o^yfy^^ 
 
 J "2^
 
 a I B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N I VE.R.S ITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 L95S 
 
 \/ 
 
 .1
 
 THE 
 
 LOYALISTS DAUGHTER 
 
 % Wakl 
 
 OR 
 
 TALE OF THE REVOLUTION 
 
 BY 
 
 A ROYALIST. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ADAMS & FRANCIS, 59, FLEET STREET, E.C 
 
 1867.
 
 AU rights of Translation and property in the Loyalist's 
 Daughter are reserved for the Author. 
 
 .T. Swift, Eegent Press, 55, King Street, Regent Street, W
 
 L 9^^ 
 
 o 
 
 CD 
 
 CO 
 
 —J 
 
 THE LOYALIST'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'Tis much, that this contentious storm 
 Invades us to the skin : so 'tis to thee ; 
 But where the greater malady is fix'd, 
 The les:?er is scarce felt- 
 When the minil's free, 
 The body's delicate : the tempest in my mind 
 Doth from my senses take all feeling else, 
 Save what beats there. — King Lear. 
 
 Long after midnight, but before the drearj- 
 da^Tiing of a duU, rainy morning in December, 
 1688, might be seen obscurely descending in 
 deep silence a private back staircase of Whitehall 
 three female figures, all muffled in coarse cloaks 
 with the hoods drawn over their heads. The 
 ample folds of these cloaks concealed their 
 persons. The first was supported by a sailor 
 in a rough weather-proof coat, which defied 
 the pitiless night ; he was followed by the 
 other two women, who betrayed fear and 
 
 VOL. I. ii
 
 2 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 alarm, and started at every echo of their own 
 footsteps. 
 
 These four were preceded hy a stm-dy seaman, 
 enveloped in a stout warm Flushing-jacket, ^ith 
 a lantern in his hand. He w^as to the eye of 
 a keen observer well armed. His glance was 
 piercing, restless, and even anxious. The 
 slight small figure, dehcate features, fail* hair, 
 and fair complexion of the other sailor were 
 strangely contrasted with the rough garb, under 
 which, to an observant eye, they were only 
 partially concealed. 
 
 The whole party were evidently prepared for 
 some adventure of difficulty and danger. 
 
 They had now descended a flight of steps, 
 and passed through a long passage so narrow 
 that they could only proceed separately. This 
 passage was terminated by a secret door, 
 through which they passed into a private 
 chapel, the faint ghmmering of the xigil lamp 
 dimly revealed to them the interior. Prostrating 
 themselves before the altar in deep devotion to 
 the Blessed Sacrament, the fugitives, after a 
 short mental prayer to theii* SaAdour and their 
 God, for protection and guidance, passed on to 
 a side altar (in a richly decorated recess), dedi- 
 cated to Our Lady. They gazed devoutly on a
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTEK. 3 
 
 beautiful statue of the Madonna, and falling 
 reverently on their knees, implored her whom it 
 brought before their eyes to pray to her Divine Son 
 for them and those most dear to them. Softly 
 and often was the familiar response " ora pro 
 nobis " murmured. To one of the worshippers 
 especially was the invocation of Mary most 
 sweet, and so absorbed was she in her orisons, 
 that her companion failed to recall her from 
 her reverie before she had breathed forth a 
 touching hymn to her whom she revered above 
 all. While the conflict of the elements, the wild 
 howl of the yelling mob, and the unhallowed 
 fires of the rioters desecrated the night, abroad, 
 within, all is hushed into hope and peace. 
 Scarcely had the "Ave "broke on the solemn still- 
 ness of the place and hour, when the thoughtful 
 conductor of the little party suddenly left the 
 chapel, and was heard to retrace his steps ; he, 
 however, soon returned with joy and satisfaction 
 in his countenance, and as the last melodious 
 strains of the holy hymn died away, he beck- 
 oned them to follow him. The foremost female 
 seemed riveted to the spot, and reluctant to 
 tear herself away ; but after a violent effort 
 arose from her knees, and taking with deep 
 reverence some precious emblems of the faith 
 
 v> 2
 
 4 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 which she professed, she joined her companion 
 with whom she preceded the rest, and all passing 
 cautiously through a stone galleiy, made their 
 way dovm another flight of steps, and reached 
 the threshold of the outer door, at which they 
 paused for a moment. Whatever might have 
 been the secret thoughts of the self-possessed 
 and yet scrutinising guide, his resolution w^as 
 firm, his conduct marked by decision and 
 courage. With unfaltering step and steady 
 hand, he unlocked the opposing door, and un- 
 baiTed the postern gate. All passed after him 
 into the privy gardens of the palace, and emerged 
 into the black night which still reigned in awful 
 majesty. The fitful gusts of wind howled dis- 
 mally round every nook and comer, and wildly 
 whii'led the pelting hail into the faces of the 
 women, who seemed to shi-ink from the rough 
 greeting of the frantic elements. The foremost 
 damsel depends involuntarily on her companion, 
 like some fair lovely flower, transplanted from a 
 southern to a colder clime. 
 
 The cautious guide, who was clearly familiar 
 with every zigzag slope and path right doT\Ti to 
 the Thames, secm-e in his own self-confidence, 
 his good Flushing coat and a sou'-wester hat, 
 which defended his eyes from the artillery of
 
 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 hail, inspired his thoughtful followers with spirit 
 equal to the gi-and occasion. 
 
 The storm was awake, but he knew that as 
 yet, suspicion was fast asleep. As there is 
 nothing more distressing to the human mind in 
 its dark horn* of sorrow than the gay sights and 
 sounds of reveh-y and mii-th, so perhaps there 
 is something in the scenes and somids of 
 sadness, which soothes the feelings with which 
 they harmonize. The ravings of the hurricane, 
 the distracted feelings of the sorrowing adven- 
 turers, the tumultuous excitement which on this 
 terrible night thrilled through the heart of 
 London, were in unison, and urged the flight of 
 the fugitives. Cruel thoughts were crossing the 
 mind of that gentle woman, who leaned upon the 
 arm of her friend, terrified at the lurid glare and 
 distant flames, which were bursting from the 
 Catholic chm'ches, and making night more 
 hideous. She heard or thought she heard, the 
 demon shriek of vengeance. All immediately 
 about Whitehall was still and silent as the 
 grave. The heavy atmosphere weighed down 
 the smoke of the conflagi-ations and scarcely 
 lifted high enough to reveal to the wayfarers 
 their real situation. The fragile woman whom 
 we have more particularly noticed, sent back a
 
 6 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 fond and lingering look on all which she was 
 leaving. Her companion uttered not a word, — 
 his temper seemed fiery and impatient, hut 
 whatever might he his mood, it howed in sedu- 
 lous attention to her mil. She would have 
 returned, she would have stolen a moment to 
 say adieu once more to some dear one left 
 behind, but the mariner urged the danger of 
 delay, for the foremost of the party was already 
 far in advance of his comrades, and alarm now 
 mingled with his desire to conduct them to a 
 place of safety. Another door had yet to 
 be passed ; the ii'on bolt from long disuse was 
 stiff and rusty, and theii' impatient haste only 
 made the task of the noctm-nal wayfarers more 
 difficult and added to their delay, while at the 
 same time the whole party became sensible of 
 the folly and danger of further loss of time. 
 
 The grating noise of the disused bolt as it 
 yielded to their exertions awoke the echoes of 
 the buildings. Oiu: party listened and endea- 
 voured to penetrate the darkness which sur- 
 rounded them, but could discover nothing more 
 than the creations of their fancies and their 
 fears. 
 
 It was not yet daybreak. The black *' thick 
 darkness " might be felt. The heavy squalls
 
 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 and gusts of wind and rain mingled with snow 
 still continued undiminished. A cloud which 
 at this moment lifted from over their heads, 
 revealed to their dehghted gaze a coach waiting 
 for them. The expert seaman, who had thus 
 far conducted them out of the precincts of the 
 palace, took his seat by the coachman on the 
 box to dii'ect him ; while the rough sailor, as 
 if under the gentle influence of his companion, 
 mth a delicacy and devotion which might have 
 done honour to a courtier, lifted her into the 
 spacious vehicle, and followed with the rest 
 of the party, and thus found shelter from the 
 torrent that was rattling against the roof. 
 
 In theii' escape unfortunately the cruel ele- 
 ments were not the only obstacles which im- 
 peded our poor fugitives this night. It is, 
 however, no part of our design to enter into 
 all the varied episodes of their perilous adven- 
 ture. Any one, however, who could have 
 watched through its earliest stages the de- 
 pai-ture of our travellers, and distinguished 
 the female, around whom in spite of all dis- 
 guise the deepest interest hung, might have 
 guessed that these five persons were about to 
 accompHsh one of those solemn, if not terrible 
 missions, which God seems to depute to human
 
 8 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 
 
 beings, invohdng gi-eater and sadder destinies 
 than their own. 
 
 Mo^ing quickly down a long and wide avenue, 
 the vehicle was already near the outer gate, 
 which opened into ParHament Street. The 
 sailor, who was outside the coach, was chal- 
 lenged by the first of five or six sentinels : 
 "Who goes there?" " A fnend," repHed the 
 seaman on the box, with great coolness. The 
 soldier hesitated, and seemed to mistrust the 
 party ; he raised his lantern, and cast a scruti- 
 nising look at them, but an underword and a 
 mysterious look of recognition removed his 
 doubts, and they passed on. Fom- other senti- 
 tinels, one after another, }delding in like manner 
 to the required password, suffered the coach to roll 
 away. Scarcely had the horses increased their 
 speed to a rapid trot, when the fugitives' com-se 
 was once more inten-upted. Above the winds, 
 which roared around Hke thunder, loud voices 
 were heard, and heavy steps echoed at the end 
 of the main walk ; a moment after, an officer of 
 the guards on duty for the night crossed their 
 road in front, followed by two privates. The 
 officer politely bowed, and in a decided but cour- 
 teous voice asked the man on the box for his 
 safe conduct. Declining to recognise the coun-
 
 9 
 
 tersign he gave, the officer still opposed their 
 progi'ess. 
 
 " To what are we indebted to such an 
 agi'eeable surprise this dismal night?" he 
 asked. " Aye, and ladies, too, in the question — 
 recruits for the Dutch navy, or for a voyage of 
 discoveiy this ugly weather ? Be good enough to 
 give me yom- sword — yes, and that pistol, too." 
 
 " Give up my arms !" said the seaman. 
 
 "In the king's name," said the officer, "I 
 demand them." 
 
 The women trembled and thought all was 
 lost, and were only restored to confidence by 
 the quiet tones and cool manner of their guide. 
 He looked at the guardsman with a steady, easy 
 composm-e, approachmg to indifference. 
 
 " I only do my duty ; if I ask for your 
 arms, it is because I have orders to do so," re- 
 pHed the guardsman. "In the king's name, 
 sir, " 
 
 Here the sailor interrupted whatever his new 
 acquaintance was going to say. " Do not repose 
 too impHcitly in your authority, my good sii*, lest 
 you should make us think that it requii*ed too 
 great effort to sustain it." 
 
 The guardsman attempted to complete his 
 apology for arresting the party, but did not
 
 10 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 desist. " In the king's name I — I arrest you. 
 I act according to orders." 
 
 To account for the further resistance of the 
 officer and his men, we must conclude, that the 
 officer, the sentinels of the night, and the coun- 
 tersign, had heen suddenly, and, perhaps, secretly 
 changed. The rough sailor descended from the 
 coachbox, and was leading the officer aside, 
 when one of the privates rushed forward of his 
 own accord. 
 
 " Stand, skipper," says he. 
 
 "Nay, you show your colours first," says the 
 skipper. 
 
 " Here they are," cried the soldier, directing 
 the sailor's attention to his uniform. 
 
 " You may be a don, a devil, a Dutchman, or 
 a Frenchman," broke in the second private. 
 
 '' We sail imder no strange flag," cried the 
 pilot. 
 
 "Here, sir," says he, addressing the superior 
 officer, " are my credentials," showing him the 
 master key of the gates, which he had been 
 reluctant to exhibit until compelled by ne- 
 cessity. 
 
 The officer signed his men to desist and clear 
 the way, and gi-acefully waved his hand in the 
 direction of Westminster. The coach was in a
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 moment outside the last barrier, and dashing at 
 a fiu'ious pace down to the Thames. 
 
 The coach soon reached the stairs which 
 descend to a landing place called the Horse 
 Ferry, just below the House of Lords, where a 
 boat had been engaged to wait for it. There it 
 pulled up, and the seamen ahghting went in 
 search of the expected boat. Through the 
 darkness now thickening before the dawn, he 
 could scarcely see his hand ; he felt his way 
 down to the water's edge. Finding no boat, he 
 shouted several times with all his might, but 
 received no answer. His suspicions of some 
 treachery were painfully aroused. He walked 
 along the bank some distance and at length came 
 upon a wherry, but hesitated to embark the 
 party for whom he had risked so much, in such 
 a storm, wdthout the aid of a skilful waterman. 
 He paused to recollect himself, and returning to 
 the steps knocked at the door of a waterman's 
 hut, and was soon answered by a man who put 
 his head out of a window, and gruffly demanded 
 what was the business of the traveller at such an 
 hour in such a storm. But anticipating the 
 answer, yawned out, "I can't cross to-night, 
 'twould be the height o' madness to venture from 
 the land while it's blowing great guns, raining
 
 12 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 cats and dogs and as dark as bags." He was 
 then closing the window, but the persevering 
 seamen would not be denied ; " I'll make it worth 
 your while, only come down. I'll give you as 
 much gold for this run across, as you can earn 
 in a year of fair weather." This offer appeared 
 to have some effect on the waterman ; he said in 
 a more ci\il tone, " Wait a bit sii', and I'll come 
 down." 
 
 After a few moments he was at the door with 
 a stout iad, who, half asleep and sm*ly at being 
 robbed of his two hours' rest, was unwilling to 
 turn out. There was a look of mutual recogni- 
 tion between the sailor and the ferrjnnan, who 
 touching his cap said, '' Idid not know you, sir*, or 
 I should have come down at once, but the night 
 was so rough I didn't expect you." 
 
 Meantime a thousand misgivings distracted 
 those in the carriage. The gallant protector 
 and guide of the fugitives, himself began to feel 
 an extreme terror at the peril to which he was 
 exposing the persons in whom he felt such a 
 tender and devoted interest. 
 
 He ordered the man to shove out the 
 boat and wait below. He then breathed a 
 prayer for protection and opened the coach- door. 
 The sailor gets out, and then bears vdih pro- •
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 found respect the female whom he had first 
 lifted into the coach. To her he carefully 
 hands a parcel, which, with a mysterious tender- 
 ness, she places in her bosom, under the warm 
 folds of her mantle. The whole party have by 
 this time ahghted, and are hurrying down to the 
 water. In a few moments they were all seated 
 in the boat, which with difficulty put off. 
 
 The night was still so dark and so tempes- 
 tuous, that when the party got into the boat 
 they could not see each other, though they were 
 huddled close together, for the boat was, as the 
 fen-yman said, but a "cockle-shell." There 
 was Hterally but a plank between them and 
 eternity. 
 
 Both the mariners manfully handled their oars, 
 and assisted the ferr^Tnan and his boy, driving 
 the groaning boat, straining and bounding con- 
 vulsively, through the boiling surge, into the 
 tide, which was meeting and fighting the wind, 
 so that the trembling bark writhed in agony as 
 if she could not live through the unequal 
 struggle. 
 
 The interesting woman, for whom all seem 
 more anxious than for themselves, is seated by 
 the steersman, enveloped in her large cloak, 
 with the hood still drawn closely over her head.
 
 14 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 Her attitude is melancholy, her face mournfully 
 bent down ; and yet there is a sad smile on her 
 half concealed features, as she presses to her 
 bosom the mysterious parcel, which she had 
 concealed beneath the ample folds of the dra- 
 pery in which she herself is shrouded. Is it a 
 crucifix ? Is it a statuette of the Madonna, or 
 some fond token of the one most dear to her on 
 earth? 
 
 However this may be, the other two females 
 openly betray such alarm, that it is with difficulty 
 they can be kept quiet. 
 
 Though his frequent fowding excursions had 
 familiarised our mariner, who is the hero of this 
 night, with the chief currents of the river, so 
 that on calm nights he found no difficulty in the 
 passage, yet, so pitch dark was it now, that he 
 felt he must trust himself entirely to the honesty 
 and skilful steering of the experienced ferryman. 
 
 At length, after a dangerous passage, they 
 reached the opposite bank of the Thames and 
 landed at Lambeth Staii's. Quick as lightning 
 the boat was made fast to a ring in the steps. 
 The women were gently lifted out and assisted 
 to the top of the stairs, and the boatmen were 
 discharged. 
 
 The foremost of our sailors called aloud bv
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 name to the messenger, who was to have been in 
 waiting with a coach-and-six, which had been 
 engaged for the use of the party. Keceiving no 
 answer, and the coach not being there, our sailor 
 respectfully led his shivering companions to the 
 porch of the old church, which afforded a partial 
 shelter from the rain, and left them under the 
 protection of the other sailor, while he made the 
 best of his way to the inn, which nearly fronted 
 their retreat, shaping his course under a dark 
 arqhway to avoid the flickering lights which 
 were gHding about the stable yard of the inn, 
 and thus to escape observation. The absence of 
 their brave friend seemed long and painful to 
 those whose suspense lengthened minutes into 
 hours. 
 
 The beautiful and unfortunate being who so 
 fondly cherished some dear treasure next her 
 heart, looked wdth interest on the melancholy 
 abodes of the dead around the old church wrapt 
 in that profound repose which she almost envied. 
 Upon this spot, too, associated as it is with the 
 most touching incidents which can affect the 
 heart, she thought over the reverses of her 
 own fortune, but still more did she dwell on 
 the destinies of one whom she loved and left 
 in peril and in woe. During this agonising
 
 16 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 interval, with streaming eyes she tried, but 
 tried in vain, to trace out the lights of White- 
 hall among those which were reflected from 
 the opposite shore. The natm-al firmness of 
 mind of the weary watcher was strengthened 
 by a consciousness of that protection which 
 she had asked of Heaven. She seemed more 
 anxious for the safety of her concealed treasure 
 than for herself. Amid the horrors of the night 
 the dreadful images of Whitehall arose con- 
 stantly to her thoughts. 
 
 The lurid glare of the horizon, bounded by the 
 city, touched the distant fogs and clouds with. 
 a melancholy hue, and tinged the poor woman's 
 feelings with deep sadness as it caught her eye. 
 
 The passions of the populace had been 
 inflamed against all she held most sacred — the 
 chm'ch of her infancy, the religion of her native 
 land, and the worship of her God. The mob 
 had, even before her escape, proceeded to the 
 most daring outrages against the houses and 
 chapels of the Roman Catholics, and that 
 almost within the hearing and seeing of the 
 pious but terrified daughter of the ancient faith. 
 
 Doubtless the unnatm-al gleams over London, 
 struggling through the yellow fog, ascended from 
 the conflagrations which eclipsed the sacred
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 lights of the sanctuary. The murky wreaths of 
 smoke from the smouldering utensils and costly 
 ornaments of the Tabernacle, rose up in con- 
 tempt of the cloud of incense which long and 
 often had breathed fragrance over the sacrifice 
 of the Mass. 
 
 There are, perhaps, no feelings so painful as 
 those which we dare not, and yet long to com- 
 municate to those w^ho would sympathise in our 
 griefs. The sorrowing stranger dared not to 
 breathe a word of her heart's fond anxiety and 
 domestic regrets, even to her faithful followers ; 
 the very walls of the churchyard seemed to her 
 to have ears in spite of the tempest ; every bank 
 of cloud, every gloomy cypress robed in mist, 
 became a phantom — a*, ghost. She felt she had 
 but little communion with the living or the dead 
 around her, though the place itself was but too 
 well suited to her melancholy circumstances. 
 
 The irregular and convulsive short heavings 
 of the Thames fell upon the ear, like the ravings 
 of a maniac blending with the shrieks of a 
 suicide, or the victim of the murderer gurgling 
 in the waters, or, as she fancied, the dirge of 
 despair over the bodies of the drowned. 
 
 While thus wrapped in deep abstraction, she 
 was suddenly recalled to the stern reahty of her 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE loyalist's DAUGHTEB. 
 
 situation, hj the loud distinct voice of the brave 
 mariner who had returned from the inn. 
 
 In spite of all his endeavours to sink into the 
 plain sailor, which his garb declared, that 
 superiority of bearing and address, which on one 
 occasion we saw him display, his foreign accent 
 and idiom, perhaps his agitation and haste, or 
 it may be all these together, conspu-ed against 
 his disguise at the inn ; some one so very 
 different from themselves excited the cm-iosity 
 of the hangers on, who all night loitered about 
 the stables. No sooner had one of these men, 
 who lived by his mts and his dishonesty, noticed 
 the superior bearing of the visitor, and heard 
 his orders, than he informed a stranger within 
 the hostelry, that a coacji-and-six was ready to 
 start. The latter ran out stealthily to recon- 
 noitre, and was making dii-ectly towards the 
 spot where the chief subject of our notice was 
 standing at a Httle distance from the rest of the 
 party in the porch since the rain had ceased. 
 Our wary and watchful conductor, noticed the 
 movements of the stranger and for a second lost 
 his rehance on himself and was perplexed; 
 but with as unconcerned an aii' as he could 
 assume, he ordered the carriage to go on 
 immediatelv, while he crossed to the other side
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 of the road to follow and watch the stranger. 
 "WTien he perceived him going directly to the 
 coach he put himself right in the fellow's path, 
 so that they came in contact with each 
 other, fell and rolled in the mud together, and 
 made mutual apologies for the accident. While 
 he is drying his clothes, and recovering and 
 repaiiing himself, the party under his guidance 
 could not help admiring the easy, confident in- 
 difference mth which their conductor had up to 
 this point assumed a superiority over all the 
 circumstances around him. Their protector 
 handed the women into the carriage. He as- 
 cended the box. No sooner had the word been 
 given, than the postilions started off into a 
 gallop. Scarcely had they left what then was 
 the town, when they were startled by a noise of 
 horses advancing at full trot ; and the seaman 
 on the top of the coach was soon made aware of 
 several riders, whose forms rose to his view in- 
 distinctly out of the dark drizzling mist and 
 fog. The coach had become visible to them ; 
 and one or two of the foremost of the soldiers — 
 for they were no other than the guards — made 
 towards it at increased speed, challenging the 
 party as they advanced, with the cry of " Stand! 
 who goes there ?" 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 In vain was the pass-vrord given in this 
 instance as before. The officer who thought 
 it his duty to aiTest the progress of the tra- 
 vellers seemed alike inexorable to entreaties 
 and indifferent to threats. He rode up briskly 
 in advance of his men to the heads of the 
 leaders, and ordered the postilions to halt. 
 They hesitated, and simply slackened their 
 pace ; for they had no orders fi'om the sailor 
 to whom they looked for instruction to pull up. 
 ''Halt!" reiterated the horseman in a voice 
 of thunder, placing himself in a menacing 
 attitude, ''or I will" — before he could finish 
 the sentence a horseman, whose charger was 
 covered with foam, thmst himself between the 
 carriage and the officer who was resisting its 
 advance, and, holding a pistol to his head, 
 before he could make any defence, demanded 
 his authority for stopping honest people on 
 the king's high road. " The wan-ant for my 
 conduct was violently WTested from my grasp, 
 and destroyed by some rascals who surprised 
 us on our way from Whitehall to the Bridge." 
 " Then," cried the officer, " only desist from 
 further interference until I can shew you my 
 written instructions." Then seaching as if for 
 the document that really never existed, he
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTEK. 21 
 
 gained time for his followers to come up, and 
 a melee ensued, dming which the carriage 
 escaped. 
 
 The fact is that the officers ahout the palace 
 received such conflicting orders, and were 
 actuated by such opposite motives, that the 
 party whom one officer suspected the other 
 favoiured. The movements of the royal house- 
 hold and the amvals at and departures from 
 Whitehall, were watched by disloyal individuals 
 with jealousy and concern. The young officer 
 who had rescued the party from imminent 
 peril had no sooner dispersed the assailants 
 than he galloped after the carriage.
 
 22 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 These wide-mouthed brutes that bellow thus for freedom 
 Oh ! how they run before the hand of pow'r, 
 Flying for shelter into every brake ! — Otway. 
 
 During the alarming interruption and delay, 
 of which we have given the details, the car- 
 riage had advanced a considerable distance. 
 When the eqneriy, who so opportunely came to 
 their rescue, overtook the travellers after his 
 rencontre with their opponent, he mth profound 
 reverence delivered a sealed packet to one of 
 the ladies. 
 
 He handed a larger parcel to the mariner, 
 who soon let himself down from the coach, cut 
 open the bundle which he had received, then 
 retiring with it some distance, in a few minutes 
 reappeared a new man, in di-y and elegant 
 attire, booted and spurred, also mounted on a 
 powerful horse which the messenger placed 
 at his service. The rugged sailor was so 
 effectually and so hastily metamorphosed into 
 the graceful and sprightly cavaHer, that his
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 friends were astonished at the change. The 
 spirited animal, whose caparison showed that 
 he belonged to the Life Guards, unconscious 
 of his rider's weight of care, gaily prances, and 
 almost of his own accord, takes up and main- 
 tains his place near the right hand window of 
 the coach. 
 
 Whatever might have been this brave man's 
 skill and conduct at sea, he certainly betrayed 
 rather the profession of the army than the navy 
 when he felt himself proudly mounted on a 
 dauntless charger ; his flagging powers revived, 
 his blood once more glowed with a new life 
 through his veins. His change of apparel, the 
 fresh breeze of the early and promising morning, 
 which was now just breaking, filled him with 
 that courage and energy which never, perhaps, 
 can long triumph over bodily prostration, or long 
 survive the decay of animal spirits. 
 
 In the returning glow of warmth and vigour, 
 taking his position, as we observed, near the 
 coach, he waved a farewell to the equerry, who 
 rode back. 
 
 *'0n! on for your lives, postilions, on !" he 
 cried. The coach resumed its former speed 
 without further hindrance, until the jaded horses 
 began to flag. A halt became inevitable, and
 
 24 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 the rider had only to look out for some quiet and 
 sequestered place of refreshment, where the 
 team might take breath first, and then a bucket 
 of water to wash away the froth from their 
 panting nostrils and mouth. This presented 
 itself in the form of an irregular cluster of huts, 
 the best of which united the character of a road- 
 side ale-house, and the trade of a shipwright — 
 in reality, a rendezvous for smugglers and 
 sailors, where the sign of the Cro^-n and Anchor 
 announced the loyalty and the twofold business 
 of the landlord. 
 
 It was now that horn' in the morning when 
 the labom-er tmdges through the cheerless 
 twihght to his daily toil, and the tradesman and 
 mechanic go forth to their appointed task. 
 
 When we observe the mushroom growth of 
 the watering-places and hamlets on the banks 
 of the Thames, which have stai-ted up into 
 to^Tis even Tvithin our own memory, we can 
 easily foiTQ an idea of the G-ravesend of nearly 
 two hundred years ago. Though the place itself 
 was even then of some extent, this outlying 
 hamlet was obscm-e. 
 
 Many a smuggler, sailor, or treason -monger, 
 who had been out all that night by sea or by 
 land, and in perils and hunger by both, was
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 regaling himself with such viands as at that 
 horn- might have excited the envy not only of 
 weary wayfarers, but of courtiers themselves. 
 Broiled mackerel, fresh henings, and boiled cod- 
 fish, were in abundance ; not only so, but the 
 rich perfume of the savomy rasher, and the eggs 
 with which it was flanked, ah-eady filled the 
 house, and found its way to the outside. The 
 hissing of the dishes of fish and flesh kept up 
 the bubble to a chorus of other preparations for 
 the varied meal, which none of our party, how- 
 ever, were destined to taste, or even to smell 
 much longer, for a coach-and-six at any time, 
 even at the head hostel in the heart of Graves - 
 end, would have suppHed a wonderful sensa- 
 tion, but at this time evidently excited sus- 
 picion. 
 
 A party of vSoldiers just anived from Tilbury 
 Fort, at the other side of the Thames, were 
 already in the main street, making a noisy 
 demonstration in favour of the Prince of Orange 
 and Protestantism. Some, however, cried one 
 thing and some another. In fact all were 
 waverers, watching the march of events and 
 the turn of the tide, eager to avail themselves 
 of every advantage. They were equally ready 
 to shout for Prelacy, Popery, Paganism, Puri-
 
 26 THE loyalist's daught:ee. 
 
 tanism, or any other ism or schism. Yet they 
 were zealous patriots — zealous that each cham- 
 pion for the peculiar interest which he promoted 
 should be handsomely rewarded by the party 
 under whose banner he for the time had enlisted 
 and fought. 
 
