ! " he repeated, as 
 
 if correcting himself : "alas! whatever befalls me, 
 that must be for others." 
 
 Beattie did not move. He sat immersed in pain- 
 ful and anxious thought, sinking, it seemed, as hs 
 drooped his head, under a sense of fearful responsi- 
 bility. Villiers also was silent. At last Beattie 
 roused himself as the clock of St. Mary's struck 
 twelve. 
 
 " You must leave me now," he said to Villiers, 
 " for our hours, you know, do not permit late visi- 
 ters. You will breakfast with me to-morrow, will 
 you not ? " 
 
 Villiers readily assented ; and at the great gate, 
 to which Beattie went with him to rouse the sleepy 
 Y 2
 
 324 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 porter, they parted with a warm but silent pressure 
 of the hand. 
 
 When Beattie's servant came to his room the 
 next morning he observed that his candle w^as 
 nearly burnt out. He must have sat up very late, 
 contrary to his usual practice. Plis Prayer-book 
 lay open on the table, and the pages were still wet 
 with tears. Several closely -written sheets of paper 
 were lying on his desk, as if he had been striving 
 to collect and arrange his thoughts. And as the 
 servant knocked at the door of the little closet 
 which served for his bedroom, he found him already 
 drest and at his devotions. 
 
 Punctually as the chapel bell commenced he 
 was taking his usual solitary walk under the avenue 
 of horse-chestnuts in the garden, when he was 
 joined by Villiers. 
 
 " You must take me with you into chapel," he 
 said. " Shall I be considered an intruder ? " 
 
 " Ten years since," said Beattie, " perhaps you 
 would have been ; but let us be thankful it is not 
 so now. Ten years since, even in this place, even 
 while we were retaining as a form the daily service, 
 and employing it as a roll-call for our students, or 
 even as a punishment, and secretly willing to abolish, 
 or at least to shorten it, — even w^lien it was thought 
 unnecessary for any fellows to attend it, except a 
 single tutor, — even then, I remember, there were 
 some few, a very few, who understood and who 
 valued this old form. But now this feeling is 
 general. We seldom have strangers — our friends, 
 I mean — staying w^ith us without their attending 
 our services ; and you will find that the movement 
 has spread in various directions through the country. 
 The daily service is no uncommon tiling at this 
 day, even in our village churches." 
 
 " And this is owing," remarked Villiers, " to the 
 Tractsfor the Times?"
 
 HAWKSTONE. 325 
 
 " It is owing," said Beattie, " to the good Spirit 
 of God." 
 
 " Emplojing," returned Villiers, " as subordinate 
 agents, those who first originated the movement in 
 this place ? " 
 
 " I never like," replied Beattie, " to dwell much 
 on subordinate agency or secondary causes, either 
 in the Church or in Nature. In either case it tends 
 to veil from us, or to withdraw us from, the one 
 great Cause. If we regard ourselves in this light, it 
 engenders either conceit or timidity ; and if others, 
 it gathers us round them as heads and leaders of 
 party." 
 
 " And yet," said Villiers, " you will not deny 
 that the Church of England owes to those men 
 who originated the Church movement here a great 
 debt of gratitude?" 
 
 " Assuredly," replied Beattie ; "I honour them 
 myself most highly. But you must not forget that 
 other causes and agencies were in operation at the 
 same time, without which their efforts would have 
 failed. They found a field well prepared by others 
 for the seed which they proposed to sow. The ex- 
 travagancies of an opposite system, the rash violence 
 of the enemies of the Church, the spirit of docility 
 and reverence which characterises our institutions 
 in this place, were all in their favour ; but the main 
 arm of their strength was the Church itself. If 
 they had come forward in any other character than 
 as her servants, promulgating her avowed doctrines, 
 sheltering themselves under her authority, ranging 
 themselves by the side of her great teachers and 
 masters in days gone by, and promising reverently 
 to submit themselves to her guidance and control, 
 be assured they would have been signally discom- 
 fited. We have n^) toleration here for founders of 
 new sects and theories. And, so far as the great 
 Y 3
 
 326 HAWK STONE. 
 
 body of the clergy is affected by our principles, they 
 would have resented indignantly the attempt to in- 
 fluence them to join a party ; they would have de- 
 manded a censure by Convocation sooner than adopt 
 the principles which they have adopted, unless they 
 had been convinced that they came to them with the 
 sanction of the Church. I think you will see this 
 soon. You will find that if the movement changes 
 its ground, as it is now threatening to do, and be- 
 comes an individual speculation, it will be repro- 
 bated and condemned at once. You have not found, 
 have you, that as the English clergy have been 
 roused to think more deeply, and reason more 
 acutely, they have become generally less attached to 
 their Church ?" 
 
 " I think not," replied Yilliers. 
 
 " No," said Beattie, earnestly ; " she may well be 
 proud of this ; that she holds us in a willing submis- 
 sion to herself, using no threats, employing no vio- 
 lence — permitting and encouraging us to examine 
 her declarations freely, and ruling over us, not as a 
 tyrant, but as a parent. There are some men," he 
 continued, " young men, very young men, who are 
 clamouring for a sterner, stricter rule ; for a more 
 imperious, sweeping dogmatism ; for a more un- 
 compromising exclusiveness. And this they would 
 call strength and power. But the strength and 
 power of the Church should be like to that which is 
 exhibited in the analogy of His works who is the 
 head of the Church ; and we see nowhere there 
 such marks of overwhelming despotism. The Al- 
 mighty sets before us, in this life, good and evil, 
 blessings and cursings, truth and fiilsehood, but 
 permits us to choose, and j udge, and walk in seem- 
 ing liberty; and his Church, to be his minister, must 
 do the same. Too great strictness and strength in 
 the Church is a sign that there is something wrong
 
 HAWKSTONE. 327 
 
 in her constitution or her temperament. There 
 must be something out of order, some derangement 
 of forces. But the chapel bell is down. In your 
 time, do you remember, every one was allowed to 
 straggle in till the Psalms were nearly over. This, 
 also, you will find changed in many colleges." 
 
 As they returned from the chapel, Villiers could 
 not help remarking on the improvement which he 
 observed in the devotional appearance of the young 
 men. Beattie corroborated it. 
 
 " And do you find," said Villiers, as they sat at 
 the breakfast-table, " that this improvement extends 
 to practical self-denial ? Ten years since, if we had 
 been breakfasting together, as now, on a Friday, we 
 should not have confined our meal to dry bread ; 
 now, neither of us feel any difficulty in doing this 
 openly. Is this also becoming common with the 
 young men ? " 
 
 " Not common yet," said Beattie. " But I have 
 observed many things tending to it which are en- 
 couraging. Ten years since I remember a jDrofessor 
 of divinity remarking to me that there were more 
 dinner parties among the senior members in Oxford 
 during Lent than at any other season. Now I have 
 known many instances of young men giving their 
 large parties early in the term, that they may not 
 fall during Lent." 
 
 " And this is voluntary?" asked Villiers. 
 
 " Perfectly so," replied Beattie. 
 
 " And done in recognition of the authority of the 
 Church ? " 
 
 " Probably," said Beattie ; " for it is done by 
 those wlio are not in any way influenced, either by 
 party or enthusiasm, scarcely by consistent reli- 
 gion, and who, therefore, can be governed only by 
 a sense of authority." Beattie's servant here en- 
 Y 4
 
 328 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 tered the room with a box, which had just arrived 
 by the mail. 
 
 " I know what this is," he said ; " and you shall 
 see it opened at once." 
 
 Yilliers's interest was roused, and his admiration 
 still more, when Beattie carefully unfolded from its 
 wrappings of silver-paper an exquisitely-wrought 
 chalice of silver-gilt, enamelled with Scripture sub- 
 jects, and inlaid with gems. 
 
 " It is intended," said Beattie, " for our college 
 chapel." 
 
 " And from whom does it come ?" asked Villiers. 
 
 " This," replied Beattie, " I am not at liberty to 
 publish. We have fallen latterly into a practice of 
 giving what we give anonymously, and avoiding 
 subscription lists. Ten years since this would have 
 been sent in the form of a punchbowl, or a coffee-pot, 
 or a silver corner-dish." 
 
 Villiers was silent, but thoughtful. At last he said 
 — " And what is your own opinion of this revival in 
 the English Church?" 
 
 " I look on it," said Beattie, " as the Athenians 
 must have looked on the young shoot of olive, which 
 sprang up out of the trunk in the citadel, when it 
 had been cut down with axes and burnt with fire. 
 It shows not only that life is not extinct, but that 
 if not extinct after such a trial, humanly speaking, 
 there is nothing which can extinguish it. It is one 
 of the chief things which rouses my impatience, 
 when I hear the Church of England lightly spoken 
 of as weak and perishing." 
 
 " And yet other Churches," said Villiers, " have 
 had their revivals also." 
 
 " Surely ; " replied Beattie, " the foundation of 
 every new monastic order in the Romish Church 
 was intended as a revival. But observe the differ- 
 ence. In other instances the spirit has shot up in
 
 HAWKSTONE. 329 
 
 some form of novelty ; it has emanated from some 
 individual — has generated a party. Instead of ad- 
 hering to existing laws and institutions, it has 
 delighted to invent new ; it has cast off all re- 
 straint, and fed itself with enthusiasm and fana- 
 ticism. Such a revival indicates the weakness 
 rather than the strength of the body in which it 
 takes place. But the revival which we have wit- 
 nessed in our own time has been, strictly speaking, 
 a revival of the spirit of the Church, within the 
 Church, under the control of the Church, encou- 
 raged by the ministers of the Church, throwing 
 itself back upon the laws and the teaching of the 
 Church, and placing itself from the first under ex- 
 ternal control and guidance. It is a natural, not 
 an artificial revival. It has not been produced by 
 stimulants, and therefore it is as much an evidence 
 of the internal strength and vigour of the Church 
 as the recovery without medicine of a man at the 
 point of death is a proof of the strength of his 
 constitution." 
 
 " And yet," said Villiers, " the Church of Eng- 
 land ten years since was at the point of death." 
 
 " So," replied Beattie, " it seemed to us. Threat- 
 ened by the people, treacherously protected and 
 corrupted by the state, robbed of her revenues, 
 mutilated in her bishoprics, disorganised and en- 
 feebled in those collegiate bodies which ought to form 
 her greatest strength, her authority neither asserted 
 by herself nor recognised by others, her testimony 
 set aside and suj^planted by an empty rationalism, 
 her education emptied of every thing which could 
 give it life and power, her churches deserted, her 
 children running off without a warning voice into 
 every kind of dissent, and the population swelling 
 like a running tide around her, and menacing to 
 swallow her up, like those fabled springs destined
 
 330 HA^YKSTONE. 
 
 to overflow and drown the mortals who forget to 
 keep them under cover and confined within their pro- 
 per bounds — such was the condition of the Church. 
 Who would have dared at that time to prophesy that 
 it should, within ten years, simply by the assertion 
 of its own principles, be more deeply rooted than 
 ever in the affections of its children, more feared than 
 ever by its enemies, more able than ever to take its 
 stand as the guardian of this empire, and to spread out 
 its arm to the most distant continents as the con- 
 verter of the heathen ? Yet surely this is now true." 
 
 " And yet," said Yilliers, " there must have been 
 some malformation, some secret mischief, which had 
 reduced her to her previous state. Without some 
 radical defect no church could so have fallen." 
 
 " My dear Villiers," said Beattie, after a pause, 
 and placing his hands on his friend's shoulders, " will 
 you endeavour to remain for five minutes in this 
 position, standing upright without moving a single 
 muscle ? " 
 
 Yilliers stopped (for they were now walking on 
 the terrace in the college gardens) and endeavoured 
 to do so, but found it impossible. 
 
 " Or," continued Beattie, " will you try and walk 
 up to that plane-tree yonder in one straight line 
 without a single divergence ? " 
 
 Yilliers shook his head. 
 
 " No," said Beattie, " it would be impossible ; for 
 the law of progression, as in human minds, and in 
 individuals as in societies, is a law of continual 
 oscillation. We bend from side to side, waver- 
 ing at every step ; if weak, falling wholly, not to 
 rise again ; if- strong, recovering ourselves by some 
 great effort, and advancing at each fresh struggle 
 with more directness, but never upon this earth 
 without a tendency to vary from the central line. 
 Do not therefore measure the weakness of societies
 
 HAWKSTONE. 331 
 
 hj their oscillations, or even by tlieir falls (for they 
 are human, and cannot escape them ), but by their 
 recoveries — recoveries through their own internal 
 strength, when to common eyes they seemed wholly 
 lost. Look round on all the churches in the world, 
 on all civil societies which history presents, and 
 search if you can find an instance of any human 
 polity recovering itself from oscillations so fearful 
 as those by which the English Church has been 
 shaken at times from her centre. Think what a 
 tremendous shock to all opinions and all institutions 
 was given by the stroke which severed her from the 
 tyranny of Rome. And yet, though she bent for a 
 time beyond her equilibrium, she righted, and re- 
 covered in her doctrine both the principle of autho- 
 rity and the talisman of an hereditary Catholicism, 
 without which she would long since have been frac- 
 tured to atoms, like the Protestant communions in 
 Germany. She was saved here by the arm of the 
 civil power, which grasped her (roughly indeed and 
 tyrannically) when she had shaken off her hold upon 
 the Papacy ; but yet rescued her from falling wholly 
 into that worst anarchy, the government of self- 
 will. That arm itself was then fractured; and the 
 Church fell to the ground, and to human eyes was 
 utterly destroyed. And yet suffering, and perse- 
 cution, and martyrdom, only purified and strength- 
 ened it ; and it came out of the convulsions of the 
 rebellion stronger tlian before — the monarchy sup- 
 ported by the Church, and the Church supported by 
 the monarchy. The Revolution came ; and the 
 monarchy was split from top to bottom. It stood 
 indeed, and a superficial view might not detect tlie 
 flaw. But the principle of popular election, how- 
 ever disguised and disclaimed, was admitted into 
 the constitution. And since then tlie Church has 
 been placed to contend against it, breaking out as
 
 332 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 it has done in a thousand different forms. She has 
 contended with it under the most difficult circum- 
 stances ; her hands tied, her movements restricted, 
 her principles corrupted, her resources curtailed, 
 her operations betrayed by the necessity of recog- 
 nising a nominal monarchy, which, in reality, was 
 a democracy. If the monarchy had wholly disap- 
 peared, her course would have been plain and her op- 
 position unfettered. But she has fought like a woman 
 defending her house and husband against robbers ; 
 her husband himself being all the time one of their 
 accomplices, and endeavouring to silence and corrupt 
 her. We measure strength," continued Beattie, 
 " not by mere exertion, but by exertion against re- 
 sistance, and under disadvantages. Think in this 
 point of view on the very existence of the Church 
 of England at this day as all but a miracle." 
 
 " And yet," said Yilliers, " is not the existence of 
 the Church of Rome a still greater miracle ?" 
 
 " Have you overlooked," said Beattie, " the fact 
 that the Church of England all this time has been 
 contending not only with secular powers and popular 
 licentiousness, but with the strength of the Church 
 of Rome, put out to crush her as its most dangerous 
 opponent ; disguising itself under every variety of 
 form, and ransacking all its resources ? Are you not 
 aware how much of the popular movements against 
 the Church of England has been fomented by Rome? 
 how earnestly Rome has bent herself to destroy us? 
 and still we are not yet lost. Every fresh degree of 
 power which you think you recognise in the Church 
 of Rome is another attestation to the strength of the 
 Church of England, which, single-handed, has re- 
 sisted and survived such aggressions." 
 
 " And yet," said Villiers, " think of the enormous 
 power — of the wonderful organisation of the Church 
 of Rome. Where are we to find this in the Church
 
 HAWKSTONE. 333 
 
 of England ? Look at lier monastic orders, at her 
 discipline, at her influence on the jDCople, on kings, 
 on learning, on education, on all that gives j)ower to 
 rulers. Surely the Church of England, by her side, 
 is as an emaciated sick man or a mutilated cripple." 
 
 " Emaciated she is," said Beattie ; " mutilated she 
 has been. She is weak, and will long continue so 
 — weak as Samson before his hair grew again — 
 as Achilles robbed of his arms — as the Giant 
 blinded for the moment. But if even in her weak- 
 ness she has fought with the strong arm of popery, 
 and not been yet destroyed, what will she do in her 
 strength?" 
 
 " And yet," replied Villiers, " surely there is in 
 popery a principle of power and of permanence 
 which no other polity can realise. Think of the 
 concentration of its forces round one centre ; of its 
 unity of action ; of its emancipation from all secular 
 control ; of its sternness, its exclusiveness, its un- 
 compromising demand of subjection, its unflinching 
 singleness of aim, the enthusiasm which it contrives 
 to awaken, both in the ambitious and the devout ; 
 of its command over the imagination, of the elas- 
 ticity of its practice coupled with the immobility of 
 its theories. Remember how amidst all her errors, 
 and worse than errors, she preserves axioms of 
 truth, and misleads her followers chiefly in questions 
 of fact, which they are unable to examine. Observe 
 how she bends to her purpose every passion of 
 human nature ; how she unites the most licentious 
 indulgence with the most intolerant asceticism. 
 Weigh well the power that lies even in the extra- 
 vagance of her claims to empire over both mind and 
 body ; and when you reflect on the willingness of 
 weak man to fall down and become the slave of any 
 one who professes power to govern, and willingness 
 to save, and a divine commission to justify his acts
 
 334 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 and fulfil his promises, will you venture to in- 
 dulge hopes that any such power can ever be deve- 
 loped in any other Christian communion, much less 
 in the Church of England, which from the very 
 nature of its constitution is distracted between 
 double principles, and encumbered and enfeebled by 
 its own professions of moderation." 
 
 " Yilliers, dear Yilliers," said Beattie, " have you 
 not shifted your ground ? You have spoken of the 
 strength of Rome, most truly. But when you ask if 
 such a strength can ever be developed in the Church 
 of England, tell me, would you wish that it should 
 be developed ? When I speak of strength in the 
 Church, I speak of such a strength as a Christian 
 may pray for, and a church delight in. I do not 
 ask for a sick man that he may recover his muscular 
 force by becoming a maniac, though a maniac be 
 stronger than a giant. And when you ask whether 
 the Church of England could ever become in her- 
 self as powerful as the Church of Rome, I answer, 
 God forbid ! for I know not how such an object 
 could be accomplished without her constructing a 
 system equally false, equally sinful, equally unchris- 
 tian. Be assured that truth, that goodness, that 
 reason, that Christianity, must in this world appear 
 weak and wavering, compared with bold, unscru- 
 pulous, unbalanced vice. It must recognise a whole 
 circle of duties, and this must beget occasional 
 doubt and timidity. It must be humble, and there- 
 fore want self-confidence. It must cling earnestly 
 to truth ; and truth, in this world of darkness, lies 
 beneath a veil, and can neither be comprehended by 
 our own eyes, nor exhibited to others, except mixed 
 up with seeming inconsistencies, which destroy its 
 fascination, and perplex and repel those who are 
 easily attracted by the seeming simplicity of false- 
 hood. It owes allegiance to an external law, which
 
 HAWKSTONE. 335 
 
 law is often difficult to consult, and still more diffi- 
 cult to understand in its precise application. Hence 
 it must be slow and submissive. It is passionless, 
 and will seem to want energy. It is disinterested, and 
 therefore without the stimulus of selfishness. It is as 
 a stranger in the world, and the world will not cling 
 to it. It has faith, and therefore despises and throws 
 aside the instruments of human power. It has no 
 object but obedience upon earth ; and the voice of a 
 martyr at the stake will sound to human ears far 
 fainter than that of a conqueror on a field of battle. 
 And yet, Villiers, strength, real strength, may be 
 found, even in this form, far greater than in the 
 shape of an uncompromising, universal, infallible, 
 spiritual empire, which has no foundation for its 
 power but ambition and intrigue. Look up," con- 
 tinued Beattie, " at that beautiful spire," and he 
 pointed to the spire of St. Mary's, which rose above 
 them into the clear blue sky from the midst of its 
 forest of pinnacles. " If you saw two men, one 
 hurling himself down headlong from the summit 
 of that spire, and another balancing hilnself on 
 the point, in which would you recognise more 
 strength ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Villiers, " I should see no proof 
 of strength in the act of falling." 
 
 " No," replied Beattie, " nor in the indulgence of 
 a single passion, nor in the headlong pursuit of a 
 single object, nor in the carrying out of a single 
 principle, nor in the exercise of rule when all op- 
 posing forces are subjected to us, nor in a claim to 
 universal dominion, nor in a dream of infallible au- 
 thority, nor in the threat of tyrannical punishment 
 upon all who disobey our will, nor in any excess or 
 extravagance, whether of reason or of affi^ction, in 
 which the mind is possessed and carried away by an 
 idea, instead of possessing and subjecting it to the
 
 336 HA^YKSTONE. 
 
 control of strict external laAvs. Even so it is with 
 the Church of Rome. Its very unity is the proof of 
 its weakness. It has no doubts ; it admits no oppo- 
 sition ; it sets itself no bounds ; it is without scruple, 
 without hesitation, without difficulty ; it can adapt 
 itself to all circumstances, carry out its one un- 
 varied purpose by any means, resolve any perplex- 
 ities, fathom any problem, indulge any inclination, 
 enrol in its body any variety of character; and 
 therefore, with the physical strength of a giant it 
 has the moral weakness of a child : and moral 
 strength and moral weakness are the objects to 
 which we must look in the constitution of a church. 
 But a church which, while it asserts its own inde- 
 pendence and authority, can submit itself to the 
 authority of another power as equally ordained of 
 God, which can break loose from a tyranny without 
 falling into a democracy, which can demand obedi- 
 ence to authority while it exercises and encourages 
 free thought, which can decide on necessary ques- 
 tions without intruding on things unnecessary, which 
 can hold fast an unwavering faith while it disclaims 
 any right to dogmatise presumptuously, which can feel 
 and act upon the sense of error and wrong in others, 
 and yet shrink from harshly judging and condemn- 
 ing them, which can reverence antiquity and yet 
 admit of improvement, which can so embrace and set 
 forth counterbalancing truths, that while equally 
 supported by authority they are difficult to reconcile 
 by reason, and which will open its arms to receive 
 her children, not upon terms of her own invention, 
 but upon the terms prescribed to her by another, — 
 such a church, I conceive, in the very doubts which 
 she acknowledges, even in the seeming inconsist- 
 encies which she encounters, even in the difficulties 
 which she prepares for herself in her apparent hesi- 
 tations, and scruples, and vacillations, exhibits an
 
 HAWKSTONE. 337 
 
 internal self-command, a power of vision, and a 
 power of action, which, even in this world, is worthy 
 of all admiration, and in another must triumph ulti- 
 mately over all persecution. It has pleased Almighty 
 God to place the Church of England upon the pin- 
 nacle of his temple, where he placed his Catholic 
 Church of old ; and so long as she is there supported, 
 though with a bruised foot, and trembling hand, and 
 fearful eye, so long I recognise in her a power which 
 cometh from above, and which none but God can 
 supply to his own chosen and favoured servants." 
 
 " And yet," repeated Villiers (after they had stood 
 some minutes by the side of the plane-tree, from 
 which a large arm had been recently severed) — 
 " and yet the Church of England is weak ; we can- 
 not deny it." 
 
 " Yes," replied Beattie, " weak in her organisa- 
 tion ; not weak in her principles, or her formularies, 
 or her theory. In these, for all practical purposes, 
 she possesses greater elements of power and dura- 
 bility even than the Church of Rome. Look, for 
 instance, at the very fact which is too often fixed 
 on as a blemish, and as a source of imbecility. One 
 of her first fundamental principles is obedience in 
 all temporal matters to the civil power. While she 
 asserts her own independence and supremacy in 
 spiritual things, she admits the same independence, 
 and supremacy, and divine right, in the State. 
 Logically, the position is a paradox : superficially 
 viewed, it threatens to enslave her. And yet what 
 is the truth ? If you would plant any institution or 
 polity firmly upon the ground, you must place it 
 upon two foundations. It must have two feet to 
 rest on, that when one gives way, or slips, as in this 
 world it always will do, the other may recover it. 
 Rest all upon a single power, embark all on a 
 solitary plank, and when that fails all is lost. Thus 
 
 YOL. I. z
 
 338 HAWK STONE. 
 
 in the English Church, allied as she is, or associated, 
 or, rather, combined and amalgamated, with the vState, 
 when the State becomes weak, or corrupt, or fails in 
 its duty, the Church is ready to support and correct 
 it. And when the Church is exposed to mischief, 
 then the State is ready to interfere. We may not be 
 able to measure precisely the right degree to which 
 these interferences should be carried. Certainly in 
 all such exigencies there will be occasional excesses. 
 But through these successive oscillations the right 
 line may still be preserved ; and the history of the 
 English Church, the history of its extension, of its 
 prosperity, of its durability, is to be traced through 
 a series of actions and counteractions between the 
 State and itself, and so will continue until some rash 
 and foolish hand severs the two ; and both spiritual 
 and temporal power, left to themselves, will fall 
 without an arm to save them." 
 
 " I understand you so far," said Villiers. " But 
 if this double power, this binary construction of in- 
 fluences, is essential to the preservation of a polity, 
 how is it that the Church of Rome has maintained 
 her position with her perfect unity and simplicity 
 of system ? " 
 
 Beattie paused, as if in surprise. " And have 
 you, then," he asked, " been so blinded by the pro- 
 fessions of Rome as not to see that she also has 
 acted upon the binary principle, and by it has con- 
 solidated her power, and maintains her existence ? 
 What would Rome have been if she had not em- 
 ployed the civil arm in the first period of her his- 
 tory ? How did she prosecute her aggressions except 
 by the aid of a power which derived its forces from 
 a source different from her own ? It was not the 
 bishops of Rome who conquered the empire of 
 popery, but the bishops of Rome allied with kings 
 and emperors, who, even while they acted as the
 
 IIAWKSTONE. 339 
 
 ministers of a church, claimed to themselves supre- 
 macy in the state. Rome indeed boasted, and de- 
 manded, and pretended to rights and authority far 
 beyond the Church of England, or the Catholic 
 Church of old ; but whenever she practically suc- 
 ceeded in her objects, it was by an alliance with 
 some civil power, upon terms as near as possible 
 the same as those which we recognise in England. 
 And when the State became weak and impotent, 
 or rebellious, and unwilling to do her bidding, to 
 what other machinery do vou attribute the power 
 of Rome?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied Yilliers, " to her monastic 
 bodies." 
 
 " Yes," continued Beattie, " to her monastic 
 bodies, beginning from the first societies of recluses 
 and penitents to the last grand and fearful con- 
 spiracy of Jesuitism. And what are they but a civil 
 power — an organisation, framed as it was by Rome 
 independent of the regular government of the Church 
 — having a power of its own, and a power founded 
 on temporal privileges and possessions — on wealth, 
 character, landed property, talent, combination, 
 every thing secular ? No, Villiers, do not dream of 
 a state of things in which a spiritual power can exist 
 detached from a temporal power in some shape or 
 other, or a temporal power detached from a spiritual. 
 Keep them combined, yet distinct : subject them 
 one to the other, mutually and reciprocally : be not 
 afraid of the logical paradox, but try the construc- 
 tion practically, and you will find it the only source 
 of strength and permanence." 
 
 " Alas!" said Villiers, "where is it to be found 
 now in the English Church ? Has not the State all 
 but cast it off? Will she not soon be compelled to 
 stand before the world with only her spiritual bless- 
 ings, and spiritual menaces to overawe her rebellious 
 z 2
 
 340 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 children ? And when she is thus left solitary, upon 
 your own principle and prophecy, what is to be her 
 fate but ruin ? " 
 
 Beattie made no reply ; but he took Villiers's 
 arm and led him out of the gardens into the quad- 
 rangle, and up a flight of narrow stone steps, which 
 landed them on the leads of one of the highest 
 towers in Oxford. 
 
 " Look round you," said Beattie. 
 
 And Yilliers did look, and gazed with admiration 
 on that glorious maze of spire, and pinnacle, and 
 turret, and dark cloistered courts, in which lay 
 green lawns and trim gardens embedded like jewels, 
 every stone calling up some recollection of the past, 
 and even the abodes of common life tinged by them 
 with a sacred gloom. 
 
 " Have you ever thought," said Beattie at last, 
 " to what arm, to what power the Church of Eng- 
 land has been indebted, under Providence, for its 
 revival, for its existence at this day ? " 
 
 " I have," said Yilliers ; " it was to this place ; 
 to this university. It was Oxford which first 
 stemmed the torrent of revolution, and recalled 
 England to her senses." 
 
 " No," replied Beattie, " it was not Oxford — not 
 the university only, but the colleges of the univer- 
 sity, which, if the Church has been saved, saved 
 her at that crisis. The university is a creature of 
 the crown, and can be destroyed by the crown. He 
 that makes can unmake also. But these colleges 
 were not creatures of the crown. They are inde- 
 pendent bodies, holding their property and their 
 influence by the same laws on which the peasant 
 and the noble hold their cottage and their castle. 
 And it was because the State could not touch these 
 colleges, that the colleges, and through them the 
 university, were enabled to resist the tyranny and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 341 
 
 folly into which democracy would have driven the 
 State, and turned its aggressions against the Church. 
 But for these colleges all would have been lost." 
 
 " And how," asked Villiers, " do you connect this 
 with our past conversation ? " 
 
 " Dear Villiers !" replied Beattie, gravely, "when 
 foolish, thoughtless young men in our own Church, 
 or enemies of that Church from without, speak con- 
 temptuously of weakness in the English Church, 
 and how it is to be removed, and of its desertion 
 by the State, and of the want of organisation to 
 enforce her claims, or of any temporal power to 
 enable her to regain her hold over the affection and 
 obedience of a revolted population, think of what 
 you see here, and it will give the answer. These 
 are the piles and buttresses by which we may sup- 
 port her even now ; these are the bulwarks and 
 towers which no human force will be able to over- 
 throw ; these are the hands (only let them be mul- 
 tiplied and stretched out wherever the work of the 
 Church is to be done) with which that work is to 
 be accomplished. Close up your hand," he con- 
 tinued ; and, compressing all but Villiers's little 
 finger, he said, " Now try with that little finger to 
 force this iron bolt into its staple." 
 
 Villiers tried, but in vain. 
 
 " Grasp it," said Beattie, " with your whole hand, 
 with a college of fingers." And the bolt shot into 
 its place. 
 
 z 3
 
 342 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 Day after day passed, and Villiers found himself 
 still lingering at Oxford, sharing Seattle's simple 
 breakfast, accompanying him in his evening walks 
 by the side of the river, dining with him in the 
 hall, and kneeling beside him in the chapel. He 
 saw few persons beyond the ordinary society of the 
 common room, for Villiers was not fond either of 
 exhibiting, or being exhibited, or seeing others ex- 
 hibited. He had little curiosity to see men who 
 were talked of in the world, merely that he might 
 observe their countenances, or watch for some pe- 
 culiarity of manner or expression, or be enabled to 
 
 say that he knew Mr. , and Dr. , and 'Mr. 
 
 ; his knowledge being confined to the formal 
 
 generalities of a morning visit. And he cherished 
 a painful impression that where the thoughts of 
 men are laid open to the world in their writings, it 
 is as well not to seek for more close intimacy, lest 
 valuable illusions should be destroyed, and incon- 
 sistencies of conduct be discovered. It may be, that 
 Villiers was too proud and independent either to 
 lead or be led. In the mean time he made his ob- 
 servations. He remarked in the habits of the place 
 a return to more simple living : conversation was 
 more deeply imbued with a reverential and religious 
 tone. As he passed through the dark quadrangle 
 at night, he heard less frequently than in his own 
 days — far less frequently — the sound of noise and 
 revelry. The general deportment of the older 
 members struck him as far more spiritualised and
 
 HAWKSTONE. 343 
 
 elevated ; and that of the young as more chastened 
 and subdued. There was much indeed to please 
 him in the whole tone of the society into which he 
 was thrown, and in which he was received at once 
 with a frankness and courtesy, which, while it 
 recognised his own rank, asserted also a rank and 
 independence of their own for those who paid it. 
 And yet, thought Villiers, these men, in this age of 
 wealth and adoration of wealth, in which every 
 man's consequence is measured by his ^^oney, pos- 
 sess perhaps only an annual pittance, scarcely suf- 
 ficient for the ordinary comforts of life. Villiers 
 did not remember, that though individually poor, 
 collectively they were rich, and that while their 
 own poverty secured them from conceit, their cor- 
 porate wealth gave to them a consciousness of 
 position and self-consequence which secured them 
 from humiliating dependence. Villiers was sur- 
 prised to see the general similarity of opinion which 
 prevailed among them, combined with independence 
 of thought. He watched with pleasure the little 
 interchanges of courtesy which prevented the fa- 
 miliarity of friends from sliding into too great a 
 liberty. He saw the power which united action 
 gave them, both in the work of education and in 
 the furtherance of any object necessary for the good 
 of the Church. Especially he was struck with the 
 voluntary deference and respect paid to the head of 
 the society in which he was living ; and with the 
 absence of all pretension, or selfishness, or conceit, 
 even in those whose talents and position claimed 
 for them the greatest authority. He was even 
 amazed at the liberality, the profusion, with which 
 demands of charity were answered from men who 
 had nothing to depend on but their little annual 
 stipends. When he remarked these things to 
 Beattie, and asked to what cause he could attribute 
 z 4
 
 344 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 it, Beattie's reply was still the same, " to the col- 
 legiate principle." Place men in colleges, he would 
 say, jDlace those colleges under a good system, and 
 let that system be subjected to a proper superin- 
 tendence from the bishops of the Church, and you 
 will form men like these every where. 
 
 "And yet," he continued, with a sigh, "even 
 here all is not right. There is much still to be 
 done to bring us to a perfect state, many good 
 practices to be recalled, many forgotten statutes 
 to be enforced ; and the stream which was flow- 
 ing so steadily and so rapidly in this direction of 
 improvement has met a check, which will throw 
 it back for years. You observed," he said, " a 
 specimen of the mischief at work yesterday after 
 dinner." 
 
 " Do you allude," asked Yilliers, " to that for- 
 ward conceited person who spoke so fluently and so 
 petulantly in the common room, on the subject of 
 Popery and the Church ? " 
 
 " That," replied Beattie, " is one of the leaders, 
 if such a boy can be called a leader, in the new 
 movement. He has written much which has startled 
 and alarmed us." 
 