 The cautious escort of the Eoyalists in the 
 coach, anticipating an assault from the troopers, 
 which he was not in a condition to avoid or 
 resent, secretly signed to the postilions to 
 make the best of their way, leaving him out 
 of the question. 
 
 He then called to the buxom matron who 
 did the honom-s of the Crown and Anchor, 
 and handing her a gold piece, said, so as the 
 soldiers now about the house could hear him, 
 ** Treat these brave fellows "«dth your best." 
 
 In the meantime he could distinctly hear a 
 sergeant, who was spouting politics at the bar, 
 declare to his comrades that " James, who 
 is to be king no longer, and the King of France, 
 are trying to set up an idol in England ; and, 
 if the plot is suffered to be hatched, every Pro- 
 testant in Great Britain vail be massacred some 
 night next week at the same horn-, in honour 
 of the scarlet whore. A French nobleman, 
 whom they call Lauzan, is gone over to the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 * Abomination of Desolation, spoken of by 
 Daniel the prophet,' to bring over to England 
 the ' Man of Sin' to be present on the occasion. 
 So ye see, my lads," added the sergeant, " it 
 is time to be up and doing. * The workman is 
 worthy of his hii*e.' I'll waiTant the Orange will, 
 with a little squeezing, supply plenty of moisture 
 to keep your whistles in the right tune." 
 
 No sooner had the orator delivered himself 
 of these veracious and startling facts, than our 
 traveller rose fi'om the seat into which he had 
 been voted by the men at whose expense they 
 were drinking the health of " King William 
 what is to be," as they said. 
 
 He discharged the whole reckoning so libe- 
 rally and pleasantly, that the boat-builder, 
 seeing that the guest's horse was brought 
 forth, joined the hostess at the door. When 
 the traveller was in the saddle ready to depart, 
 the landlady handed him a stirrup-cup. In 
 doing so her face and that of the rider, who 
 stooped to her in acknowledgmert, approached 
 suspiciously near. She whispered in his ear, 
 " Beware of spies," an intimation which 
 alarmed him for the safety of the party from 
 whom he was unfortunately severed. 
 
 Lea\ing the revellers to drown their politics
 
 28 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 in their strong beverage our traveller jogged 
 off leisurely to Gravesend in apparent unconcern ; 
 bent on overtaking the coach as soon as possible, 
 he ventured to spur his horse when he was out 
 of sight of the inn. In less than half the time 
 which our sketch of the scene in the public house 
 has occupied, he was in sight of the coach, 
 which, dashing through Gravesend down to the 
 river, was followed by some ruffians, who had 
 rushed out from a pot-house, the usual resort of 
 smugglers and vagabonds. They were m-ged on 
 by the man who had, unobserved, left the Crown 
 and Anchor, and pressed so close to the carriage 
 door, that the protector of the party inside had 
 already presented his pistol, and having jumped 
 out, was sword in hand dealing such thrusts as 
 kept back the rabble. Our horseman rode up in 
 a jog trot as an indifferent stranger between the 
 coach and the drunken assailants, and beckoned 
 his friend to get inside the coach. Whereupon 
 his charger, at the admonition of the spur, 
 thought it his duty to kick right and left and 
 plunge fmiously, knocking the astonished 
 aggressors down like nine pins and trampling on 
 the fallen. The well-trained horse not only 
 astonished the weak minds of the enemy whom 
 he thus dispersed, but even the rider himself ;
 
 29 
 
 nor did the animal desist from his purpose till 
 he had cleared the way, and utterly upset the 
 amphibious creatures who lay in wait for the 
 party. The coach and the outrider were in 
 another moment on a retired landing-place of 
 the riyer. Both men alighted, one from his 
 horse, the other fi-om the coach. 
 
 Distinguished from many and various flags, 
 was a streamer, striped with blue and red, 
 floating in the morning breeze from the stern of 
 a yacht in the midstream. 
 
 According to the tidings conveyed through 
 the packet delivered by the equerry, this flag 
 was, as the travellers perceived, friendly to their 
 object, and filled them wdth joy. The rabble of 
 the village being by this time all in motion, no 
 time was to be lost. While the fugitives were 
 anxiously deliberating on the safest way to reach 
 the yacht, — looking around for some countenance 
 which they could tmst, and some conveyance 
 which would place them along side the yacht, 
 they discovered a boat Ijmg below, manned by 
 three persons, in the dress of seamen, such as 
 the inside passenger of the coach still wore, but 
 whom by their brogue and thoughtless gaiety, 
 they recognised as Irish officers, evidently wait- 
 ing to put them on board the yacht. They
 
 30 THE loyalist's daughtek. 
 
 made them a sigii of recognition, and im- 
 mediately descended to the boat. Both men 
 politely lifted the first object of their care into 
 the boat, and the others followed in the order 
 already observed. 
 
 Pressmg her concealed treasure to her breast, 
 the female, now revealed in the clear light as an 
 Italian peasant, carijing a bundle under her 
 pelisse, was assisted to a seat between the two 
 other women. The rowers took their places and 
 pulled oft'. 
 
 The wind was hushed, and the wild short 
 dashing of the conflicting waters was lulled 
 into a ripple under the influence of a gentle 
 breeze. The day was clear and unusually bright 
 for the hour and the place. A motley crowd of 
 both sexes was on the boat quay, gazing on the 
 boat which was now ghding along a path of light 
 under the sun, leaving a silver trail behind her. 
 
 The Irish officers, for such they were, as they 
 crossed with their apparently unknown passen- 
 gers, carried on a conversation, which certainly 
 was not intended for the ears of the groups 
 still hovering about the water's edge. 
 
 *' How easily," said one, " is the solemn 
 Saxon gulled ! And what lie will he not swallow 
 if it be gilt over with an invention against
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 Catholics ! The last words which reached us as 
 we gave the rascals the slip must have been 
 concocted by the father of lies himself — ' The 
 Irish a hundred thousand strong were up all 
 last night cutting throats !' " 
 
 " Sure it's the Protestant wind that's set in 
 against us entirely," said another, "that never blew 
 Ireland any good. Those dii'ty London nagers 
 would tell as man}^ lies for a tinpenny piece as 
 would sink this yawl — divil a less. They 
 accuse us of white lies, but theks are yellow 
 — tinged and impressed b}^ yeUow gold. Their 
 lies for theii' customers wear a bright national 
 colom-ing, shaded with a touch of local pre- 
 judice, which to the eye of the Protestant 
 Saxon, is the logic of facts. Only let it be as 
 bold as the production of Titus Gates, or his 
 pupils in the science of Hes, and the Englisher 
 will take the biggest lie that ever was manu- 
 factured for gospel." 
 
 " The Lord save us !" says the most devout 
 of the three papists, makmg the sign of the 
 cross ; " sure it's yom-self that has the gift of 
 speech, Hke any priest." 
 
 This conversation was cut short by the 
 sudden appearance of a signal from the yacht 
 to make haste. The order from the helmsman
 
 32 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 ** to put an oar well to leeward there and keep 
 to the wind," was given and obeyed. 
 
 In another minute the boat was alongside 
 the yacht. The officers to whom the duty of 
 rowing the voyagers to the yacht was intrusted, 
 with such profound homage as royalty itself 
 might demand, .assisted the Italian lady on 
 board the vessel evidently placed at her ser- 
 vice, and also saw her attendants safely em- 
 barked for their destination. The manner of 
 the Ii'ishmen betrayed a stronger and more 
 deeply reverential feehng than that of mere 
 coui-tesy or even gaUant devotion to the fair 
 sex. 
 
 The conductor of the travellers alone re- 
 tm-ned with the Irish officers to the shore. 
 To bim they addi-essed many anxious inquiries 
 concerniug the final destination and prospects 
 of his friends now embarked for France.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 This I hold to he the chief office of history : to rescue virtuous actions 
 from the oblivion to which a want of records would consign them, 
 and that men should feel adi'ead of beiug considered infamous in the 
 opinions of posterity from their depraved expressions and base 
 actions. — Tacit us. 
 
 We have hitherto kept pace with oiir travellers, 
 but we must now leave them on board the yacht 
 to enjoy the freshness of the bright morning on 
 old Thames, off Gravesend, while we glance 
 rapidly through the eventful history of the 
 period. And, at the risk of wandering out of 
 the region of romance, we would venture upon a 
 few of the details immediately associated with the 
 reign of James II., which eventually banished 
 that monarch from his kingdom. We shaU 
 conclude the sketch with a brief summary of 
 the whole, carried out into a chain, of which 
 each item in "the great account" is in itself 
 but a link, not necessarily connected with, 
 and yet conducive to the end of the English 
 Revolution. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 ■ THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 It was from that seed-plot, sown broad- cast by 
 Henry VIII., that those various and conflicting 
 creeds sprouted and spread which soon* blos- 
 somed and bore fruit plentifully. 
 
 The Great Rebellion, the Revolution, and all 
 those religious changes followed, which neither 
 the penal statutes of preceding monarchs, nor 
 the Test Act, passed by the parliament of 
 Charles II., 1673, could prevent or control. 
 
 Harassed by the struggles of the Civil War, 
 shocked by the profane despotism of Cromwell, 
 subdued by the reaction of the Restoration, 
 Great Britain retained something of its original 
 vigour, in its undi\dded, concentrated, and un- 
 mitigated hatred of Rome. 
 
 Charles II. felt the fevered pulse of the 
 nation, and concealed in his own heart the 
 religious malady which his people dreaded. It 
 was reserved for his successor openly to revive 
 the sacred di-ama of the Mass in the land of 
 the ancient Saxon faith. 
 
 England had not at this time learnt to asso- 
 ciate the idea of religious with that of civil 
 liberty. Coke, the gi-eat English lawyer, had 
 declared that even so much as to accuse any 
 nobleman of having counselled the king to 
 tolerate Catholics was felony. Usher, Primate
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 of Ireland, had denounced it from the pulpit as 
 a deadly sin, amid mm*mm's of applause from 
 his audience. 
 
 At first, indeed, the accession of James II. 
 promised some alleviation to the miseries which 
 distracted his people, though they could scarcely 
 receive the doctrine that " he vras the only 
 righteous king and sovereign over all persons 
 and all causes, as holding the imperial crown 
 from God alone." 
 
 In his dealings with both Universities and in 
 religious matters James endeavoured to realize 
 that power which had been transferred by 
 Henry VIII. from the Pope to himself* 
 
 " That whatever the Pope, de facto, formerly 
 did \sithin this realm by the canon law, that of 
 right belongs to our King." In fact Coke in 
 his Institutes seems to lay it down, " that the 
 King claiming as supreme head, such authority 
 as the Pope had, doth of right belong to the 
 Crown, and is annexed thereto by the statutes 
 of 26 Hen. 8th, c. 1, and Eliz. c. 1." 
 
 All penal laws for religious ofi'ences were 
 suspended, and all tests imposed as qualifica- 
 tions for holding office forbidden by royal pro- 
 clamation. It was admitted, however, by all 
 that James never interfered with the decision 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 of courts of justice. The two great objects of 
 James were libei'ty of conscience and freedom 
 of worship. First he would remove religious tests 
 as qualifications for office; secondly, he would 
 abolish penal inflictions. 
 
 His own security was at the bottom of this 
 policy. " He risked the very existence of 
 authority that he might not be thought to 
 have exercised it in vain." 
 
 The coronation of the King and Queen ac- 
 cording to the Protestant ritual was considered 
 a favourable omen for England ; and yet the 
 Coronation Oath was, in fact, the very same 
 which was taken in the days of Edw^ard the 
 Confessor, no alteration ha\dng been made in 
 it at the time of the Reformation. But we wiU 
 for a moment invite the attention of the reader 
 to the authorities who then were part of the 
 history which they record. 
 
 The history of the coronation of James 11. 
 and his Consort Queen Mary, in the Collegiate 
 Church of St. Peter, in the Cathedi-al of West- 
 minster, by Francis Sandford, Esq., Lancaster 
 Herald of Arms, says, in Section 5th, the Oath — 
 The sermon being ended, the King uncovered 
 his head, and the Ai'chbishop arose and re- 
 paired to His Majesty, and asked him, " Sir,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 are you willing to take the oath usually taken 
 by your predecessors ?" 
 
 King : "I am willing." 
 
 Then the Ai'chbishop ministered these ques- 
 tions, to which the King (having a book in his 
 hand) answered severally as foUoweth : 
 
 Archbishop : " WiU you grant and keep and 
 by your oath confirm to the people of England, 
 the laws and customs to them granted by the 
 Kings of England, your lawful and religious 
 predecessors ; and namely, the laws, customs, 
 and franchises granted to the clergy by the 
 glorious King St. Edward your predecessor, 
 according to the laws of God, the true profes- 
 sion of the Gospel established in this kingdom, 
 and agi-eeing to the prerogative of the Kings 
 thereof, and the ancient customs of this realm ?" 
 
 King : ''I grant and promise to keep them." 
 
 Ai'chbishop : '^ Sir, will you keep peace and 
 godly agi-eement entirely, according to your 
 power, to the Holy Church, the clergy, and the 
 people ? 
 
 King: '^ I win keep it." 
 
 And two questions concerning the preservation 
 of the laws and customs of this realm foUowed. 
 To aU this he swore and kissed the book. 
 
 Section 9th. The Investiture per Auri-
 
 38 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 CULUM. The Archbishop put the ring on the 
 fourth finger of His Majesty's right hand, 
 saying, "Receive the ring of kingly dignity and 
 the Seal of Catholic Faith. That as thou art 
 this day consecrated head and prince of this 
 kingdom, and people, &c." 
 
 Again, in section 11th. The Enthroning : — 
 The king being seated on his throne, the Arch- 
 bishop standing before him said this exhortation : 
 " Stand firm and hold fast from henceforth that 
 place of royal dignity, whereof thou art the 
 lawful and undoubted heir by succession from 
 thy forefathers,* &c., &c." 
 
 We have selected only such passages from the 
 coronation service as might logically and histori- 
 cally in the mind of James be identified with 
 that faith to which he had under the influence of 
 his mother been reconciled in a CathoHc country, 
 and which he openly professed at the death of 
 his first wife — that is, the religion of Edward 
 the Confessor, in communion with Rome, or the 
 CathoHc faith. 
 
 "It was," says James, "the Divine Providence 
 that made me leave my country so young. He 
 made me save myself from my enemies, and seek 
 
 * Lingard xiv. 23. And Mary of Modena, pp. 167-170. 
 Sancroft crowning James II.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 for a j)lace of refuge in strange kingdoms. I 
 have spent the greatest part of the twelve years 
 of ni}' first exile in Catholic countries."* 
 
 There are none, perhaps, really earnest in their 
 religion hut wish all others, especially their 
 friends, to he of their faith. James was earnest, 
 and sacrificed three crowns to the unwise means 
 by which he would attain this great end. All 
 James' notions, except that of universal tolera- 
 tion, are said to have been six centuries behind 
 the age in which he lived, and in that he was a 
 century-and-a-half too early. 
 
 In spite of the existing laws against Catholics, 
 this misguided monarch made a parade of the 
 condemned faith, and sent Lord Thomas Howard, 
 son of Henry Duke of Norfolk, as Catholic 
 Ambassador to Rome in 1686 ; and this at a time 
 too, w^hen " missals, offices, lives of saints, portal 
 premiers," were by various Acts of Parhament 
 forbidden to be printed or sold. 
 
 To form a just idea of the lengths to which 
 James ventm-ed, against the feehngs and religious 
 poHcy of the nation, we have only to pause as it 
 were, with those who describe the scenes and 
 events amidst which they lived. 
 
 John Evelyn states in his Diary, " Whitehall, 
 * MS. of Rev. — Sanders, London, 1704.
 
 40 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 London, August 22nd, 1685. — His Majesty 
 delivered the seal to my Lord Tuiiit and myself, 
 and then gave us his hand to kiss. There were 
 the two Venetian ambassadors and a world of 
 company : amongst the rest, the first popish 
 nuncio that had been in England since the 
 Keformation, so wonderfully were things changed, 
 and Ferdinand Count d'Adda, made afterwards a 
 cai'dinal for his services in this embassy. 
 
 " Dec. 29th, 1686, I went to hear the music 
 of the Italians in the new chapel, now first opened 
 publicly at Whitehall for the popish service. 
 
 " The throne where the King and Queen sit is 
 very glorious, in a closet above, just opposite 
 to the altar. Here we saw the bishop in his 
 mitre and rich cope, six or seven Jesuits in 
 their copes ; then he went to the altar and 
 made various cringes, then censing the images 
 and glorious Tabernacle placed on the altar, now 
 and then changing place. The crosier, which 
 was of silver, was put into his hand with a 
 world of mysterious ceremony, the music play- 
 ing with singing. I could not have behoved 
 I should ever have seen such things in the 
 kingdom of England's palace, after it had 
 pleased God to enlighten this nation ; but one 
 great sin has for the present eclipsed the bless-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 ing, which I hope he will in mercy and good 
 time restore to its pm-ity. 
 
 " Jan. 17th, 1687, Lord Tyrconnel gone to 
 succeed the Lord-Lieutenant (Clarendon) in L-e- 
 land, to the astonishment of all sober men, and 
 to the evident ruin of the Protestants in that 
 kingdom. Popish justices of the peace esta- 
 blished in all counties of the meanest of the 
 people; judges, ignorant of the law, and per- 
 verting it ; so furiously do the Jesuits diiye 
 and compel princes to violate conscience. Tyr- 
 connel was charged to raise the Bish above the 
 EngHsh interest, so that in any subsequent re- 
 volution, L'eland might offer a secure asylum 
 to the king and his party, should he be diiven 
 from his thi'one." 
 
 Not only Evelyn, but BariUon, Sir John 
 Eeresby, Ellis' con-espondence, edited by the 
 Hon. G. Agar Ellis, — all bear witness that the 
 complaints of James's Protestant subjects were 
 not gi'oundless. They were fully confirmed by 
 the friends and connections with whom in early 
 Hfe he had so imprudently allied himself, and 
 in whom he reposed that confidence which they 
 afterwards abused and betrayed. 
 
 His marriage with Ann Hyde involved him in 
 difficulties which he could neither avert nor
 
 42 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 control. It identified him with the unpopularity 
 of her father, Clarendon. It provoked against 
 him the enmity of Buckingham and enlisted 
 Bristol, Shaftesbury, and the rest of that party 
 in the ranks of his opponents, who, suspecting 
 that James would sooner or later avenge on 
 them the injuries which his father-in-law had 
 suffered, conspired among themselves to de- 
 prive him of the royal succession. Even the 
 very sources of wealth and national glory which 
 he opened to his country conduced to his sub- 
 sequent misfortunes and his fall. When Lord 
 Admiral of England, he not only advanced 
 naval science but extended the influence and 
 prosperity of England in three different quarters 
 of the globe — that is to say, Hindostan, Long 
 Island, in America, called in honour of him 
 New York, and on the coast of Africa. 
 
 He thus defeated the endeavours of the Dutch 
 to monopolise the trade of the East and West 
 Indies, and to usm-p the sovereignty of the seas, 
 so that as Duke of York, twenty years before 
 his accession, James had aroused that jealousy 
 of the Dutch, which afterwards never slept. 
 His naval skill and unrivalled valour achieved 
 the most signal victory over the fleets of Hol- 
 land that had ever been won by the British navy.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 The memorable sea fight to which this island is 
 so deeply indebted, was fought on the 3rd June, 
 1665, ojff the coast of Suffolk. The duke's brilliant 
 achievement has in a great measure been attri- 
 buted to the adoption of the naval signals and 
 improvement in maritime warfare which his 
 youthful genius had adopted, if not discovered. 
 
 So early as 1680 the Prince of Orange was 
 eager and persevering in his schemes for mount- 
 ing the British throne. While he pretended to 
 rely entii-ely on the leaders of the faction with- 
 out he sought to extend, with much cunning, 
 his intrigues to members of the Cabinet. He 
 gained Godolphin and Hyde to his views, and 
 even the Duke of York, ignorantly to favour his 
 designs. But of all the intrigues of the Prince 
 of Orange for mounting the throne destined for 
 his father-in-law, that which became ultimately 
 of most advantage to his views, was his gain- 
 ing the Earl of Sunderland. 
 
 On the accession of James the eyes of the con- 
 flicting powers of Em-ope were turned upon that 
 monarch. The ambition and power of Louis XIV. 
 of France awakened the fears of the rest of 
 Europe. Spain had been weakened and im- 
 poverished by vrars. Austria well-nigh helpless 
 against the attacks of Tm-key. Venice, formerly
 
 44 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 so powerful, was falling from her greatness. 
 The German States hated Austria, dreaded 
 France, and wavered between both. 
 
 William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, Stad- 
 holder of Holland, alone opposed the armies of 
 France. His success won for him the co-opera- 
 tion of Spain, of some of the German States, 
 and finally even of Pope Innocent the Eleventh ; 
 yet, overmatched by the domination of France, 
 this alliance looked to James for his sympathy 
 and support. The brother of William's mother, 
 and the father of his wife, might naturally be 
 expected to promote the designs of his nephew 
 and son-in-law. 
 
 Louis also deserved the support of James ; 
 and James, listening to his counsel, involved 
 himself in that miserable conflict with his own 
 subjects which eventually exiled him from his 
 hereditary realms. 
 
 From the beginning to the end of this 
 monarch's reign there has been no part of it 
 so darkly shaded, or so much used against him, 
 as that which is associated with the cruelties 
 of Jefi'eries. The Chief Justice seems to have 
 taken for a precedent the sanguinary conduct of 
 those who in the reign of Elizabeth punished 
 the Northern insm-gents.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 Notwithstanding the statements of Bumet and 
 others, the Earl of Mulgrave, afterwards Duke 
 of Normanby, assures us that James " compas- 
 sioned his enemies so much as never to forgive 
 Jefferies for executing so severely multitudes of 
 them in the West, contrary to his express 
 orders." 
 
 The king afterwards thanked Bishop Kerr, 
 and also Sii- Thomas Cutler, for their inter- 
 cession for the condemned at the time that 
 Sir Thomas was commanding officer at Wells. 
 
 Halifax, Eochester, Smiderland, and Jefferies 
 — some of the ablest men of the age — formed 
 James's cabinet. The defeat of Argyle and the 
 overthrow of Monmouth served to strengthen 
 this administration. Parliament offered no great 
 opposition to despotic government. Even the 
 Church of England, mindful of her own interests, 
 preached up passive obedience as an article of 
 the national faith. James's religious toleration 
 of all sects went far to smash the supremacy 
 of the Established Church. She, however, made 
 a stand for the test. 
 
 James's worst attribute was obstinacy; and 
 in spite of opposition he clung to his purpose, 
 although the Marquis of Winchester, Lords 
 Anglesea, Halifax, Nottingham, Mordaunt, and,
 
 46 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 lastly, Compton, Bishop of London, who spoke 
 the sentiments of the united bench of bishops, 
 pronounced the test act the chief security of the 
 Established Church. The mindwhich James had 
 to resist and bear down all difficulties at any 
 risk, some call firmness and some obstinacy. In 
 his ecclesiastical polity, his amiable and beau- 
 tiful queen, Maria d' Este, the adopted daughter 
 of Louis, naturally, as a Catholic, concurred. 
 Both king and queen were, doubtless, counselled 
 by the clergy. Yet many of the leading Catho- 
 lics deemed it imprudent to risk their present 
 tranquillity for an uncertain benefit ; and this 
 was the policy of Eome. The mild influence 
 of Mary Beatrice reigned supremely in her 
 household over Protestants as well as Ca- 
 tholics. 
 
 James had sacrificed place and power to his 
 religion, but could not sacrifice his pleasures to 
 its precepts. He loved Catherine Sedley " un- 
 wisely and too well." 
 
 It was but honourable to the queen's feelings, 
 as a Christian and a wife, to avail herself of the 
 influence of the clergy in attaining that ascend- 
 ance over her ening husband which compelled 
 him to dismiss the shameless woman, who had 
 obtruded herself upon the domestic sanctuary of
 
 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 4? 
 
 pure chastity and wedded love. Eochester, a 
 fluent speaker, a free drinker, one who could 
 swear by eYer}i;hing which was not popish, held 
 the first place in the administration : his ahiH- 
 ties were inferior to his high connections and 
 rank. 
 
 In his opponent, the Earl of Sunderland, he 
 had a supple courtier, a sharp wit, a polished 
 gentleman, and an able politician to compete with 
 for the chief direction of the government. Sun- 
 derland had gained the king's confidence; he 
 perceived the queen's dislike to Kocheter, and 
 sought to turn it to his account. 
 
 It was then that Eochester had recourse to 
 that unworthy stratagem which hastened his 
 downfall, his endeavom- to recall the discarded 
 Countess of Dorchester in aid of the Pro- 
 testant cause. 
 
 So anxious was Eochester to retain office that 
 it was thought he might be won over to the 
 Eoman Catholic faith ; but in justice to the 
 fallen minister we must say that on this point he 
 was inflexible, and thus he regained his ground 
 with the Protestant pai-ty, and evaded the addi- 
 tional disgi-ace which would have accompanied 
 his dismissal. 
 
 The Parliament identified with the monarch in
 
 48 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 politics, was stedfast in its support of and sanc- 
 tion of those tests and those penal laws, which 
 have since been repealed. The king con- 
 descended to the unconstitutional weakness of 
 entreating or commanding in private each 
 member separately to yield to his measures. 
 
 Such was the aspect of aifaii*s when the bii'th 
 of an heir to the crown of Great Britain was 
 announced to Em-ope. 
 
 By Louis XIY. the news was received with 
 unbounded joy. Xt the Hague every mark of 
 ceremonial respect was paid on the occasion 
 by William of Orange. The giievances of the 
 English people, however, he made his ladder by 
 which stealthily and cunningly he ascended, step 
 by step, to the British throne. His designs were 
 ■unknown and unsuspected by James, who pur- 
 sued with obstinacy his dangerous and desperate 
 career. " From this moment," says Lingard, 
 "his enemies watched his conduct Tsdth more 
 than their former jealousy, while the infatuated 
 monarch continued to act as if it were his wish 
 to conjure up and combine together all the 
 elements of that storm which in a few months 
 burst on his head" — and swept him and his 
 from the throne. 
 
 Such is a brief outline of the circumstances
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 under which the conduct and policy of James II. 
 entailed upon himself and his family those 
 calamities which are associated and interwoven 
 with the texture of our narrative. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 50 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Let our Alliance be combined, 
 
 Our best friends made, and our best means stretch'd out ; 
 
 And let us presently go sit in council, 
 
 How covert matters may be best disclosed, 
 
 And open perils surest answer'd. — Shakespeare. 
 
 We must now retm-n to the Palace of White- 
 hall. The king was in his cabinet, seated at a 
 table covered with scarlet cloth, on which were 
 placed silver inkstands, pens and paper, in- 
 terspersed "with folios and important documents. 
 He was wiiting despatches and letters, but 
 started up suddenly at every sound which reached 
 him, and as often sank into a morbid state of 
 despondence, and let the pen di'op from his hand. 
 His gaze was vacant, his look haggard and 
 agitated; deep anguish had unhinged the 
 monarch's mind. He thought aloud. " 'Tis 
 my son I must endeavour to save at the risk of 
 my own life and my cro\\Ti. Oh ! my son, my 
 son ! the child of many prayers. Oh, my queen, 
 the wife of my bosom — the loved and faithful 
 partner of my honours and my fall — sweet sharer
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 5l 
 
 of my sorrows ! Oh ! that one should be taken 
 and the other left : nothing but death can divide 
 us. Oh, Mary ! the mother of my boy. Can I 
 depend my fond treasures on Lauzun, on Victor, 
 on any one ? God help me ! Even my own 
 childi-en — but no, they cannot deceive — they 
 cannot deceive the fond father who trusts them. 
 My own Ann, my darling daughter, Mary of 
 Orange; my nephew and son-in-law; my brother- 
 in-law, Clarendon ; my nephew, Cornbury ! 
 
 *' Only sixteen years ago, my bride, my timid 
 virgin bride, you came to this isle surrounded by 
 the nobles of England, of Italy, of France, arrayed 
 in royal splendom;. Now you leave it an exile, 
 a fugitive, in a peasant's dress, with your royal 
 infant in your arms, to seek on a foreign shore a 
 refuge from the storm which diives you from that 
 throne which you adorned. Torn from the heart 
 which you, and you alone, could fill with peace 
 and joy. And oh ! my son, my son, the dearest 
 gift of heaven ! 
 