 "But he has only just taken his degree," said 
 Villiers, with astonishment. 
 
 " Not long since," rei>lied Beattie : " but in this 
 day, when svery one can publish what he likes, and 
 as he likes, and when he likes, and publish anony- 
 mously, it is in the power of mere boys to circulate 
 doctrines and rouse fears, the mischief of which 
 cannot be cured by the oldest and the wisest." 
 
 " And when he was speaking so contemptuously 
 of the Church, and so boldly in excuse for the cor- 
 ruptions of Rome, was he speaking," asked Yilliers, 
 " merely sentiments of his own, or such as others 
 would share with him ? "
 
 HAWKSTONE. 345 
 
 "Sentiments, I hope," replied Beattie, "which 
 only a few — a very few — would respond to ; but 
 still which may be traced even here. But you 
 have been abroad, and are not well read in the 
 theological publications of the day. And yet," he 
 continued, " I fancied, when you first came to me 
 the other evening, that you had fallen in with 
 them, and had been yourself tainted with this new 
 poison." 
 
 Beattie covered his face with his hands as he 
 had done before, and once more seemed lost in 
 painful and anxious thought. 
 
 " And what then," asked Villiers, gently, " is this 
 new theory at which you are so much alarmed? 
 Surely such a person as that young man in your 
 common room cannot be an object of anxiety. 
 
 Surely , , , and others like them, who 
 
 originated the movement in the Church, cannot 
 have abandoned it to such hands, and cannot be 
 unable to control it ? " 
 
 Beattie sighed deeply. " I will not reply to 
 your last question," he said, " because I could not 
 speak without seeming to condemn ; and to condemn 
 is not my place. We are responsible for all our 
 deeds, for our silence as well as for our utterance, 
 not to individual brethren, but to the Church and 
 to its Head." 
 
 " And what then," continued Villiers, drawing 
 his chair nearer to his friend — " what is this new 
 theory, or heresy, or what may it be called, which 
 so alarms you ? " 
 
 " Alarm," replied Beattie, " is not perhaps the 
 proper word. We have no right to be alarmed at 
 any thing which befalls the Church, in which all 
 that happens must ultimately work together for its 
 good. Call it rather vexation ; for so much of 
 these extravagancies proceeds from a silly love of
 
 346 nA"s\^STOXE. 
 
 notoriety, that I am afraid to dignify it with too 
 much attention." 
 
 " And what is the nature of the extravagance ? " 
 asked Villiers. But before his companion could 
 reply, a step was heard at the door, a submissive 
 knock was given, and on Beattie's giving the usual 
 permission to enter, a stout, thick-built, swarthy 
 man, with sunken and cunning eyes, and his fea- 
 tures covered with a thick beard and enormous 
 whiskers, put his head in, as if afraid to venture 
 without reconnoitring his ground. Yilliers turned 
 to see his entrance, and as the man's eye fell upon 
 him he hastily retired, muttering an apology, and 
 saying that he would return when the gentleman 
 was disengaged. And though Beattie called after 
 him to enter, he hurried hastily down the stairs. 
 
 " Who is that man ? " asked Villiers. " Have I 
 not seen his face before ? " 
 
 " He is a stranger to me," said Beattie ; " some 
 foreigner, I suppose, with a petition. But I was 
 about to tell you something of our new heresies 
 here. Villiers resumed his attention, and Beattie 
 proceeded. 
 
 " I need not tell you, Villiers, how natural it is, 
 when power is used against us unjustly and tji'an- 
 nically, to rise against it in resentment, and not 
 content with throwing it back within due bounds, 
 to annihilate it altogether. None of us should be 
 surprised that the aggressions of the State upon the 
 Church within these few years should have pro- 
 duced a tendency in the Church to reciprocate an 
 aggression upon the State. Perhaps the seat and 
 beginning of this mischief may be traced to a dream 
 of spiritual empire and ambition, fostered by the 
 just claims which the Church has revived to her 
 spiritual independence and authority, but exagge- 
 rated far beyond the sanction either of history or
 
 HAWKSTONE. 347 
 
 reason, and exaggerated by the natural provoca- 
 tions caused by the alternate imbecility and violence 
 of our civil government. There is a struggle to 
 place the Church once more in a position of power. 
 It is felt, felt most truly, that there can be no peace 
 for the country, no safety for truth, no right en- 
 couragement for goodness, no strength in the go- 
 vernment, until the spiritual authority of the Church 
 is once more recognised. To re-establish it, it is 
 not necessary to subvert the authority of the State ; 
 but young, rash men, once possessed with an idea, 
 are carried away by it. They would make the 
 Church the only power, and subject the State to 
 her. To do this they must divest the State of its 
 own sacred character and divine institution ; and 
 they hesitate less at this profanation, because the 
 powers that be are now wielded by the populace ; 
 and thus their very hatred for democracy leads them 
 to adopt the worst theory of democracy, and, like the 
 Jesuits, they become at once political radicals and 
 spiritual despots." 
 
 Villiers recalled his conversation with Macarthy, 
 but remained silent. 
 
 " When," continued Beattie, " they look round for 
 means to realise this dream of ecclesiastical empire, 
 they see that in each single nation the civil power 
 must be stronger than the Church. The only hope 
 for the Church in such a struggle must be in a close 
 union with other foreign Churches. Hence the 
 vision of a so-called Catholic Church, not distributed 
 into various branches connected at one root, harmo- 
 nising in essential articles of faith, communicating in 
 all works of love, but gathered round one visible 
 local centre, and formed into a monarchy upon 
 earth." 
 
 " It is a vision," said Villiers, " very natural, very 
 romantic ; far more easily understood, and seem-
 
 348 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 ingly far more capable of realising the ends of the 
 Church, than the true doctrine of a Catholic body, 
 ramifying from one root, and each branch retaining 
 its individual existence together with its corporate 
 unity." 
 
 " And it fails," said Beattie, " only in a few points 
 — that it has no sanction in the primitive consti- 
 tution of the Church, and on examination is dis- 
 covered to be as unsound in theory as it has been 
 proved to be mischievous in practice." 
 
 " It may be so," sighed Villiers. 
 
 "But the dream," continued Beattie, "has been 
 once realised — realised in the papacy ; and hence 
 their eyes are turned to Rome with a strange mix- 
 ture of envy and wonder." 
 
 " And this accounts," said Villiers, " for the soft 
 and gentle terms in which they speak of Rome; for 
 their unwillingness to believe ill, or to hear ill, of 
 her." 
 
 " Yes," said Beattie ; " while they do not hesitate 
 to exhaust ridicule and reproach upon the follies of 
 what they think the opposite extreme (though it is 
 in reality the same), while they anathematise every 
 thing like private judgment, self-will, disobedience, 
 want of faith, irreverence to antiquity, they know 
 so little of the real history and nature of popery, 
 and are so completely blinded by its pretensions, 
 that they would throw a veil over all the enormities 
 into which popery has fallen by precisely the same 
 vices, and seem totally ignorant that the whole of 
 popery (so far as it is a development of the doc- 
 trine of a universal spiritual monarchy) is only a 
 pre-development of the spirit of dissent — just as 
 the tyrannies of Greece were identical with their 
 democracies." 
 
 " Something of this tendency," said Villiers, " was
 
 HAWKSTONE. 349 
 
 observable, was it not, in the very earliest writings 
 of the Oxford school ? " 
 
 " Something," answered Beattie. " But it seemed 
 excused by the violent, thoughtless abuse which 
 Puritanism had heaped even upon the Catholic parts 
 of the Romish system, and therefore upon our own 
 Church. It was necessary to defend what was true 
 in popery. And we tolerated it more readily from 
 the excess of our aversion to liberalism, which was 
 then triumphant, and because the apology for the 
 good parts of popery was coupled with the most un- 
 flinching denunciations and warnings against the 
 evil." 
 
 " And this," said Villiers, " has now been 
 changed ? " 
 
 " It has," said Beattie. " Followers have learned 
 to speak softly and gently of every thing in that sys- 
 tem, and leaders have uttered no warning against it." 
 
 " And yet," asked Villiers, " however fair and 
 specious the papal supremacy may be in theory, 
 how is it that men who are acquainted with the 
 history of the Primitive Church, and who appeal 
 to its authority, can reconcile themselves to such a 
 palpable usurpation and novelty ? " 
 
 " In the first place," said Beattie, " they are 
 young men, and not learned men. Their knowledge 
 of ecclesiastical history is limited, for the most part, 
 to modern compilations ; and those compilations 
 they have chosen to seek in writers of the Romish 
 communion. As for any deep and accurate know- 
 ledge of ecclesiastical antiquity, or the writings of 
 the Fathers, it would be absurd to expect it from 
 men only a few years emancipated from their boyish 
 studies, and most of them more disposed to talk and 
 write than to read and think." 
 
 " And yet," said Villiers, " they must have some 
 knowledge of history ; they cannot be so utterly
 
 350 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 and absurdly ignorant as not to know that the 
 Romish supremacy is a novelty, and is allowed to 
 be such even by their own controversialists." 
 
 " They have two theories," replied Beattie ; " one 
 derived from one Romish authority, and the other 
 from another. One is the right of development ; 
 the other, that even usurpation may be justified by 
 prescription. They have fallen thus, in the former, 
 into the worst doctrine of the liberalism of the day, in 
 opposition to which the movement commenced ; and 
 in the latter they not only show themselves ignorant 
 of the fact that in the English Church the papal 
 usurpations can claim no prescription, because they 
 were constantly protested against, but they also 
 put forward a maxim utterly destructive of the very 
 foundations of the Church, and of all positive insti- 
 tutions of God." 
 
 Villiers sighed. "But," he continued, after a 
 pause, " if these men hold this theory, they must 
 consider separation from Rome not only as inexpe- 
 dient, but as criminal. They must not only condemn 
 the Reformation and the Reformers, but they must 
 be anxious to restore the English Church to the 
 Romish communion without delay." 
 
 " Such, I believe," said Beattie, " is the case. 
 Remember, I am not speaking of any individuals. 
 I will not be led into imputing motives, or censur- 
 ing conduct, in others ; much-' less do I mean to say 
 that such notions are general : but in some I do 
 believe they prevail." 
 
 " And they must believe," added Villiers, " that 
 the English Church, on being severed from Rome, 
 forfeited many great privileges — perhaps even her 
 sacramental power. ' Can it be otherwise ? " 
 
 " I," said Beattie, " could not find any way out of 
 this dilemma, which would not also justify every 
 kind of dissent. But others may. At least, I trust
 
 HAWKSTONE. 351 
 
 they have some honest solution of the problem, 
 otherwise I cannot understand that they should be 
 able to remain, as they do, in the Church of Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " Surely," said Villiers, " you do not mean to say 
 that any man, seriously and firmly embracing such 
 a theory, can remain in the Church ? How can they 
 believe reunion with Rome to be necessary for the 
 validity of the Sacraments, and therefore for salva- 
 tion ? how, even, can they desire it on the ground 
 of expediency, without striving to accomplish it ? 
 and how can they strive to accomplish it while re- 
 maining within the bosom of our own Church ? " 
 
 " You might have added," said Beattie, " neces- 
 sary for the validity of their own orders." 
 
 " Their own orders ! " exclaimed Villiers, spring- 
 ing up, — " their own orders ! Do you mean that any 
 English clergyman, any honest man holding such 
 opinions, can continue to exercise his functions ? " 
 
 Beattie sighed deeply. 
 
 " Seriously," resumed Villiers, " would you have 
 me believe that there are men, clergymen in the 
 English Church, who not only profess such doc- 
 trines, but, professing them, think it possible to 
 retain their commission in that Church, and secretly 
 to use their influence for bringing it over to 
 popery ? " 
 
 " You ask me questions," said Beattie, " which 
 I would rather not answer ; but I know that it is 
 not impossible for clergymen in the Church to hold 
 these opinions, and to remain exercising their func- 
 tions in it, upon the ground that subscrij^tion to the 
 articles of that Church is not incompatible with a 
 recognition of the decrees of the Council of Trent." 
 
 Villiers sat for some time silent, as if struck with 
 amazement. 
 
 " Beattie," he said, at last, " what w^ould our
 
 352 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 courts of law say to an officer in the Queen's ser- 
 vice, who, when a French army was invading this 
 country, should not only, as a theory, think sub- 
 jection to France desirable, but should also conceive 
 it his duty to further that object by every means in 
 his power, especially by the influence which his 
 commission gave him with the soldiers of his re- 
 giment ? " 
 
 " That he was a traitor," said Beattie. 
 " And what," continued Beattie, " if instead of 
 going over at once to the enemy, he remained under 
 his colours, only secretly and fraudulently throwing 
 out insinuations, and projecting plans, and carrying 
 on correspondences, and assimilating his practices 
 to those of the enemy, and endeavouring to dis- 
 content his soldiers with their position by repeated 
 sarcasms upon England and panegyrics upon France, 
 and lamentations over the struggle by which the 
 freedom of England was to be maintained ? What 
 if he defended himself with alleging that he could 
 not act as an individual, that he waited till the 
 whole army should throw down their arms, and that 
 in the mean time he felt himself at liberty to pre- 
 pare and stimulate them gently so to do ? What if 
 he satisfied his conscience by pleading that the good 
 of England was his only object, though he fancied 
 that good to lie in enslavement to the power of 
 France?" 
 
 " I should say," exclaimed Yilliers, interrupting 
 him — but he checked himself. " No, Beattie," he 
 said after a pause, "let us not judge others, lest we 
 be judged ourselves. Let us leave such men, and 
 such consciences, to the judgment of One who sees 
 the heart, and to whom they are responsible. I 
 dare not judge any one." 
 
 " Neither," said Beattie, " will I. But it is my 
 lecture-hour, and we must separate."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 353 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 They did not meet again till the bell was ringing 
 for the hall dinner. There was but a small party ; 
 and as they assembled round the great Gothic fire- 
 place, while the servants were carrying the dinner 
 to the high table, Villiers was introduced to a 
 foreigner, a French abbe, who had been invited by 
 the same young man whose forward and rash lan- 
 guage had attracted his observation on a previous 
 day. The abbe was evidently a man of education, 
 quick and acute in his remarks, and keenly bent 
 upon observing every thing that passed. His man- 
 ner affected a politeness which bordered upon ful- 
 someness; and he showed particular anxiety to 
 become acquainted with Beattie, and to draw him 
 into conversation. He threw out many innuendos 
 and covert suggestions, which might have led to 
 the subject which generally occupied attention, 
 namely, the state of the Church in England ; but 
 Beattie quietly permitted them to drop, and turned 
 the conversation to questions of general literature. 
 The abbe was not to be repulsed. He ventured, 
 at last, to make comments on the characters and 
 writings of some of the most conspicuous among 
 the leaders of the Oxford movement ; and, with a 
 want of tact not unfrequently found in a manoeuvring 
 mind, he even boldly questioned Beattie on his own 
 opinions. This took place in the Common Room ; 
 but Beattie made some excuse for going to the 
 other side of the fire-place, and rang the bell for 
 coffee, while the abbe, a little discomfited, threw 
 
 VOL. I. A A
 
 354 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 himself upon Villiers with similar curiosity, but 
 was once more defeated by Beattie returning to 
 Villiers ; and pleading business with him, he took 
 him to his own room. 
 
 " You seemed very reluctant to gratify the abbe," 
 said Villiers, as they ascended the stairs. 
 
 " Very reluctant ? " answered Beattie. " I am not 
 satisfied with his appearance ; and I do not like the 
 admission amongst us of foreigners of the Romish 
 communion, who come without introduction and 
 without object, as far as they profess, but who, I 
 cannot but suspect, are acting as spies upon all that 
 passes among us at this critical moment. I am not 
 fond of meeting them myself, still less of intro- 
 ducing them to our general society, where we speak 
 often unguardedly, as round our own firesides ; 
 while, in reality, we are in a public room, and open 
 to the observation of strangers. In addition to 
 this, I entertain a most serious objection to asso- 
 ciating on terms of familiarity with Romanists. 
 They believe us heretics ; we believe them in this 
 country to be at least schismatics. In general so- 
 ciety we must lay aside the appearance of such a 
 belief, and act hypocritically ; and the hypocrisy 
 often ends, with us, at least, in the opinion that our 
 differences are of no moment." 
 
 " And would you act in this exclusive manner to 
 all who differ from you in religion ? " said Villiers. 
 