 "As a beautiful victim adorned for the sacri- 
 fice, Mary, you joined your reluctant hand to mine, 
 and shared my cruel destinies. Then you shed 
 tears for the sunny land which you had left ; and 
 gloom fell on the young heai't, for which the too 
 near prospect of three crov\Tis had no charm. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 But tliey shall rest on the head of your son, the 
 heir of his father's realms, but not of his woes." 
 This soliloquy was inteiTupted by loud excla- 
 mations of the domestics, and the sound of that 
 well-known name, the Prince of Wales, made the 
 king start from his seat. He hurried with quick 
 but faltering step to the chambers whence the 
 screams of the women arose, by the nearest way, 
 which was through the queen's private apart- 
 ments, which opened into the royal nm-series. 
 The queen's chamber still bore traces of her 
 recent occupation. On a table of massive oak, 
 richly caiwed, might be seen an open missal, 
 brilliantly illuminated, in the style of the previous 
 centmy, and the " De Imitatione Chi'isti," of 
 Thomas a Kempis. The walls were hung with 
 paintings by Titian and Murillo and many pieces 
 of Church history. In an oriel window were a 
 priedieu and table in altar fashion, decorated 
 with rare specimens of artificial flowers, sup- 
 posed to be the work of the queen and her ladies, 
 also a shrine, doubtless containing some treasured 
 relics of hoty recollection, a small gold crucifix, 
 as well as other emblems of the ancient faith. 
 A Tm*key cai-pet, of rich and varied colours, 
 covered the floor. On the side of the room 
 opposite the window stood a cabinet of filigTee
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 silver, a masterpiece of Italian workmanship; 
 and numerous mosaics and vases of rare marbles 
 and alabasters from her own land, were care- 
 lessly scattered around the room. In this private 
 apai-tment the queen had passed many happy 
 days Tsith her yoimg and beautiful country- 
 woman, Anna Montecuculi, the companion of 
 her infancy, and the friend of her later' years ; 
 also more recently, dming the trials and alarms 
 of her Majesty, with many English ladies, among 
 whom there was one fair young girl, whom we 
 shaU have occasion again to mention. This 
 room opened into a suite of apartments appro - 
 piiated to the infant Prmce of Wales. The 
 state chamber was lofty, and magnificent in aU 
 its proportions, panelled with dark rich carved 
 oak. The windows were shaded outside by 
 verandahs, with trellis work at the bottom, 
 while inside crimson curtains flowed down in 
 rich di-apery from gorgeous cornices above, sur- 
 mounted by an ostrich plume exquisitely 
 wrought ; and gilt couches and ottomans 
 covered with crimson damask, were scattered 
 round the room in great confusion. In a recess, 
 under a canopy of state, sm-mounted by the royal 
 arms, might be seen a cradle draped in crimson 
 and gold, with silver embroidery round the
 
 54 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 border. Near it was a chair of state, fauteuils, 
 rocking- cliaii's, and a priedieu. On a small oak 
 table, in a corner, there was a massive gold 
 salver, on which were several utensils of the 
 same metal. 
 
 No sooner had the king entered the apart- 
 ment than, mingled -vvith the lamentations which 
 bm*st upon his ears, he caught the words, '' She 
 ought not to have left the prince alone for one 
 moment. Just so the Countess of Sunderland, 
 when it was her duty to have watched beside the 
 bed of the royal mother, left her Majesty without 
 a single creature to take care of her but a poor 
 young thing like me, the very night the prince 
 was born." 
 
 This was said by a young Protestant maid- 
 servant — Kate Coleman. 
 
 "Some Dutch fiend," cried another, "has 
 spirited away the royal babe while aU slept." 
 
 A thu-d person observed, '^ I heard a noise last 
 night, but imagined it was the storm." 
 
 "Where is Mrs. Labadie?" shouted several 
 voices at once, and re-echoed through the lofty 
 suite of apartments. 
 
 " What has become of my lady Strickland ?" 
 asked one more anxious than the rest. 
 
 The alarm quickly spread throughout the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 palace, and reached most probably the ears of 
 some of the paid agents of the Prince of Orange. 
 However this may be, before the king could re- 
 collect himself, Lord Craven, commander of the 
 household troops, entered in full armour, and 
 hurriedly approached the king with the news that 
 the city was in the hands of the mob, and that 
 his person was iii danger. 
 
 " Let your Majesty give the order that we fire 
 upon them," cried the noble commander. 
 
 The king signified his dissent, and hastened 
 with the brave ofiicer to the comicil chamber, 
 where many of the nobles who still adhered to 
 his fortunes were assembled in great con- 
 sternation. 
 
 Scarcely had the flight of the royal mother 
 and infant been discovered by the household than 
 the pubHc mind, by the most cunning artifice, 
 had been inflamed against the king. The tide 
 of the populace rolled and surged furiously to 
 and fro. The reports were as contradictory as 
 they were cruel. 
 
 " The king had sent his wdfe and child away 
 to escape the fire with which he was to consume 
 London." 
 
 There was a terrible and stormy energy which 
 swept all before it. There were thousands who
 
 56 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 were not the less devoted Protestants because 
 they were ignorant of the Thii'ty-nine Articles — 
 (even enlightened merchants were almost, as a 
 matter of course, unfriendly to the gentry and 
 nobility, who retained the ancient faith). It was, 
 however, only the lowest di-egs of the femientation 
 that effervesced into the gui'gling soimd of 
 " deep, damnable, accursed plot." Such leaders 
 as these owed their honours to Alsatia; and 
 having once indulged their followers \\ith the 
 savage war whoop, were only too willing to 
 heighten and encourage those clamoui's which 
 went right to the heart of the poor king. 
 
 As the KoyaKsts had gi'ubbed up abuse and 
 flung it at the Koundheads of the Rump during 
 the contentions between those two parties, so 
 now in their turn the Dissenters from the Chm-ch 
 of England raised the cry against the Royalists, 
 prelacy and popery, which they associated 
 together in one abomination. 
 
 The authorities, as they do on similar occa- 
 sions, wavered, shrank from theii' responsibilities, 
 or looked on as unconcerned spectators. The 
 monarch, therefore, and his adherents, who still 
 rallied round him, were under the necessity of 
 immediate action of some sort in their own 
 defence. Most of his ministers still clung to the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 unfortunate monarch, and the hasty meeting 
 which the emergency of the crisis had called to- 
 gether, impatiently waited the expression of the 
 king's sentiments. 
 
 When his Majesty entered and took his seat, 
 deep gi-ief and settled sorrow marked his coun- 
 tenance, his usually majestic frame seemed 
 weighed down by a load of care. Loyal sym- 
 pathy touched the hearts of all present, but their 
 feelings were silent. He made a gi-acious bow 
 to those assembled and requested their opinions 
 as to the immediate measm-es to be adopted. 
 
 Ten days had now elapsed since, according to 
 the decision of the council held on 29th No- 
 vember, the commissioners Nottingham, Hahfax, 
 and Godolphin had been sent to make terms with 
 William, and no account of theii- proceedings had 
 been received. Great was the anxiety for their 
 retm-n, or their report of the conditions imposed 
 by the invader. Indeed, all, perhaps, but the 
 unhappy monarch himself had painful suspicions 
 of the loyalty of the absent ministers, especially 
 of HaHfax, whom his Majesty would most gladly 
 have consulted on the present occasion had he 
 been at hand. 
 
 The aged veteran and faithful commander of 
 the household troops fii'st spoke, and openly,
 
 58 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 earnestly, but with profound respect, proposed an 
 appeal to arms as the best, the only means to 
 extricate the kinoj from his difficulties, and once 
 and for ever upset the inventions of the enemy. 
 
 '' We will first clear this neighbourhood of the 
 rabble, and then force the Dutchman to a battle," 
 he said. 
 
 Barillon, the French ambassador, who was 
 then present, and had all along laboured by every 
 artifice to inflame the jealousy and widen the 
 breach between the two sovereigns, (less generous 
 than his own master, Louis, whose interests he 
 had at heart), said : 
 
 " May it please your gracious Majesty, repose 
 on the fidelity of your subjects, whose dispositions 
 you are well acquainted with — confide in your 
 resources. Your Majesty's most devoted brother 
 and ally, my august and most Catholic sovereign 
 has ever applauded your religious designs, and is 
 ready to lend you and yours his royal aid. You 
 could not have expected the support or forbear- 
 ance of a heretic. Do not hesitate — hesitation 
 will endanger your throne." 
 
 Sir Edward Hales proposed delay and further 
 consideration before his Majesty exposed his 
 sacred person. Northumberland cast an enquring 
 look at the Count de Roye, who whispered a word
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 in Lord Crayen's ear. Mulgi-ave, dreading the 
 fiery spirit of religious fury which now instigated 
 the mob, deprecated the king's misplaced cle- 
 mency and forbearance. 
 
 *' How dare I strike," said the king, "when 
 I cannot depend upon my o"^t;i children, much 
 less upon my troops ? neither have I the heart to 
 slay my misguided people." 
 
 "I have sounded the troops," said a 
 royalist, "and your Majesty may rely on their 
 fidelity. I consulted the officers and passed 
 through the army before I waited on your 
 council." 
 
 Many and conflicting were the opinions de- 
 livered, according to the interests or politics of 
 the speaker. 
 
 The king attempted again to speak, but his 
 words either had no decision to express, or failed 
 to utter his intentions. Turning himself to old 
 Lord Craven, he said, " Can we, my lord, depend 
 even on om- own household troops — our body 
 guards." 
 
 " Only let me try their mettle and their 
 loyalty on yon cowardly curs, which growl and 
 snarl and howl about us," said the veteran. 
 
 " Mercy will best conquer them," said the 
 kinsf.
 
 60 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Have mercy on youi'self', on us your faithful 
 followers," said Craven. 
 
 The valiant Dundee, faithful among the faith- 
 less, loyal among the disloyal, endeavoured to 
 rouse the sinking spirit of his heart-broken 
 monarch into action. " Make your stand on 
 the solid foundations of your throne. There 
 are many hearts burning in your cause. Only 
 assure yourself of victory and you are reinstated 
 in the affections and government of your people. 
 Awake to your glory — recall the glories of 
 yom- youth. I, too, have passed through the 
 ranks of your army. Those who will not yield 
 to a monarch's love shall crouch around the 
 thi'one beneath the sword which is abeady un- 
 sheathed, impatient of delay. Summon your 
 subjects ! Demand their allegiance. It is for 
 you to command, my liege (here the brave 
 officer fell on his knees). Your will is our 
 pleasure. 'Tis yours to order, ours to obey. 
 Entrust me with your commission. I am 
 familiar with the ranks, and have sounded the 
 loyalty of the army. I undertake to bring 
 together 10,000 men of your disheartened and 
 wavering troops. Unfurl your banner, and plant 
 it in our midst. We will rally round yom* Royal 
 person and recover as much and more than we
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 have lost. The Protestant breeze on which 
 the Dutchman's colours fluttered yesterday in 
 the fickle gale will to-morrow float yours aloft, 
 over flood and field, high above battlement and 
 tower. Many honest hearts are beating high 
 and fast in the hope of your presence at the 
 head of your troops. They are only waiting 
 for the signal, and will throng to your standard. 
 We "^ill di'ive the Dutch dogs to their native 
 dykes and swampy fens." 
 
 The brave soldier enforced his words with so 
 much energy of expression and action, that he 
 inspired most of his hearers with the same pa- 
 triotic emotion, which, however, found no vent 
 in words. The King looked restless and excited, 
 but was silent. Was it that in his heart he had 
 resolved, whenever he should quit Whitehall he 
 would follow his wife and son into exile ? 
 • "Well spoken, and worthy of the gallant 
 Captain Grahame, who fought his way to dis- 
 tinction under the stadholder, Prince of Orange, 
 and shared in that cunning commander's vic- 
 tories," observed Barillon, aside to the King. 
 Count de Roye, overhearing this allusion to 
 the Viscount's change of masters, promotion 
 and present patriotism, remarked, that though 
 the Scotch general had served under the Prince
 
 62 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 of Orange he had fought in a good cause. He 
 had ever been a stanch supporter of the present 
 monarch and his late brother. No sooner was 
 Dundee aware of Barillon's allusion than he 
 bowed deeply to the King ; but colouring with 
 resentment, said — 
 
 " When a dominant and encroaching ascend- 
 ancy threatened the Powers of Europe my sword 
 was unsheathed for the general good. The 
 present invader of our lawful monarch's rights 
 fought bravely. He had then not degraded the 
 character of the soldier into the cunning of the 
 traitor. It was not my province to serve two 
 masters and to sacrifice the welfare of one to the 
 interests of the other. I am not the man," 
 continued the good old veteran, "to Idndle the 
 fire of discord between the uncle and nephew, to 
 inflame the son-in-law against the father-in- 
 law." 
 
 Lord Craven, stooped his venerable head to- 
 wards James. " Strike, my sovereign," he 
 cried, "while you have the power. Let me 
 head the guards and make a sally on the riff"- 
 raff rascals, who have dared to approach the 
 residence of Majesty. With my own right 
 hand will I cut a road deluged with their puddle 
 blood. Let us at them, before you are made a
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 prisoner, sooner or later, in yom- own palace by 
 Dutch dogs, invading yom* dominions, under the 
 cover of religious liberty." 
 
 " Come, come, my brave old friend," said 
 James, ' ' jou are too much excited, by the insult 
 offered to your King. Let the blood which rose 
 with the glow of youth to your cheek subside 
 into its age again. Were yom* power as effec- 
 tual as yom- zeal is loyal and sincere I had 
 nought to fear. Let us wait, at least, for the 
 retm-n of the commissioners, who ought ere this 
 to have been here with the answer of the Prince 
 of Orange. Halifax, at least, would press upon 
 us in this crisis graver consideration." 
 
 " But so would not the faithful few," said' 
 Mulgi-ave. *' Ask the Earls of Arran, Ayles- 
 bm-y, Dumbarton, Lichfield, their opinion, my 
 sovereign liege, and they will concur with the 
 Lord Dundee, and, even after a little more de- 
 liberation, urge your Majesty to entrust your 
 safety and your kingdom to the faithfulness and 
 valour of the two noble veterans." 
 
 " O ! " said James, in deep dejection, " had I 
 but bestowed my confidence to moral worth like 
 that which urges on that brave old warrior who 
 commands my guards, no foreign prince had 
 dared to enlist om- subjects against us."
 
 64 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 *'Be true to yourself, then," replied Dundee. 
 ** The day of manly enterprise has not yet gone 
 down. Suffer not the enemy to drive you from 
 your realms without a blow." 
 
 " Strike ! strike home ! " says Craven. 
 
 ** Ministers, councillors, general officers, and 
 even your commissioners, may prove false to 
 their oaths of allegiance, hut the gi'eat body of 
 your people, my liege," says Viscount Dundee, 
 ** are true, and only too eager to fight for their 
 native sovereign, if he would but trust to their 
 loyalty." 
 
 Before the brave man could say more, a mes- 
 senger bearing a despatch from William was 
 admitted to the royal presence. 
 
 James broke open the seal. The first name 
 which caught the unhappy monarch's eye was — 
 Clarendon's. His hand trembled, the livid hue 
 of death came over his countenance. Quickly 
 recovering himself, he read aloud to all present 
 that William had appointed Clarendon, Schom- 
 berg, and Oxford to confer with his com- 
 missioners. 
 
 *' God help me ! " mourned the king in help- 
 less agony. *^ Scarcely a month has passed 
 since this bad bold lord, my former wife's once 
 devoted brother, exclaimed, ' O God ! that my
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 SOU should be a rebel ! ' The Lord iu his mercy 
 look upon me, and enable me to support myself 
 under this most grievous calamity ! " 
 
 "I remember it well," says Barillon, ''for I 
 entered the exclamation in my despatches. Shall 
 I complete the expressions of Clarendon on that 
 occasion ?" said the French minister. 
 
 The king bowed consent. 
 
 " He waited on James the next day," con- 
 tinued the speaker, taking up the plaintive strain 
 of Clarendon. * ' ' God knows, I was in confusion. 
 The king was very gracious to me, and said he 
 pitied me mth all his heart, and that he would 
 still be kind to me.'" 
 
 " All this, my lords," cried James, " from the 
 father who mourned over the treachery of his 
 faithless son Cornbury, who deserted and stole 
 away from our loyal officers !" 
 
 Three weeks had barely passed since the Duke 
 of Grafton and the Lord Churchill were the first 
 to declare their readiness to shed their blood in 
 the king's cause. Where were they now ? This 
 whole day nothing but Job's tidings and Job's 
 comfort poured in upon his Majesty. 
 
 It appeared from the report of the bearers of 
 William's proposals, that Grafton, Churchill, 
 and the rest of the deserters, had been well re- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 ceived by William, but that Chui'cbill quailed 
 beneath the T^ithering scowl of Schomberg, while 
 the gi-eat commander observed, with cutting 
 sarcasm, that the successful hero who had joined 
 his prince was the first man with the rank of 
 lieutenant-general who had been known to run 
 away fi'om his colours. 
 
 The commissioners' despatch fm'ther signified 
 that there appeared a possibility of putting 
 matters in a way of accommodation ; theii' private 
 letters, however, were more discom-aoinor than 
 their public despatch. 
 
 "My lords and gentlemen," said James, 
 after a gi-eat effort to find words, '' it appears to 
 be clearly the object of our nephew to depose us, 
 yom* lawful liege sovereign, the anointed of God, 
 by a Parliament of his otmi caUing, and brought 
 in by his ow^n pai-ty-ciy and moulded to his will." 
 
 Cries of "Down mth the black-hearted 
 Papists!" "Welcome, Protestant saviour of 
 Protestant England ! " were now heard even 
 within the precincts of the palace. 
 
 James trembled between anger and giief. 
 Turning anxiously to Sir- Edward Hales, he said 
 something low and sorrowfully. 
 
 " Since yom- Majesty does me the honour to 
 ask my ad^dce, I will humbly ventm-e it."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 "Not here, not now," says the king. 
 
 Lord Craven approached his Majesty, who, an- 
 ticipating his object, said, " There is no help for 
 it. 0, that we coukl restore peace ! 0, that 
 the nation would return to its right mind ! " 
 
 At this moment a movement near the door 
 attracted their attention. Victor entered, pressed 
 through the noblemen who surrounded James, 
 advanced towards him, making a low obeisance. 
 
 The king raised him by the hand — and would 
 have kissed and embraced him. A glance passed 
 between them, and then through the cloud which 
 had hitherto saddened the monarch's counte- 
 nance there bm-st out a gleam of delight, while 
 the king declared to all assembled that their 
 queen and the royal heir were safely embarked 
 and were beyond the perils of the land. 
 
 " For God's sake, then, sire, take heart," 
 cried Sir Edward Hales ; "let your army 
 throw themselves between the rebels and your 
 Majesty." 
 
 "You are right, my faithful friend," said the 
 King : "we will give the enemy battle boldly." 
 Turning to Lord Craven, he said, " See, my 
 lord, that the guards be in readiness to attend 
 us to Uxbridge to-morrow morning." He then 
 spoke aside with Barillon for some minutes, and 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 admitted to him that he had not a single corps 
 on whose fideHty he could rely. Casting a wan- 
 dering glance from one to another, as if expect- 
 ing some one to speak, he at length added, 
 ^' Let us have one blow for the Crown." 
 
 At that very instant a horseman, bearing all 
 the marks of haste and concern, arrived with 
 private information, which was presented by the 
 equerry himself to James, who again changed 
 colour, hesitated, and read aloud, in a voice 
 almost stifled by grief and perplexity : — " Ply- 
 mouth, Bristol, and other places have submitted 
 themselves to the Prince of Orange." 
 
 " We own," said the declaration from Notting- 
 ham, ** that it is rebellion to resist a King that 
 governs by law, but he was always accounted a 
 tyrant that made his own will the law. To re- 
 sist such an one is no rebellion, but a neces- 
 sary defence." To crown his misery, it appeared 
 from what he read aloud that a Scotch regiment 
 of horse had deserted. James was overwhelmed. 
 
 " Does the enemy advance or retreat, your 
 Majesty?" asked the Earl of Mulgi-ave. 
 
 The King said, " We must own the adversary 
 is advancing." 
 
 Mulgrave shook his head with an air of 
 melancholv.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 James, smnmoning all the strength and 
 authority which none knew better than the 
 Stuarts how to display, said — 
 
 " The matters on which we are deliberating, 
 and which demand our prompt and united 
 action, are too weighty for this mere chance 
 conversation. I therefore hereby and herewith 
 summon a regular council to meet us to-morrow 
 morning at nine o'clock. You, my Lord Mul- 
 grave, will make known our royal pleasure to 
 all our ministers." 
 
 James then arose, bowed to the assembly, 
 and passed with a faltering step out of the room 
 into an ante-chamber, actually supported on the 
 arm of his friend Victor.
 
 70 THE LOY.UilST's DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTEK V. 
 
 Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me. 
 Puts on his pretty looks. — Shakespeare. 
 
 And many monstrous forms, in sleep we see. 
 
 That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can he.—Dryden. 
 
 No sooner had the long and his faithful friend 
 Victor passed together through the ante -room, 
 than the former, exhausted hy his recent efforts 
 to bear up against the calamities which afflicted 
 him, sank do\\Ti on a chaii- and lost himself in 
 that melancholy reverie fi'om which nothing 
 less than his eagerness for tidings of the 
 queen and the infant prince could have 
 awakened him. So intense was the affec- 
 tionate interest which he felt in their escape 
 and safety, that for a moment he could only 
 regard their guardian and their guide in silent 
 expectation when a burst of that gi'ief with 
 which a stranger intermeddleth not escaped 
 him, gushing out " God help me ! God help 
 me ! I am wounded in the house of my 
 friends. My own gii'ls, whom I fondled in
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 my bosom and loved better than myself —0 
 heavens !" 
 
 Victor, in that attitude of supplication ex- 
 pressive of the heart's entreaty, and which 
 none could make more gracefully and effec- 
 tually than this devoted Frenchman, besought 
 the plaintive monarch to collect himself — to 
 let the king triumph over the man. And 
 thiice happy was it for the unfortunate and 
 unwise sovereign at this crisis that, in his deso- 
 lation, he could repose on foreigners such as 
 Victor and Lauzim for that allegiance and at- 
 tachment which his countrymen denied him. 
 
 There must indeed have been a charm about 
 the Stuarts which could win the hearts and retain 
 the fidelity of the people through every vicissitude 
 of their eventful history. Even at this day they 
 are invested with an interest of which no other 
 line of kings can boast. 
 
 The heart- stirring incidents and hair-breadth 
 escapes of the queen and her son under the cover 
 of that dark night and the disguise which they 
 wore, already familiar to the reader, at once 
 touched a chord which thriUed through the heart 
 of the husband and the father, and aroused him 
 to a sense of his own present position and the 
 future peiils which awaited him. He hangs
 
 72 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 upon each word of the speaker, and feels an 
 anxious interest in the narrative of their 
 perilous adventures. 
 
 To the reader who is acquainted with the situa- 
 tion of Wliitehall as it is at present, the local 
 incidents and the extent of the pleasui-e-grounds, 
 as related in this tale, must be confused or un- 
 intelKgible ; unless, indeed, he can in some 
 degree reahze the position and buildings of the 
 ancient palace as it was in the time of the 
 Stuarts, who made it their royal residence. The 
 whole of that space, on which the edifice now 
 called the "Horse Guards" is built, made a 
 part of St. James's Park, and the buildings 
 called the Treasury were a part of the ancient 
 palace. The ornamental water seems to have 
 drained the gi'ounds, and connected them and 
 also the park to the Thames. The whole was 
 on a much gi'ander scale than it is at present. 
 The lake was beautifully fringed with ever- 
 greens on each bank, which had been planted 
 to shelter rare waterfowl. 
 
 The narrative of Victor was repeatedly inter- 
 rupted by the monarch, as with a throbbing 
 heart he ran on with a string of anxious in- 
 quiries faster than they could be answered, 
 
 "But how," said the King, "did my little
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 boy bear the cold, wet joui-ney ? Did he call 
 attention to the bundle of the washerwoman ?" 
 
 *' He is a royal prince, every inch of him — 
 a born sailor — a miracle of an infant; the 
 futm-e father of a race of kings. He, by some 
 Toyal instinct or other," said Victor, " behaved 
 as if conscious of his situation, yet was unmoved 
 by the perils which sm-rounded him." 
 
 "He is to me," exclaims the now ecstatic 
 King, " the fruit of pious vows and fervent 
 prayers. The blessed mother of the King of 
 kings, om- mother in heaven, watches over our 
 royal babe." 
 
 Smarting under a bitter sense of his wrongs, 
 the father had listened with the most affectionate 
 eagerness to Victor's recital, and at its close, 
 bm'sting the usual restraints of majesty, in an 
 ecstasy of gi-atitude, threw his arms round the 
 neck of the preserver of the queen and the 
 prince, and embraced him in a rapture of de- 
 light. One gleam of joy glowed in his Majesty's 
 countenance and flashed through his being like 
 some bright seraph from the reahns of light, 
 winging his way through the darkness of despair. 
 
 The king, Tvdth tears in his eyes, declared 
 that Victor and Lauzun had redeemed his opi- 
 nion of mankind. " Indeed," sighed he, " since
 
 74 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 I have been wounded in the house of my friends 
 I see nothing but treacheiy in every man's 
 countenance. And yet there was a time when I 
 knew not how to suspect." 
 
 ''And therefore," rejomed Victor, ''you have 
 been betrayed." 
 
 '' In this respect," observed the King, " I am 
 not different, from others in adversity : for as is 
 the usual way of the workl, the applause and 
 homage of Englishmen are dedicated to the rising 
 sun. The men who swore to us undying loyalty 
 in the day of our glory, now but too naturally 
 transfer then* allegiance and support from us in 
 our discomfiture to our triumphant rival, that 
 unworthy usurper, our son-in-law. On all sides 
 I am undone. If I remain where I am, I shall 
 share the fate of my royal father, perhaps on 
 the same spot. If I depai-t I shaU be trepanned 
 into the snares of the enemy, and be com- 
 pelled to drag on a living death, unblest by the 
 light and air of heaven." 
 
 Thus was the dejected monarch wasting his 
 time and opportunity, when Sir Edward Hales 
 entered the room and prostrated himself before 
 the king, imploring him, by all that was sacred, 
 to take new courage, to desist from his purpose 
 of quitting his realms.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 *'To abandon the country at such a crisis," 
 ui'ged Hales, "will, in the archives of Holland, 
 be abdication." 
 
 "Nay, Sir Edward, you are wrong. Were 
 yom- power equal to your patriotism and your 
 wishes, I could still live and reign in the midst 
 of my own people ; but alas ! fate has ordained 
 it otherwise. My voluntary exile will insure our 
 recall, and reinstate us. What else can I do — 
 insulted by one, betrayed by another, injured by 
 a third party, and forsaken by nearly all ?" 
 
 " Not by us !" replied Victor and Sir Edward, 
 in the same breath. 
 
 " The false-hearted Dutchman," said the 
 king, " has violated every human and divine 
 law — flaunting the standard of rebellion under 
 the colour of religion, that he may rob the 
 Cathohc peers of their birthright — founding his 
 operations on the basis of falsehood and forgery; 
 involving us and om- subjects in ruin. The per- 
 jury of a convicted liar, which has murdered 
 the innocent nobles of England, will recover its 
 strength, and arm the popular fury against your 
 king, desecrate your altars, and deluge them with 
 the blood of God's priests." 
 
 " I am sick of the very sound of plots and 
 popery," cried Victor ; " Albion has been in a
 
 76 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 scarlet fever, to which the notorious doctor 
 must skilfully administer, or perish with his 
 patient. I often wonder whether the insane 
 hatred and dread which are now enlisting the 
 energies of England against Rome, with which 
 the island had been for so many centuries in 
 rehgious communion, will ever subside into 
 peace." 
 
 " Never !" said Victor ; *' for not only Eng- 
 land, but every Protestant country, in justice 
 to its own rehgious severance from the Cathohc 
 Church, will unite against the communion from 
 which it broke away. The Protestant future, 
 will re-echo the war cry of the Protestant 
 past. Plots, popery, and priestcraft are but 
 other words for one and the same thing." 
 
 " The English, my liege sovereign," added 
 Hales, ''only love the house of Stuart less 
 than they hate that house which is built upon 
 the rock." 
 
 Such were the unchallenged opinions of the 
 speakers, who were all of the same faith. 
 
 Victor observed, " We are unavoidably pre- 
 judiced in favour of the faith to which we have 
 sacrificed everything, and naturally detest that 
 religion which persecutes us. Still, true Catho- 
 lics were ever loyal to Protestant sovereigns."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 Sir Edward remarked " that all party prin- 
 ciples were formed in the same way. Om- esti- 
 mate of, and adherence to, any society," said he, 
 " will much depend upon the treatment which 
 each of us has received from some individual, 
 whom we take as a t}^3e of the communion to 
 which he belongs. Each is but too ready to 
 confound Protestantism with the cause of Gates 
 or Bedloe, Shaftesbmy, Lord William Russell, 
 or Algernon Sidney, whom many consider pa- 
 triots, but whom we Catholics, and that portion 
 of the Established Church wliich claims to be 
 of the old faith, call traitors, who were urged 
 on to destroy the victims of invented plots and 
 imaginary treason." 
 