 " To all," answered Beattie, " who are not them- 
 selves members, and who do not allow myself to be 
 a member, of the Catholic Church. I know no other 
 bond of union in society to which we can trust but 
 the bond of the Church. And I am sure that to 
 confine ourselves within the limits and combinations 
 which she has formed for us is a far safer and a far 
 better security for peace and concord than to en- 
 deavour to throw down or overlook these party-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 355 
 
 walls ; and frame a new heterogeneous body upon 
 no principle but that of arbitrary fusion, and the 
 negation of all positive truth. But in the case of 
 Komanists," he continued, " the inducements to this 
 caution are, with me, far stronger than with any 
 other sectarians. I have studied the history of 
 Popery, and cannot but regard it in the light of an 
 aggressive intriguing conspiracy, aiming at uni- 
 versal empire — an empire professedly spiritual, but 
 essentially secular. I speak, remember, of the 
 popery of Rome ; not of the catholic elements of 
 truth and goodness, which it contrived to preserve 
 in its system. I know that at this moment, as often 
 before, the agents of Rome are exerting their utmost 
 efforts to embarrass the English Church ; that they 
 have emissaries in every part of the empire ; that 
 their operations are not confined to doctrinal dis- 
 cussions, but are deeply mixed up with political 
 movements, even with insurrectionary disturbances, 
 in England as well as in Ireland. Such has been 
 their conduct at all times ; but the present is a 
 favourable moment, and they are turning it to their 
 purpose with more than common enterprise and 
 assiduity. There are a few persons among us — the 
 persons of whom we spoke this morning — who laugh 
 at all such suspicions, and seem to take delight in 
 playing with firebrands, and walking about blindfold 
 on the edge of a precipice. Whether they are right 
 or wrong, time will show. In the mean time, I 
 avoid, as much as possible, the society of foreign 
 popish priests. We cannot meet for controversy; 
 and I can hold no other voluntary correspondence 
 with the avowed enemies of my Church but contro- 
 versy. Where, indeed, a person of a different com- 
 munion comes and asks for a serious discussicm upon 
 any difficulties which may occur to him, the case is 
 different. For instance, that Jewish-looking man, 
 A A 2
 
 356 HAAVKSTONE. 
 
 who came to my rooms the other morning. I like 
 neither his looks nor his manner; but I have not 
 hesitated to see him more than once." 
 
 " And who is he ? " asked Villiers. " I caught 
 but one glimpse of him, and fancied I had seen him 
 before." 
 
 " He tells me," said Beattie, " that he is a Polish 
 Jew ; that he was at Rome (perhaps you may have 
 seen him there) ; and that a Father Matthias, of the 
 English college, converted him to Romanism. He 
 became, however, dissatisfied with what he heard 
 and saw of their system, particularly with their ado- 
 ration of images, and came to England. And here, 
 he says, he has met with such a number of sects 
 among Protestants, and has been so harassed by 
 the doubts and difficulties which they have raised 
 against each other, that he is even thinking of re- 
 turning either to Judaism or Popery, if he cannot 
 be satisfied with the doctrines of our own Church." 
 
 Villiers shook his head. " Not a very promising 
 state of mind," he said. 
 
 " I fear not," replied Beattie. " Indeed, few states 
 could be more unpromising. And there is some- 
 thing in his look so full of cunning, and, at times, 
 even of malignity, that I should refuse to have any 
 thing to say to him, except that I do not like to 
 omit any opportunity of possibly doing good. He 
 seems remai-kably anxious to hear my opinions on 
 Popery, and is at times very abusive against it him- 
 self, with the view, I am inclined to think, of trying 
 if I am willing to defend it." 
 
 " Has he asked for money ? " said Villiers. 
 
 ^' No," answered Beattie. " Had he done this, I 
 should be inclined to suspect at once that he be- 
 longed to a class of swindlers who not unfrequently 
 obtain access to us here under pretence of religious 
 difficulties or persecutions, and seldom fail to prey
 
 HAWKSTONE. 357 
 
 upon our unsuspicious benevolence. But lie de- 
 scribes himself as provided with means of his own." 
 
 Villiers shook his head again. " I confess," he 
 said, " that, were I you, I should be even more on 
 my guard against such a man than against an 
 avowed foreign ecclesiastic. When I was in America 
 I became acquainted with a person who, from cir- 
 cumstances, had been thrown very much behind the 
 scenes with the emissaries of Rome. He mentioned 
 to me several instances where most serious evil had 
 resulted from their intrigues." 
 
 Beattie sat musing for some little time. " I 
 scarcely needed," he said, " this caution. But many 
 similar facts are known to me, and, I assure you, I 
 am on my guard. And now let us turn to a more 
 agreeable subject. While I am making tea, will you 
 find out that noble passage of Burke, in his ' French 
 Revolution,' where he speaks of the destruction of 
 the monasteries, and of the value of the principles of 
 incorporation in the Church, and in society gene- 
 rally?" 
 
 " Can it be so late ? " said Villiers, while they 
 were still discussing the use and abuse of collegiate 
 bodies in the Church. " Is that twelve ?" 
 
 And the deep-toned clock of St. Mary's, followed 
 by strokes from many another spire and tower, com- 
 pelled them to separate for the night. Beattie 
 followed him down the stone stairs, which were 
 already dark, the lamps having burnt out. The 
 street was empty. But as Villiers passed down to 
 the Angel Inn, where he was staying, close at the 
 corner of the street which leads into the dark Rad- 
 clifFe Square, between St. Mary's and All Souls' 
 College, two men were standing, with their backs to 
 him, engaged in deep conversation, but sheltered, 
 under the shadow of the wall, from the light of the 
 moon. They were speaking earnestly in French, 
 A A 3
 
 358 HAT7KST0NE. 
 
 and Villiers fancied that he heard his own name 
 mentioned ; and as he turned to look at them as he 
 passed, he was surprised to see the Jew in company 
 with the French ecclesiastic whom he had met that 
 day at dinner. 
 
 " I tell you I am sure. He is as great a heretic 
 as ever ; and so they are both," was all that Villiers 
 caught as he moved on. It was too little to justify 
 him in stopping to demand an explanation ; but he 
 resolved to prosecute some inquiries in the morning. 
 He went into the coffee-room to write a letter, 
 which the sleepy waiter promised to commit care- 
 fully to the driver of the mail, which passed through 
 to Hawkstone at two o'clock in the morning ; and 
 as he was going up stairs to his room, the chamber- 
 maid met him, with apologies for having shifted him 
 to another apartment, — one, she said, more airy and 
 convenient ; the other had been wanted as part of 
 a suite for a family. Villiers made no remonstrance. 
 His new room was preferable to the other. His 
 servant had moved all his dressing apparatus, as if 
 no change had been effected. And after trying the 
 lock of a door, which seemed to lead into an adjoining 
 room, and finding it fastened on the other side, he 
 sat down, trimmed his candle, and opened his desk 
 to examine some papers. His eye fell on a packet 
 sealed with black, and carefully secured. It con- 
 tained documents, which he never parted with, full 
 to him of bitter recollections, and which yet he never 
 looked on without some gleam of hope that they 
 might one day restore to him his child. He opened 
 it, and the tears fell thick upon the papers. The 
 certificate of his unhappy marriage, memoranda of 
 all the facts relating to the loss of his boy, as minute 
 an account as could be obtained of every point which 
 might lead to his recognition, and which had been 
 drawn up, by Beattie's care, at Naples, while Vil-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 359 
 
 liers himself was lying in his illness ; some family 
 l^apers of his wife's, relating to her own birth and 
 connections ; and the miniature of his wife herself, 
 in all her beauty. — Villiers once more, for the thou- 
 sandth time, perused and reperused these precious 
 memorials, until a heavy step passing his door, and 
 entering the adjoining room, roused him from a sort 
 of stupor, and he prepared to lie down. Once, as 
 he was undressing, he fancied he heard a slight 
 grating sound, as if some one was trying the handle 
 or the lock of the door, but it did not return, and, 
 resting his head on liis pillow, he was soon asleep. 
 
 He rose soon (for it was Sunday morning), that 
 he might attend the early Communion with Beattie. 
 It was one of the last days which he proposed to 
 pass in Oxford, and, except the hours of Divine 
 service, he spent the greater part of it with Beattie. 
 It was a time of deep and solemn reflection to him ; 
 and softened and elevated by the feelings which 
 Oxford, more than any other place, breathes upon a 
 Sabbath rest, he spoke unreservedly to his friend of 
 the future as well as the past ; of his repentance ; 
 his submission to the will of God ; his recognition 
 of the hand of Providence in the judgment with 
 which he had been afflicted ; of his earnest desire to 
 devote the remainder of his life to the service of 
 God and the Church ; of his resolution to divert his 
 thoughts from the great temptation which he felt 
 would interrupt that purpose if he once involved 
 himself in a union even with the most admirable 
 of women, severed from him by her religious faith. 
 Beattie listened to him, as they paced backwards 
 and forwards on the broad smooth level lawn of 
 St. John's garden, silently, but not without emotion. 
 
 '• I shall look to you, dear Beattie," he said, " for 
 much assistance, for advice, for suggestions." 
 
 But Beattie shook his head. He was not fond 
 A A 4
 
 360 HAAVKSTONE. 
 
 of giving advice ; and lie had no great confidence 
 in his own suggestions. It was one of his first 
 maxims to undertake no responsibility to which he 
 did not seem obviously called by the hand of Pro- 
 vidence. 
 
 "Place yourself," he replied, more than once, 
 " under the guidance of your bishop ; he is the 
 proper person to direct you. At any rate you will 
 have done your duty ; and whatever be the result, 
 you will have no cause for self-reproach." 
 
 " But you will come and see me ? " 
 
 " Indeed I will." 
 
 " And you will not refuse to tell me if I am 
 wrong in any thing I undertake?" 
 
 Once more Beattie shook his head and smiled ; 
 but it was a smile of afiectionate confidence, that 
 there would be few occasions for such admonitions. 
 
 "And now of my more private matters;" said 
 Villiers, "I must trouble you once more. You 
 will, I am sure, look over again the papers which 
 you drew up for me at Naples ; I must have accu- 
 rate copies of them taken and placed in the hands 
 of a friend — of more than one friend ; for I 
 tremble at times lest I should lose them, and then 
 all hope would be lost of recovering what at times 
 I still believe God in his great mercy will restore 
 to me. I will bring them to you to-morrow ; and 
 in your hands, for the time, I know they will be 
 safe." 
 
 Beattie readily promised. Even he himself, 
 though neither sanguine nor romantic, and not- 
 withstanding the impenetrable mystery which hung 
 over the loss of Villiers's child, and had bafiied 
 every research, — even Beattie, as he looked proudly 
 and fondly on the noble and almost sacred character 
 of his friend, did not despair that blessings were 
 still in store for him. He wished once more to
 
 HAWKSTONE. 361 
 
 examine the documents, and consult upon tliem a 
 legal friend who had enjoyed considerable experi- 
 ence in the detection of similar cases. 
 
 Villiers's arrangements were all made to leave 
 Oxford for Hawkstone the following day. Once 
 more the midnight bell tolled out from the towers 
 and steeples before he could bring himself to separate 
 from Beattie, and before Beattie had half concluded 
 all that he was endeavouring to explain of the 
 proper organisation of the Church, and of the ne- 
 cessity for restoring it at this time to meet its tre- 
 mendous responsibilities, by the restoration of the 
 collegiate principle, cleared from the errors of mo- 
 nasticism. Once more they roused the sleepy porter 
 at the gate, who, notwithstanding the nightly dis- 
 turbance of his doze, stood obsequiously iwith hat 
 in hand to open the wicket for Mr. Beattie's friend. 
 
 " I will bring you the papers to-morrow," were 
 Villiers's last words. 
 
 To-morrow came. Villiers rose to go to chapel 
 and to breakfast with his friend for the last time. 
 He went to his desk to obtain the papers. Every 
 thing lay as usual — the lock uninjured, money to 
 a considerable amount untouched, some rings, 
 private papers, confidential letters, all safe ; nothing 
 was missing : but when he looked for the packet 
 sealed with black, it was gone. 
 
 We have no wish to exhibit characters created 
 for respect under the influence of mere feeling. 
 Villiers was not indeed a hero of romance, with 
 wbom every emotion is a hurricane of passion. He 
 possessed a wonderful control over himself, and for 
 mere passion entertained a profound contempt. He 
 therefore neither tore his hair nor wrung his hands ; 
 but his consternation was great. He searched 
 through all the drawers — ransacked every corner 
 — endeavoured to recall every clue by which he
 
 362 HAWKSTONE, 
 
 might remember where the papers were mislaid. 
 He had seen them only two nights before. The 
 notion of robbery was laid aside when he examined 
 the desk and found every thing untouched. His 
 room, moreover, had been kept locked during his 
 absence, and he had the key in his pocket. Un- 
 willing to make a charge so vague, which might 
 unjustly expose the whole household to suspicion, 
 he sent privately for the master of the hotel. 
 But no light could be thrown on the loss. Only 
 one person, when interrogated, seemed to entertain 
 a suspicion. A foreign gentleman, a Jew, who 
 had been staying in the house, happened to meet 
 Villiers's servant at the door of his master's room, 
 while he was removing his things to his new apart- 
 ment. He had come into the room to ask some 
 frivolous question, and had looked about him : and 
 on inquiry of the chamber-maid, it was found that 
 he had complained to her soon afterwards that his 
 own room was noisy, and had asked to be moved into 
 the one which adjoined Villiers's, and communicated 
 with it by an inner door. It was found also that he 
 had left Oxford that morning by the earliest con- 
 veyance, and gone to London. Slight as the clue 
 was, it recalled to Villiers's mind the sound which 
 he had heard in the keyhole the night when he was 
 last examining the papers, — the mention of his 
 own name in the street, — all that he had heard 
 froniBeattie, — the strange look, which nevertheless 
 seemed to be not new to him : and writing a hasty 
 note to Beattie, he proceeded without delay to 
 London, in the vain hope of tracing the stranger. 
 It is needless to say that all his efforts were 
 vain : baffled and wearied, he was obliged to resign 
 himself to his loss. And now that all hopes of 
 recovering his child were gone, he consoled him- 
 self by planning how he should devote more com-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 363 
 
 pletely himself, and all that he possessed, to the 
 service of his Maker. He had no longer any object 
 in either sparing or accumulating. Unselfish in all 
 his thoughts, he never had contemplated his posses- 
 sions, enlarged as they were by his uncle's death, 
 as a means of personal aggrandisement. But so 
 long as there remained a possibility of discovering 
 his child, so long he felt the obligation of guarding 
 and preserving for him all that he might have a 
 right to claim. That obligation was now all but 
 destroyed: recovery seemed hopeless. And after 
 remaining in London for some weeks to make the 
 necessary arrangements with his lawyers, Villiers, 
 with a heavy and weary heart, came down to 
 Hawkstone on the very night of the fire : and to 
 that place we must now, after this long retrospection, 
 carry back our readers.
 
 364 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 We trust that our readers will be able to pass from 
 the grave and sobering thoughts of the preceding 
 chapters to a more insignificant scene, and yet one 
 not unconnected with them, and will now take their 
 stand with us by the side of poor Mrs. Crump's 
 arm-chair, and look out of her bow-window into 
 the High Street of Hawkstone. 
 
 Although Mrs. Crump's afternoon had closed 
 angrily and gloomily, her prospects brightened up 
 when the next day arrived ; for about twelve o'clock 
 brought an event in her monotonous life, no less 
 than the arrival of a strange gentleman at the side- 
 door of Messrs. Silkem's residence, and evidently a 
 visiter to Miss Mabel Brook herself. None but per- 
 sons in Mrs. Crump's position can fairly appreciate 
 the envy with which at that moment she would 
 have regarded persons possessing, like ourselves, the 
 privilege of following this visiter into the house, 
 and of hearing every word that passed. There 
 is in fact a remarkable faculty possessed by authors 
 — that of ubiquity, by which they see every thing, 
 and hear every thing, and can give a most accurate 
 report of all that passes in the most secret and con- 
 fidential communication : and as these pages may 
 perhaps meet Mrs. Crump's eye, we shall not hesitate 
 on the present occasion to take advantage of our 
 privilege, and give her full information. The gen- 
 tleman then in question, as Mrs. Crump herself 
 perceived, was rather of that age which is most 
 appropriately described " as the same age with
 
 HAWKSTONE. 865 
 
 every body else ;" that is, lie was neither young nor 
 old ; but he was portly, of a military aspect, with 
 whiskers, and even an abridgement of mustachoes ; 
 and he was enveloped, though the day was by no 
 means cold, in a blue military cloak, with a profu- 
 sion of silk cords and tassels depending from his 
 neck, round which there also hung a massive watch- 
 guard and chain, which to Mrs. Crump's admiring 
 eye were composed of solid gold. He inquired 
 respectfully of Mabel's little Abigail, if this was the 
 residence of the celebrated Miss Brook ; upon which 
 the little Abigail, frightened out of her wits at the 
 sight of so formidable a stranger, hesitatingly re- 
 plied, " No — Miss Brook's name was not Cele- 
 brated, but Mabel." 
 
 "Miss Mabel Brook! It is the same personage," 
 said the stranger. " Pray present to her my card, 
 and say that I beg the honour of an interview." 
 
 The card was of the most polished character, 
 bearing on it in full blazonry the title of Major 
 O'Keefe, Honorary Secretary to the Royal and 
 National Grand African Colonisation and Timbuc- 
 too Civilisation Society, No. 94. Suffolk Street. 
 Before Mabel had had time to inquire of her little 
 maid the appearance of the stranger, or to recover 
 from the trepidation naturally produced by the ap- 
 proach of such a titled personage, he had himself 
 followed up the stairs, and even made his appear- 
 ance within the door of Mabel's sanctuary. With 
 his hat gracefully waving in one hand, and the 
 other pressed respectfully to his breast, he bowed 
 repeatedly ; and then approaching Mabel, he begged 
 to know if he had the honour of addressing that 
 well-known ornament of society, that example of 
 genuine benevolence and enlightened liberality, 
 whose name had reached far beyond the narrow 
 sphere to which her beneficent exertions were un-
 
 366 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 happily limited ? " "Was it IMiss Mabel Brook 
 whom he then had the pleasure of beholding ? " 
 
 To this overpowering exordium it was impossible 
 for Mabel's modesty to do more than colour and 
 look confused, and say, " Oh ! oh I " and beg that 
 he would take a chair ; which, throwing aside his 
 blue envelopment, and studiously displaying, not 
 only his massive chain, but two equally massive 
 rings upon his fingers, as he passed them negli- 
 gently through his copious hair, he proceeded to 
 do. 
 
 " Madam," he commenced, " I will make no apo- 
 logy for thus intruding on hours dedicated to the 
 sweetest labours of an enlightened charity ; but I 
 have been deputed to wait on you by the committee 
 of that noble and illustrious society, to further 
 whose object I have devoted, I might say sacrificed, 
 myself — the Royal and National Grand African 
 Colonisation and Timbuctoo Civilisation Society, 
 No. 94. Suffolk Street. You must be aware, 
 madam, of the deep interest which benevolent in- 
 dividuals have recently taken in the fate of Africa. 
 Wilberforce, Macaulay, Stephens, Smith, Hopkins, 
 Johnson, Thompson — hundreds of the most illus- 
 trious characters of the day — feeling the blot which 
 that unhappy country now makes on the face of 
 the globe, have resolved to wipe out this dark stain 
 from the age. They propose to rouse the country, 
 madam ; they will sound the tocsin throughout 
 the length and breadth of the land ; they will sum- 
 mon together the great, the noble, the learned, 
 the pious, — all that dignifies human nature and 
 society, — Prince Albert, Madam, himself, and the 
 
 Bishop of ; and from the platform of Exeter 
 
 Hall there will go forth a voice which will be 
 heard in the inmost depths of the spice-breathing 
 forests of Africa, and by the swarthy natives of the
 
 HAWKSTONE. 367 
 
 farthest south, saying to them, 'Be free! be civi- 
 lised! be happy!' Madam " But here, as he 
 
 was obliged to pause in order to take breath, Mabel 
 also took the opportunity to express her deep sym- 
 pathy with the society, of whose formation she 
 had been made duly acquainted through the public 
 press ; and also to hint at the admiration which the 
 stranger's glowing language and energetic delivery 
 had already excited in her mind. 
 
 " But, madam," he resumed, " I must not longer 
 deprive myself of the pleasure of offering to you 
 the tribute to your numerous virtues, which the 
 committee of our illustrious society have desired 
 to jDay you. They have begged your acceptance, 
 madam, of this diploma, which I here present you, 
 and entreat that you will allow your name to be 
 enrolled among the Honorary Vice-Presidents of 
 the Ladies Affiliated Association, for the furtherance 
 of our benevolent object." 
 
 And with these words, from a pocket which 
 apparently contained a number of documents of the 
 same shape and size, the stranger produced a huge 
 sheet of printed paper, blazoned and adorned with 
 a variety of allegorical figures, and containing a 
 long and dignified list of visitors, presidents, patrons, 
 vice-patrons, honorary governors, that is, governors 
 who were not allowed to govern, subscribers, and 
 supporters ; resolutions moved by Lord A., and 
 seconded by the Bishop of B. ; and at the bottom, 
 in a copious and most tortuous hieroglyphic, the 
 signature of Augustus Philadelphus Wilberforce 
 O'Keefe, honorary Secretary and Treasurer. But 
 that which most surprised, and, it must be con- 
 fessed, most delighted Mabel, was a letter addressed 
 to herself by the body of the committee, expressing 
 their admiration of her character, their desire to 
 show their sense of the benefit which, in such va-
 
 368 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 rious capacities, slie had rendered to the cause of 
 true benevolence, and the unanimous applause with 
 which she had therefore been elected to a seat at 
 the board of honorary vice-presidents of the Ladies', 
 &c. &c. &c. The honorary secretary and treasurer 
 was not insensible to the favourable eiOfect produced 
 on the honorary vice-president. 
 
 " Madam," he proceeded, ^' will you now permit 
 me to explain to you, succinctly but precisely, the 
 object of our most important undertaking, in which 
 we fervently trust you will both sympathise and 
 co-operate with us ? " 
 
 Mabel bowed, and placed herself in a listening 
 posture, not forgetting, however, that too ready an 
 acceptance, even of such an honour, might compro- 
 mise her own dignity, and therefore throwing into 
 her countenance a cast of critical and judicial 
 severity, to temper the blandness of her general 
 demeanour. 
 
 "Our object, madam," said the secretary (and 
 he drew his chair closely and confidentially to her 
 side), " is to pour the light of civilisation and liberty 
 over the vast regions of Africa — a fourth part, 
 madam, of the habitable globe." 
 
 Mabel bowed assent. 
 
 " We feel, madam, that nothing can reclaim those 
 miserable nations from their present degraded posi- 
 tion, or put a stop to the horrors of slavery " 
 
 Mabel gave a shudder. 
 
 "Yes, madam, the horrors of slavery! Wliat 
 Englishman, what female — what tender, delicate, 
 affectionate heart — a heart, madam, like your own, 
 does not glow at the name of liberty ? How can we 
 release these miserable regions from their state of 
 darkness and thraldom, except by pouring in upon 
 them the light of civilisation ? It is our wish, 
 madam, to establish relations with all the tribes in
 
 HAWKSTONE. 369 
 
 the interior of Africa. We propose to develope 
 their resources, to modify their institutions, to carry 
 out the principles of an enlightened utility." 
 
 Mabel looked all attention. 
 
 " To do this, madam, we have obtained from a 
 most eminent French traveller accurate statistics 
 of the population, commerce, manufactures, litera- 
 ture, and religion of those vast regions ; and we find, 
 on authentic calculation, that by turning the labour 
 of the people into manufactures and agriculture, 
 more wealth would be created than by selling them 
 as slaves." 
 
 Mabel bowed. 
 
 " Once, madam, impress this great truth on the 
 mind of the sovereigns of those districts, and by 
 the inevitable oj^eration of the great law of our 
 nature, prudential self-love, the slave-trade will be 
 abandoned, manufactures and commerce will be in- 
 troduced into the dark regions of Timbuctoo, and 
 will bring with them all the blessings of life which 
 they have diffused upon our own favoured shores." 
 
 Mabel here did not bow assent, for the word 
 manufactures reminded her that she had just come 
 from the dying bed of a poor stunted factory child, 
 whose arms had been crushed in the machinery, 
 and whom his mother, with ten starving children, 
 was vainly endeavouring to support upon cold po- 
 tatoes and water — the father spending his wages in 
 the intervals of work at the public-house. 
 
 " Madam," continued the secretary, " nothing 
 but knowledge can work this miraculous change. 
 ' Knowledge,' madam, as the great Bacon says — 
 * Knowledge is power.' And one of the first debts 
 due by our civilised continent to our unhappy 
 brethren of Africa is to give them knowledge." 
 
 "You intend, I suppose, sir," inquired JMabel, 
 " to establish schools among the blacks ? " 
 
 VOL. I. B B
 
 370 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 " Certainly, madam, certainly — schools of all 
 kinds. One of our first thoughts, madam. I may 
 mention to you privately, madam, and confiden- 
 tially, that a most distinguished person has already 
 placed at the disposal of the society a sum of 1000/. 
 to found a professorship of political economy in the 
 great capital of Africa. The Rev. Dr. Mason, that 
 celebrated writer and divine, has also been pleased 
 to place at our disposal all the unsold copies of his 
 lectures on that science (and I assure you they 
 amount to a large number of volumes), for the pur- 
 pose of circulating them among the negroes." 
 
 " How interesting ! " said Mabel. " And pray, sir, 
 do the negroes understand English ? " 
 
 " No, madam, not yet, not exactly : but Dr. 
 Jones, who understands the languages of all the 
 savage tribes both in Africa and in Europe, and has 
 published some beautiful translations from their lite- 
 rature and poetry, has undertaken, for a mere trifle, 
 not above three or four hundred pounds, to render 
 them into the vernacular tongue, the Ashantee dia- 
 lect — a man, madam, that, of prodigious power ! 
 wonderful memory ! extraordinary fancy ! His 
 opinion is, that the chapter on rent and wages will 
 tell wonderfully in opening the eyes of the natives 
 to the true theory of wealth. He has some notion 
 of publishing a little volume himself, of translations 
 from an Ashantee poem, one of them a splendid 
 epic — wild, madam, and irregular, wanting in the 
 unities, but sweetly touching — spirit-stirring — the 
 peripateia especially ! " 
 
 " I should like much to see it," said Mabel ; 
 " there is something so interesting and affecting in 
 the wild life of the native African." 
 
 " Certainly, madam, certainly," said the secre- 
 tary ; nothing can be more so. It is to be pub-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 371 
 
 lished by subscription. Would you allow me to put 
 your name on the list ? " 
 
 Mabel, however, was prudent and economical 
 even in her enthusiasm, and was obliged to decline ; 
 pleading the many calls on her purse. 
 
 " We shall hope, madam," continued the secre- 
 tary, " to print it at Timbuctoo. Our expedition 
 takes out a printing-press, — one of our first ob- 
 jects. We shall have a newspaper, madam, weekly 
 at first, but we do not doubt of its circulation soon 
 reaching to a considerable extent, and then we pro- 
 pose to publish it daily ; the African Sun it is to 
 be called — allegorical, you see, emblematic of intel- 
 lectual light. It will contain all the European 
 news — our parliamentary reports, which will give 
 the poor blinded natives an interest in a free govern- 
 ment — the rise of stocks — authentic accounts of 
 prices — the state of shipping — quotations of foreign 
 articles in the British markets, — every thing, in fact, 
 which can enlighten the mind as to the true prin- 
 ciples of wealth, and enable them to comprehend 
 and labour to attain themselves the blessings of 
 civilisation." 
 
 " How delightful ! " said Mabel. 
 
 "Yes, madam; and a country, that, of prodigious 
 resources ! fine inland river, that, the Niger ! gold- 
 dust, ivory, elephants, monkeys, lions, alligators, 
 snakes, crocodiles. The Niger itself, madam, con- 
 tains more crocodiles than any river in Europe." 
 
 " Does it, indeed ? " asked Mabel. " And are they 
 good to eat ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, madam, not precisely ; though 
 Capt. BifFen — the great traveller, who has spent 
 months in the interior shooting, and has given the 
 world that delightful and interesting account of his 
 sport — bagged twenty elephants, fifteen buffaloes, 
 and ten boa-constrictors in one day, besides a tiger 
 B B 2
 
 372 HAWKSTONF, 
 
 and baboon — he says, indeed, tliat the green fat.'ust 
 below the last joint of the off fore-paw is exquisitely 
 delicious, and would rival turtle — beat it, indeed, out 
 of the market ; but our thoughts have rather been 
 turned to science. We long to introduce into our 
 own beloved country the same blessings of know- 
 ledge which we would diffuse in Africa ; and what 
 branch of knowledge more interesting, more valu- 
 able, more refreshing and expanding to the mind — 
 carrying it, madam, up to the great Cause of all 
 things, and filling it with wonder and admiration — 
 than the study of Nature, and Nature's works ! " 
 
 Mabel smiled, and assented. 
 
 " And yet, madam, think, even in this favoured 
 land, and among our own enlightened peasantry, 
 and even our artisans, how few know the difference 
 between an alligator and a crocodile ! " 
 
 '' Very few," said Mabel, a little alarmed lest any 
 question on the subject should arise which might 
 betray her own ignorance of this important point. 
 
 " Oh ! madam, we look forward to the day when 
 not only in the Regent's Park, but in every town in 
 England, there may be a zoological collection — live 
 birds and beasts of all kinds. We have entered 
 already into a contract with the proprietors of the 
 Surrey Gardens to supply them every three months 
 with two live crocodiles. They seldom live longer 
 than three months in this climate — cold, madam, 
 and damp, compared with the genial atmosphere of 
 their own delightful land ! They will become a 
 branch of trade — open a new line of profitable spe- 
 culation. We calculate that the prime cost of one, 
 all expenses and duties paid, will be scarcely more 
 than what any private gentleman of moderate 
 fortune might easily afford, if lie wished to keep 
 one himself."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 373 
 
 " Then, madam, think of our own trade ; what a 
 market for our own commodities ; how delightful to 
 introduce among the blinded hordes of those be- 
 nighted regions our own enjoyments — brandy, rum, 
 gunpowder, fire-arms. We have already contracted 
 for 500 stand of muskets with a great manufacturer 
 at Birmingham, warranted, madam, not to burst till 
 the third time of firing. Opium, again " 
 
 " Opium ! " inquired Mabel, rather alarmed. " I 
 should not have thought it desirable to encourage a 
 taste for opium among the negroes." 
 
 " Oh! madam, not for the world, not for the 
 world ; it is not with a view to encourage any per- 
 nicious habit ; not that, madam ; but commerce, you 
 see, must be free, free as air. Fetter its wings, and, 
 ike the imprisoned eagle, it pines and dies ! " 
 
 Mabel was enchanted with the metaphor, but 
 could not help reverting to the objectionable cha- 
 racter of an opium trade. 
 
 " You see, madam," said the secretary, and he 
 drew his chair still closer, and subdued his voice 
 into a persuasive and didactic tone, "you see, 
 madam, the state and prospects of this country are 
 so alarming in consequence of our commercial spe- 
 culations, that it becomes absolutely necessary for us 
 to look round on all sides, and to provide means for 
 developing them farther. Capital, madam, must be 
 employed, otherwise how could we pay our National 
 Debt ? Our shipping must be kept up, or what 
 is to become of our duties? In fact, madam, our 
 whole existence depends on our manufactures and 
 commerce ; and opium, madam, is one great branch ; 
 two millions of money annually are invested in it. 
 What would the Chancellor of the Exchequer say 
 if this branch of his revenue was cut off? No, 
 madam, it is not for us to interfere with or fetter 
 the natural expansion of trade ; it will take its owu 
 B B 3
 
 374 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 course, and work out its own end, and nothing but 
 mischief can follow from attempts to overrule it. 
 The nineteenth century has long since exploded the 
 old absurd theories of restrictions upon commerce. 
 But then, madam, do not suppose we are insensible 
 to our moral influence. It is by showing to the 
 poor natives our superiority in all points of know- 
 ledge, by compelling them to look up to us for the 
 supply of their wants, that we intend to acquire a 
 control over them, and lead them on in the glorious 
 path of civilisation. We take out a steam-engine, 
 madam, which is to work the gold mines : gold 
 mines, we know, there are in abundance ; labour 
 cheap and plentiful ; and the negroes will work 
 almost for nothing if kept properly in order. Why, 
 in our own factories children work twelve hours a 
 day for 6d. ; and it will be hard if the negroes in 
 their own country cannot be induced to do the same. 
 Stimulate their wants, madam, enlarge their capa- 
 city for enjoyment, open to them new views of ad- 
 vantages, and you will find that even the negroes 
 will become as industrious, and as civilised, and as 
 happy, as our own artisans." 
 
 Mabel, however, said nothing, for again the word 
 " factory " had raised up a painful vision before her 
 eyes ; and she turned the subject by pointing to an 
 engraving on the diploma, which represented a 
 splendid range of buildings, with a quay, and ship- 
 ping in the distance ; and on the foreground, a lady 
 of most amiable deportment, with a helmet on her 
 head and a spear in her hand, sitting in what to 
 ordinary mortals must be an uncomfortable posi- 
 tion, on the tire of a wheel, and stretching out her 
 hands to a group of negroes, not attired with perfect 
 decorum, or rather, not attired at all (for modern 
 art seems to have dispensed with the superfluity of 
 dress). The above-mentioned negroes were also em-
 
 HAWKSTONE. 375 
 
 ployed in carrying some huge bales, carefully corded, 
 and marked Messrs. Baldwin and Co., Merchants, 
 Timbuctoo. Above was a splendid irradiation of light 
 pouring down from amidst a mass of dispersing clouds. 
 
 " This print, I suppose," said Mabel, "is em- 
 blematical ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam," said the secretary, " partly so — a 
 little device of my own " (and he smiled with con- 
 scious dignity) ; " but partly real. It is the archi- 
 tect's design for the new town of Albert- Ville, on 
 the banks of the Niger." 
 
 " Indeed! " said Mabel. " It is very beautiful." 
 
 " Exquisite, madam ; one of the most charming 
 and complete things which Mr. Plasmer has pro- 
 duced ! Great genius that, madam ! very great 
 genius ! You see, here is the Crescent ; Victoria 
 Crescent it is to be called, in honour of her most 
 gracious Majesty. Here, in the centre, is the hotel, 
 a most spacious and convenient house, containing 
 baths, billiard-room, ball-room, theatre adjoining, 
 admirably ventilated kitchens, tap-room, and sepa- 
 rate spirit-shop at the back for the accommodation 
 of the natives ; a noble range of houses and ware- 
 houses on the banks of the river : the whole to com- 
 municate with a railway direct from Timbuctoo." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mabel. " It is a magnificent 
 idea ! " 
 
 " Magnificent, indeed," said the secretary ; who 
 seemed as if by this time he had exhausted his elo- 
 quence, and wished to draw the conversation to a 
 practical closing point. But Mabel's thoughts had 
 before this turned to one other consideration. 
 