 At the word *' treason " His Majesty started 
 from his seat, as if it w^ere a warning to him. 
 The word probably associated with the sub- 
 ject of the silent musings in which he had 
 once more lost himself, seemed to have shot 
 some sudden thought through his mind. He 
 arose from his seat, collected with his own 
 hand all the parliamentaiy wiits which had 
 not hitherto been issued, and flinging them into 
 the fire, exclaimed, " Thus we defeat the object 
 of the invader. How can he now call a Par- 
 liament, or corrupt my faithful Commons?" He
 
 73 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 then motioned the two friends, who had borne 
 with him so long, to mthdraw ; and, heavy and 
 dejected as he w^as, warmly expressed his 
 thanks to them for their tried loyalty and 
 judicious advice. 
 
 Before the king retired to rest, he delivered 
 a letter to the Count de Rove for Lord 
 Faversham, announcing his intention of pro- 
 viding for his own safety. Once more he sum- 
 moned Sir Edward Hales to his presence, and 
 said to him, " My mind is made up. Prepare 
 everything for our departure. The lull of the 
 mob is only the deadly silence which precedes 
 the full hurst of the storm. It is not good for 
 us to remain here longer." 
 
 "Since," replied Hales, sorro^^-fully, "your 
 Majesty commands I must obey ; would to 
 heaven that your decision had been different." 
 
 The king evinced impatience. Sir Edward 
 only ventm*ed to regi-et that the notice for such 
 an unexpected step was short — that the journey 
 was long. " We will, however, my liege," he 
 said, "make the best preparations of which the 
 circumstances and time will admit. So soon 
 as all is ready I shall wait on your Majesty 
 again." 
 
 The king, after this arrangement, silently.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 without his usual attendants, retired to bed, and 
 sought rest of mind and body, of which he had 
 been robbed so long, and which alone could 
 restore him to health and strength equal to the 
 perilous undertaking before him. Exhausted 
 by the harassing fatigues of the last ten days, 
 the bewildeied monarch instantly fell into a 
 deep but perturbed sleep, which was but a 
 dream of horrors, with a vision of a brighter 
 scene in the distance. 
 
 For days and nights before, a fearful rush of 
 blood to the poor monarch's head, stirred up by 
 mental agitation, had tinged every thought vnth 
 a melancholy hue. He thought he was in a sea 
 of blood. The sky glared red blood. His bed, 
 to his imagination, was a bath of blood. All 
 else beneath him and around him was dyed in 
 blood. The boiling waves of this troubled sea 
 gurgled and sobbed forth unnatural sounds, 
 which seemed to break the dead silence of 
 nicrht. Alonof a shoreless ocean from a moun- 
 tain of fire, which arose out of the ruddy waters, 
 a chaos of lurid, flaming light shot up into the 
 sickly sky, and crimsoned the sea with the 
 reflection of fire mingled with gore. The very 
 air was heated and red, and burnt through the 
 dreaming monarch's eyes into his tortm-ed brain.
 
 80 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 In his dream he prayed. The vision changed. 
 The scorching hlast of the blood-red fire-flood 
 was screened by a refreshing cloud, from the 
 face of the king. The fiightful tide down which 
 he is drifting is turned into a pleasant sea of 
 pm-e and living waters. A gentle breath of 
 fragrance begins to fan the di-eamer's throbbing 
 temples. The buiTimg mountain is softened 
 do"v\Ti to snow-clad peaks of roseate Hght, on 
 which the roving eyes of the monarch rest with 
 refreshing coolness, when lo ! from that bright 
 spot, beneath a canopy of azure, arises to his 
 sight a form of light, crooned with a halo of 
 glory — it is the virgin mother of our Lord, and 
 by her side another form appears, that of his 
 faithful and dearly beloved consort, Mary of 
 Modena, beaiing her infant in her arms. 
 
 Again fancy, quick as thought, through the 
 veil of sleep, changes the vision. Paradise itself 
 opens to his enraptm-ed \iew, the balmy air 
 breathes heavenly music, and bears to his 
 ear the familiar words so often on his lips, 
 ''Ave Maria." He gazed, he listened. The 
 beautiful sea was the EngHsh Channel, over 
 which the voice of his queen came in ac- 
 cents of love. '' "We are safe, beyond danger, 
 beloved. Oh ! tarry no longer behind. Speed,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. ^ 81 
 
 speed, as you promised, and join us in 
 France!" 
 
 It was the voice of Sir Edward Hales awaldng 
 him, which the poor king, in that dreamy region 
 which lies hetween sleeping and waking, had 
 mistaken for the tender invitation of his queen. 
 
 " May it please your Majesty," said the faith- 
 ful attendant, " it is now past midnight." 
 
 The Duke of Northumberland also softly ap- 
 proached the royal bed, and informed James that 
 all was ready for the journey. But so lively was 
 the influence of the king's vision on his imagi- 
 nation, that he was unable to suppress the ejacu- 
 lation — " God have mercy on us, where am I?" 
 After a moment's conflict with his viml fancies, 
 the stem reality nished on the mind of James. 
 " Time wears away," said Sir Edward, impa- 
 tiently, looking at his watch, "I pray your 
 Majesty, hasten and let us make good our flight." 
 
 This was enough. The king arose at once 
 from his bed and casting an anxious look at the 
 Duke of Northumberland said, ''Your Grace 
 will return to your pallet bed, and be sure to 
 keep the door of our sleeping-room locked till 
 the usual hour for our rising in the morning." 
 
 The king then immediately set about dis- 
 guising himself in plain clothes and a periwig 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE loyalist's daughteb. 
 
 of raven blackness. Hales, however, for some 
 motive best known to himself, objected respect- 
 fully to the colom-, and offered him a wig of light 
 hail", v\'hich the king thrust away with disgust ; 
 abusing the colour of the vdg of the well-known 
 Titus Gates. 
 
 He left his bed-room through a httle door 
 concealed in the wainscot, attended only by Sir 
 Edward Hales, W'ho had descended the stairs 
 before him. They cross the pmy gardens, nearly 
 as the queen had done two nights before, and pro- 
 ceeded with, gresit caution, the king canying a 
 velvet bag, which he appeared to prize highly. 
 After having passed thi-ough the gardens, he 
 handed this precious treasm-e to his companion, 
 in whom he reposed impHcit confidence, and 
 whom for his constant and faithful loyalty the 
 king in his exile created Earl of Tenterden. 
 
 The night was dark, except where the north- 
 eastern horizon was tinged with a ruddy glowing 
 light, which gleamed homdly over that part of 
 the city — the distant reflection of those di-ead- 
 ful conflagi'ations which in theii' commencement 
 on the Sunday morning decided the queen's 
 flight from Whitehall. The tumult was already 
 gaining that strength which eventually the 
 ephemeral authorities of London could neither
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 arrest nor control. The unrestrained passions 
 of the vast multitude raged wildly against 
 the Catholic churches and the mansions of 
 the ambassadors of the Catholic powers, many 
 of the fonner of w^hich had been burned to 
 the ground. The sullen, distant roar of that 
 stoi-m, which on this second night of its fury, 
 swelled into a tide of a hundi-ed thousand men, 
 fell frightfully on the ears of the fugitives. 
 
 As they passed on they were challenged by the 
 guard, but declaring that they were on urgent 
 business of the king's, and producing his Ma- 
 jesty's signet, which the officer on duty care- 
 fully examined, by the light of a flambeau, they 
 were sufi'ered to proceed, though not before the 
 officer had looked with curiosity into the face of 
 the king, whose featm-es he evidently did not 
 recognise. 
 
 It was but the work of a moment to unlock 
 the outer gate, which the sentinel allowed them 
 to pass. 
 
 Though under ordinary circumstances James 
 would have been at the wrong side of the gate, 
 yet now he congratulated himself and his com- 
 panion on their escape so far, and said in a tone 
 of soliloquy rather than of conversation, " Poor 
 indeed must James Stuart be when he cannot 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 reward his faithful followers. But what can I 
 do?" he added; " I am di-iyen an outcast 
 from the halls of my ancestors, no more to 
 return." 
 
 " Nay, my liege, you will, in spite of yourself, 
 be welcomed back again by the affections and 
 loud acclamations of yom- people," said Hales. 
 
 The nocturnal fugitives were now on the way 
 from Parliament Street to Milbank, where they 
 found two watermen, who had evidently been 
 engaged for the occasion. No sooner had the 
 travellers taken their seats, than the boat 
 was pushed off rapidly into the middle of the 
 stream, impelled by the well-timed oars of men 
 accustomed to their work, and who had not the 
 slightest suspicion of the purpose or the rank 
 of their passengers, whom they treated with 
 the utmost indifference. Scarcely had they 
 gained the centre, where the current was 
 strongest, when James whispered Hales to 
 give him the bag, which he had carefully kept 
 under his cloak. Taking it, the infatuated 
 monarch drew forth no more nor less than 
 the gi-eat seal of England, and flung it into 
 the dark deep river. 
 
 '* Are you aware," asked Sir Edward, in 
 amazement. *' of what vou have done ? Was
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 it not your great seal which I carried in the 
 velvet bag ? If so, it will be necessary to pro- 
 cure another on your arrival in France, to give 
 effect to your royal letters, pardons, and com- 
 missions." 
 
 ^' That was the authority in which was 
 centred and expressed our divine prerogative 
 and inalienable legal right. The usurper must 
 find it before he can stamp his public acts with 
 his supremacy over the realm," said James. 
 He then fixed his eyes on the dreary water, as 
 though his thoughts were sinking to the depths 
 to which he had consigned the bauble. In the 
 meantime, and, indeed, during the whole of 
 that short, but melancholy voyage, the two 
 rough watermen, unconscious of what was pass- 
 ing, sang to a loud, yet measured air, to which 
 the boat seemed to keep time as she moved 
 through the water, the words of the doggrel 
 duet, by Captain WiUiam Bedloe, which ran 
 
 thus : — 
 
 I. 
 " Idolatries, lyes, blasphemies and worse, 
 Are their religion bound up with a curse. 
 Poysons, rapes, massacres are saint-like ware, 
 And holy dictates of the Koman chair. 
 Perjuries, murthers are their laws ; 'twere sin. 
 Not to be still found dutiful therein. 
 To kill all heretics is no plot now, 
 But true devotion and religious vow.
 
 86 THE loyalist's daughtee. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Kings are usurpers that hold not their crown 
 Derived from Eoman mitre, and must go down. 
 They are more troublesome than Egypt's frogs, 
 And must be killed like vermin and mad dogs. 
 Thus they promote the scarlet interest, 
 In honour to the whore and to the beast. 
 Apollyon, Abaddon bids them bum, 
 And root out nations that will not turn. 
 Kings are usurpers, &c., &c. 
 
 Tol de rol." 
 
 If anything could have tempted James to fling 
 himself, or the singers, after the great seal, it 
 must have been the burden of that lampoon. 
 But he was so abstracted that he heeded them not. 
 
 In the dead of a wintry night, without any 
 event worth fm-ther notice, accompanied by only 
 one fellow traveller, James landed at Yauxhall 
 stairs, to brave gi-eater perils than those fi'om 
 which he was flying. The King and Sir Edward 
 made theii- way to a turn of the road, where a 
 groom was in waiting with two swift horses, on 
 which in a moment the fugitives were mounted. 
 They were joined by a third horseman, in whom 
 they recognised a friend, and to whose guidance 
 they cheerfully entrusted themselves. They all 
 then set off at a rapid pace, galloped through 
 many lanes and bye-ways, crossing the Medway 
 at Alresford bridge, and made the best of their 
 way to Woolpeck, where a fresh relay of horses
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 awaited them. Long and weary had been the 
 night, and scarcely a word had been spoken 
 during their rapid journey. Being freshly 
 mounted, they resumed their way in better 
 spii'its, yet they wished for daylight to help them 
 on their way, for the road was rough and un- 
 certain. 
 
 At length the first faint streaks of morning 
 tinged the eastern sky, and from a pavilion of 
 clouds edged with crimson, varied by heaven's 
 richest hues, broke forth a brighter day than 
 often visits England in winter. How devoutly 
 the mind which is shrouded in sorrow longs for 
 a home in some beautiful region of rest and of 
 light, such as this scene in the heavens portrays 
 to om- fancy ! The genial influence and glorious 
 majesty of ihe rising sun dispelled the dark 
 images from the imaginations of our travellers, 
 and revealed to their view their guide, about a hun- 
 dred yards in advance of them. He was youthful, 
 yet manly, wary and particularly well mounted. 
 The baronet had doubtless communicated the 
 precise nature and object of their expedition to 
 the young officer, for such was the noble youth 
 who led the way. His local acquaintance with 
 the country enabled him to cross it by bridle- 
 paths and by-lanes to their destination, avoiding
 
 OO THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the more populous \illages and haunts. He 
 possessed that manly presence of mind which 
 truly estimates the nature and extent of the 
 perils to which it is opposed. 
 
 From time to time he looked anxiously behind 
 him. It was now broad work-day. The road- 
 side cottages were sending up curling wreaths of 
 smoke ; man was going forth to his labour and 
 his work, whistling as he went, unmindful of 
 to-morrow ; merry voices were heard in the 
 fields ; the melodies of morning, even of that 
 dreary season, as the lowing of herds, escaping 
 from farm-yards to the free open meadows, and 
 the tinkling of the sheep-bell, though not in 
 harmony \^ith the monarch's feelings, diverted 
 his meditations from himself. The fresh sharp 
 breeze came as a welcome visitor to his counte- 
 nance, and seemed to in-vdgorate and renew his 
 energy. The travellers, however, rarely spoke, 
 save when some emergency called forth a word. 
 Each rode on wrapped up in his own dark reverie : 
 for though the morning was clear and bracing, 
 the inward fears of each kept them ahve to the 
 perils of the day. Hours, long dreary hours, of 
 darkness had slowly passed away. But all the 
 anxiety of that tedious night was nothing to 
 what Sir Edwai-d Hales now suffered on ap-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 proacliing a neighboui'hood where he was 
 known, and his rehgion detested. 
 
 The affection the baronet bore to his sove- 
 reign seemed the strongest principle of his 
 natiu-e ; but in proportion to his affection and 
 loyalty, so much the more intense became his 
 concern for the king's safety and means of 
 escape. 
 
 Theii" young officer guide, who rode a little in 
 advance, now apprised the two travellers that 
 they were close to Emley Ferry, near Fever- 
 sham. 
 
 Here a servant of Sii' Edward's met them, 
 and dehvered to his master a packet of letters, 
 and took charge of the horses from which the 
 riders had dismounted, and they immediately 
 embarked in a custom-house hoy which had 
 been hired, and was waiting for them. 
 
 The skipper was a hard-featured, red-faced, 
 weather-beaten sort of an old sea-dog, no- 
 minally in the king's service, but whose con- 
 science never interfered with his interests. 
 It was an ill wind, whether Protestant or Ca- 
 thoHc, that blew him no good, for his sails 
 were equally filled by either, according to the 
 excess of gain which one might have over the 
 other.
 
 90 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 The Sim was now high in the heavens, and 
 crowds of idle loungers were attracted to the 
 water's edge by the appearance of the strangers, 
 whom the knowing ones made out to be con- 
 nected with Sir Edward Hales, since it was his 
 groom that had taken away the horses. Indeed 
 so great was the pressure, that had it not been 
 for an old blue-jacket (who exchanged looks, if 
 not words, of recognition with the young officer) 
 who drew the attention of the loiterers to him- 
 self, they must have been discovered, and per- 
 haps insulted. But the jolly old tar spun his 
 mates a yarn about the Dutch fleet and smuggled 
 gin, which amused and absorbed their attention, 
 as much as they hoped to absorb the gin, during 
 which interval the party got safely and quietly 
 on board. Scarcely, however, had they got 
 under weigh, when squads of ugly looking ruf- 
 fians, armed to the teeth with hangers and pistols, 
 cutlasses and Protestant flails, which they swung 
 skilfully round their heads, rushed down to the 
 river's edge to the number of fifty, and jumped 
 into three boats, which they soon shoved off 
 from the shore with a terrific yell, which was 
 taken up by the rabble that remained on the 
 banks, which could just reach the ears of the 
 king. He felt himself so much at home on the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 water, that he e\inced neither discomfort nor 
 dismay. So gi'eat was the force of habit, that 
 it was with the utmost difficulty that Hales could 
 restrain him fi-om giving some nautical order to 
 the skipper to increase speed. 
 
 The young officer, who concealed not his arms, 
 advanced to the skipper and ordered him to put 
 his craft right into the stream. The lumbering 
 Dutch-huilt hoy was scudding at her peril before 
 the wind ; but, unaccustomed to such a pressure 
 of sail, and by no means trimmed for a race, she 
 pitched wildly about under the influence of the 
 wind sweeping through the crowded rigging : 
 now she rolled and staggered, like a di'unken 
 man, then plunged violently, like a horse which 
 had thrown his rider and was frantic. 
 
 The nautical tactics of the king, convinced 
 him that at this rate they must soon go to the 
 bottom. 
 
 The captain, instinctively, in tones of warning 
 which rose above the whistling winds, gave 
 the order " Lower the topmast, take in another 
 reef;" but as the breeze freshened into a hurri- 
 cane, he roared, "In all sails ! down with every 
 rag of them, fore and aft. In with everything !" 
 
 " Ay, sir, everything in," answered cheerily 
 the foremost of the crew, who thought the
 
 92 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 master had already trifled with the safety of the 
 awkward vessel. It was, indeed, but too evi- 
 dent, even to a landsman, that the hoy was top 
 hesiYy, for want of ballast, which had been left 
 ashore, either through neglect or by design, or 
 in the hurry of departure. 
 
 In the meantime the boats which had for 
 gome time been seen in her wake were now left 
 so far behind that it was conjectured by the 
 crew that they had made land at the first 
 awaking of the tempest. However this may 
 have been, the hoy, though bearing at least 
 two of the most skilful sailors of their day, 
 pitched and tossed ^dolently — as rebellious to 
 the helm as his Majesty's disloyal subjects were 
 to him, while di'opping do^\Ti the stream, until 
 by a sudden reach in the river she was concealed 
 from the ^dew of her pursuers, even had they 
 been nigh. 
 
 The wintry haze, which came suddenly over 
 the water, was now thickening into clouds like 
 black night, and still the ugly, iU-built hoy, 
 accustomed to many tons in her hold, was so 
 unmanageable that James was the first to per- 
 ceive that, even if she did not topple over and go 
 down, no way could be made without ballast. 
 
 The helplessness of his situation rushed
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 madly through the mind of him, who a few days 
 before had the whole of the British navy at his 
 command, riding over the captive seas. He saw 
 nothing which could rescue him from all the 
 dangers which threatened him by land and by 
 sea ; he therefore resigned himself to the most 
 heart-rending apprehensions, without admitting, 
 and apparently listening to the many and various 
 gi'Oimds pf comfort which Sir Edward brought 
 forward one after another, and which the young 
 soldier, like a skilful general, brought to bear, 
 as if they were divisions of troops under his 
 command. 
 
 Without any notice of the hopes held out by 
 his companions, the king ordered the skipper, 
 thi'ough the young soldier, to heave to at once 
 for Sheerness, which with great difficulty they 
 reached ; and came to anchor for the night. The 
 master went ashore to seciu-e ballast, to return 
 with it, and stow it away properly in the hold. 
 The King descended alone into the cabin, and 
 offered up thanks to the King of kings for His 
 protection so far from the dangers which sur- 
 rounded him. He also devoutly prayed for the 
 Divine assistance, to guide, guard and defend 
 him amid the future perils of his escape, and 
 thus pouring out his spirit to Him who gave it,
 
 94 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 he betook himself to the repose which he so 
 mnch desired. Sir Edward soon followed him ; 
 and so deep were the slumbers of both the weary 
 fugitives, which succeeded the agitations and 
 alarms of the preceding day, that their sleep was 
 unbroken by the noise of the crew. 
 
 The young officer watchfully paced the deck, 
 and in this situation we must leave our party 
 while we revisit the unhappy queen and her 
 attendants, whom two days previous to the date 
 of the events of this chapter we left on board 
 the yacht at Gravesend.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 Kow hoist the anchor, mates, and let the sails 
 Give their broad bosom to the buxom ynnd.—Anon. 
 
 Good ; yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The true-hearted and loyal band of faithful ad- 
 herents in the yacht, who had prepared them- 
 selves to attend their royal mistress and her 
 babe to France, were indeed a faithful few, to 
 whom the secret of the queen's flight had been 
 confided. 
 
 The ladies of her household loved her tenderly, 
 and were only too anxious to share her adversity. 
 To be near her person, and to be allowed to 
 cheer her exile, was their greatest delight ; in- 
 deed, so strong were the proofs of their attach- 
 ment and devotion to her Majesty, that her 
 hardest trial was to endeavour to dissuade them 
 from sacrificing themselves and their interests to 
 her cause. Nor were the lords and gentlemen 
 in her royal estabHshment less zealous in her 
 service.
 
 96 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 The Lord and Lady Powis, the Countess of 
 Almonde (Anna Yittoria Montecuculi), the Mar- 
 quis Montecuculi, Signora Pelegrina Tminie, 
 bed-chamber woman, and Lady Strickland, sub- 
 governess of the Prince of Wales ; also Pere 
 Givelui, her Majesty's confessor, Sir William 
 Walgrave, her physician, Lord and Lady O'Brien 
 Clare, besides the page Dusions and others, 
 formed the little band, whose well-knoWn faces, 
 endeared to the fugitive and disguised queen by 
 a thousand recollections of joy and son-ow, 
 gi-eeted her as she stepped on board the yacht. 
 They had followed her from Lambeth, probably 
 dowa the Thames, and had reached the vessel 
 more speedily than herself. 
 
 Happy as they were to be once more re-united 
 to their beloved queen and the prince her son, 
 after the perils and narrow escapes of the fore- 
 going night, no words escaped the lips of any : 
 the exchange of mutual glances, and the silent 
 eloquence which was concealed from all except 
 her to whom it was addi-essed, were all that 
 passed. 
 
 The master of the yacht, whose name was 
 Gray, had not the most remote suspicion of the 
 rank of his two royal passengers ; he was equally 
 ignorant of the distinguished persons who formed
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 that group of faithful servants who received 
 them on deck. 
 
 The queen still retained the character and 
 dress of an Italian washerwoman, which her 
 involuntary and native dignity, her graceful 
 figure, and majestic style of beauty belied. 
 She pressed to her bosom with tender and 
 anxious fondness the bundle, in which was 
 the prince, and round which were entwined the 
 fibres of her heart. Fortunately the bundle 
 of young royal life betrayed not the secret. 
 Whether an over-ruling Providence, or, myste- 
 rious guardianship lulled the delicate child of 
 six months to silence and unbroken repose, or, 
 whether the little thing was too weak to utter 
 his infant complaints like other children, or, 
 whether a few sly doses of mild anodynes, ob- 
 tained for the royal boy the attribute of early 
 sagacity, amounting to a miracle, history de- 
 cides not: 
 
 When she observed that disguise was still 
 necessary, at least to the crew generally, the 
 queen was uneasy and restless, but soon sank 
 again into melancholy abstraction, from which 
 she was only aroused by some casual mention 
 of a famihar name wh^'ch could not be avoided, 
 but which increased the agony of her suspense. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Her manner was calm and collected, and yet to 
 her noble attendants it was but too evident that 
 the meanest actress of a country stage could 
 have performed her part with greater success, 
 even though no Italian. Nature and grace, sim- 
 plicity and candour, evinced a majesty which no 
 surroundings could impair or conceal. 
 
 How great the contrast between that exalted 
 nature of Queen Mary and that of the corn-tiers 
 of all ages, and even the rulers of mankind, 
 whose schemes and stratagems, passions and 
 designs are concealed or denied by the counte- 
 nances and the words under which they are dis- 
 guised ! This singular phase of human nature is 
 generally the practised ai-t of vanity or ambition 
 — the art with which the statesman or the aris- 
 tocrat occasionally elaborates the scheme of a vast 
 deception, making himself the axis round which 
 revolves a living He, and is a moral perversion of 
 that '' knowledge which is power," and " that 
 wisdom which is from above." Such are the 
 artistic semblances, studied from the earliest 
 approaches to public distinction, so highly got 
 up and worked out, from head to foot, that to an 
 ordinary observer the fiction and finesse are the 
 smile of benevolence, or the expression of can- 
 dour and resrard. The white-robed innocence
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 of childhood and the holy simplicity of God's 
 dear childi*eu, who are uncontaminated by the 
 world, may often be deceived, but know not how 
 to deceive. And such was the mind of Mary 
 Beatrice of Modena. 
 
 The wind being fair for France the sails were 
 hoisted i nd the yacht was soon under weigh for 
 the sea. The wind, however, which was at first 
 favourable, soon changed, and became squaUy, 
 now blowing in puffs, and at another moment 
 sinking to a lull. Captain Gray seemed rather to 
 consult the signs of the heavens above him than 
 the tossings and rushings of the waters beneath. 
 
 " What think you of our voyage now. Captain 
 Gray ?" asked Madame de Labadie, who hap- 
 pened to know him, looking closely into his 
 coimtenance, as if she would rather trust its 
 expression than his words for a reply. 
 
 " So long as the mnd continues north-west, 
 and does not rise higher than it is now, we may 
 yet hope to keep our course, if we can but steer 
 clear through the Dutch fleet which is riding in 
 our du'ect route." 
 
 This answer, which Lauzun overheard, awoke 
 in his mind a slight suspicion ; involuntarily he 
 put his hand on his pistol, but dissembling his 
 fears, said calmly, 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Why not go beyond and avoid them ?" 
 
 " 'Tis not easy to do so, Monsiem-," replied 
 the Captain. '' The breeze will soon freshen 
 into a gale, and the weather already begins to 
 look ugly; the sea will break with such vio- 
 lence, that I doubt the ability of this boat to 
 lie to." 
 
 " Then," observed Sir William Walgrave, 
 who was deeply interested in the conversation, 
 " then our resource must be to run before the 
 wind." 
 
 " Then we must scud," says Gray. 
 
 " What would be our direction in such an 
 event ?" demanded Lord Powis. 
 
 " She would not, probably, answer to her 
 helm, and Calais would ' be out of the question. 
 And should the wind suddenly change, of which 
 I see every symptom, the French coast could not 
 be gained." 
 
 The Countess of Almonde, perceiving that 
 there was a consultation involving the safety of 
 her beloved mistress, had ventured to mingle 
 with the group of speakers. 
 
 '* On what coast shall we be cast?" inquired she, 
 to whose mind, in her anxiety amid the agitated 
 waters, all ideas of places and distances was lost 
 in confusion.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 The captain, regarding her with a look in 
 which sympathy and concern were singularly 
 mingled, replied — 
 
 "While the clouds whirl about in such un- 
 certain eddies, and fall down so heavily along 
 the horizon, we cannot be certain in so small 
 a craft. There is no danger, madame." 
 
 '* Yes, but," sighed she, '' in such an event, 
 if we cannot reach the French coast, we shall be 
 leaving that land which it is so very desirable 
 we should reach." 
 
 " What ho ! boat ahoy," was distinctly heard 
 above the wind, and interrupted the conversation. 
 All looked earnestly at the horizon, and descried 
 a ship just hove in sight. The captain took out 
 his glass to examine her more distinctly, and thus 
 the party broke up. The two ladies hastened 
 back to rejoin the rest of the queen's attendants, 
 who, while the captain had been engaged in 
 conversation, had quietly, without exciting his 
 notice, assisted the queen down into the cabin, 
 and there made the best of the poor accom- 
 modation which the miserable hole afforded, for 
 her and her babe. 
 
 Meantime the vessel which had been descried 
 came sweeping over the waves to windward, 
 nearly astern.
 
 102 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 '' Boat ahoy," from the strange vessel was 
 distinctly heard by Captain Gray. 
 
 As she came alongside, to the great delight of 
 all on board, the Kly of France was hoisted aloft, 
 but only for a moment fluttered in the breeze. 
 
 The answer was quick, short and nautical, but 
 it was given in a tone of caution. 
 
 The Frer^ch flag naturally attracted the atten- 
 tion of Lauzun, to whom the king had especially 
 entrusted the care of the queen and prince. 
 He addressed the captain in French, by whose 
 answer it appeared that the Frenchman had 
 made observation of the English yacht, and 
 apprised Lauzun of the perils to which it was 
 exposed in its present course. The head of the 
 yacht was immediately put about, and she was 
 now stretching: well over for the Dowtqs : where 
 Captain Gray hoped to make such an offing on 
 this tack as would enable him to insure a land- 
 ing at Calais next morning. 
 
 The ladies, whom the cabins could not accom- 
 modate mthout crowding upon the queen, 
 immediately took a position apart from the rest 
 of the company, and where they were tolerably 
 out of the way of the working of the ship, at 
 the same time they could see the manoeuvres 
 of the vessel, which struggled against the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 weatlier with more motion but less danger than 
 formerly. 
 
 *' Are YOU acquainted with the commander of 
 the French frigate, who spoke our Yessel just 
 now, and conferred with our Frenchman in the 
 language of their ovm country?" 
 
 " I beheYe," replied the lady, without reflec- 
 tion, '' he is a friend of Admiral Pepys." 
 
 " I haYe good reason to belioYe that the king, 
 about a fortnight ago, sent the Admiral an order 
 in his own hand-writing to let the ' Anne ' and 
 * Isabella ' yachts fall down to Erith, if re- 
 port be true, to couYey the queen and the 
 infant Prince of Wales to France ; but to 
 his great annoyance the order has been coun- 
 termanded." 
 
 This was almost too much for the lady. Her 
 dialogue with the captain seemed more likely to 
 iuYite than to diYert his surmises as to the rank 
 and designs of his passengers. 
 
 To coYer her confusion and discomfort, she 
 tried to talk indifferently about a seafaring life, 
 but could not conceal her regret at the delay and 
 danger of their Yoyage, which she feared could 
 not be made directly to France. 
 
 " My only fear," returned Gray, "is that we 
 shall be driYen upon the French coast too soon,
 
 104 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 and dashed to pieces among the breakers, which 
 are running mountains high. 
 
 Madame de Lahadie now rejoined the ladies, 
 and told them all she had learned from Captain 
 Gray, which only increased their intense anxiety 
 and concern for the poor queen, who, unlike her 
 royal descendant — the present queen of Great 
 Britain — suffered agonies from sea-sickness, and 
 was well-nigh suffocated in the close, miserable 
 berth in the cabin, designed for the washer- 
 woman, and which was destitute of the most 
 common necessaries of the voyage. Great and 
 sad, however, as were her privations and discom- 
 forts below, they were less intolerable to that 
 august lady than the scene on deck would have 
 been while seas dashed furiously over the bows 
 of the little vessel. 
 
 The gentlemen were still earnestly talking 
 together in low accents of the adventure in 
 which they were involved. But in such a small 
 vessel, where everything that was going on could 
 be heard from one end to the other, they were 
 often internipted by the gruff voices of the men 
 in the forecastle. The conversation of the 
 sailors might now and then be heard above the 
 storm. It turned on that subject which in- 
 terested persons of every rank. The spluttering
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 accents of a Dutchman relieved him of this 
 bm-den : "A tousand tyfils, — twenty tousand 
 tjfils ! Gott for tamn, the moder who smuggled 
 de son of de brickbat ouman into the ped in de 
 warming-pan, and did pring out von poy for de 
 Prince of Wales. Tamn de tyfil, if James was 
 de fader of dat poy?" 
 
 An L'ishman. to whom this language seemed 
 to be addi-essed, blessed himself, i. e., made the 
 sign of the cross. 
 
 A thii-d speaker said, "You be d — d you 
 lubberly Dutch wagabond, as your father was 
 before you." Here was a volley of oaths, which 
 were more satisfactoiy to him who uttered them 
 than edifjing to the reader, to whom we only 
 give a specimen. 
 
 " I am no d — d papist, but my name's not 
 Jack if I don't smash his bloody peepers for him, 
 — the lowland splaw-footed liar — the herring- 
 gutted, bare-poled swill-tub — guzzle gin. I hates 
 papists, popery, priests and damnable idolatries ; 
 ' whoop, papist !' says I to every one on 'em. I am 
 a good protestant, I'm d — d if I am not. To 
 that I'll stand. But why this scutty-muck of a 
 coast varmin should call the queen of England 
 ' moder ' and her babby a ' brick-bat ' — the dirty 
 Httle dog!"
 
 106 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 Paddy here broke in thus, — '' Your sowl! your 
 sowl ! Dirty and short !" 
 
 " And as dark as this very day in December,'* 
 said another Irishman, " and by the piper that 
 played before Moses, as muggy too." 
 
 The Dutch sailor foamed mth rage. Jack took 
 no notice, but continued, — " The blessed beggar ! 
 to abuse the king and queen of England ! A king 
 is a king, and I take my boible oath on't." 
 
 "It's the religion entirely, of ould Ireland," 
 retorted Pat, " the Isle of Saints — poor in every 
 thing but the ould faith, which the king houlds 
 to be the thruth. Sm-e 'twas the first and will 
 be the last. Glory be to God !" 
 
 These last words caught the ear of the queen's 
 chaplain, who was not far off. He gave poor 
 Paddy a look, which none can give but those to 
 whom England ascribes the wisdom of the 
 serpent, if not the harmlessness of the dove. 
 For a moment Paddy was silent, then, to the 
 amazement of his listeners, touched a lighter 
 key. " All I meant to say, and the divil a more, 
 was this, that the rale ould faith was like sperits, 
 especially whisky. It is all the bether for age." 
 
 Then broke in a fourth voice dismally, " Woe ! 
 woe ! to the uncircumcised Philistines ! down 
 with Dagon and his adherents — Baal and his
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 priests. Oh ! the proud Egyptians — the wicked 
 Assyrians — the Moabites — the Edomites — the 
 Ishmaelites. There is, indeed, a day of deliver- 
 ance to the righteous — a day of pouring out 
 wrath upon the ' Man of Sin.' The perjured 
 James Stuart, whom you still call king, will be 
 renounced by the righteous. Far from keeping 
 the oath which he had called on angels to 
 witness, he has crammed popery down the 
 throats of the hungry. He has been guilty of 
 a rape on the chastity of the Chm'ch and has 
 brought in the scarlet wh — of Babylon." 
 
 '' The sword is drawn, that winna be lang o' 
 o'ertaking ye, ride as fast as ye can, tan- 
 tivy ho !" chimed in a Scotch Pm^itan. 
 
 The words of the Dutchman were fiercer than 
 those of the EngHshman : the words of the latter 
 less fierce than those of the Irishman, and the 
 words of the Scotch puritan fiercer than all the 
 words of all the other speakers. 
 
 But the howling of the tempest and the orders 
 of the master, most powerful of all, soon silenced 
 the sagacious speakers. 
 
 It was now these men's turn to work the ship, 
 and they were piped away. 
 
 The faithful band who were in attendance on 
 the incognita queen were by no means confined
 
 108 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 to the Koman Catholic aristocracy, nor to one 
 nation. While those on deck were conversing 
 of many things, and lamenting the hardships of 
 the times and the anticipated confiscation of 
 their lands and loved mansions, they could not 
 but overhear the remarks of the crew. 
 
 While all which we have narrated was passing 
 on deck the poor queen was convulsed with 
 sea sickness and sufferings. The ladies Al- 
 monde and Pelegi-ina Turinie had descended 
 into the cabin, just in time to pay those dehcate 
 attentions to their royal country-woman which 
 her situation and her illness so urgently de- 
 manded. The place became more stifling than 
 ever, the gale rose higher and higher ; the little 
 bark tossed and rolled and induced those feehngs 
 which none save sea- sick passengers have en- 
 dured, and which none can describe, but to which 
 the infant babe is insensible, and whiles he 
 sleeps amid encircling wretchedness smiles a ray 
 of joy on the mother. 
 
 The dehcate coui-t ladies, who had up to the 
 time of their escape from Whitehall been re- 
 posing on the lap of luxury, or, hke exotic 
 flowers, had been tended and sheltered from 
 the rough breath of our chmate, were already 
 drooping under the alternations of cold and heat,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 from the deck to the confined space into which 
 they were now huddled together. 
 
 The distress of these refined and elegant ladies 
 may be well imagined. The sick sinking of the 
 heart, as the ceaseless swell of the sea surges 
 and heaves and falls to the depths below, — the 
 roll and shiver of the giddy bark on the top of 
 the wave, — her plunge into the trough of the 
 sea, which threatens to swallow her, — all con- 
 spire to fill the ladies with alarm. The wild 
 waters howl round the little vessel and cry out 
 for their prey, — and splash, splash they dash 
 against the thin planks which are the queen's 
 strongest defence against their fury. Mary's 
 prayer for succour and safety through that trial 
 was fervent, and as often as she pressed the 
 crucifix to her heart did the name of Him whom 
 it represented rise to her lips. She prayed, 
 ' ' Mary, star of the sea, pray for us now, and at 
 the hour of our death." 
 
 She faintly endeavoured to rally the courage 
 of her attendants, who were yielding to the in- 
 fluence of fear. " No created thing," says Mary, 
 '' can shake the confidence of the soul that hath 
 faith in God, the Creator. The floods, though 
 they rage, cannot drown our love. While aU 
 things change, the true religion and the sea flow
 
 110 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 on the same always, just like the Author of the 
 one and the Maker of the other — ''the same 
 yesterday, to-day, and for ever ! " It is now 
 just a thousand years since St. Walburga, the 
 daughter of a Saxon king and saint, passed over 
 these tempest-tost waves from England, on a 
 pilgrimage to Italy. Oh ! vain woman that I 
 was, to }ield to the voice of the charmer, which 
 brought me from Italy to England, to w^ear an 
 earthly crown, when I might in some calm con- 
 vent in the south have been hidden from the 
 world with God, and ensm-ing that crown of 
 glory which He would have prepared for me. 
 Then, like Walburga, His power in me might 
 have governed not a nation but the elements. 
 She left all to follow her Saviom- and her God. 
 To Him she prayed in such a storm as this, per- 
 haps even in this very spot. The wind and waters 
 owned the voice of God, speaking in his servant 
 — obeyed, and sank into quietness and peace." 
 
 The queen only mourned her separation from 
 her husband. He had, especially in times of 
 adversity, been all in all to her; and her 
 affectionate heart had found in him an object 
 in which all the sacred ties of wedlock were 
 centred. His God — his country — his altar — 
 his home — his history had become hers.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 It was not until she had ceased to be a 
 stranger in a strange land that she was exiled 
 from the land to which she had been reconciled 
 and torn from the man who had begun to make 
 her happy in this land. 
 
 The queen had all this time been reclining in 
 the centre of the little cabin, where she was sur- 
 rounded by her ladies ; who, now feeling sick 
 themselves, all but Pelegrina Tm-inie, respect- 
 fully removed the queen to a sort of rude berth 
 in the side of the ship, where the motion 
 became intolerable, and brought on violent 
 illness, which alarmed them for theii' suffering 
 mistress. The Signora was now left alone to 
 minister to the w^ants and heartci-uel hardships 
 of her Majesty. The accommodation, intended 
 for a mere washerwoman, denied the royal party 
 the common decencies which nature required. 
 The Signora knelt by her beloved mistress, and 
 supported her in her arms. 
 
 Gloom bordering on despair was on the queen's 
 countenance, nor was it till the storm began to 
 subside that sleep for a moment came to her 
 reUef. When she awoke. Lady Almonde, who 
 had so far recovered as to be able to take the 
 place of Pelegrina, was bending over the queen. 
 *' Oh ! Anna," cried she, " how sadly has your
 
 112 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 beautiful young life been darkened by my sorrows 
 and bound up with my fate ! We were induced 
 to exchange the glorious canopy of celestial light, 
 with its roseate hues and tints of gold amid 
 cloudless blue, for the diizzling rain and inky 
 sky which have changed our bright hopes into 
 darkness and gloom. 
 
 " But of all our calamities this is the worst. 
 It has indeed, my Vit, been a doleful voyage, 
 and I wonder, even now, whether I shall live 
 through it. I have been compelled to leave the 
 king my husband; I know not what will become 
 of him. His unsuspecting nature will mislead him, 
 and I fear he will fall into the hands of his foes. 
 Were I by his side, I could bear up against any 
 misfortune, as I have done up to this time. 
 
 " Of the nine sea voyages which I have made 
 this is the most dreadful. He is away, and even 
 your tried tenderness and devotion cannot atone 
 for his absence.'* 
 
 She feebly inquired after her boy, then sank 
 down exhausted, as if life was passing out of her. 
 
 In the mean time the little prince, who was by 
 far the most lively of the party, crowed merrily, 
 and behaved in even the most minute particulars 
 as if he had been a real washerwoman's or any 
 other woman's child. But the ladies told him
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 he was a sailor prince, — a little man, — a perfect 
 sea king, — the image of his mother, — and that 
 his father never would be dead while he was 
 alive. He was what we of the present day wonld 
 call " an infant phenomenon." Whereupon his 
 wet nurse felt an indescribable thrill of royalty 
 steal through her, which was almost too much 
 for her. After all, she was the support and nur- 
 ture of a king, if strictly her blood did not in the 
 common acceptance of the word flow in his veins. 
 She exulted in the praises bestowed on her foster 
 son. 
 
 Dark night had now settled down upon the 
 water. The winds and the waves were hushed. 
 Above the stillness of the night rose softly the 
 plaintive swell of the everlasting sea, like the 
 voice of the past. 
 
 The tedious watches were marked by no ad- 
 venture, still there was that in the thoughtful 
 eyes and clouded brows of the company on deck 
 which denoted minds ill at ease. 
 
 Though the conversation of Captain Gray was 
 expressive of the frank manliness of the sailor, 
 it was regulated by the dehcacy which forbade 
 obtrusive curiosity. Lauzun, too, was ever by 
 his side and occupied his chief attention. 
 
 At this distance of time one regrets that Gray 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 was not identified with tlie faithful confidential 
 band. Under even ordinary cii'cumstances, per- 
 haps one hour of the free, the almost unavoid- 
 able intercourse of a ship, can do more to thaw 
 down the ice which freezes up the warmest 
 human feehngs than months of heartless cere- 
 monials on land. In the solitude of the ocean 
 his social natm-e and the necessities of his lot 
 throw him upon the sympathies of his compa- 
 nions. He has a community of dangers which 
 makes him seek a communion of interests with 
 his kind. In the fortunes of his fellow voyagers 
 he sees his own. In the destiny of his neigh- 
 bom- he himself is involved. But when the dear 
 object for which they risk theii' lives, and there- 
 fore their all, is one and the same, the centre of 
 their hopes and their fears, then it is that every 
 sordid motive yields to a noble and generous 
 sentiment, pervading the whole companionship, 
 encircling it with a social bond of family union 
 and undivided strength. 
 
 If this conclusion be coiTect with reference to 
 strangers who have met for the first time in the 
 little world of a ship, how much more forcibly 
 must it apply to those who have long loved and 
 lived together, been long actuated by the same 
 loyalty, unselfish as it is sincere !
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 However conflicting may be the creeds which 
 divide us in our heart's devotion to God, whether 
 Protestant or Catholic, they cannot stand 
 between us and those to whom we are otherwise 
 endeared. Such was the case with those who 
 followed the fortunes of the Stuarts, and more 
 particularly of those who were cheating the dull 
 night of its wearisome length, by a conversation 
 in which each and aU were equally interested. 
 
 Of aU present, perhaps, none were making 
 greater sacrifices than the Marquis Powis and 
 Lady Strickland. Powis after the refusal of 
 several offices was content to accept the higher 
 rank of Marquis.* He is now leading, perhaps 
 forever, his "red castle on the hill, and the 
 pleasant lands below." 
 
 The old cavaHer knight banneret Sir Thomas 
 Strickland of Sigergh, with his lady the sub- 
 governess of the little prince, the ancestors of 
 the erudite and accomplished Miss Strickland, 
 to whom the writer is much indebted for the 
 histoiy on which he has founded this tale, 
 risked their estates in Westmoreland, and 
 finally Lady Strickland, according to her wiU, 
 died in comparative poverty, and had little to 
 
 * Agnes Strickland's " Queens of England," vol. vi. pp. 
 300, 301. 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 leave. Her family lost all the property, such as 
 Thornton Briggs, which had not been secured 
 from the gi-asp of William III.* 
 
 It was between these two and others of the 
 devoted servants of the Queen, that the following 
 conversation took place, while the yacht was 
 riding peacefully at anchor off the Downs. 
 
 ''Ah!" said Po-wds, ''we aU warned His 
 Majesty of the miseries which he was bringing 
 upon himself and us. If he would only have been 
 forwarned ! Father Petre's zeal and intemper- 
 ance urged him so far that he could not recede." 
 
 " But," said Lady Strickland, "how crueUy 
 HaHfax, Nottingham and Clarendon deceived 
 the king!" 
 
 " Ay, that is true," says Powis, " and the 
 Bishop of London, the sly old fox, said, ' I am 
 confident the rest of the bishops will as readily 
 answer in the negative as myself.' Thus either 
 evading or denying that he had ever invited the 
 Prince of Orange by word, writing, or other- 
 wise, and that none of the other bishops had 
 done so." 
 
 " Upon my sacred word of honour," says Lord 
 O'Brien Clare, mth strong feeling, " number one 
 figures so selfishly among the mushroom men of 
 * •' Lives of the Queens of England," vol. vi.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 the day, that the fine ancient nobility of Catholic 
 times have no chance where every one is for 
 himself, and the devil for them aU." 
 
 " The snake in the grass is our poison, and 
 spits its venom into the face of the monarch who 
 cherishes him. Only let him show his head in 
 the open day, and by the Lord Harry we will 
 scotch the brute." 
 
 " When the demon of discord," observed Pere 
 Givelui, " enters into the hearts of the people 
 he destroys their high and holy inspirations. 
 Their destinies are obscured : no longer are their 
 notions patriotism or peace." 
 
 Powis, — '^ Just so, very reverend father, as 
 Clare observed, our statesmen are schemers, 
 with the mean, low cunning of the crawling 
 reptile, — no honesty — no truth — such are the 
 characters formed in time of ci\il discord and 
 domestic strifes, when the noblest qualities, cor- 
 rupted by a sordid love of gain, or perverted by 
 party spirit inflamed by conflict, are too often 
 combined with vices, which dim their once 
 unsuUied lustre and rob them of their genuine 
 merit." 
 
 Lauzun, who had now joined the little party, 
 regretted the infatuation of James, who closed 
 his ears to every warning, more particularly to
 
 118 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 that of Louis, who had proposed the junction of 
 the English and French fleets. 
 
 ** Oh ! " says that hero in the royal cause, 
 " Oh ! that the unhappy monarch had listened to 
 Bonrepaus, who endeavoured to prepare him for 
 the designs of his adversary the Prince of 
 Orange and this invasion." 
 
 The queen's chaplain remarked, that the 
 queen had told him that the king refused to 
 believe that a daughter whom he so tenderly 
 loved could ever conspire with her husband, 
 his nephew, to dethrone him. 
 
 "Yes," says Powis, "he was but too ready 
 to concur with Sunderland that WiUiam's war- 
 like preparations were provoked by the state of 
 the Continent." 
 
 O'Brien Clare. — " I do not blame our Am- 
 bassador at Paris. The fact of the matter was, 
 Skelton saw with pain the incredulity of his 
 own Sovereign, and therefore gave their high 
 mightinesses a slice of his mind. But the 
 English monarch proved his own enemy, the 
 enemy of Skelton, but the friend of the invader ; 
 upon my sacred word of honour he did. The 
 sneaking traitors, who disgraced their high rank 
 as commanders in the army, Churchill, Kirk, 
 and Trelawney, were in the king's hands : God
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 forgive him for letting them desert to the 
 enemy. Had he been ruled by Lord Faver- 
 sham, and sent the whole lock stock and barrel 
 of them fresh and fasting to the Traitor's 
 Tower, by the Lord, it would have served them 
 right." 
 
 Lord Poms declared that what most surprised 
 and overwhelmed the adherents of the king, was 
 the passage of WiUiam and his fleet by the 
 Straits of Dover right down the Channel : 
 ** We had all relied on the zeal and skill of 
 Lord Dartmouth, and are still at a loss to know 
 how he could suffer the Dutch fleet to pass the 
 Downs, where the Enghsh fleet was stationed ; 
 and within two or three miles of the Admii^al, 
 without even a shot being fired." 
 
 Lord O'Brien Clare : " 'Twas not Dartmouth 
 who was to blame, but the Protestant gale. 
 The same wind which was favourable to the 
 prince, was adverse to Dartmouth." 
 
 The Marquis now poUtely entered into con- 
 versation with the pages Fran9ois and Du- 
 sions, and was joined by Count Lauzun and 
 Captain Gray. The conversation naturally and 
 involuntarily turned upon the Dutch fleet, 
 which had returned from Torbay, and was 
 hovering about the Channel with an eye to the
 
 120 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 interception of troublesome loyalists, and with 
 an eye to the crown, which was, as it was 
 said, a better fit for the Dutch than for 
 the EnsfHsh head.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Off to sea again I lay her oS."— Shakespeare. 
 
 While softly, and softly, over the sea, 
 
 I heard a music pass, 
 Soothing the winds and softening the waves 
 
 Till they lay as molten glass.— T7ie Easter Ship. 
 
 Like all other ills the sea sickness had an end, 
 and before morning was so far mitigated that 
 the ladies freely talked oyer the voyage, natu- 
 rally recalled the scenes through which the 
 queen had passed dm-ing the last eventful fif- 
 teen years of her life. 
 
 " Only fifteen years ago," sighed Lady Al- 
 monde, " the merry monarch — peace he with 
 him ! — attended by the principal lords and ladies 
 of the Court, went down the river in state pro- 
 cession on board the royal barges, to meet and 
 congratulate the then newly married pair, who 
 are now," she added, while a tear stole down 
 her cheek, " separated and exiled, the mere sport 
 of fortune and of the winds." 
 
 The king by this time, in his anxiety to 
 rejoin his queen, would be on the water, so
 
 122 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 that both, as her ladies observed, were exposed 
 to similar perils. How sad the contrast to the 
 bright morning, when their royal highnesses 
 came up with the early tide from Gravesend, 
 with the Duchess of Modena ! 
 
 " May light shine upon her !" said one of her 
 attendants. 
 
 " Yes," remarked the Signora Pelegrina, 
 " how widely different the dress of the beautiful 
 Mary Beatrice from that of the Italian washer- 
 woman ! It goes to my heart to see our royal 
 mistress disfigured in such an envelope, un- 
 worthy of so much dignity and grace. With 
 what elegant simplicity was she then attired. 
 The speaking dark eyes, classic features, and 
 graceful form of my royal companion of fifteen 
 years was, and still is, to my mind, the very 
 beau ideal of female loveliness." 
 
 The queen, who now awaking from her sleep, 
 partly overheard her two countrywomen, inter- 
 rupted the last speaker, saying, " In your rap- 
 tures and admiration of the self-wiUed bride and 
 her dress, you have forgotten the best part of 
 the story. Do you not remember how, in the 
 Catherine yacht, we crossed the Channel with a 
 prosperous breeze, and towards evening arrived 
 at Dover ; and how the Duke of York, now my
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER, 123 
 
 hnsband and king of England, received me in 
 his arms, "before I could set my foot upon his 
 shores ? Little did I then think how dear, how 
 veiy dear, he would be to my heart. Oh, my 
 husband ! — my king, my love, my lost, my un- 
 happy husband !" 
 
 Long she tried to restrain herself, but her 
 whole frame, way-worn and convulsed as it was 
 by sea-sickness, sank beneath her emotions ; 
 the rays of light left her noble countenance, 
 which was now blanched into the hues of death. 
 She lay Hke unconscious marble. 
 
 Lady Almonde approached, seized her hand 
 and covered it with kisses. Her Majesty's 
 pulse was still ; her breathing imperceptible. 
 Very slowly after some time she opened her eyes. 
 Nature alike in the peasant and the monarch, 
 the wellspring of love, of life, and of all things, 
 resumed but languidly her course. The blood, 
 which before seemed frozen in its channels, now 
 once again returned, like the soft tint of a pale 
 rose to her cheek. She raised her head and 
 looked anxiously round and faintly smiled^ on her 
 sorrowing ladies, who all knelt by her side. She 
 pressed her crucifix to her Hps, and was lost 
 in devotion to Him whom it brought to her 
 mind.
 
 124 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Slowly passed the tedious minutes of the 
 night — loaded with care they were — but still 
 enlivened by conversation on deck and even in 
 the dismal cabin. It seemed as though the 
 dawn would never come. All wished for the day, 
 and sighed for a view of the longed-for coast of 
 France. 
 
 The wind was fresh, at west-north-west, and 
 the tide was just beginning to i*un on the flood. 
 The anchor was weighed once more, and the 
 Httle deck was a scene of activity and noise 
 which aroused the attention of the ladies below. 
 Lauzun descended to the cabin to offer his 
 assistarce to the queen, who now being much 
 recovered, gladly left her close dark prison with 
 her ladies for the deck, where she could inhale 
 tiie pure fresh air of Heaven. The night air 
 breathed the flavour of land. The little bark 
 was again in motion before the gale. The deep 
 interest which pervaded the minds of her pas- 
 sengers was tinged by a shade of melancholy, 
 which was deepened by the darkness around. 
 There was, however, quite a reunion on deck of 
 the little party. The effect of the night on the 
 frame of the queen was such that it was 
 desirable to keep her as quiet as possible. Of 
 her own accord she shrank from the intrusive
 
 125 
 
 gaze of the crew, and retired behind her atten- 
 dants. The ladies, exhilarated by the freshness 
 of the sea air, and feeling more at home with the 
 gentlemen and Captain Gray, began to break 
 through those severe restraints which the pecu- 
 liarity of their situation imposed upon them. 
 The conversation had become general. Lord 
 O'Brien Clare was a free, openhearted man, full 
 of life and candour : what would have been 
 egotism in others was in him Irish frankness 
 and natm-al feeling. He com-ted not admira- 
 tion. The company were endeavouring to 
 lighten the weight of their sorrows by lively 
 conversation, when they were suddenly startled 
 by the cry, ^' A large sail on the starboard bow!" 
 
 "What do you think of her, captain?" said 
 Lauzun, anxiously. 
 
 "I think she is a man-of-war; but I cannot 
 make her out clearly through the darkness, which 
 is now thicker than at any other part of the 
 night." 
 
 " The devil you can't," says Lord O'Brien 
 Clare (who was himseK a yachtsman). " Is she 
 standing this way ?" 
 
 ** Yes, my lord, under topsails and top-gaUant 
 sails, which look as white as snow floating on 
 the night wind."
 
 126 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 To the alarm of all on board, except perhaps 
 the captain and the crew, the stranger was bear- 
 ing down upon the yacht. 
 
 "What is she?" cried PoTvds, with evident 
 concern, " and how far is she off?" 
 
 " She appears to be a Dutch frigate, about 
 half a mile off and more," said the captain, look- 
 ing through his glass. " She, is rounding to the 
 wind, and on the same tack that we are." 
 
 " Is she a friendly vessel?" cried LadyAlmonde 
 in a tremulous voice. 
 
 " By her present manoeuvres, lady, I should 
 say she was not. So far as we can observe them, 
 I think she must be an enemy." 
 
 " Is she English ?" asked the other ladies. 
 
 "No. An EngHsh frigate would behave dif- 
 ferently. A few more minutes will enable us to 
 speak decidedly." 
 
 The stranger was soon within two cables' length 
 of the yacht, where was now a dead silence, 
 which Gray was the first to break. 
 
 " Ship ahoy," hailed he. Lauzun was by his 
 side, suspicion on his countenance, which said to 
 the captain as j)lainly as countenance ever spoke, 
 "Perfidious Albion!" 
 
 " Upon my honour," burst out Lord O'Brien, 
 " there is nothing like taking it easy ; let us seem
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 indifferent to the Dutch clog, and strike up a 
 song." His lordship set the example in fine 
 style, and sang with all his might the old glories 
 of Brian Boru. 
 
 The captain retained his calmness, and de- 
 manded a reply from the frigate. " What ship 
 is that ?" asked he in a tone of authority. 
 
 The only answer from the great vessel was, 
 " Vat chip is dat ?" 
 
 The Dutch captain, evidently annoyed at the 
 utter indifference with which he was treated, 
 thundered out something in Dutch, which Gray 
 answered through his own Dutch sailor. 
 
 Their voices pierced through the night wind. 
 
 The yacht was right under the how of the 
 frigate and looked like a sea mew under the 
 wing of some majestic water fowl ; for the frigate 
 was spreading her sails, as the bird spreads his 
 plumage above the placid sea, and was only lying- 
 to to satisfy the curiosity of her commander. 
 So close were the vessels by this time that a 
 missile might easily be thrown by the hand from 
 one into the other. 
 