 " And I presume, sir," she said, pointing to a 
 central tower, round which the buildings were pic- 
 turesquely grouped, " I presume this is to be the 
 church ? " 
 
 " No, madam, not exactly, not precisely ; it is 
 B B 4
 
 376 IIAA7KST0XE. 
 
 the tower of the observatory. We are to have an 
 observatory. You are aware how anxious the world 
 of science has long been to establish a chain of 
 observatories over the whole earth. They have built 
 one at Botany Bay. The grand celebrated Asso- 
 ciation for Science, where all the philosophers assem- 
 bled last year, particularly begged that one of our 
 first things should be to build an observatory, and 
 teach the negroes the use of the telescope. How de- 
 lightful it will be to see the swarthy Abyssinian vil- 
 lagers, with eyes upturned to heaven, scanning the 
 wonders of the starry world, or calculating the 
 transit of Venus ! How elevating to their minds ! how 
 enrapturing the prospect ! We may owe even the 
 discovery of a new nebula, or the just outline of one 
 of the mountains of the moon, to one of those poor 
 creatures who are now rambling in their native 
 forests, believing, in their miserable ignorance, that 
 the stars are sparks of fire, and the moon only 
 three feet round. Sad, indeed, to reflect, that never 
 till now have we endeavoured to give them juster 
 and more ennobling views ! And how delightful 
 the thought, that at length the clouds of darkness 
 may be unrolled from their eyes ! " 
 
 " And where is your church to be ? " piu*sued 
 Mabel. 
 
 " Oh! why — why — oh ! " and the secretary hemmed 
 and coughed. "Why, madam, you see" — and he 
 coughed again — " we have been desirous to rally 
 under one grand banner of enlightened benevolence 
 all the great and good minds of the present day ; and 
 to do this without risking those sad discordances and 
 disputes on antiquated dogmas which must intervene, 
 whenever, in these days, the subject of religion is 
 mixed up with more practical pursuits. We have 
 therefore thought it better (and the government 
 quite approve of our principle) to leave religion an
 
 HAWKSTONE. 377 
 
 open question. But there will be a church, madam. 
 Do not be alarmed ; there is to be a church." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Mabel. " And I sup- 
 pose you will have clergymen and missionaries '' " 
 
 " Oh ! certainly, madam, certainly. We have 
 thrown open the whole field to competition. Any 
 clergymen of any denomination will be invited to 
 accompany the expedition. And we rather think 
 of allowing to a certain number a free passage, 
 provided they bring proper recommendations from 
 their respective congregations. Something, indeed, 
 was suggested by the government about providing 
 them all land in the colony according to the number 
 of their flocks : but we really dread mixing up the 
 clergy with any secular or temporal pursuits ; it re- 
 moves them from their purely spiritual duties and 
 character; and therefore the committee have resolved 
 not to hold out such temptations. Besides which, it 
 would be inconvenient, as the land is of some value, 
 and may be wanted for commercial purposes." 
 
 " And have you had many applications or offers 
 from clergymen ? " asked Mabel. 
 
 " Oh dear, yes ! certainly ; three Baptists, two 
 Presbyterians, four Wesleyans, and six Eational 
 Religionists have sent in their testimonials ; be- 
 sides one Unitarian clergyman, who intends to open 
 a business in the ivory and spirit line." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mabel. " But is not the ivory and 
 spirit line rather a temporal and secular occupation 
 for a clergyman ? " 
 
 " Why, rather so, madam, rather, perhaps ; but 
 then, you see, the gentleman must live in some way. 
 He cannot preach and starve. If he is not paid for 
 his services, he must support himself. " 
 
 "Very true," said Mabel. "But where is the 
 church to be built — our own church, I mean ?" 
 
 "Why, madam, this has been rather a difficult
 
 378 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 question for the committee. They have not liked 
 to pledge themselves exactly to any one religious 
 denomination, as I before said. They feel that it 
 would be presumptuous in them to decide on those 
 deep theological discussions which are now agitating 
 the religious world. They will have no objection 
 to any clergyman of the establishment building his 
 own church, but they feel it would be a departure 
 from their fundamental principle to allow it to 
 appear prominently in the plans of their own ar- 
 chitect." 
 
 Mabel looked rather puzzled. 
 
 " Sir James Perceval," continued the major, "did 
 indeed propose at the board, that a church should 
 be built at the expense of the Association, but it 
 would not do. Such a clamour was raised, and all the 
 various denominations came at the next meeting and 
 protested; and there was a violent altercation, as 
 there must be when you bring together into one place 
 or under one roof a number of persons who differ 
 on a subject on which they all feel warmly. Sir 
 James was obliged to withdraw his motion. But 
 he is a Conservative, madam, as you know, and does 
 not like the idea of not doing something for the 
 Church ; and as his party is tolerably strong, they 
 have proposed, by way of preserving peace, what 
 will certainly be carried. One of the largest store- 
 rooms in the settlement is to be set apart every Sun- 
 day, and different hours appointed by the governor 
 for the several services of the various denominations ; 
 so that they will all meet amicably under the same 
 roof, and no undue preference be given. And thus 
 the natives will have the opportunity of hearing the 
 truth set before them in all its various forms, with- 
 out any attempt on our part to prejudice their minds ; 
 the Association undertaking the cleaning out of the 
 room."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 379 
 
 Mable looked disappointed. But before she could 
 say more, there was a double knock at the door 
 below, and the secretary, seemingly most ready to 
 seize the excuse, rose to depart. Once more he 
 waved his hat most gracefully, apologised for the 
 long time during which he had trespassed on Mabel's 
 attention, and trusted that his explanations had been 
 satisfactory — hoped that she would as soon as pos- 
 sible co-operate with the central committee, by 
 forming an Affiliated Ladies' Association in Hawk- 
 stone, and collecting an annual fund — and begged 
 to know whether she would wish her own subscrip- 
 tion to be annual, or, as most of the other honorary 
 vice-presidents had preferred, would make her con- 
 tribution immediately in a donation of five pounds, 
 which he could receive at once, and which would 
 exempt her from any further trouble. Happily for 
 Mabel, she had presence of mind to request time for 
 consideration, and the more so, as, in her own heart, 
 Africa, with all its interesting features, was balanced 
 by a recent proposal wliicli had been made to her 
 that very morning through the Rev. Mr. Armstrong 
 and the Rev. Mr. Howell, the Baptist and Inde- 
 pendent ministers of Hawk stone, to aid them in an 
 important work nearer home — no less than the send- 
 ing out a deputation from the clergy of the Protestant 
 communions of England to convert the Pope. The 
 eyes of Protestantism, and particularly of Protest- 
 antism in Hawkstone, by the rapid rise of a new 
 Popish chapel among them, had been opened more 
 than ever to the enormities of popery, and to the 
 fearful strides which it was making in England. 
 And it was thought that a grand effort should be 
 made to stay the evil at the fountain head, by en- 
 deavouring to act at once on the conscience and 
 understanding of the Papal court ; for which pur-
 
 S80 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 pose a deputation of the most eloquent dissenting 
 ministers had offered their services to go to Rome, 
 provided their travelling expenses were paid, and 
 their families maintained by their congregations 
 during their absence. And it was thought that the 
 presence of so many distinguished lights of the dis- 
 senting interest, differing in all other points of re- 
 ligion, yet all agreeing in their abhorrence of 
 popery, might have a salutary and awakening effect 
 on the mind of the Pope himself. At any rate, as 
 Mr. Howell said, it would be a satisfaction to deliver 
 their consciences, and to preach the Gospel once to 
 the i^eople in the very bosom of Antichrist. 
 
 All these thoughts and reminiscences passed ra- 
 pidly tlu'ough Mable's mind — a mind capacious 
 enough to grasp both projects at once, and active 
 enough to organise committees, and collect subscrip- 
 tions, for both, if her finances had permitted her. 
 Gratitude indeed — gratitude for the honour which 
 she had received so unexpectedly and so wholly 
 without solicitation — began to preponderate, when 
 the door opened, and her little Grey School girl, 
 once more half frightened out of her wits, announced, 
 as she held it ajar, that there were two more gentle- 
 men down stairs, who wanted to see Miss Brook : 
 one was Mr. Bevan, and the other, she did not 
 know who. Mabel hastily arranged some papers of 
 school accounts which she was looking over, and 
 omitting to put out of sight the blazoned diploma, 
 which lay open in all its grandeur on the table, she 
 prepared, with a dignified look of business, to receive 
 her new visiters. Only, it must be confessed, she 
 wished the stranger, whoever he was, had come 
 without Mr. Bevan ; for Mr. Bevan, she thought, 
 was always laughing at her, and would always in- 
 trude his own strange Oxford notions ; and, to say
 
 HAAYK STONE. 381 
 
 the truth, she was a little afraid of him. She had, 
 however, no time to ruminate, for steps were heard 
 coming up the stairs, and presently Charles Bevan 
 entered the room, and with an apology for the in- 
 trusion, he begged permission to introduce to her 
 a gentleman, a friend of his, who was staying in 
 Hawkstone — Mr. Ernest Villiers.
 
 382 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 CHAP. xxvn. 
 
 It is not from any wish to tantalise the reader 
 needlessly that we must revert, at this point, to 
 another personage, in whose fate, it is hoped, they 
 have not lost their interest during so many inter- 
 vening chapters. Ernest's visit to ISIiss Brook was 
 connected with the disappearance of Bentley. He 
 had been directed to Bentley's by Mr. Atkinson, in 
 order to procure some information on a subject of 
 great interest to him. Bentley was not at home, 
 and his housekeeper was beginning to feel uneasy, 
 especially as he had been seen walking back late 
 in the evening to the Priory ruins. In default of 
 Bentley, Ernest resolved to apply to Charles Bevan, 
 whom he had slightly known at college ; and Bevan 
 brought him, for information, to Miss Brook. 
 
 But while all this was passing, what had become 
 of Bentley himself ? We left him at the moment 
 when he sank senseless under the knife of the 
 ruffian. As his consciousness gradually returned to 
 him, he awoke to the sense of a rough jolting mo- 
 tion, apparently through some unfrequented road, 
 for the boughs of trees crashed as they moved along. 
 There was a sound of hoarse brawling water close 
 to him, like a torrent ; and as he faintly opened his 
 eyes, he saw above him the moon streaming brightly 
 through a dense mass of foliage. As he became 
 alive to a sense of his situation, he tried to rise from 
 the bottom of the cart in which he was lying, and 
 look round to discover into whose hands he had 
 fallen, and where they were carrying him. But on 
 applying his hand to his chest, he found his clothes 
 satui'ated with wet blood. Some roufj^h hand had
 
 HAWKSTONE. 383 
 
 indeed attempted to bandage up the wound ; but, 
 faint with the loss of blood, he sank back, and- had 
 scarcely strength to relieve the uneasy position in 
 which he lay, with nothing but an old sack to break 
 the jolting of the cart over the ruts, and a quantity 
 of hard poles for his support, which by the glittering 
 of the moon on their points he perceived to be 
 pikes. One heavy tramp he could hear close at his 
 side, as of a man attending to the horse. And as he 
 once more endeavoured to rise up, and thought of 
 appealing to him for assistance, a rough voice close 
 at his ear muttered to him " to lie still, and keep his 
 eyes shut." The voice was hoarse and hollow, but 
 there was something of kindness in it, which gave 
 Bentley a feeling of hope. It was also Irish, with a 
 strong brogue ; and Bentley fancied it was familiar 
 to him. Presently the cart stopped, and two other 
 voices, as of persons who had just overtaken it, were 
 heard speaking together in an under tone, as if 
 afraid of being overheard. Half fainting and half be- 
 wildered, Bentley was unable to collect his thoughts, 
 to know what course he should take. But as he 
 opened his eyes once more, the light fell upon a 
 rough face, begrimed with black, looking steadfastly 
 upon him. 
 
 " He is alive ! " the fellow cried, wdth an oath, 
 " as sure as my name's Jack." 
 
 " Is he ? " said another voice. " And what in the 
 world are we to do with him ?" 
 
 " Why did not Wheeler put him down the well at 
 once?" said the first; " he would have laid snug 
 enough there for ever, and no one the wiser. Who 
 is it, Connell ? " 
 
 " It's the parson," returned the same voice which 
 had before told Bentley to lie still, and which he 
 now recognised, as having heard it often when visit- 
 ing poor Margaret and the boy alter the fire. " It's 
 the parson ! "
 
 884 HAWKSTOXE. 
 
 " These parsons," rejoined the first speaker, " are 
 always getting into scrapes, meddling with other 
 people's business. Why can't they let folks alone, 
 to do as they like ? What is it to them what we 
 choose to do? But them that meddles burns their 
 fingers." 
 
 " Hark ! " muttered the other, " there's some one 
 coming." 
 
 " It's only the water," was the reply. 
 
 " And if 'we do meet any one, what a mess we are 
 in," said the first, " with a murdered man in the 
 cart, and all these confounded pikes too. I say, 
 Jack, let's throw him over at once." 
 
 And Bentley could perceive, by the steep ascent 
 of the road, and the brawling of the torrent at some 
 distance below, that they were probably passing 
 along a steep precipitous bank overhanging the 
 river. His head began to swim, and he was on the 
 point of making another efibrt to rise and cry for 
 help, when Connel's low mutter was heard again, 
 close at his ear, " Lie still, lie still ; they shan't 
 touch you ! " 
 
 " And you're the fool that begged him off, Con- 
 nell," said the first speaker, " to get hung yourself 
 for your pains ! " 
 
 " It's I that did it," answered Connell ; " and I'd 
 do it a hundred times. Didn't he give me to eat 
 when I was starving, and my wife too ? Didn't he 
 offer sums of money to any one who would save my 
 poor boy out of the fire ? Didn't he come and visit 
 us afterwards often and often, and always a kind 
 word in his mouth, and something to help us in his 
 hand ? I've done bad enough jobs in my day to them 
 as was my enemies, but I do not desert them that's 
 kind to me : and I do not intend to desert Parson 
 Bentley ; and, what's more, none of you shall touch 
 a hair of his head."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 385 
 
 " Why, he isn't one of your own craft, after all," 
 said the first speaker, with a sneering laugh. " He's 
 one of your heretics, isn't he ? " 
 
 " May be," said Connell, " and more the pity ; 
 but he has been kind to me and mine, for all that." 
 
 " Better get rid of him at once," said the second 
 voice. " Dead men tell no tales ! " 
 
 Connell said nothing, but laid a whip vigorously 
 across the horse, which made him move on rapidly. 
 
 " Why, you ar'n't the man, surely," said the same 
 voice, " to mind putting a dangerous fellow out of 
 the way. You've done such a thing before now." 
 
 Connell groaned, and laid on another lash of his 
 whip. 
 
 " Wliy," pursued the voice, " they tell me, in Ire- 
 land, you folks no more mind popping at gentlefolks 
 from behind a hedge, or knocking at a man's brains 
 with a flint stone in a stocking, to find if they are 
 at home or not, than we mind shooting at a cock 
 sparrow. Eh ? " 
 
 Bentley heard another deep groan. 
 
 " Why, you know," continued the speaker, " if 
 your priest there, or whoever you call him, were to 
 bid you knock out the parson's brains, here, this 
 moment, you'd do it at once." 
 
 " Ay, but he wouldn't," muttered Connell. 
 
 " Ay, but if he did, would you do it ?" 
 
 " But he wouldn't," said Connell. 
 
 " But if he did?" pursued the speaker. 
 
 " He wouldn't," repeated Connell, doggedly ; and 
 no other answer could be extracted from him. 
 
 " And what in the world do you intend to do 
 with the parson ? " said the first speaker. 
 
 Connell made no reply. 
 
 " I tell you what. Jack," said the other. There's 
 no use our meddling with this job any more ; let's 
 stick to the other cart, and go round by Birking 
 
 VOL. I. C C
 
 386 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 Lane, down the copse. If Paddy will put his head 
 into the noose, let him." 
 
 " And what shall we say to Wheeler?" said the 
 other. 
 
 " Let Wheeler shift for himself," was the reply. 
 " He's a rogue and a rascal ; Ss. 6d., and a quart of 
 beer for this work : and he gets all the penny sub- 
 scriptions from the club and pockets them, and no 
 one knows any thing about them. He does not care 
 a fig for any one of us but himself, with all his fine 
 talk about liberty and rights. — Hark! again, here's 
 some one on horseback, sure enough." And the two 
 men fell back and joined the other cart, which was 
 coming slowly up the hill behind, at no great dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Bentley, on hearing the approach of a horse, was 
 inclined once more to call out and obtain assistance ; 
 but again Connell's rough hollow voice bade him 
 lie still and say nothing, " all was right ; " and he 
 thought it better to comply. 
 
 " Good night, sir, good night." " Why, rather late, 
 isn't it ?" was all that passed between Connell and 
 the stranger on horseback. He turned back, how- 
 ever, for a minute, repeated some kind of password 
 in a foreign language, and asked if the other cart 
 was coming. Connell said, ' Yes,' and the stranger 
 once more bade him good night, in a tone implying 
 a superior education and habits of society, and rode 
 off. Bentley was now left alone with Connell ; and 
 he was hoping to obtain from him some information 
 as to his destination ; but Connell, without speaking, 
 jumped up on the cart, and seizing the reins, urged 
 on the horse over the rougli road, till Bentley, 
 in an agony of pain, was obliged to raise himself 
 up and entreat him to stop. 
 