 " We wait your pleasm-e," said Gray, to a 
 fat, lazy-looking, splotch-faced Dutch officer. 
 " Come down and examine our despatches." 
 The old fellow, however, did not admire the
 
 128 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 descent from such an elevation, and declined the 
 invitation, but demanded in a gruff tone all 
 letters and papers entrusted to Captain Gray ; 
 whereupon, as if in great hesitation. Gray drew 
 reluctantly as it were from his bosom, letters 
 addressed to the authorities of the Hague, and 
 other vouchers equally confidential and valuable, 
 labelled *' On the business of the Prince of 
 Orange." 
 
 No sooner had the packet reached the hand 
 and met the eye of the Dutchman than twenty 
 mariners were seen climbing among the ropes, 
 and sail after sail was opened still wider to the 
 wind, until bearing the ample folds of all her 
 canvass spread, the Dutch frigate was urged 
 along by every breath of air, and was soon 
 wafted into the midst of the fleet to which she 
 belonged. 
 
 The fugitive passengers began to breathe more 
 freely as the Dutch vessel sailed away. They 
 looked inquiringly at the captain, for they were 
 not quite certain whether he had betrayed or 
 protected them. He read their glances, but was 
 reserved towards those who denied him their 
 confidence. 
 
 The steady and experienced seamen, however, 
 who knew him best, evinced the most implicit
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 and reverential reliance on their kind, thought- 
 ful, yet spii'ited and supreme commander. 
 
 That there were machinations carried on by 
 the Jacobites, even at this stage of their fall, 
 was plain to all on board who did not think by 
 proxy, or who did not think at all. 
 
 All who concurred with the suspicious party 
 were by them at least considered clever and 
 cautious. O'Brien had no suspicions, and was 
 therefore deemed thoughtless and foolhardy ; he 
 was painfully sensible of the reflection which had 
 been cast upon his judgment, and was on the 
 spur of the moment but too ready to resent it. 
 Bursting out with an oath, which it is not 
 necessary here to record : 
 
 " We are always clever," retorted he, *' with 
 those who imagine we think as they do. To be 
 shallow, or in other words to be Irish, we must 
 differ from those ^dth whom we converse." 
 
 We know not how far the facetious nobleman 
 would have run on if he had not been cut short 
 by a cry which fled from mouth to mouth along 
 the deck,—" the Dutch fleet !" 
 
 The ladies started, the gentlemen were struck 
 mute with astonishment. Lady Strickland was 
 the first to break the silence. " Keep near to 
 her,'' said she to the rest of the company. " In 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 every event, keej) as near her person as possible. 
 I am certain my kinsman, Sir Roger Strickland, 
 vice-admii-al of England, can no longer be with 
 the fleet at Portsmouth ; for he never would 
 have permitted this insult to the British Channel 
 and the British flag, to which Lord Dartmouth 
 has submitted." 
 
 Gray did not appear in the slightest degree 
 disconcerted, but evinced no disposition to 
 impart to them his knowledge or intentions. 
 
 His tone and manner were of that kind which 
 while they denote the cool self-possession of the 
 speaker, never fail to inspii'e confidence, and 
 command obedience. 
 
 Every face was turned in the dii-ection of 
 the Dutch fleet, which amounted to about fifty 
 sail. 
 
 There was apparently but a slow, nearly 
 imperceptible motion of the ships, which was, 
 so far as the early dsbwii of a clear frosty morning 
 could reveal their motion, like the lazy move- 
 ments of slumbering but living creatures, more 
 by listless volition than by the impulse of wind 
 or the direction of human agency. 
 
 The very muzzle of the Dutch guns gaped 
 frightfully on Gray's little bark, and seemed to 
 fascinate her into the jaws of the destroyer ;
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 indeed, at no time, while passing through the 
 fleet, was there a single moment that the deck 
 of the puny yacht might not have been swept, 
 and herself and aU that she carried plunged 
 into the depths below by a general discharge 
 from the battery of any one of the fifty men 
 of war. 
 
 The proximity to such a neighbour was a 
 feai-ful peril, but t]ie quiet self-possession of the 
 Captain allayed in some degree the apprehension 
 of the passengers. He begged the ladies, who 
 had gathered round the Queen, to retire to the 
 cabin, and had no sooner seen them down, than 
 he took the helm himself, and seemed uncon- 
 scious of everything but the safety of his ship. 
 For some time not a sound broke the pervading 
 stillness of the tmlight scene. It was, however, 
 difficult to restrain the feelings and voices of the 
 crew and faint accents of a Jacobite song, which 
 gaining strength on a dozen voices, reached the 
 ear of Lord O'Brien, who, with an accent and 
 look which none but the Irish can utter and give, 
 darting a quivering glance at Paddy, sang out in 
 a rich brogue — " not that, none of your land- 
 lubber songs. Blood an ouns, let's have a 
 verse of the say to roll out on the top of the 
 morning. Now my gay boys !" Then to the 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 utter annoyance and horror of the cautious 
 passengers, the crew struck up as if by an 
 irresistible impulse, 
 
 " The waves become their winding-sheet, 
 The waters were their tomb ; 
 But for their fame the ocean sea 
 Was not sufficient room." 
 
 " The Divil a wiser they'll be for that," said 
 Paddy, and yet it appeared to him, as he after- 
 wards affirmed, to have wi'ought a mii-acle. 
 
 ''But," says O'Brien, '' throw some Kfe into 
 the thing — none of your swaddling psalm-sing- 
 ing, Jeremiades." 
 
 *' Sure, 'tis for all the world like a keening at 
 a wake," observed Pat. " It will show indif- 
 ference and self-confidence, your honour, to 
 come out with a sprightly notion." 
 
 The nobleman, who seemed quite at home 
 with the sailors, started a song, which, so far 
 as we can judge, was impromptu, or at least an 
 original composition. 
 
 " A sail ! a sail ! they cry, 
 
 Hark, to the swell of the joyful sound ; 
 
 Your nerves brace strong, brace high, 
 And boldly steer thro' the fleet around. 
 
 " Quick then unfurl the flutt'ring canvas wide 
 
 Outspread like the wings of a dove, 
 To fly before wind, to sail against tide, 
 
 Far away from the land we love.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 1^3 
 
 " Three cheers for the flag which still braves 
 All the storms, and still proudly waves 
 High over the water which laves 
 The land of our birth, our own fertile shore 
 "Where we shall all meet together once more." 
 
 If the unmeasured song of the sailors be as 
 uninteresting to the readers as it was irksome 
 to the anxious passengers, we may be glad it is 
 over.. It seemed, however, to the nobleman 
 who had started the singers to have had the 
 desired effect ; for it was not ended, when, to the 
 joyful surprise of all, they found themselves to 
 the south-east of that portion of the Dutch fleet 
 which had caused their alarm, unnoticed and 
 unquestioned, so that the yacht was now en- 
 tirely clear of the enemy. The whole of the 
 sails of the yacht now swelled out before a 
 favourable north-west wind. The ship leaned 
 her side to the gale and glided pleasantly 
 through the waters, leaving a long furrow to 
 track her course, which might be seen rippling 
 beneath the first rays of the morning. 
 
 The stars were fading from the winter sky, 
 and gradually yielding to the first faint blush of 
 the sun, which was kissing its early greeting to 
 the waves that washed the French coast and 
 rising from their embrace out of the eastern 
 horizon ; the Dutch ships through which they
 
 134 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 had so miraculously passed could now only be 
 distinguished in the distance by the glittering of 
 the sun against their sails, and were soon mingled 
 and lost in the north-west sky. 
 
 Mary of Modena and her friends were separated 
 for ever from the land of their splendours and 
 theii' ruin. As the little band of fugitives, after 
 so long a period of excitement and alarm, neared 
 the haven which promised safety and repose, 
 their spirits rallied, theii* energies returned, and 
 the pure cold morning air gave fresh health and 
 vigour to theii' bodies. 
 
 As they ail stood on the deck watching the 
 gentle swell of the sea in the calm, bright morn- 
 ing, they were cheered by the sight of a sail, 
 showing, as it skimmed along the golden path 
 which the sun reflected on the sea, the pennant 
 and colours of France. Varied, but by no means 
 anxious, w^ere the speculations on her character, 
 her sailing qualities, her object, and her destina- 
 tion. The beautiful stranger, for beautiful she 
 was as she became more and more visible to the 
 naked eye, even half-way down from the graceful 
 spars and topsails — the little speck of w^hite on 
 a field of gold, arose higher and higher on the 
 eastern margin of the sea, like some white gull 
 on the summit of a wave ; until at the end of
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 135 
 
 half an hour a lofty fabric of canvas towered 
 above the waters, while softly first, but swelling 
 into a tide of song which the opposing breeze 
 could not resist, and to which the sighing sea 
 seemed tuned, arose a holy chant. It fell as 
 soft as snow on the sea, and melted into Mary's 
 heart as soon, and even touched the rough 
 songsters whose recent melody had so satisfied 
 themselves. The ensign and banner of the 
 Cross waved gracefully from the highest spar 
 of her topmast, far above the lilies of 
 France. 
 
 At her head was the crucifix, the foot of 
 which the waters kissed. On her stern, in a 
 robe of heavenly blue stood the Madonna, in a 
 calm, majestic attitude, with her right foot on 
 the head of a serpent. The ship was called in 
 honour of her whom this figure represented, 
 *' The Ocean Star." Already through the clear 
 light of a sharp frosty morning might be seen on 
 the deck a goodly company all kneeling in the 
 sun's bright rays in prayer. It seemed like a 
 vision, and yet to Mary it was all real. 
 
 Music has for most minds a soothing influence 
 and a charm at all times, but as it thrills along 
 the water it fiUs us with mystic transports we 
 cannot define. To Mary it was like the angels'
 
 136 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 song on waves of light ; it absorbed every feel- 
 ing of her heai't. 
 
 " Through every pulse the music stole, 
 
 And held sublime communion with her soul." 
 
 The thrilling accents of the Latin Church 
 were wafted through the air, now fragi^ant with 
 the incense from the altar on which the priests 
 were celebrating mass. 
 
 The mission ship, for such she proved to be, 
 now lay alongside the yacht, lingering as though 
 loth to part company. There stood the celebrant 
 in snow white alb and amice, over which glittered 
 in the morning sun the rich embroidered 
 chasuble, resplendent with gold and silver, the 
 maniple and stole ; assisted by the deacon and 
 subdeacon in their respective vestments. The 
 candles on the altar feebly flickered, unseen to 
 the eye of sense, like the living faith which 
 lighted up the souls of the missioners. The 
 jewelled crucifix above the tabernacle met the 
 upraised eye ; a golden chalice richly gemmed 
 in emeralds and rubies, multiplied and flashed 
 its varied hues at the elevation of the Host. 
 From first to last the spectacle and the ceremony 
 were, under the circumstances, the most gorgeous, 
 afi'ecting, and impressive which can be imagined. 
 A deep feeling of the devotions with which the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 passengers of the yacht were so familiar burst 
 invohmtarily from them into a tmieful and 
 heartfelt response to the chant of the priests on 
 board " The Ocean Star." The silvery voices 
 of the ladies, led on by the grave confessor, and 
 sustained by the gentlemen and one or two of 
 the rough singers, who understood the service 
 and belonged to the Roman Communion, formed 
 sweet and harmonious response to the chant of 
 the priests. " The Kyrie Eleison " was sung 
 alternately from ship to ship, "The Gloria in 
 Excelsis" came from both ships, and flowed out 
 into one volume of sacred song, which rolled 
 through the expanse of heaven. 
 
 Both vessels were becalmed under the shelter 
 of the French coast, for the wind had changed. 
 
 Nothing could be more impressive, more 
 solemn and soothing than that sacred drama, 
 where all seemed so supernatural and so sublime, 
 that one knows not what most to admire. If 
 any part could more than another affect a hearer 
 who separated himself from this worship, it would 
 be the plaintive, almost wailing soul-subduing 
 tones which lingered and hung around the awful 
 words, " Et Homo factus est," and brought all 
 on board both vessels prostrate on their very 
 faces to the deck; except perhaps the Dutch
 
 138 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 sailor and Captain Gray, who were too much 
 absorbed in their ovm duties and management of 
 the almost motionless yacht, to attend to any- 
 thing else. 
 
 The infant prince had been brought on deck 
 to share in the blessings of that di\ine ser^ice, 
 which consoled and cheered the exiles from Eng- 
 land. The vessels soon were gliding away from 
 each other almost imperceptibly — until the 
 " Dominus vobiscum " of the " Ocean Star " 
 died away on the rising breeze, and the loud, 
 " Et cum spii-itu tuo " from the yacht lingered 
 and faded on the bosom of the waters. 
 
 We mil not attempt to describe the scene of 
 tears and smiles, the convulsive "bm-st of joy 
 which ensued, as their little bark was safely 
 moored off Calais.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The scum 
 That rises upmost, when the nation boils. — Dryden. 
 
 He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 No event is more common in narratives of this 
 natm-e than the early introduction of the maiden 
 on whose fortimes the interest is supposed to 
 turn. 
 
 So deeply affecting and romantic, however, 
 have been the adventures, the hair-breadth 
 escapes, the wanderings and perils of the royal 
 pair since their painful separation at Whitehall, 
 they absorb so much of our feeling, and involve 
 us so far in their afflicted affairs, up to this 
 stage of their respective journeys, that we have 
 not been able to divert our attention from them, 
 or to bestow it even for a moment on the noble 
 youth and lovely girl, around whom it delights 
 the novelist to throw a spell of enchantment, 
 which transports his readers through his 
 volumes.
 
 140 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 Though neither time nor circumstance can 
 prevent or annihilate such ineffable affection as 
 the bard of every age has sung, which romance 
 imagines, and which each of us in the bright 
 spring day of life has felt, for some dear one : 
 yet there are obstacles to the early marriages of 
 first loves, and the chance is that such obstacles 
 never admit of a happy issue, of which, at least, 
 we could ever hear by "tale or histoiy.'* There 
 are passages of our own secret life known to no 
 earthly being but to her or him, whom each of 
 us long, long ago has loved and lost, which, 
 even at an advanced stage of our existence, 
 leave a tinge of romance in our memory and our 
 mind. 
 
 What being is there so degraded as not to 
 shai'e the empire of his heart with some one who 
 can divide his cares and multiply his pleasures ? 
 Who can even listen to a tale of true love un- 
 moved by some tender recollection of the past ? 
 
 To the thoughts of young Strickland, as he 
 walked and watched on that little deck, where we 
 left him in doubt and anxiety, for the monarch to 
 whom he was attached there rose a crowd of 
 regrets ; his heart was in the scene endeared to 
 him by the young memories of the fair girl, 
 whom he loved as a child loves a child, yet more
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 fondly than a sister; who at that hour was 
 probably an exile from Whitehall, with her 
 Royal mistress, on the tempest-tost sea, or 
 exposed to perils more hideous than death. His 
 reverie, sadly as it abstracted him from the 
 present, was only too soon broken by the coarse 
 ribaldry which assailed his ears from the shore. 
 
 " Ah ! the blood-thirsty villains ; shame on 
 them papishers, 'em shouldn't be suffered to 
 live after their hellish plots, d — 'em, lamb 'em." 
 
 Such exclamations from many voices, fol- 
 lowed by a volley of oaths and d — n 'ems, 
 struck upon his ear and alarmed him for the 
 safety of his sovereign. 
 
 Strickland was brave as a lion, and his fear 
 was for the king, not for himself, but he knew 
 there was no appeal, no retreat by which they 
 could escape. He could only listen, and watch, 
 and wait, and arouse the king and Sir Edward 
 if it should be necessary. 
 
 Much of that jesting was going on which 
 always amuses an English rabble, whether 
 feasting their eyes on the criminal in his 
 death pang, when around the scaffold, or pass- 
 ing the long night in expectation of some tragic 
 horror. 
 
 " Nothing but the d — devil himself could
 
 142 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 have kept the ugly hulk above the water, 
 waddling and ducking as she drove before a 
 gale that blew gi-eat guns." 
 
 " Ay," says a waggish waterman, " she must 
 be a chance child of the Flying Dutchman." 
 
 Jack Benbow, overhearing the remark, which 
 was intended to be very witty, swore a tre- 
 mendous oath, that the hoy had gone doT\Ti 
 head foremost vdth. all her sails set, emptied 
 her ballast at the bottom with her crew, came 
 up again and brought up also the poor souls on 
 board safe and sound as a trout. " To-morrow 
 they'll have more easting in the w^eather than 
 they happen to find to theii* comfort." 
 
 " How long do you think their voyage is 
 likely to last," demanded the full-faced humpty- 
 dumpty landlord, Ames, of the " Ship " public- 
 house, laying a finger on his jolly red nose 
 while speaking. 
 
 " That's tellings," said the fellow whom his 
 friends called the Big Bouncer. 
 
 The sailor in whose charge the master had 
 left the hoy, overhearing this, jumped ashore, 
 and said, "It's infoi-mation you want, is it, 
 Master Ames ?" di-opping his voice so low as to 
 reach no ears but those of the publican, " Well 
 then, listen to me."
 
 THE LOYALIST'S DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 Those two rascals, percei\ing that they were 
 now alone, apart from the rest, who were con- 
 cocting mischief at a little distance, the latter 
 speaker raised his voice, and with an expression 
 of hardened, low cmming in his countenance, 
 said to Ames that it was worse than folly to 
 spend his valuahle breath in words. " I'm up 
 to a wiinkle or two," says he, Imowingiy. 
 
 " It's gain to be so Imowledgeable," observed 
 the amiable man of the " Ship " inn. 
 
 "Ah! bless me," says Jack of the hoy, 
 " what would become of us aU in these strange 
 times, if we didn't tm-n an honest penny while 
 there is a chance ?" 
 
 " I have brought up a dozen of fine children 
 in this faith, and I'll be d — d if I don't leave 
 them soniething more than my honest name. 
 Be gum and I ought too, for a nimble sixpence 
 is better than a lazy shilling, and a shrewd hit 
 begets sixpence, and a sixpence begets a shilling, 
 and shillings beget pounds, and so on ; like as 
 the parson read in the Bible." 
 
 '' Come now, old chap," said Ames, "you are 
 scudding away out of the proper tack. None of 
 your shiUy-shaUy — answer my question at once." 
 
 " Not here — not here, — not now," repHes the 
 Jack. " 'Tisn't fit for a poor man like me, who
 
 144 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 have no eyes nor ears ; and often no tongue, 
 to tell everybody which way the wind will blow 
 next." 
 
 The publican cursed in his heart the sneaking 
 treachery of the rogue, whose love of lucre was 
 only exceeded by his own cupidity. 
 
 " Our skipper will possibly drop into the 
 * Ship,' for a di'op of youi* Schiedam. Him 
 knows as much about your * Ship ' as thee 
 knows't about his'n." 
 
 This was enough for Ames, who waddled back 
 to his house to catch what customers he could, 
 especially the skipper of the hoy. 
 
 It was now dead of night; the rabble had 
 dispersed; you might hear a pin drop on the 
 deck, when the master of the hoy retm-ned, with 
 those of the crew who had for an hour prefer- 
 red the " Ship" on diy land to that on the water. 
 They threw themselves down under some can- 
 vass in the steerage, and soon gave evidence of 
 their slumbers. 
 
 The youthful officer who paced the short deck 
 dming the melancholy watches of the night lis- 
 tened and sighed for the dawn of a better day 
 than that which had passed into this night. 
 Comet Strickland, of the Life Guards, had acted 
 from the first in concert with Sir Edward Hales
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 in the escape of the king. He was at that 
 period of life when the mind is most sensitive ; 
 the immediate transition from the boy to the man, 
 full of young hope and ardent aspirations, his 
 heart overflowing with noble and generous quali- 
 ties, and an enthusiasm which led him to devote 
 himself to the cause of misfortune and danger, 
 with the chivah-y and romance of olden times. 
 
 While thus pacing the deck he was suddenly 
 startled by a \dolent shock against the craft, 
 which made her shudder, and by a voice shout- 
 ing, " On, my hearties ! cleave the papisher cut- 
 throats from the crown to the brisket ! Shoot 
 Sir Ed'ard 'Ales, who only two years ago was 
 guv'nor of Dover Castle, where he flogged three 
 innocent children into papists and confined in 
 dark dungeons their Protestant parents, because 
 they would not offer sacrifice to the viceregent 
 (vicegerent) of the devil." 
 
 '' I seed 'um at the gi-eat 'ouse," cried a scara- 
 mouch, " when we burnt the Wirgen, the pope, 
 and old Nick, and Guy Faukes, before his popish 
 face. I seed idols to which the priest was ofi'er- 
 ing sacrifice." 
 
 '' The gemman whose osses han't had no 
 wheats at the Ship and that ere 'Ales is as like 
 as two pase." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE loyalist's daughtep. 
 
 " Have at 'em ! Pitch into the son of the 
 red wh — ," cried a scripture reader. 
 
 " Hokl," says a third, who ran up the boat- 
 side like a cat from the second boat, which had 
 now reached the hoy. 
 
 " Take them aloive, there's money set on 
 their heads. Huzza ! for Protestant Billy, 
 freedom of conscience and plenty of gin !" 
 
 "Do," says another eloquent speaker; "like 
 the beastly sons of Baal, in the net which they 
 have made for themselves, secure the hatchway." 
 
 A cry of astonishment rather than of fear 
 escaped Strickland, but fortunately it was dro^vTied 
 by the confused din. He would have called 
 Hales, but to awake fears which he could not 
 remove was vain. Besides, for the present the 
 king- and his friend were prisoners. A ruffian, 
 armed to the very teeth, by the light of a flicker- 
 ing lamp, discerned young Strickland, whose gay 
 miiform caught his eye. Perceiving that he had 
 placed himself in an attitude of defence near the 
 hatchway, the ruffian made a lounge at him mth 
 a sword (for in that day a duel with swords was 
 as common nearly as a boxing match of our 
 time), but he skilfully parried it with his trusty 
 weapon; a second and a third attacked the 
 slight but manly youth ; he caught the thrust of
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 one dexterously in the folds of his cloak, and 
 vnth. such address met the furious but ineffective 
 flourish of the other that he disarmed him, 
 sending the unwieldy sword flying from the hand 
 of his brutal assailant into the midst of the 
 bystanders, who looked on in amazement. The 
 three men were now closing round our young 
 hero, with horrid blasphemies on their lips and 
 insults too gross to write. The blood of his 
 loyal ancestors already boiled within him, and 
 yet the consciousness of danger gave him a calm 
 presence of mind which never forsook him. 
 
 " Shame ! shame !" with supreme dignity 
 shouted the young man; "three against one, and 
 a mere youth too ; stand back, you cowards ; one at 
 a time, or two at a time, my brave fellows," 
 glancing at those around, whose sympathies he 
 desired to enlist in the cause of the king. 
 " Let us have fair play. One cheer for fair play, 
 and old England for ever !" 
 
 A jolly old triton took up the cheer, and was 
 joined by eveiy man on deck, crew and assail- 
 ants. " Huzza ! for the young 'un. He's a 
 plucky one anyhow, though he bears the colours 
 of the red whore." 
 
 The anxiety Strickland felt for the immediate 
 welfare of the king, put him rather on the 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 defensive than the attack. At length a flesh 
 wound from the second of two well directed 
 thrusts made at the same time by two anta- 
 gonists drew blood from him. 
 
 " Well pinked, by gum," roared out the 
 bystanders amid general applause. 
 
 " Not fair," exclaimed the ancient mariner. 
 
 The third bully, taking advantage of the oppor- 
 tunity, dealt a tremendous blow with a bludgeon 
 from behind on the sword hand of the soldier, 
 who for a moment parried it, then dropped the 
 good blade he could no longer wield. Hard 
 beset as he was, Strickland would not yield an 
 inch, but with his left hand snatched one of his 
 pistols from his belt, and fired it at the coward 
 fellow who had partially disabled and wounded 
 him. It was no other than the blotched monster 
 Ames, who fell heavily on the hatchway. 
 
 " Bad manners to him," says an Iiishwoman, 
 who appeared as if by magic, and flung herself 
 wildly into the melee, under a light which only 
 made the darkness visible. 
 
 '' The next time the nasty spalpeen laves the 
 world, he will be afther doing it in more purliter 
 style, and not with a curse in his mouth. 
 Ames," says she, while he struggled as if with 
 a strong muscular action.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 ''Will you have a priest, for the sake of your 
 sinful sowl? he's handy, for your convaniance," 
 said she, thoughtfully. 
 
 As if with a last dying effort, the wounded 
 
 man gasped out — ' ' I am no d^ d papist ; I'm 
 
 bad enough, but not as bad as that neither," 
 added he, groaning. 
 
 The blood rushed profusely from the over- 
 charged veins of the toper. The sight of blood 
 and the mention of a priest had the same effect 
 on the rabble as a red rag has on the fury of a 
 bull. 
 
 The coolest of the schemers were excited to 
 vengeance, and demanded blood for blood. Even 
 the lazy, di-unken crew, who up to this time had 
 been asleep, or indifferent to a disturbance 
 which brought no grist to their mill, began to 
 shake off their lethargy. A yell arose, as if the 
 spirit so familiar to their lips had stirred within 
 them. "Bind him hand and foot, send him to 
 be d d, as his grandfather was before him." 
 
 "I'll lay you a Jacobus to a brass button 
 that he is a bloodhound, and is bound to hunt 
 Protestants." 
 
 "Down with him !" cried a dozen voices. 
 
 " Never mind them, sir," whispered the old 
 man of the sea to Strickland ; ' ' they shan't
 
 150 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 hurt a hair of your head. Let yourself down 
 in our boat/' pointing to a yawl in charge of a 
 hale young man ; "a pair of oars will carry you 
 over the water like a wild duck." 
 
 The mob was setting upon the soldier in a 
 body, and neither his acti^dty nor skill in 
 fencing could avail the over-matched youth, who 
 was performing miracles with one hand; and 
 all seemed over with him, when the Irishwoman 
 made a diversion in his favour. 
 
 " By the powers and all the bloody wars!" 
 shrieked she; '' divil a one of ye's wall be a 
 man before his mother. Tare an' ages, and 
 tunder and nouns ! mui*ther in Irish !" wails 
 the woman. " Is it the iligant young gentleman? 
 God presarve his honour !" 
 
 '' Don't you see Ames weltering in his blood, 
 you Irish papist, Judy?" cried a number at once. 
 
 " Troth, its himself that's a beer barrel — the 
 full of a door — the dii'ty dhrop was in the baste. 
 Is it for the likes of him you'd be laying a hand 
 on the handsome young soldier, God bless him?" 
 Here she made the sign of the cross, and 
 sprinkled holy water in a cii'cle round her. 
 
 Then seeing that nothing could save Strickland 
 from the assault of his opponents, she threw 
 herself between them and the overwhelmed
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 151 
 
 young man, who was reeling beneath their blows. 
 She cried out to the old sailor to help them, and 
 he did his best. 
 
 " Never let it be said that Judy Magi'ath was 
 such a nasty stag as to see the son of his father 
 cut dowTi." She was now flung down under 
 foot. The old man and his son stood over her. 
 
 " Let the spalpeens walk over my dead body, 
 before they touch the pure blood of his honour," 
 cried she. '^ May the Blessed Virgin be good 
 to us now and at the hour of our death." 
 
 The men sneered, but began to desist from 
 further violence, shamed by the singular act of 
 devotion of the Irishwoman. 
 
 By this time all the miscreants from the 
 two boats had boarded the hoy, and increased 
 the confusion of the parties on deck. They 
 aroused the drunken crew and forced them to 
 enter into dehberation with them, which they 
 could bring to no practical conclusion, since 
 their leader, Ames, lay prostrate and groaning 
 out curses over the hatchway. A very confused 
 notion of the scuffle, which seemed at first fatal 
 to mine host of " The Ship," took possession of 
 the last comers. The proofs which the young 
 soldier had given of unrivalled coolness and 
 courage, which would have done honour to a
 
 152 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 veteran, seconded by the threats and entreaties 
 of the brave old man, and the sudden dash 
 which the Irishwoman made at the fellows who 
 were closing m upon Strickland stimned them, 
 and went far to disai-m the fury of the rabble. 
 There was one circumstance, however, which did 
 more for om- hero tiian all the rest. 
 
 All present hated and feared the man who was 
 now weltering in his gore. He was loyal to no 
 party, even while he was avowedly pledged to 
 theii' interests. Treachery was the element in 
 which he kept " The Ship " above water. He 
 could only live lq mischief. His delight was 
 essentially iq the work which the author of evil 
 had given him to do, either for fiiend or foe, 
 Papist or Protestant. 
 
 One voice only was raised in his praise, that 
 of a sot still under the beery influence : " Master 
 Ames brews good ale, his browst was main fine 
 drink, which had a flavom* of Protestant hops 
 and popish malt." 
 
 All this clamour over the hatchway, just above 
 the prisoners' heads, for such the king and Sir 
 Edward now really were, filled them Tvith a 
 horror which exceeds description. The dark 
 blood from the wound of the fallen landlord was 
 trickhng down, through the chinks of the hatch-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 way, within a few inches of the poor monarch's 
 head. In vain they tried to force the door. The 
 king bitterly whispered to Sir Edward Hales : 
 
 '' God help me ! — God's hand is hard upon 
 me and all who love me. It is sm-ely the blood 
 of om- guide — a gallant youth he appeared. Wlio 
 is he?" 
 
 "He must speak for himself by and bye," 
 answered Sii' Edward. 
 
 " How can he speak when he is slain ?" 
 
 " Nay, my Hege, say not so, I trust he will 
 yet prove om- deliverer. None attached to the 
 house of Stuart have such puddle blood as this 
 in theii- veins. — But hearken, they are raising 
 the hatchway." 
 
 And so it was ; for Ames, whose ample collops 
 of fat enveloped him, as if he were enclosed in 
 cushions of thick soft quilted armour, like the 
 pecuhar fashion of the times, had prevented the 
 pistol bullet from touching any vital part ; it had 
 only passed through this superabundance of 
 flesh; so that the young soldier, by letting so 
 much pent-up blood, prolonged rather than 
 shortened the man's life. His followers staunched 
 the blood and bound up his wound ; and he soon 
 raUied sufficiently to enter earnestly into the 
 secret councils of the schemers.
 
 154 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 " We want Father Petre, and Father Petre 
 we will have," cried the rabble. 
 
 " Hold, my fine fellows," says the high- 
 spirited cornet, " so sure as Father Petre ever 
 cumbered the sides of the hoy, so certain is it 
 that we flung him overboard, to find like Jonas a 
 bed in some whale's belly." 
 
 " That's your sort, " said the friendly old 
 sailor. 
 
 " Be aisy," cried the Irishwoman, who was 
 now recovering herself, " sure that's how the 
 hoy lost her ballast and danced about so light on 
 her heels, that she was dhrove in among yees. 
 And bad cess to the seed and creed of the spawn 
 that boards the darlint vessel, God bless her !" 
 
 The old man looked her into silence. The 
 fact is, a recognition had taken place between 
 the young soldier and the old tar. The latter 
 had served under James, when Duke of York, 
 and had not only seen Eobert Strickland as a 
 little boy, but had carried him on his shoulders 
 and made little vessels for him on board Admii-al 
 Sir Ptoger Strickland's own ship, or in his 
 yacht on cruises of pleasure. 
 
 The suspense which afflicted the king and 
 his companion in danger was now worse than 
 death. Strickland longed to relieve them, but
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 really knew not how without betraying their 
 rank. 
 
 " Let us try and speak them fair," says he 
 to the loyal old sailor. 
 
 The young man then addressed the careless 
 and desperate group. " I am quite ready," 
 he said, with composure, " to meet any terms 
 which my unhappy situation gives you the power 
 to enforce so far as honour allows. You have 
 but to name your demands and we will satisfy 
 them." 
 
 His experience of the people with whom he 
 had to deal, limited as it was, taught him that 
 money was eloquence more persuasive than 
 speech. Suiting the action to his words, he 
 drew out his purse, which contained a con- 
 siderable sum of gold. Ames remarked its 
 dimensions and its fullness wdtli an ugly gi'in, 
 which distorted his blubber lips and played 
 through his shaggy moustache like a gust of 
 wind over a thatched roof ; but could not with 
 the fell swoop which he desii-ed pounce on his 
 prey while so many hawks' eyes were upon him. 
 This was the reflection which went deeper than 
 the pistol balls. He looked at the ski2:>per. 
 The skipper made no sign. Some of the 
 hearers actually touched their sou-westers at
 
 156 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 the sight of the imprisoned shiners and the 
 sound of Strickland's promise. There was a 
 muttered sort of a greedy growl, like that of 
 wild beasts over their flesh meat. 
 
 " The gemman have behaved genteel, and 
 shall not be put upon," cried the old man of 
 the sea, and so saying he took Ames aside, 
 partly supporting him, as he v/as still weak 
 from loss of blood. In a few minutes they 
 returned and raised the hatchway, still wet 
 with the blood of Ames, and down they went 
 together. They find the king, who, though 
 unknown to all but his immediate friends, yet, 
 at the sight of these strange intruders, could 
 not conceal his uneasiness and trepidation, 
 though tenderly consoled by Sii' Edward Hales. 
 
 " I knows them," says Ames, recovering his 
 boldness, "the last is Sir Ed'ard 'Ales. Thee 
 besant the man to do good to the ' Ship.' One 
 good turn desarves another. But, Sir Ed'ard, 
 what's 'tother bird in the cage ? ' Birds of a 
 feather flock together.' Who stowed 'em there ? 
 A priest I'se warrant," saymg this he shook his 
 shock head and grinned like gi'im death. " It is 
 Father Petre ; I knows him by his lean jaws. 
 Search the hatchet-faced old Jesuit." The old 
 sailor, Strickland, who had followed them down
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 157 
 
 the hatchway, and Ames conferred together for 
 some time, when Sir Edward, who was treated 
 as the principal in the business, guessing the 
 subject of the conversation, addressed Ames per- 
 suasively, and observed that he had better send 
 his companions away, and thereby secure to him- 
 self the liberal ransom which he, Sir Edward, 
 would pay him down in gold. 
 
 " Catch a weasel asleep with his eyes open," 
 says the cunning publican. '' What's yourn is 
 mine, and what's mine is my own. A papist is 
 a papist, and money is money," adds he with a 
 fi-ightful wink. " Down with the dust." 
 
 Sii* Edward Hales, seeing that he was the 
 leader of the gang, handed him a purse contain- 
 ing fifty guineas, and promised him one hundred 
 more if he would allow them to pursue their 
 com'se. Ames took the money, and promised to 
 go on shore ^dth his party, over whom he had 
 an uncontrollable influence, and pledged himself 
 to promote the escape of these passengers ; but 
 before he left the cabin, persuaded them to give 
 up all which they most valued into his hands, 
 as he could not answer for his rough customers, 
 he said. The king handed him three hundred 
 guineas, all the money which he had about 
 him, and also bis watch ; the jewels they
 
 158 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 deemed valueless, for they took them for bits 
 of glass. 
 
 In this extremity, true to his business-like 
 habits, James demanded and obtained the fellow's 
 receipt for those trifles. No sooner was Ames 
 off with his rich booty, than his men, who hated 
 and feared him, pressed rudely about his Majesty. 
 
 The outcry of the day and the place, the ner- 
 vous dread which fevered every good Protestant, 
 justified the most exorbitant demands on the 
 suspected. The capture of a disguised Jesuit 
 was a regular prize. To let him off was to be 
 guilty of a crime only less heinous than that of 
 being a plotter. Justices' justice was more the 
 result of terror than of tyi-anny. The ruffians, 
 therefore, had nothing to fear from any brutal 
 assault which they might make upon those on 
 whom they detected the mark of the beast. They 
 were accordingly insisting upon searching the 
 person of the king, w^hen Cornet Strickland 
 sprang to his side with a pistol in his left hand 
 and a casket of jewels in his right, which, though 
 not severely wounded, was stiff. " Take this," he 
 cried, '^ or take that — which you prefer. A bullet 
 for the first man who lays a hand on the defence- 
 less gentleman who has given three hundred 
 guineas to your honest friend Ames, or," holding
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 159 
 
 up the casket to the glimmering light of a lamp, 
 " this casket, which will pay you better than 
 treachery to two gentlemen who never injured 
 you." 
 
 Hales interposed with a sword in one hand 
 and a pistol in the other. The ruffians pre- 
 ferred the jewels and trinkets of gold to the 
 inferior metal with which the fire-arms were 
 loaded. The miscreants made off with their 
 prey. In the mean time James had secured 
 beneath his under garments some sacred emblems 
 of his faith, his coronation ring, and, what he 
 valued more, three great diamond bodkins, which 
 the queen had left behind her. 
 
 Under the impression that the marauders had 
 made off with their illgotten gains. Sir Edward 
 ascended the stairs, or rather ladder, with the 
 intention of exploring the deck, hoping to find 
 the coast clear, and the crew working the craft 
 out of danger ; when, to his horror, he found the 
 hatchway was battened down. 
 
 The little party were prisoners. They heard 
 a clamour overhead. Next came the nautical 
 language and monotonous song to which the 
 anchor was heaved up. Then the rush and tramp 
 of feet were heard upon deck. The hauling of 
 ropes, the measured cries of the sailors, and the
 
 160 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 stern command of the skipper. At this hour 
 the tide had risen, the wind was favourahle, and 
 it was hut too clear to the mind of James that 
 the hoy was under weigh for Faversham. The 
 thought mastered him ; he fell into a fit of des- 
 pair, followed by a state of stupor, from which 
 he was only aroused by the grating of the boat 
 against the beach. The hatchway was raised, 
 and Ames waddled down into the dungeon below.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 161 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
 
 Than that of painted Pomp ? Are not these woods 
 
 More free from peril than the envious Court ? — Shakespeare. 
 
 Scenes of suflfering and sorrow, while they 
 invite our sympathy, afford but a melancholy 
 theme " to point a moral or adorn a tale." 
 Eight gladly, therefore, do we now turn for 
 a change from the unmitigated wretchedness 
 which the fallen monarch has brought upon 
 himself, and out of which he sees no escape, 
 to the tranquil beauty of the free and open 
 country of Oxfordshire and Berks, as it slopes 
 down to either side of the Thames. 
 
 To emerge into the pure air of Heaven from 
 the abodes of pent-up misery is refreshing to 
 the mind. To quit for a moment even the 
 splendom- of a crowded court, its glittering gauds 
 aud heart- sickening strifes and stratagems, must 
 ever be a real blessing to those whose narrow 
 realms are usually bounded by selfish interests 
 and petty triumphs. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Leave these, gentle reader, in the haunts of 
 mean magnificence, and the pangs which they 
 inflict, the paltry palaces of princes ; and follow 
 us to the sky-canopied temple, — follow us to 
 sylvan saloons carpeted with gTeen and flowered 
 with daisies, — embowered temples in secluded 
 glades, where Natm-e holds her tranquil court, — 
 what though no glorious flood of summer sun 
 lights up the landscape, and stripped of their 
 honours as are the arching houghs which meet 
 over the recesses of the Thames ; yet,* how 
 grand and how noble is the solemnity enshrined 
 in that cold sylvan solitude ! 
 
 To the young, especially, in the glow of their 
 youthful emotions, such spots amid the dingle 
 or bushy dell, the mid woods and water, have 
 a charm — a world of bliss. The redbreast still 
 warbled round the leafless coves, wooing, as it 
 were, the " calm decay " and stillness of De- 
 cember. Evergreens were among the trees 
 what the robin was among birds, and both had 
 a classic chant which blended in harmony Tsith 
 the ripple and the sough of the wind, calling 
 upon man to drive fierce passion fi-om his breast 
 and be at peace. 
 
 Such was the divine eloquence of natm-e on 
 one winter's morning little less than two cen-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 163 
 
 times ago. The meadows were silvered over 
 with frozen dew, but the sparkling rime was 
 disappearing before the influence of the sun, 
 bursting into short-lived glory — except in the 
 long and varied shadows cast by the trees, 
 where the frosted tracery remained unthawed and 
 as brilliant as ever ; like faithful friendship, deep 
 and \dsible in the dark shadow of adversity. So 
 much depends on the state of mind of the 
 beholder, and the weather, in which he passes 
 through a countiy, that what appears beautiful to 
 him one day may be uninteresting, or even 
 painful another, especially if the sights or sounds 
 form a contrast to the tone of his feehngs- 
 
 To the general observer the banks of the 
 Thames are, we must admit, more remarkable for 
 their merchandise and sober aspect of civilisa- 
 tion than for natural beauties, especially below 
 London. Yet, even amid the almost viewless 
 marshes and retreating vales we catch gHmpses 
 of the picturesque as well as the useful. The 
 landscapes, like those who people them, need a 
 close and patient obseiwation to be duly appre- 
 ciated. Both improve on nearer acquaintance. 
 
 The travelled eye, which dehghts in varied 
 prospects, loves to rest on bolder scenery. 
 
 The features of England are young. Her 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 venerable cathedrals, time-honoured churches 
 and ancient castles, even in their ruins, form a 
 solemn contrast to the general aspect of the 
 country. 
 
 The mellowed and autumnal tints and hues of 
 advanced, unbroken, sacred old age, which shade 
 the faces of other countries are lost in the young 
 and yet the matter-of-fact, the ever present 
 interests of England. 
 
 Nothing, however, can be more picturesque 
 than some of the clustering cottages and half- 
 concealed hamlets, w^hich nestle among woods 
 and dot the teeming country along the rich 
 slopes of the Thames, as it winds its way through 
 fertile gi'oves and meads. 
 
 The banks of the Thames are in many places 
 fringed with evergreens and studded with pleasant 
 villas. 
 
 How many changes has this river witnessed 
 in the land through which it flows ! How many 
 human beings has it borne to giief or to joy ! 
 What diplomatic stratagems, what civil wars 
 have been matured on its banks, into political 
 revolutions, while one dynasty has only been 
 levelled, to erect another on its ruins ! 
 
 Yet even amid such scenes and memories, 
 nature triumphs over every vicissitude, and
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 165 
 
 survives unchangeable and unchanged. Not only 
 the eternal mountain clothed in snow and throned 
 in clouds ; but the lowly river, which wanders 
 through the scenes of the varied changes to 
 which it conduced, bears no trace of age or 
 wrinkle, and still retains the character of its 
 youth. 
 
 On the day which we commemorate in this 
 chapter, the winds breathed plaintively through 
 the reeds. A pleasant sadness reigned over the 
 water. 
 
 Of the many beautiful windings of the Thames 
 there are none more picturesque than those 
 situated in the neighbourhood of Nuneham, 
 Eeading, and Henley. Emerging from the 
 seclusion of these reaches on the morning we 
 have mentioned, might be seen through a break 
 in the trees, an eight- oared boat, built according 
 to the fashion of the period, well manned. The 
 stout heavy-built concern, bore about the same 
 proportion to the swift, elegant and graceful 
 Oxford or Cambridge build of the present day 
 as a clumsy di-ay-horse bears to a fleet and high- 
 bred racer. The crew seemed well selected, 
 hale, merry-hearted, somewhat stouter, but yet 
 younger than the picked men of our day ; 
 evidently trained more by hardy sports and
 
 166 THE loyalist's daughtep. 
 
 habitual out-door life to physical exertion and 
 athletic exercises than by any prescribed regime 
 or privation. There was a slighter figure at the 
 helm ; but this youth, probably not exceeding 
 sixteen years, made up in sinew and hardness 
 for a greater and less eligible weight. 
 
 There is nothing, not even the manners, habits, 
 costume of Oxford men themselves, which has 
 undei-gone a gi-eater change than vessels and 
 boats of every description, especially according 
 to the ever varying cut of Oxford and Cam- 
 lu'idge, during our own quarter of a century. To 
 rebuild on paper the very best boat of the 17th 
 century would simply be to reconstruct a 
 monster only less hideous than a steam-tug. 
 The only thing unchanged in our memoiy con- 
 nected with boats are the names of the builders. 
 
 The fabric which hove in sight was all but 
 flat bottomed — a mere tub to the enlightened 
 eyes of an Oxford man of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury. The stroke, however, was regular in 
 measured melody, but not the time of the light 
 lively move of *' thirty- six to the minute." 
 Whether the young Oxford of that day displayed 
 their ro^dng powers in the " dark blue," or 
 rejoiced in the party-coloured and fantastic 
 drapery which variegates the Isis now- a- days,
 
 THE loyalist's daughtee. 167 
 
 faithful history does not record. However this 
 may be, the crew were, at any rate, uniform, 
 though destitute of that dash and finished per- 
 formance which distinguish our sprightly con- 
 temporaries on the river. The boat shot steadily 
 a-head at every stroke, but the peculiar style 
 of her crew seemed calculated for endurance, 
 and judging fi*om the liberal provisions and the 
 abundance of good cheer which still remained on 
 board, a mere stranger might come to the con- 
 clusion, that, unwieldy as she was, her course 
 had been from Oxford, and that at this ungenial 
 season she was on an expedition either of ad- 
 ventm-e or pleasure, or both, which few men 
 of the present generation would be hardy enough 
 to undei-take. 
 
 '' Now we are in smooth water," cried the 
 boatswain ; ''all settle down to your work for 
 a few minutes with a good will, and send her 
 spinning round this turning." A few more long, 
 strong, steady pulls with the oars deep in the 
 water, brought the boat into a small creek, so 
 sheltered by the high grounds and copses to 
 windward of them, that the water was as un- 
 ruffled as the sleep of an infant. A calm still- 
 ness stole over the scene. 
 
 '' She's a first-rate vessel," says No. 2.
 
 168 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 " And a jolly crew," quietly observes the 
 steersman. 
 
 " I never thought we could have made such 
 way, by Jupiter," breaks in No. 3. And while 
 all rested themselves under the sunny bank, 
 wine or something quite as powerful went freely 
 round after the rural meal they had enjoyed in 
 the boat, and even some claret, which might 
 have found acceptance with the most critical of 
 the Dons, and other di'inks far superior to Sherry 
 Cobbler, or any of the present substitutes for the 
 juice of the vine, unless the undergi-aduates have 
 them from the Governor's bin. 
 
 The generous drink had begun to work a 
 joyful influence upon the party. 
 
 " We shall be too late," sang out the captain. 
 
 *' Too late for that claret," shouts out a youth 
 who had evinced a copious capacity for the best 
 beverage of his time, but who never exceeded a 
 bottle at a sitting. He kept a steady look out 
 as helmsman, and steered his course upon the 
 Scylla and Charybdis principle. 
 
 " I recommend a bumper of that mellow old 
 port," says Harry Hough, " which my uncle, 
 the President, with difficulty saved from the 
 clutches of that semi-popish Bishop Parker, or 
 his proxy ; whom the king, God save his
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 Majesty, thrust into our President's lodgings 
 a year ago." 
 
 " Ay, and we shared his punishment for 
 our contumacy," struck in No. 8, who had 
 never heen able to recover his position. " What 
 a jolly laugh we had at old Jimmy when he lost 
 his temper and self-respect at Christ Church ! 
 Let us all then drink this same bumper, to the 
 honom* and glory of the liberator, the brave 
 Prince of Orange, the Protestant Protector and 
 Potentate." 
 
 Scarcely had the words escaped the young 
 man's lips, when his eight companions rose as 
 one man, and as from one mouth their indigna- 
 tion found vent in one unmitigated hiss, which 
 convulsed the boat and made her tremble in 
 every joint, so that she seemed like a vast snake 
 hissing out her fury and her venom. 
 
 " The swilltub, the gingutted rake, the rap- 
 scallion Dutch dog ! Eagle nosed Billy ! " 
 
 The topic of the day had painfully occupied 
 the young men's minds, and suggested their 
 present plans. But never as a body had the 
 University, for a moment, in thought, word, or 
 deed, been disloyal to their king. 
 
 " There was a pause, a fearful pause," well 
 nigh -prophetic of the end of the disloyal
 
 170 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 speaker ; to whom the epithets of " traitor, rebel, 
 &c.," were merciful to what seemed in store for 
 him. 
 
 Twice he essayed to explain — twice he tried 
 to qualify what had fallen from him — t^dce he 
 attempted to draw the attention to one Francis 
 Alban, a Benedictine monk — Mr. Anthony 
 Farmer, the sot, and what was worse, the papist. 
 Three times did he make the most violent efforts 
 to make himself heard in a direct appeal to their 
 personal feelings and interests, in order to arouse 
 their resentment and evoke their concurrence. 
 
 " After the war waged by the mighty monarch 
 of three crocus against a small literary society 
 over whom, on the richest foundation in Em-ope, 
 he would obtrude a papist as president, in de- 
 fence of our own vested rights and immemorial 
 privileges when he expelled, or to say the 
 least rusticated, no less than fourteen of us 
 Demies " 
 
 A roar of derisive lauo^hter, which voun*? men 
 can best give, and a renewed storm of hisses and 
 other inhuman sounds dl•o^^-ned the speech and 
 shook the very timbers of the boat. Amid the 
 uproar Hough, standing at the stern uncovered, 
 made the remote and secluded recesses of the 
 woods ring again with " Here's health and hap-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 171 
 
 piness, and a long reign oyer us, to our lawful 
 sovereign, King James II." In which toast the 
 offender was compelled to join, apparently with 
 much energy, if not real heartiness. 
 
 " By the altar of Paphos," exclaims Hough, 
 ''the very woods are stiU re-echoing with our 
 loyalty, and we may sacrifice our noble selves 
 to our nobler cause in this adventure, unless 
 we can restrain these outbursts, which may 
 reach some insurgent squire in his unseen 
 mansion." 
 
 " By the hammer of Vulcan," swears No. 5, 
 ' ' We will drive this can on his head for a helmet 
 who fii'st talks poHtics, popery, or priestcraft. 
 By the Th}Tsus of Bacchus, a second bottle 
 of that fine old port shall drown all anger and 
 heal aU wounds which the first bottle has made." 
 
 '' By the aegis of Jupiter we shall want a better 
 roof than a winter sky, and may not loiter here 
 aU day," cries another. 
 
 "Would you actually fight for the king, 
 against William of Nassau ?" demanded the crew 
 of Harry Hough, but without waiting for his 
 reply, went on — " Consider that hitherto there 
 has been but one Catholic bishop in England — 
 Dr. Leyburn ; but three others, Phihp Ellis, a 
 monk, Dr. Gifi'ard, and Dr. Smith, were ap-
 
 172 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 pointed on the 30tli of last January. Already,'* 
 chimed in the crew, " the kingdom is divided 
 into fom- districts, one of which was allotted to 
 each on the 20th of last July." 
 
 " By the scissors of Atropos," impatiently 
 declares the stroke oar, " unless you cut these 
 questions short, and merge all the hitter recol- 
 lections of the past which only poison the pre- 
 sent we shall never be able to pull in the same 
 boat." 
 
 Although the mirth of the young men had 
 now become cheerful rather than boisterous, 
 each had spoken enough, if not precisely the 
 sentiments of all ; and any one of the crew had 
 di'unk enough for an ordinary occasion. 
 
 Various and many were the liquors which 
 even at this period, it w^ould appear, were ap- 
 preciated by Oxford men. 
 
 One cried out, " If there is contention in the 
 wine, let us have a pull at the ' huff cap.' " 
 
 '^ 1 prefer the ' mad dog' this cold weather," 
 says another, " when he does not bite." 
 
 "If he bite," cry Nos. 3 and 4 at the same 
 time, " a hair out of the dog which bit you is 
 the best cure. The stuff for us is angels' food." 
 
 " I call it dragon's milk," remarks No. 5, with 
 a knowing wink, and quaffs off a foaming
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 tankard of something which looked Hke strong 
 beer. 
 
 The rest of the men declared their predilec- 
 tion for " go by the wall," suiting their action to 
 their words. These yomig gentlemen gaily ap- 
 plied many epithets of endearment to the stores 
 which Hough, their good Acestes, had stowed 
 away. 
 
 '' You remind me," says that prudent gen- 
 tleman, " of what our butler said to the porter 
 and his assistant whom he found muddled in the 
 cellar — '* You lug away at the old October, as 
 pigs lugging at their dam's teats." Whereupon 
 there was a murmur against such vulgarity, and 
 a threat to sconce the speaker ; who went on as 
 if he heard them not, " or to be more classical 
 and to keep clear of the Isthmus of Suez, like 
 Romulus and Eemus, when they emulated each 
 other in sucking the wolf." 
 
 Like young life in evei-y age of the world, this 
 joyous company had their entrancing, their ecs- 
 tatic deHghts, their triumphs over difficulties, 
 their exultation in their strength. Partial success, 
 at least so far, had crowned their struggles. 
 They only required elder men's praise to come 
 pleasantly to their ears and confirm their self- 
 confidence.
 
 174 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 The victories of heroism they had won, by 
 their devotion to the monarch to whom they 
 owed nothing but loyalty. Noble endurance, 
 trials of temptation met and conquered, had filled 
 each with proper self-esteem. Self-interest and 
 even Protestantism had been less dear to 
 them than their hererlitarv thousfh misoniided 
 kinof. 
 
 The mind of youth is deeply susceptible of 
 impressions, made generally by its own preju- 
 dices and passions, but more indelibly impressed 
 by the opinions of others and strengthened by 
 experience — impressions which time can seldom 
 deface or destroy. 
 
 For instance, the youth who would oust his 
 king and drink the health of an usurper had 
 been personally wounded and injured ; he attri- 
 buted his injury to a Catholic king, and hated 
 the religion on account of the wrong with which 
 he associated his giievance and his trial. The 
 rest were identified with Oxford, and governed 
 by the spirit of forbearance and loyalty which 
 distinguished the members of that university. 
 
 The discontented youth, in the spring of life, 
 in that bright season, when the soaring heaven- 
 winged bii'd of hope sang most sweetly in his 
 ears at the very gate of his eai-thly Paradise
 
 THE loyalist's daughtee. 175 
 
 had been diiven an outcast from the fertile field 
 of his aspii'ations. 
 
 Oh ! false and faithless hopes of soaring 
 youth ! the syren voice too often seduces thee to 
 the rocks of ruin, which prove the shipwreck of 
 thy fortune . We gaily quaif the rosy cup of 
 nectar, and find too late that disappointment is 
 at the bottom. 
 
 How pleasantly the hours of that winter's 
 morning wore on, and fancy led the mazy dance 
 of coming joys. It was, amid surrounding con- 
 flicts and heart-rending strifes, a happy day to 
 the young boatmeii, — full of pure enjoyment ; 
 and willingly, too willingly, would I pause on 
 it long and relate the word:^ of bliss, and hope, 
 and even love, which, in the bright glow of 
 youthful emotion, were spoken by rather more 
 than half of the expelled and restored under- 
 graduates of Magdalen College, beneath the 
 transient gleam of a December sun — so beauti- 
 fully expressive of their fortunes. I would 
 rather depict the feelings which brightened that 
 glad hour. AYillingly too, would I veil the 
 darker scenes before them. Willingly would 
 I transport myself to the days of my boyhood 
 on the Isis or the Thames, with the choice 
 few whom I loved and have lost, or with the
 
 176 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 one college friend whom still I retain ! I would 
 linger and loiter in the sunshine of the hour 
 under that well-wooded bank, then so bright 
 and so fresh, and contrast it with the dark 
 cloud which has come over our prospects on 
 this side Heaven, and shrouded the childi-en 
 of imagination in death or in gloom. Fate or 
 Destiny, or call it what you will, is moving in- 
 evitably forward, " omnia in pejus ruere " — we 
 must on. I would not change the dream for 
 its fulfilment — the wished object for the event. 
 *' Man calls a wish : that comes; he says he 
 called another." The flowers which unfolded 
 their loveliness in the dream have faded since 
 he awoke ; their very fragrance is gone. The 
 shrine of our idol is empty, — our companions, 
 though dead, it is true, still speak, but only 
 from the catacombs of our memory and the 
 graves of our hopes. 
 
 But as our object is to let all parties speak for 
 themselves, we have only to observe in justice 
 to the Oxford undergraduates of the 17th cen- 
 tury, that neither the extraordinary exertions of 
 their adventure, nor its excitement, nor novelty, 
 induced them to exceed the social pleasure of 
 sobriety. The exhilarating potations of those 
 days were strong and copious ,• but the under-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 177 
 
 graduates bracing were stronger and the under- 
 current of their thoughts deeper. 
 
 At no moment of theii' aquatic festivity did 
 their indulgence arise to the orgies of Bacchus, 
 or practically illustrate the sentiments of the 
 classic vinous poets of their studies. Their 
 carousing cups and libations, were far too 
 powerful for a reading man of the present day, 
 or even a book-wonn of that period. " Vinum 
 locutum est," in the person of the deprived and 
 unrestored Demy. But by the suppression of 
 disloyalty and dissension complete good humour 
 prevailed. The solitude and repose of the 
 whole scene, though rather cold, had such an 
 attraction for the young men, that in its monastic 
 seclusion they appeared to forget the object 
 whatever it was, of their voyage, until reminded 
 by Hough, that such rest could not last for ever. 
 " But where is the king now, and where can we 
 see his Majesty?" demanded half the crew at once. 
 •'* The only thing we can learn for certain,'* 
 said the steersman, "is, that the conditions im- 
 posed upon his Majesty are that each army 
 should remain at the distance of forty miles 
 from the capital. William has accordingly 
 agreed not to advance within forty miles of 
 London the next three days." 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 " If so," observed Parker, who was the stroke 
 oar, and a distant relation of the discomfited 
 Bishop of Oxford, ''the king may abeady be 
 near Reading, where we may offer him our 
 homage and services." 
 