 " Better not, better not," said Connell. 
 But on Bentley's entreating him to go quietly, 
 for he was very ill, he jumped down, and getting
 
 HAWKSTONE, 387 
 
 into the cart, endeavoured to arrange the pikes in 
 such a manner as to make a less uneasy bed. As 
 he did this, there was a strange gentleness and 
 softness about his voice and manner which sur- 
 prised Bentley, little used to the contrasts of the 
 Irish character. He lifted him up almost like a 
 child, fastened the bandage more tightly about the 
 wound, and taking off his own coat, folded it up, 
 and put it as a pillow under the head of the suf- 
 ferer, and then covered him with a sack. 
 
 " Don't be afraid, sir, don't be afraid ; I'm your 
 friend ; I don't forget you ; I'll stand by you ; only 
 we must get on." And once more he jumped on the 
 front of the cart, and urged on the horse to a trot. 
 Bentley closed his eyes, and endeavoured to com- 
 pose his thoughts into prayer ; but his head swam, 
 his senses became confused with pain and weak- 
 ness, and he lay gazing up in the sky with a be- 
 wildered sensation of something frightful in which 
 he was involved, without any distinct perception of 
 what passed, except that a large ball of light lay 
 close to his eyes, and a number of sparks were 
 dancing about before them, and burning him. Once 
 or twice he groaned ; and Connell, checking the 
 horse, turned to ask what was the matter, and tried 
 to arrange the pillow more comfortably for him. 
 How long he lay in this state he could not tell ; 
 but the road from the deep copse-wood, which 
 clothed the steep banks of the torrent, now emerged 
 suddenly upon a wide heath, without a tree of any 
 kind. Huge sweeping hills, destitute of all cultiva- 
 tion, spread far before them ; but apparently they 
 were approaching human habitations, for the road 
 became tolerably smooth, and several groups of men 
 passed by, and exchanged with Connell the same 
 good night, and the same mysterious foreign pass- 
 word, which the gentleman on horseback had used 
 CC 2
 
 388 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 before. Bentley's eyes, however, were now closed 
 in a sort of stupor, from which he was roused by 
 the cart stopping, and by his feeling Connell's arms 
 placed gently under him to lift him up. 
 
 " Now, sir, get up — I'll take you out. Don't be 
 afraid — only for your life do all you are told, and 
 don't fear, otherwise your life is not worth a straw. 
 — I'll be with you." 
 
 And Bentley, on looking up, found that the cart 
 had stopped in a little yard surrounded by low 
 sheds and buildings, apparently workshops ; for 
 large bars of iron were lying about, and heaps of 
 coal, and tools used in mining and excavating. The 
 gate by which they had entered had been carefully 
 closed and barred by Connell ; and once more 
 begging Bentley not to be frightened, he raised 
 him up softly, and, lifting him out of the cart, half 
 led and half carried him into a little outhouse, 
 where he arranged some straw, and, laying him 
 down, covered him once more with some sacks. 
 Bentley was by this time in a burning thirst, and 
 he entreated some water, on which Connell dis- 
 appeared, but returned soon with a cupful of 
 liquid, which he declared would do him good, but 
 which, on tasting, Bentley found to be whisky ; 
 and he was obliged, once more, to ask for water. 
 Connell tossed off the whisky himself, and soon 
 brought him a broken jug, out of which Bentley 
 drank with avidity. 
 
 " Now, sir, lie still here, and I'll be back pre- 
 sently." 
 
 Recovered by the water, Bentley felt his senses 
 becoming clearer, and he could look round and ob- 
 serve by the moonlight the objects around him ; 
 ^nd what was still more comforting, he could com- 
 pose his thoughts to prayer, and prepare himself for 
 the Avorst which might await him. Where he was, 
 he knew not ; but there was a lurid glare in the sky
 
 HAWKSTONE, 389 
 
 above him, and a rushing grinding sound as of 
 wheels and machinery not far oif, which led him to 
 suppose that he might have been taken up into 
 Hawkstone Forest, among the coal and iron pits ; 
 and it was a thought by no means calculated to 
 allay his alarm. He knew that for several months 
 there had been rumours of insurrectionary move- 
 ments among the workmen employed in this dis- 
 trict ; that it was the refuge of the worst outcasts of 
 society gathered together within the last three or 
 four years by the opening of the mines, and left 
 without any superintendence or control ; that it was 
 the boast of Hawkstone Forest that no policemen 
 dared come near them ; and that as the enormous 
 profits of Sir Matthew Blake, the proprietor, in- 
 creased, he was employing every day a larger 
 body of labourers, and accumulating a mass of vice 
 and sedition, which threatened soon to break over 
 and deluge the country with some serious mischief. 
 
 He lay for more than an hour ruminating on 
 these thoughts, and resigning himself into the hands 
 of Providence. He would have risen to look round 
 him more carefully, and to discover any means of 
 escaj)e, but his wound had become exquisitely pain- 
 ful, and escape in his present state was hopeless. 
 Just as a clock, apparently in a workman's cabin 
 near, struck two, a light as from a lantern appeared 
 in one corner of the shed where he was lying, and 
 from a door in the partition five or six men issued 
 out, and came up to the place where he was lying. 
 
 " And so this is he ? " said one. 
 
 " Yes," said a voice, which Bentley recognised as 
 Connell's ; and at the same time Connell came up 
 to him, and taking hold of his hand, pressed it hard, 
 as if to remind him of his former injunctions, and 
 to reassure him. 
 
 " Why, 'tis a bad wound," said another, stooping 
 down, and examining the bandages, which were
 
 390 HAWK8T0NE. 
 
 full of blood. " That Wheeler's a dangerous chap ; 
 he'd as soon stick a man as look at him." 
 
 " Well, parson," said a third, who seemed to be 
 the head, " we've heard you're a kindish man, and 
 never grudge your help to the poor, and that's 
 more than some of your cloth can say ; and, may 
 be, though we are resolved to have our rights, 
 we've no wish to injure them that do not grind and 
 starve the people. Now, I tell you what, you've 
 been fool enough to go spying and prying into 
 other people's secrets, and have got a knife into you 
 for your pains : do you think that will be a lesson 
 to you never to talk of such secrets again ? " 
 
 Bentley tried to speak, and to remove the notion 
 that he had any wish either to discover or divulge 
 their secrets ; but the man put his hand upon his 
 mouth, and bade him be quiet. 
 
 " There's one here," he said, " you must thank if 
 you hav'n't your mouth stopped more effectually ; 
 but he's told us all about you. Are you willing to 
 take the oath ? " 
 
 Bentley asked " Wliat oath?" 
 
 " Wliy, our oath — never to tell to any living soul, 
 be he magistrate, or police, or what not, or friend 
 or foe, any thing you have heard or seen of us." 
 
 Bentley replied that he was at their mercy — 
 that he had done them no harm, and never in- 
 tended to do them harm — that it was by mere 
 accident he was at the Priory — and he was willing 
 to do any thing, not unworthy of a clergyman, to 
 save his life. 
 
 There was a laugh and jest from several of the 
 party as he came to the words " unworthy of a 
 clergyman," but their leader silenced them. 
 
 " You'll take the oath, then?" 
 
 " I will," said Bentley, " if it is not an oath to 
 do any thing wrong."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 391 
 
 " You promise, then ? " 
 
 Bentley faintly answered " Yes." Something in 
 his conscience whispered that to take an oath of 
 such a nature, even under such circumstances, was 
 an act of doubtful propriety, to say the least ; but 
 he had not been brought up in a very strict school 
 of casuistry ; his virtues and his religion had both 
 been matters more of feeling than of deep reason- 
 ing. And bewildered, and alarmed, and worn out 
 with pain, he consented to do all that was re- 
 quired. 
 
 " Take him up, then," said the leader. And 
 while two men raised him in their arms, he found 
 Connell gently lifting up his head, and once more 
 whispering in his ear — " not to be frightened, and 
 do all that he was bid." It was with some difficulty 
 that they bore him through the narrow door in the 
 partition, and which was concealed by a projection 
 of the wall, and difficult to discover. But the pas- 
 sage widened afterwards, and led down by a flight 
 of wooden steps, rotten and broken, which seemed 
 ready to fall under their weight. 
 
 " Take him softly, mind his head, put your hand 
 under his shoulder," cried Connell, as they lifted 
 him down the last step ; and the leader, from a 
 huge ring of rusty keys, proceeded to open the pad- 
 lock of a low door in the wall. 
 
 " Now then, is all ready ? " he asked. 
 
 And once more turning to Bentley, he reminded 
 him of his promise to take the oath, and that his 
 life depended on it. " If you don't," said he, " why 
 it's only left for us to take care of ourselves ; and 
 you may judge," he said, "whether we can't easily 
 give you a quietus, which won't require any oath 
 or any swearing whatever. And if you break the 
 oath " 
 
 " He won't," said Connell, " he won't break it —
 
 392 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 I'll pledge my life for him — I know he's a man of 
 his word — my life for his we're safe with him." 
 
 " He'd better not," said the leader. " There was 
 but one man ever broke that oath, and he was a 
 Scotchman, and turned informer ; and I'll tell the 
 parson what became of him." 
 
 And he stooped down, and whispered in Bentley's 
 ear a few words, which made his blood run cold 
 with horror. " And now is all ready ?" 
 
 " Do not be afraid, do not be afraid," muttered 
 Connell in Bentley's ear, as he raised him to stand on 
 his feet. " There's no danger, only take the oath." 
 
 But Bentley was afraid — and well he might be. 
 He stood on the verge of a dark pit or well, down 
 which hung an iron chain ; above, by the light of 
 one or two tallow candles, he saw nothing but the 
 roof of a sort of cave hewn out of the solid rock, 
 and dripping with water. The men had nearly 
 stripped themselves naked, and were turning a 
 windlass, by which Bentley saw a low shallow 
 wooden tub rising to the top of the well. It no 
 sooner reached the surface than the captain of the 
 gang bade them put over Bentley a rough blackened 
 smock-frock ; and himself getting into the tub, Bent- 
 ley was placed in it likewise, and, supported in the 
 arms of the other, he felt the chain rapidly lower ; 
 the glimmering light of the candles became fainter, 
 the aperture of the well began to contract ; and as the 
 light above fell with a dimmer lustre on the rough 
 damp rockwork, out of which the shaft was exca- 
 vated, the dense pitchy mass of darkness in which 
 they were sitting themselves seemed to rise rapidly 
 above them. 
 
 " I have money," said Bentley to his companion ; 
 " what will you take to set me free ? " as he vainly 
 thought of propitiating him. 
 
 " Money have you ?" said the man ; " then you'd 
 better give it to me."
 
 HAWKSTONE. 393 
 
 " Here," said Bentley, as he put a quantity of 
 silver into his hand. The man looked on it scorn- 
 fully, and put it into his pocket. 
 
 " Where are we going ? " asked Bentley. 
 
 " You'll soon see," said his companion. " There, 
 mind your head." 
 
 And as the bucket swung against the side of the 
 shaft, he with some difficulty saved Bentley from 
 the concussion. 
 
 " Catch hold of the chain. Have you strength 
 to hold on yourself ? " 
 
 " No," said Bentley, faintly, for he was becoming 
 giddy. 
 
 " There now — here we are," said the man ; and 
 the bucket touched the ground with a shock which 
 nearly threw him out. In a minute Bentley found 
 himself seized by two men, naked to the waist, and 
 begrimed with filth ; a third bore two rough-shaped 
 torches, and with the captain of the gang following, 
 Bentley was carried along a steep, plashy, descend- 
 ing passage, hewn out of the rock. The air was 
 stifling. The glare of the torches fell fearfully on 
 the low ponderous roof, which seemed ready to 
 crush them as they advanced, and before them was 
 a black depth of darkness, into wliich it was impos- 
 sible for the eye to penetrate. 
 
 " Stop," said the captain, when they had advanced 
 as much as a hundred yards in this way. " You 
 must wait here. Put him down." 
 
 And resting Bentley with his back against the 
 rock, they disappeared. Left alone in utter dark- 
 ness, in the bowels of the earth, and in the hands 
 evidently of designing and desperate men, he felt 
 his whole soul sink with alarm. He continued, 
 however, to pray fervently ; and with every prayer 
 his strength increased, and his presence of mind 
 returned. As a light appeared in the direction in 
 which they had come, he almost began to ho{)e that 
 
 VOL. 1. D 1)
 
 394 HAWKSTONE. 
 
 it was the same party returning ; but it was only 
 Connell. Once more he brought Bentley a cup of 
 whisky, and entreated him to drink it ; and rather 
 than disappoint him, Bentley placed it to his lips, 
 but could not swallow it. 
 
 " You'll take the oath," said Connell ; " mind 
 you take the oath. There's nothing in it ; only not 
 to tell, that's all. If you don't, you're a dead man. 
 I promised you should take it ; or do you suppose 
 Wheeler would have let you off? Why, they had 
 you at the side of the well in the ruins, and were 
 just about to heave you in when I came back ; and 
 I had a regular tussle with them. But I do not 
 forget, sir, what you've done for me, — and I with 
 no friend in the world, and a miserable wretch that 
 might as well be put an end to myself. You'll pray 
 for me when I'm gone, sir ? you'll pray for my 
 soul, won't you ? " 
 
 And as the light fell on Connell's haggard coun- 
 tenance there was an expression in it of terror and 
 suffering, which made Bentley, even in his own 
 alarming position, almost forget himself in compas- 
 sion for his poor companion. He had no time, how- 
 ever, to say any thing, for the captain and the 
 others returned, once more lifted him in their arms, 
 and carried him along by a continuation of the 
 same low winding excavation in the rock. On 
 turning a sharp projecting point, Bentley perceived 
 a wider opening ; the roof was higher, and supported 
 by two masses of rock, which had been left to form 
 natural pillars; another flat mass in the middle 
 served as a sort of table, and against the side were 
 fastened thi-ee torches, the red glare from which 
 fell on those men who stood round it, the lower 
 part of their faces covered with black crape, and 
 one of whom seemed to start when he saw Bentley. 
 On the table was a Bible, a skull, a glass containing 
 a red liquor, a drawn sword, a brace of pistols, a
 
 HAWKSTONE. 395 
 
 dagger, and two pikes such as those which Bentley 
 had seen in the cart. It was not indeed at first 
 that he perceived all this, for the sight so sickened 
 him that he would have sunk back and fainted, 
 had not Connell, who was at his side, once more 
 put the spirits to his mouth and forced him to 
 swallow some. 
 
 " We'd better make haste," said the man who had 
 seemed to recognise Bentley ; " there's no time for 
 speechifying; and he must get his wound drest. 
 Make him kneel down." 
 
 And placing him on his knees, and supporting 
 him, they put the Bible into his hand, and pro- 
 ceeded to administer the oath. It was a strange, 
 awful rhapsody — strange, in that it mixed up re- 
 ligion and rebellion, bloodshed and justice, appeals 
 to the Divine Being, with pledges of crime to man, 
 — but binding the swearer, never on earth, or sea, 
 in winter or summer, in trouble or wealth, to friend 
 or foe, living or dying, to reveal the secrets, or do 
 harm or hurt to any member of the society by 
 whom that oath was administered to him. Bentley 
 shuddered with terror as he heard the curses impre- 
 cated on him who should violate it : and when at 
 the close he heard the most holy names appealed to 
 to give sanction to it, (for even a society of rebels 
 and murderers find they cannot govern without the 
 aid of some appeal to another world, cannot rule 
 without professing their belief in a religion,) he 
 was about to make a solemn protest and remon- 
 strance against such an awful mockery, but Connell 
 pressed his hand, and fear once more predominated 
 over the voice of liiS conscience. He could not say 
 " Amen " as it was uttered in a deep voice by all 
 the persons present, but he kissed the Bible as it 
 was placed to his lips, and was about to rise, with a 
 deep s^jnse of degradation and remorse, when he 
 was forced down once more on his knees, and each
 
 396 HAWK STONE. 
 
 person taking up one of the weapons off tlie rock 
 which served for the table, and holding them close 
 at his breast, he was ordered to repeat after them, 
 " May these pikes pierce my heart, and this blood 
 be on my head, if I break this oath which I have 
 taken ! " At the close they put the glass to his 
 mouth, but Bentley shuddered with horror as the 
 smell betrayed its loathsome contents, and with 
 unutterable disgust he threw it from him, and the 
 glass fell to the ground. 
 
 " He refuses it ! " said the leader. " Away with 
 him ! " 
 
 " He tasted it, he did taste it," cried Connell ; 
 " look upon his lips : " and with dexterity he con- 
 trived to smear upon them some of the blood which 
 had fallen on his own hand. " He's a safe man ! 
 I know he's safe ! Take my life for his. I know 
 he's safe ! " And with all the eloquence of an Irish- 
 man the poor fellow began again enumerating all 
 Bentley's kindnesses and charities, and urging his 
 claims to mercy. " But he's gone," he cried, " he's 
 clean gone ; " as he turned and found that Bentley 
 had fainted away. 
 
 " Carry him off," said the leader ; " we'll hold 
 you responsible for him." 
 
 " Yes," said Connell ; and with the help of one 
 of his companions he bore him away. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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 AVith an Account of the Cod Fishery— Fog Banks— Sealing Expedi- 
 tions, &c. By J. B. Ji'KEs, Esq., Geological Suneyor of Newfound- 
 land. AVith a Map. 2 vols. Post 8vo, 21s. 
 
 XX. 
 
 BUBBLES FROM THE BRUNNEN OF NASSAU. 
 
 By Sir Francis B. Head, Bart. Sixth Edition. 16mo, 5s. 
 
 ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND, 
 
 The Channel Islands, and the Isle of Man. By Sir George 
 Head. Third Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo, 12s.
 
 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OF BOOKS. 
 
 Ett, Science, antr (General literature. 
 
 THE ANATOMY AND PHILOSOPHY OF EXPRESSION, 
 
 As Connected with the Fine Arts. By Sir Charles Bell. 
 Third Edition. With Plates and Woodcuts. Royal 8vo, 21*. 
 
 HAND-BOOK TO THE PUBLIC GALLERIES OF ART, 
 
 With Catalogues of the Pictures, and Critical, Historical, and Biogra- 
 phical Notices. By Mrs. Jameson. Post 8vo. 
 
 THE CONNEXION OF THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES. 
 
 By Mary Somerville. Sixth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 10s. 6rf. 
 
 CHEMICAL MANIPULATION; 
 
 Being Instructions to Students in Chemistry, on the Methods of 
 performing Experiments of Demonstration or Research, with accu- 
 racy and success. By Michael Faradav, F.R.S. 2hird Edition. 
 8vo, 18*. 
 
 FACTS TO ASSIST THE MEMORY IN VARIOUS SCIENCES. 
 
 Second Edition. Fcap 8vo, Qs. M. 
 
 LITERARY HISTORY OF EUROPE, 
 
 During the 15th, 16th, and 17th Centuries. By Henry Hallam, 
 Esq. Second Edition. 3 vols. 8vo, Wa. 
 
 THE SANATIVE INFI.UENCE OF CLIMATE. 
 
 With an Account of the best Places of Resort for Invalids 
 IN England, South of Europe, &c. By Sir James Clark, Bart. , M.D. 
 Third Edit ton. Post 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 HAWKSTONE ; 
 
 A Tale of and for England in the Year 184 — . 2 vols. fcap. 
 8vo, 125. 
 
 THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS, 
 
 And the Investigation of Tritth. By John Abercrombie, M.D. 
 Tenth Edition. Post 8vo, price 8s. Grf. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE MORAL FEELINGS. 
 
 By John Abercrombie, M.D. Sixth Edition. Fcap 8vo, 5*. 
 
 RESULTS OF READING. 
 
 By J. Stamford Caldwell, M.A., Barrister-at Law. 8vo, 10*. Crf. 
 
 THE CONDUCT OF, LIFE, 
 
 By George Long, Esq., Author of " Moral Nature of Man." Post 
 8vo, 6at.
 
 10 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OP BOOKS. 
 
 Sporting* 
 
 THE CHASE— THE TURF— AND THE ROAD. 
 
 By NiMROD. Second Edition. Plates by Alken and Gilbert. 
 Post 8vo, 9*. 6d. 
 
 ART OF DEER-STALKING. 
 
 Illustrated by a few Days' Sport i.v the Forest of Atholl. 
 By William Scrope, F.L.S. With Plates by the Landseers, 
 Second Edition. Royal 8vo, 21. 2s. 
 
 DAYS AND NIGHTS OF SALMON FISHING. 
 
 With a short Account of the Natural History and Habits of the 
 Salmon. By William Scrope, F.L.S. AVith Illustrations by 
 WiLKiE, Landseer, Simson, and Cooke. Royal 8vo, 21. 2s. 
 
 MAXIMS AND HINTS ON ANGLING, 
 
 Chess, Shooting, and other Matters. By Richard Penn, F.R.S. 
 Second Edition. With 24 Plates. Fcap 8vo, 5*. 
 
 THE MOOR AND THE LOCH ; 
 
 With Hints on Highland Sports, and the Habits of Different 
 Creatures ok Game and Prey. By John Colquhoun, Esq. 
 Second Edition. Plates. 8vo, 9«. Qd. 
 
 iBlatutal JgistotB* 
 
 ELEMENTS OF GEOLOGY ; 
 
 Or, the Ancient Changes of the Earth and its Inhabitants, 
 Considered as Illustrative of Geology. By Charles Lyell, 
 F.G.S. Second Edition. With 400 Woodcuts, &;c. 2 vols. l2mo, 18*. 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF GEOLOGY; 
 
 Or, the Modern Changes of the Earth and its Inhabitants. 
 Considered as Illustrative of Geology. By Charles Lyell, 
 F.G.S. Sixth Edition. With 250 Woodcuts, &c. 3 vols. 12mo, 2U. 
 
 SCENES AND TALES OF COUNTRY LIFE, 
 
 With Recollections of Natural History. By Edward Jesse, 
 Esq. Seco7id Edition. With Woodcuts. Post 8vo, 12^. 
 
 GLEANINGS IN NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 With Anecdotes of the Sagacity and Instinct of Animals. 
 By Edward Jesse, Esq. Fifth Edition. With Woodcuts. Fcap 
 8vo, C*. Qd. 
 
 JOURNAL OF A NATURALIST. 
 
 Fourth Edition. With Woodcuts. Post 8vo, ds. Gd, 
 
 MODERN BOTANY FOR LADIES. 
 
 A Popular Introduction to the Natural System and Classi- 
 fication of Plants. By Mrs. Loudon. With 150 Woodcuts. 
 Fcap Svo, Ss.
 
 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OF BOOKS. 
 
 Esticulture, 
 
 THE MUCK MANUAL, 
 
 For the Use of Farmers. A PRAcrrcAJL Treatise on the 
 Chemical Nature and Value ok Aniimal and Vegetable 
 Manures. By F. Falkner, Esq. A New Edition, with a Glossary 
 of Tenns. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 ON LAND-DRAINAGE, 
 
 Subsoil-ploughing, and Irrigation. By the Author of " British 
 Husbandry." Second Edition. 8vo, 2s. 
 
 THE FARMER'S ACCOUNT-BOOK, 
 
 Arranged on New and Easy Principles. By the Author of 
 " British Husbandi-y." Imperial 4to, lOs. 
 
 FARMING FOR LADIES ; 
 
 Or, Plain Instructions for the Poultry Yard, the Dairy 
 and Piggery. By Author of " British Husbandry." Woodcuts. 
 Fcap 8vo, Sf . 
 
 GARDENING FOR LADIES. 
 
 With Practical Instructions and Directions for every Month in 
 the Year ; and a Calendar of Operations. By Mrs. Loudon . 
 Sixth Edition. Woodcuts. FcapSvo, 6s. 
 
 DOMESTIC COOKERY; 
 
 Founded upon principles of Economy and practical Knowledge, and 
 adapted for Private Famines. By Mrs. Rundell. 6SM Edition, 
 with yOO new Receipts, cotnprising all the Improvements of 
 Modern Times. By Miss Emma Roberts. Fcap 8vo, 6s. 
 
 FAMILY RECEIPT-BOOK ; 
 
 A Collection of a Thousand valuable Receipts in various Branches of 
 Domestic Economy. New Edition. Fcap 8vo, 5s. 6d. 
 
 HAND-BOOK OF NEEDLEWORK. 
 
 A Guide to eveiy kind of Decorative Needlework, Crotchet, Knit- 
 ting, and Netting. By Miss Lambert. Third Edition. 115 Wood- 
 cuts. Post 8vo, 10s. Gd. 
 
 CHURCH NEEDLEWORK ; 
 
 With Practical Remarks on its preparation and arrangement. By 
 Miss Lambert. With Illustrations. Post 8vo, 9s. 6d. 
 
 MY KNITTING.BOOK. 
 
 Containing Examples selected and arranged so as to render them easy 
 to a novice in the Art. By Miss Lambert. Fifth Edition. With 
 Woodcuts. 16mo, Is. 6d, 
 
 MY CROTCHET SAMPLER, 
 
 With New and Choice Examples, arranged with the greatest care. 
 By Miss Lambert. Third Edition. Woodcuts. lO'mo, 2s. (id.
 
 12 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OF BOOKS. 
 
 Instruction antr Emusement for ¥oung 
 ^er0ons» 
 
 MRS. MARKHAM'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 
 
 From the first Invasion by the Romans, to the Accession 
 OF Q,UEEN Victoria. Eleventh Edition, with Woodcuts. 12mo, 
 7s. Qd. 
 
 MRS. MARKHAM'S HISTORY OF FRANCE, 
 
 From the Conquest of Gaul by Julius Cesar, to the Reign of 
 Louis Philippe. Sixth Edition. With Woodcuts. 12mo, 7s. 6d. 
 
 BERTHA'S JOURNAL, 
 
 During a Visit to her Uncle in England ; with a Variety 
 OF interesting and amusing Inforalation for every Day in 
 THE Year. 12mo, 7s. 6d. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY IN SPORT MADE SCIENCE IN EARNEST ; 
 
 Or Natural Philosophy explained by the Aid of the ordi- 
 nary Toys and Sports of Youth. Fifth Edition. With 100 
 Woodcuts. Fcap. 8vo, 8*. 
 
 THE JEWESS : 
 
 A Tale of the Baltic. By A Lady. Second Edition. With 
 Portrait. Fcap. 8vo, 4s. 6d. 
 
 PUSS IN BOOTS. 
 
 With 12 Illustrations. Suited to the Tastes of Little and 
 Grown Children. By Otto Speckter. 4to, 7s. 6d. 
 
 STORIES FOR CHILDREN, 
 
 Prom the History of England. Thirteenth Edition. 18mo, 3s. 
 
 GEOGRAPHY FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 By the Author of " Stories for Children." Third Edition. 
 12mo, 2s. 
 
 GOSPEL STORIES; 
 
 An Attempt to render the Life of Our Saviouk intelligible 
 to Young Children. Second Edition. 18mo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 LITTLE ARTHUR'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 By Lady Callcott. Si.rth Edition. With Woodcuts. ISmo, 3s. 
 
 YEAR-BOOK OF NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 Arranged according to the Months. By Mrs. Loudon. 
 With 40 Woodcuts. 18mo, 4s. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE LATE WAR ; 
 
 With Sketches of Nelson, Wellington, and Napoleon. 
 18mo, 2s. 6d.
 
 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OF BOOKS. 13 
 
 Qtlamtal antr School i3ooifeg. 
 
 A DICTIONARY OF GREEK AND ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. 
 
 Edited by William Smith, LL.D. With numerous Illustrations on 
 Wood. (1130 pages.) 8vo, 36s. 
 
 A SCHOOL DICTIONARY OF ANTIQUITIES. 
 
 Abridged from the larger Work, by Dr. Smith. AVith AVoodcuts. 
 Square 8vo. Jn the Press. 
 
 A DICTIONARY OF GREEK AND ROMAN BIOGRAPHY, 
 AND MYTHOLOGY. Edited by Dr. Smith. Now Publishing in 
 Monthly Parts, and to be completed in Three Volumes. A"ol. I. 
 8vo, 36s. 
 
 A NEW CLASSICAL DICTIONARY OF ANCIENT BIO- 
 GRAPHY, MYTHOLOGY, and GEOGRAPHY, for the Use of 
 
 Schools, based upon the preceding AVork. By Dr. Smith. 8vo. 
 In Preparation. 
 
 BUTTMAN'S LEXILOGUS. 
 
 Or, The Meaning and Etymology of various AVords and Pas 
 SAGES IN Greek AVriters. Translated by Fishlake. Second 
 Edition. 8vOj 14s. 
 
 BUTTMAN'S IRREGULAR GREEK VERBS. 
 
 Their Formation, Meaning, and Usage. With an Index. Translated, 
 with Notes, by Fishlake. Stcond Kditiun. 8vo, 7s. Gd. 
 
 ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 The Agamemnon and Choephor.«. A new Edition of the Text, 
 with Notes. By Rev. T. AV. Peile, D.D., Head Master of Repton 
 School. Second Edition. 8vo, 9s. each. 
 
 MATTHI^'S GREEK GRAMMAR, 
 
 Enlarged from the last Edition of the original. Translated by 
 Blomfield. Fifth Edition, revised by Kenrick. 2 vols. Svo, 30s. 
 
 LATIN GRAMMAR FOR SCHOOLS. 
 
 or a New Edition revised, of King Edward the Sixth's Grammar. 
 12mo. 3s. fjd. 
 
 GREEK GRAMMAR FOR SCHOOLS. 
 
 Or MathIve's Grammar, abridged by Blomfield. Seventh Edition, 
 revised by Edwards. 12mo, 3s. 
 
 RUDIMENTA GR^CA MINORA 
 
 In Usum Scholarum. A New Edition. 12mo, 2s. 
 
 GRMCM GRAMMATIC7E RUDIMENTA. 
 
 Pars posterior sive Syntaxis. A New Edition, 12mo, 2s. 
 
 ENGLISH NOTES FOR LATIN ELEGIACS; 
 
 Bv Rev. AV. Oxenham, M.A., Second Master of Harrow School, 
 ifmo, 4s.
 
 14 MR. MURRAY'S LIST OP HAND-BOOK 
 
 Mx, JHutraB's ^m^^^oo^^ for Crabellets. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR NORTHERN GERMANY. 
 
 Holland, Belgium, Prussia, and the Rhine to S\viTZEP.LA>n}. 
 With Map, Post 8vo, 12s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR SOUTHERN GERMANY. 
 
 Bavaria, Austria, Tyrol, Salzburg, Styria ; Austrian and 
 Bavarian Alps ; the Danube, from Ulm to the Black Sea. 
 With Map. Post 8vo, 10s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR SWITZERLAND. 
 
 The Alps of Savoy and Piedmont. With Map. Post 8vo, 10s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Russia. With Maps and Plans. 
 Post 8vo, 12s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR MALTA AND THE EAST. 
 
 The Ionian Islands, Greece, Turkey, Asia Minor, and Con- 
 stantinople. With Maps. Post 8vo, 15s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR EGYPT AND THEBES. 
 
 With Directions for Travellers in that Country, and on the Overland 
 Passage to India. By Sir Gardner Wilkinson. With Map and 
 Woodcuts. 2 vols. 8vo, 42s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR NORTHERN ITALY. 
 
 States of Sardinia, Genoa, the Riviera, Venice, Lombardy, 
 and Tuscany. With Map. Post 8vo, 12s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR CENTRAL ITALY AND ROME. 
 
 The Papal States, and the Cities of Etruria. With Map. 
 Post 8vo. 15^'. 
 
 HAND-BOOK OF ITALIAN PAINTING. 
 
 The Schools of Art in Italy. From the German of Kugler 
 PostSvo, 12s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR FRANCE AND THE PYRENEES. 
 
 Normandy, Brittany; .the Rivers Loire, Seine, Rhone, anp 
 Garonne ; the French Alps, Dauphine', and the Pyrenees. 
 With 5 Maps. Post 8vo, 12s. 
 
 HAND-BOOK FOR SPAIN. 
 
 Andalusia, Granada, Catalonia, Madrid, &c. With Maps. 
 PostSvo. (In the Press.)
 
 MR MURRAY'S HOME AND COLONIAL LIBRARY. 15 
 
 O^ljeap Hiteratute for all Qtlm^t^. 
 
 THE COLONIAL AND HOME LIBRARY, 
 
 Published Monthly. Post Qvo, 2s. 6d., 
 
 IS printed in good legible type, on superfine paper, and is 
 designed to furnish all classes of Readers with the highest 
 Literature of the day, consisting partly of original Works, and 
 partly of new editions of popular Publications, at the lowest 
 possible price. It is called for in consequence of the Acts which 
 have recently passed the British Parliament for the protection of 
 the rights of British authors and pubhshers, by the rigid and 
 entire exclusion of foreign pirated editions. 
 
 In order, therefore, that the highly intelligent and educated 
 population of our Colonies may not suffer from the withdrawal 
 of their accustomed supplies of books, and with a view to 
 obviate the complaint, that a .check might in consequence be 
 raised to their intellectual advancement, Mr. Murray has deter- 
 mined to publish a series of attractive and useful woi^ks, by 
 approved authors, at a rate which shall place them within the 
 reach of the means not only of the Colonists, but also of a large 
 portion of the less wealthy classes at home, who will thus benefit 
 by the widening of the market for our literature : and the 
 *' Colonial Library " will consequently be so conducted that it 
 may claim to be considered as a " Library for the Empire." 
 
 Mr. Murray's " Colonial Library " will furnish the settler in 
 the backwoods of America, and the occupant of the remotest 
 cantonments of our Indian dominions, with the resoui'ces of 
 recreation and instruction, at a moderate price, together Avith 
 many new books within a short period of their appearance in 
 England ; while the student and lover of literature at home, who 
 has hitherto been content with the loan of a book from a book 
 club, or a circulating library, may now become possessed of the 
 work itself, at a cost a little beyond that entailed by either of the 
 methods above mentioned. 
 
 The series of Works designed to appear in Mr. Murray's 
 " Colonial and Home Library " will be selected for their acknow- 
 id will be exclusively such as 
 extensive circle of readers. 
 
 IFor List 0/ TVorks see next page.'] 
 
 ledgtd merit, and will be exclusively such as are calculated to 
 please the most extensive circle of readers.
 
 Worfts arreais milium. 
 
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