 " How can you vouch for the ti*uth of this 
 report ?" asks the quondam Demy, who had 
 ceased to be a member of the University, and 
 who was innocent of Jacobite principles. 
 
 " The contradictory tidings and absurd reports 
 of the newspapers," rejoined Hough, " are as 
 silly as they are false. The President had the 
 earliest and most probable intelligence from 
 Ellis, Pepys, or Evel}Ti, or some of those late 
 fellows, who enter all the events of these stormy 
 times in a ledger." 
 
 '' A jom-nal or diary, you mean, Hough," 
 chimed in the crew. 
 
 " I speak," said the steersman ; " mider cor- 
 rection. Still, their system of book-keeping is 
 Italian, or double - entiy ; so that at a decided 
 turn of fortune, a balance may be made out to 
 the credit of the nephew, or tender father, or 
 son-in-law, according to the profits or losses of 
 either side ; making a safe book in favom- of the 
 winner, well hedged against losses." 
 
 Whatever miorht be the intended diift of this
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 179 
 
 last remark, the unsophisticated, unsuspecting, 
 and disinterested loyalists either did not clearly 
 see the advantage of such arithmetic, or cared 
 not for the authority farther than it might direct 
 then- movements, and decide the rest of their 
 joiu-ney. There was a pause, after which, all 
 the yoimg men, as is but too common in such 
 cases of difficulty or doubt, began to advance 
 separate and inconsistent opinions ; each was 
 more ready to give his counsel than the rest of 
 the company were to receive it. 
 
 One proposed that they should return to 
 Oxford. Another, that they should at least 
 rest for the night at Henley or Reading. No. 8 
 went so far as to insist upon London as their 
 destination. Even the most thoughtful of the 
 party showed by the advice which they offered 
 that they neither understood the state of the 
 country, nor the nature or extent of the political 
 warfare which di\dded it. 
 
 " There is, if I remember rightly," said 
 Hough, " a jovial old squire, my uncle by 
 man-iage, with whom I used to hunt in this 
 neighbourhood, when I was at school at 
 Reading ; if we could but fall in with him, 
 he would give us such countenance and counsel 
 as would meet your approbation, and bring us 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 to a safe and liappy decision. We cannot be 
 far from the Oxford Road, somewhere about half 
 way between Henley and Maidenhead." 
 
 " Come Tate, my boy," says he to the dis- 
 possest Demy, '' and let us go in quest of the 
 fine old gentleman," for he wished to protect 
 the unpopular youth. No sooner, however, 
 was the proposal made than there was a regular 
 mutiny and a bm'st of discontent, which threat- 
 ened to disperse the crew and to defeat their 
 object, when the distant music of a pack of 
 hounds caught their delighted ear. All traces 
 of the frost had by this time disappeared, and 
 the dogs had evidently taken up the scent ; but 
 they were still far away, for the well-known 
 notes barely reached the ear on the '' southerly 
 wind," but under no " cloudy sky." The 
 council which w^as so near breaking up without 
 any satisfactory conclusion resumed theii- places 
 in the boat, and brought their heads down on 
 a level with the bank of the river to drink in the 
 charming sounds. 
 
 Prince, Protestant or Papist was all the 
 same to the Jacobites or poor Tate at this 
 moment. 
 
 The cover lay in a valley almost low enough 
 to be called a marsh, watered by a stream which
 
 THE LOYALIST'S DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 now occupied a bed that in summer formed a 
 road. There were gentle slopes on either side 
 clothed with rushes and moss, and behind and 
 stretching away there was a wide plain through 
 which this offshoot of the main river wriggled, 
 sometimes visible, sometimes hidden in a wooded 
 glen. It seemed to subside into a sheet of 
 water. 
 
 The neighbom-ing country, whether on the 
 Oxford or the Berkshire side, varied but little 
 in surface, though at this period well wooded. 
 There was nothing to interrupt the view of 
 the chase so far as the eye could take in the 
 prospect. In this pleasant station the young 
 men enjoyed a full view of the exciting run 
 in which they longed to be actors. Both sides 
 of the valley were now occupied by groups on 
 foot or horseback, as the most practised sports- 
 men beHeved the fox would take this direc- 
 tion. 
 
 On the Oxford Koad which led to Henley 
 might abeady be seen, though not yet by the 
 Demies, many equipages, cumbersome and un- 
 wieldy, but still gay and gaudy ; some of which 
 were filled with ladies, whose waving feathers 
 and fluttering colours heightened the effect of 
 the low and lonely landscape, and gave that
 
 182 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 variety of beauty and brightness in which Eng- 
 land so seldom rejoices. 
 
 The keenest of the spoi-tsmen were fearful 
 of a check, and remained behind lest they 
 should overrun the game, and others even 
 walked through the thick cover, earnestly 
 watching the dogs as they sprung from copse 
 to copse, and made the woods and waters 
 vibrate mth the deep notes which had reached 
 the boatmen. 
 
 ** The fox is starting mth the wind, — they 
 are off. What raspers are the fences, and how 
 heavy the ground !" 
 
 "Not they," cried Hough. "They're still 
 hunting the old fox in the Hazel cover, — he 
 may not break away this half hour or more." 
 
 " He is breaking, by Nimrod," says No. 8. 
 
 " By the little foxes which set the barley field 
 on fire, Reynard will not stir till the dogs are 
 right on him," says No. 7. 
 
 Tate deemed that the hounds had even been 
 together in full chase. 
 
 No. 5 slightly retorted " that may be so ; 
 there is a babbler in every pack, which gives 
 tongue when he is at fault." 
 
 The sounds came nearer and still more near 
 the boat, until at length the yoimg men heard,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 183 
 
 " Tally ho ! there they go." The shout seemed 
 to re-echo from a hundred clear, strong voices, 
 as the hounds now really for the first time in 
 full cry burst from the cover in one compact 
 mass, rising the intervening hill wliich had con- 
 cealed them. The young men were in ecstacy, 
 and only longed for horses. As quick as 
 lightning every horse was away except a little 
 gi'oup which sm-rounded an elderly gentleman. 
 The restrained animals bounded and plunged 
 with impatience. The huntsman and the master 
 of the hounds were first down the hill, and over 
 the very creek or recess of the river, in which 
 the Oxford boat was sheltered. Red coat after 
 red coat followed not a hundred yards above 
 their bow ; the breadth was incredible ; but the 
 horses and men gallantly cleared it, all riding 
 safely and well. 
 
 The young men forgot everything which 
 might once have been heavy on their hearts as 
 they watched youths of their own age and 
 station take the brook flying. More than one 
 of their own acquaintances at college they re- 
 cognised, especially the Honourable O'Brian 
 Clare on an Irish hunter. 
 
 " Now look," says his friend No. 7, as his 
 whole face beamed with excitement ; " that
 
 184 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 fellow knows his horse and his horse knows 
 him." He was ascending the hill in a sharp 
 canter, which he slackened in his descent 
 towards the boat. 
 
 " Just look how he holds him together," 
 cried Hough, " and sits him as if he were part 
 and parcel of the noble animal." 
 
 To the utter amazement of all he was actually 
 upon them before he could pull up without a 
 regular smash. 
 
 The L-ishman cried out — " Ai-e his hind legs 
 well forward?" 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 The young man, with one cut of his whip, 
 rose his horse to the full height of the boat, 
 and at the same instant sinonnff out, " Now, 
 Faugh- a-ballagh ! " he gave a wild Irish screech, 
 which no one but a wild Irishman could give, 
 and which no animal but an Iiish horse could 
 understand. 
 
 " That's the way to take it, my hearties," 
 cries the Honourable O'Brian, as he literally 
 flew right over the boat, and came down with 
 the lightness of a bii'd. 
 
 Had he thrown his grandmother, who was 
 descended from Brian Boru, " right up against 
 the moon," he could not have electrified the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 185 
 
 Saxon minds of those over whom he so unex- 
 pectedly leaped, with gi-eater astonishment. 
 
 Should the accomplished horseman of our 
 own day, considering the width of the brook, 
 doubt the possibility of such an achievement 
 as this veracious narrative here records, the 
 writer can only say that he himself, in a des- 
 perate run at the foot of the mountain of Forth, 
 in the county of Wexford, witnessed when a 
 boy a still more daring exploit. A middle-aged 
 huntsman, called old Parle, a seasoned vessel, 
 who had a wonderful capacity for whisky, after 
 tossing off two glasses of neat poteen at a shi- 
 been house under a rock, and making glad the 
 heart of his " haste'' with a portion of a third, 
 took a leap a few minutes after, when the fox 
 broke away from a furze cover and the hounds 
 were in full cry, which far exceeded that near 
 Henley-on-Thames neai'ly two centuries ago. 
 He rushed pall-mall at a stone wall on the side 
 of the mountain, obliquely descending towards 
 Sledagh, and as he himself expressed it, ''put 
 a shout under" his fierce horse, which re-echoed 
 from rock to rock, and before you could say 
 " Paddy Murphy," was at the opposite side of a 
 road, no boreen, but a road upwards of sixteen 
 feet between the walls, where two jingles, or
 
 186 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 jaunting cars, could pass each other on their 
 road to Wexford. He appeared to lift the 
 skinny, long-legged horse rather than tax him 
 with his weight. He gave him a cut of the 
 whip, and a screech, and cleared two stone walls 
 and the road between them. 
 
 But then, valiant gentlemen and still more 
 dauntless ladies, should you ever aspii*e to such 
 celebrity, let us entreat you for your safety and 
 your renown, never to " look before you leap." 
 To look is to be floored, to be thrown out of the 
 saddle, and out of the chase ; in Ireland to be 
 "spilt " and to be " kilt." But this L'ish horse 
 of the Irish Oxonian has carried us away too far 
 from the course. 
 
 The dogs, true to their instinct, followed close 
 upon the trail of the fox, and eagerly sniffed in 
 the delicious odour. The hunters were rushing 
 forwards with reckless haste regardless of the 
 treacherous and swampy nature of the moss- 
 covered gi'ound. For some time there was no 
 check, no rebuke, recalling the hounds to their 
 duty. But " now then, forward Brushwood, 
 hark away, Jowler, yoicks, Babler, Pompey, &c.," 
 and such exhortations were heard. Everything 
 promised an excellent prospect of prolonged 
 sport and a fair run ; when the old dog fox, lil5:e
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 187 
 
 other animals, bipeds, as well as quadrupeds, 
 making up for his weakness by cunning, became 
 too wily, where not too swift for his pursuers. 
 He crossed and recrossed the brook, plunged 
 himself into every slough to deaden the scent, 
 so that for ten minutes the hounds were at fault. 
 At length, however, once more the full pack 
 bm'sting from a thicket, followed by the most 
 dashing of the sportsmen, took the brook about 
 a hundi-ed yards under the bow of the Magdalen 
 boat. The fox was at this time well off and the 
 dogs after him in full cry ; while the horses were 
 partly swimming and partly jumping in the water 
 which few of them could clear. Many of the 
 " look-before-you-leap " riders had fallen over 
 their horses' heads or had passed over a bridge a 
 little higher up the stream, making a circuit. 
 The crew who themselves were all keen sports- 
 men, were regi'etting their hard fate which left 
 them " nowhere," when an apparition passed 
 before their astonished eyes, and in an instant 
 interrupted their regrets and their observations.
 
 188 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER X. . 
 
 Her form was fresher than the morning rose, 
 "When the dew wets its leaves : unstain'd and pure 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow. — Anon, 
 
 Not since the memorable day on which the 
 Oxford reading man recollecting himself sud- 
 denly pulled up in the hottest moment of an 
 exciting chase, and cried " Oh ! my lectm-e ! — 
 my Livy lecture at two o'clock !" has there been 
 anything so unsportsman-like and critically 
 " slow " as our division of chapters in the midst 
 of the hunt. 
 
 We left the horses and their riders in full 
 pursuit, — some floundering and plunging in the 
 brook, and some more fortunate, riding before 
 the wind having crossed the water. The hounds 
 were yelping and bai-king mth their heads up, 
 or baying a long deep note : the huntsman en- 
 couraging this dog by name, and abusing that, 
 until off they went again in full cry. The few 
 stragglers brought up the rear ; but a gi-adual dip 
 of the ground on the Berkshire side of the Thames
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 concealed the group, whom we before noticed as 
 lingering behind. They had now descended the 
 slope, and it was from this hollow that there 
 arose to the \iew of the young men a rider, who 
 seemed recklessly, at full speed, to rush furiously 
 through, rather than over, yawning trenches, 
 dowTi headlong to the widest part of the stream, 
 where it began to retire from the Thames. 
 
 "By the girdle of Venus! there's a lady!" 
 cried Hough. 
 
 " No, by St. Hubei-t it's a man," cries Parker. 
 
 A nearer approach clearly revealed to all a 
 lady, elegantly mounted on a thorough-bred 
 horse, or at least a steed with more of the racer 
 than the hunter in him. Jet black he was, ex- 
 cept here and there spots like snow flakes, which 
 the foam from the bridle bits had thrown upon 
 him. 
 
 The huntress, as far as the Oxonians had 
 time to observe, was a lovely young woman, the 
 striking beauty of whose animated features was 
 rendered still more beautiful by the glow of 
 exercise in the chase. She wore a close-fitting 
 coat or vest, and a hat, her attire resembling in 
 a great degree that of a man ; so that Parker at 
 first sight might easily have mistaken her sex. 
 Indeed, her riding habit so nearly approached
 
 190 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 the present fashion that we can scarcely fancy it 
 of so old a date. 
 
 Her long waves of auburn hair streamed in 
 the breeze, ha^dng in the hurry of the chase 
 escaped from the imprisonment of ribands into 
 the free ah- of heaven. Her horse had e\idently 
 been so long restrained, that he was frantic with 
 impatience, and though she rode down the 
 marshy decline with an admu-able address which 
 would have brought her in at the death (if that 
 fox were doomed to die that day) had not the 
 high spii-ited animal's ears been so often greeted 
 by the sounds which he could not resist, and 
 which rendered him unmanageable, for his proper 
 place was the first in the field. The marshy 
 gi'ound retarded his pace, but still it was too 
 swift and unmeasm-ed for the tremendous leap 
 which lay before her. '' Not so fast, not so fast," 
 cried one and all of the crew imploringly ; but 
 she heard them not, or the horse obeyed not her 
 directions. 
 
 Hough, who was now at the helm, for all had 
 resumed theii' places, had a fine xiew of her 
 uncommonly fine face and gi-aceful figure ; to 
 which an ineffable charm was added by the 
 romance of the now lonely scene. Her unex- 
 pected, nay, extraordinary appearance made an
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 impression on the beholders, deepened by the 
 sense of her danger. Her horse in his terrible 
 impetuosity made some perilous leaps, but com- 
 ing to a more level and firm ground the fair 
 horsewoman began to recover her control over 
 her high-mettled horse. To clear the breadth 
 of water before her was impossible, but higher 
 up the stream was practicable, and she turned 
 his head that way. But at this crisis the dis- 
 tant notes from the upraised throats of the 
 hounds, as if they were in an agony of excite- 
 ment, and almost at the same instant the echo- 
 insr burst of a French horn made the coal-black 
 steed prick up his ears. A few bounds placed 
 him on the verge of the widest and deepest part 
 of the stream, half-way between the boat and 
 the bed of the Thames. But so gTeat was her 
 skill and self-possession, that the beautiful 
 huntress was neither dismayed nor discomposed. 
 In a moment the horse was midway in the 
 stream, bearing his rider, apparently with as 
 little concern to her as to himself. Indeed, 
 both appeared no strangers to such a mode of 
 crossing the country. On an attempt, however, 
 to regain his footing, he made a rush for the 
 the opposite bank, up which he was scrambling 
 with unabated vigour in the du-ection of the
 
 192 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 hounds. The lady was fiim in her seat, and 
 even aided the horse by her motion and addi*ess. 
 She was, as it appeared to the youths, out of 
 danger ; when the bank gave way, aud both 
 sank, the horse still backed by its rider, into 
 the stream, to which they soon began to jield 
 in its course at this point, towards the main 
 river. Still the active young damsel retained 
 her seat in the saddle, and tried to sooth the 
 poor horse, who, conscious of real danger, 
 snorted and plunged. He struggled once more 
 to regain the bank which had given way. She 
 patted him on the neck, '' Steady, Blackbird, 
 steady, lad," says she, soothingly. Still to all 
 but herseK the rider's fate and that of 
 her noble animal seemed inevitable. What- 
 ever might be the feelings which over- 
 whelmed the young men at this moment 
 the intense desire to rescue the maiden was 
 uppermost, and thrilled through each heai-t and 
 communicated, as if by magic, its impulse to 
 the oars which now, as one piece of machinery 
 set going by one spring, sent the boat shooting 
 ahead by desperate bounds, within an oar's 
 length of the object of their anxious concern. 
 Another plunge of the horse might place the 
 rider beyond their reach, for he was going right
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 19B 
 
 for the stream. A clear, loud voice was at this 
 instant heard from the treacherous bank, and 
 an elderly stranger in pink, who watched the 
 stru<]:orles of the steed and the efforts of the 
 maiden with great but certainly not breathless 
 eagerness, cried out, "' Well done ! Lily ; sit 
 steady, my girl ; give him more of his head. 
 Gently, gently ; speak to him ; get his head to 
 the current. That's the way — coax him — don't 
 press him, my darling child. Stick to him — 
 stick to him. Keep yourself well back in the 
 saddle. That's your sort, wench. Bravely 
 done — bravely done ! A little more round with 
 his head — now touch him with the whip." The 
 result of this counsel was, at any rate, an escape 
 from the mid-stream of the river. But yet at 
 times all save the horse's head was immersed in 
 the water, while he neighed to the horse he saw 
 on the bank. At length the active animal 
 neared the side where the huntsman was stand- 
 ing, and with one dauntless spring Blackbird 
 placed his fore legs on the bank, while to the 
 dismay of the beholders his hind legs were 
 unable to find a footing. He faltered — he fell 
 back. '' uncle ! uncle ! save me ! " cried 
 the young woman. The gentleman, holding by 
 his horse's bridle, leaned over the bank to reach 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 THE loyalist's daughtee. 
 
 her, and was all but enguljDhed himself in the 
 water. The lady whipped — screamed — but all 
 in vain. The beast worn out by exertion, 
 yielded without an effort to the stream. This 
 was indeed a moment of danger ; and though by 
 no means insensible to it, the poor maiden still 
 indulged more hope than fear. She extricated 
 herself from the stiiTup and the saddle, 's\dth the 
 intention of springing towards the bank before 
 her horse involved her in his fate. The stranger 
 shouted " that's right, Lily," and was himself 
 about to plunge into the stream to her assist- 
 ance, when for the first time he espied the boat 
 making towards the horse, which looked as if he 
 would by a violent effort throw himself into it. 
 
 The young men's efforts to reach the lady 
 were tremendous, but caution was necessary. 
 Hough at length leaning over the stem seized 
 the fair creatm*e round the waist, and her safety 
 seemed no longer doubtful, when the terrified 
 horse by a lounge and a spring, w^hich he made 
 for his own security, di-ove the boat out into the 
 stream and jerked the rider fi-om his back, and 
 the steersman, who still clasped the lady, fi'om 
 the stern. Being an expert swimmer, and the 
 lady being now clear of the horse, he felt con- 
 fident he could support her, until his companions
 
 195 
 
 drew them both into the boat ; nor was his 
 confidence vain, for in another moment they 
 were both safe in the boat. The horse when 
 ^ lightened of his burden succeeded in landing 
 close to the hmitsman, who gave the two 
 hunters in charge of his groom, who had come 
 in search of him wliile he joined the party in the 
 boat. 
 
 All eyes were now tenderly fixed on the 
 maiden who had been rescued fi'om di'owTiing, 
 and who now wdth much delicate attention to 
 her comfort was laid on the men's overcoats. 
 The huntsman looked into her face with an 
 indescribable concern and afi'ection. She made 
 a silent gesture of recognition, accompanied b}^ 
 an effort towards self-recovery. The youth, 
 who at the risk of his own Hfe had borne her 
 above the water, still gazed fixedly on her as 
 she lay utterly exhausted. Her beautiful hazel 
 eyes were again closed, the long bright natural 
 flowing ringlets of her luxuriant hair fell wet and 
 disordered over her shoulders, and her face was 
 very pale, — there she lay like death. The hunts- 
 man kissed her fair cheek again and again, and, 
 ha\ing wi-ung the water from her hair, tenderly 
 bound the long tresses round her ivory brow ; 
 while, with soft words of fondness and joy, he 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 poured forth mingled exjjressions of thankfulness 
 and apprehension. 
 
 She faintly opened her eyes in mid wonder, 
 and murmured, " Oh uncle ! who is he ? Where 
 is my preserver ? " Her small fair hands were 
 raised as if in prayer ; and a gold crucifix, which 
 had escaped from her bosom, she pressed with 
 fervour to her lips. 
 
 No sooner had Miss Penderel, for that was 
 her name, in some degree been restored to her- 
 self, than becoming conscious of her singular 
 situation, she begged in a feeble voice to be left 
 alone with her uncle, who was no other than 
 Squire Morton, of Morton Manor. 
 
 Whatever might have passed between uncle 
 and niece, the result was the squire's immediate 
 conference with the young gentlemen. He ex- 
 pressed to them in plain but com-teous language, 
 on the part of his niece, her deep sense of her 
 obligation for the powerful assistance which they 
 had rendered her in her perilous situation, which 
 might have been fatal had not such effectual help 
 been at hand. The extraordinary circumstances 
 to which she owed her introduction to Mr. Hough, 
 and her present delicate position, forbade her to 
 intimate all which agitated her breast. Gratitude 
 would not suffer her to be silent.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 197 
 
 There were two difficulties which prevented 
 Mr. Morton's conducting the young lady to his 
 own residence, where she would meet with every 
 domestic care ; first, the distance, which was 
 more remote and difficult of access than her own 
 ahode with her guardian on the banks of the 
 Thames ; secondly, even her temporary absence 
 from his protection would incur his displeasure 
 or give him pain. Her mother, a good Catholic, 
 on her death-bed intrusted her daughter to the 
 guardianship and care of Lord Lovelace, in the 
 belief that the seclusion of Hurley, and the pro- 
 tection of such a powerful Protestant, would 
 shield the orphan girl from persecution and 
 annoyance. For orphan she was, as her father. 
 Captain Penderel, had been slain some years pre- 
 viously in the ci^il wars. 
 
 The Penderel family for their devoted loyalty 
 in assisting Charles 11. so materially in his 
 escape after the battle of Worcester, had 
 received munificent rewards and grateful con- 
 siderations, which by management and commerce 
 had gi'owTi into valuable estates, so that Lily, 
 the only child of Peter and Lilia Penderel was 
 born to a large fortune and golden prospects. 
 
 The fine old English gentleman. Squire 
 Morton, was younger in spirit than in years.
 
 198 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 His manner was easy and unconstrained. His 
 was that -finning smile, and ready laugh, and 
 vditj jest, which even while his heart was 
 secretly sad, delighted the young men. The 
 unaffected courtesy of conversation of which he 
 was a master was acknowledged by all. De- 
 spising the ^ices and unhallowed levity of youth, 
 his claim to the attention and regard of younger 
 men was felt, because his generous happy 
 temper conceded to his juniors those indulgences 
 and pleasures, he had long ceased to enjoy. 
 His conversation and wit were chastened by 
 experience, but not impaired or soured by age. 
 
 Smoothly glided on the boat and the hour, 
 till at a turn in the river a little fui-ther down, 
 at the sudden opening of a dense wood, they 
 came unexpectedly upon a rich and lovely land- 
 scape, unfolding features of great variety — 
 pastures and pleasm-e gi'ounds laid out with 
 exquisite taste, unthought of and unlooked for. 
 It was with feelings of some sui-prise that the 
 Squire surveyed the scene, scarcely recognising 
 the hanging woods of Hurley in the changed 
 landscape before him. An interval of several 
 years had elapsed since he was last there. 
 Mere saplings had gro^vn into ornamental 
 groups of trees. The marshy pond stagnant
 
 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTEK. 199 
 
 with duck weed had flowed into a clear lake fed 
 by a tuneful cascade. 
 
 Political severance had divided the Squire and 
 his neighbour, the proprietor, so painfully, that 
 nothing but the emergency of the moment would 
 have suffered him to place his foot on what he 
 considered forbidden gi-ound. The aspect of 
 the place was only less altered than that of the 
 times. 
 
 " I have lived through many a storm in 
 England for more than half a century," said 
 the Squire, with a touch of melancholy in his 
 voice, " and yet I never expected to see such 
 social disorder as the owner of this domain and 
 his colleagues are preparing for themselves 
 and their country. The scenes of the great 
 Kebellion have left less important results than 
 this revolution, which we cannot avert, will soon 
 realise. It will entail far more cruel calamities 
 and domestic quarrels upon families who have 
 hitherto lived and loved together in the same 
 affectionate household." These words seemed 
 more like a monologue in audible thought than 
 an address to any second party. 
 
 It was in the very midst of the civil war which 
 had distracted the nation that Mr. Morton wooed 
 and wed the amiable, lovely, and patriotic sister
 
 200 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 of the five brothers who sheltered Charles. It 
 was while m attendance on his Majesty, under 
 the humble roof of the Penderels, that the aunt 
 of the present Miss Penderel nursed Captain 
 Morton and tended the wounds which he had 
 received in the desperate fight, in which Poyntz, 
 Cromwell's general of cavahy, cut to pieces 
 young Morton's regiment. She nursed him 
 mto love. She cm-ed him of one malady, and 
 gave him another. The flame glowed the 
 more brightly because it was mutually reflected. 
 Their thoughts blended, — their desires har- 
 monized — they were married. 
 
 The boat had by this time arrived as near to 
 the mansion as it could. " Here we are," cried 
 the squu-e. " You see through the avenue," 
 pointing in the dii-ection, '' the mansion only a 
 few hundi'ed yards from the river." The boat 
 was immediately made fast to the stump of a 
 tree in a httle sylvan harbom% where the bending 
 woods formed an arch, only wanting the leaves 
 of summer to be perfect. 
 
 The sport and spirits of the party had been 
 " damped " by this aquatic accident, as the 
 squire observed, and added in a whisper to his 
 niece, " I never before knew you were a water 
 Lily;" but her pale, cold face filled him with
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 201 
 
 anxiety, aud it became now a delicate question 
 how to convey the dripping and shivering girl to 
 the mansion in which her micle felt it his duty 
 to place her. The young men expressed the 
 gi-eatest sympathy and devotion to her will. 
 After a few moments' deliberation, it was settled 
 by the sqmi-e and Hough that a litter should be 
 prepared. 
 
 It was scarcely the work of a minute to cut 
 doTNTi willow bands and fasten them to two oars, 
 about three feet asunder. On this rude litter 
 the maiden was borne with so much care and 
 gentleness, that an observer might imagine the 
 common occupation of the yoimg men had been 
 to rescue and transport the heroines of romance 
 from the castles of tyrants and lady-killers to 
 the abodes of safety and honour. The nature of 
 the contrivance, the unusual, singular, and 
 even romantic circumstances which surrounded 
 her position, and the age and situation of 
 those who so vahantly bore her to her destiny, 
 were more than she could endure without the 
 most agitating excitement. Her plight but ill 
 assorted with the homage of her escort and the 
 mode of her woodland progi-ess. What a variety 
 of novel incidents for the exercise of the gentle 
 reader's imagination ! What a painful, diffi-
 
 202 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 cult, and delicate reality personally to ex- 
 perience ! 
 
 There the lady reclined borne along by an 
 unknown party of young men, who, for aught 
 she could see or tell, might be Demy scholars 
 of some modern Eobin Hood, living and learn- 
 ing as undergraduate outlaws beneath the 
 academic shades of nature. Whatever were the 
 thoughts which disturbed her, they were soon 
 interrupted by the arrival of the whole party 
 at the mansion, which was called Lady Place, 
 and which was extremely secluded. The ruins 
 and traces of an ancient monastery, especially 
 at the western wing, were evident to the eyes 
 of the visitors. The deplorable plight of the 
 young lady, however, allowed no time for obsei- 
 vation or delay. 
 
 Such an unusual and unexpected arrival at 
 any, time would have astonished and alarmed 
 the inmates of this retired mansion ; and have 
 been looked upon with suspicion; but in the 
 protracted absence of Lord Lovelace, the pro- 
 prietor, admission to the very residence, which 
 was her home, had been demanded for, and 
 denied to Lily Penderel. Nor was it without 
 explanation, and a recognition of the half- 
 drowned young heiress, that the hall door was
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 at length thrown open by two tall footmen in the 
 Lovelace livery, which well accorded with the 
 name. 
 
 "Farewell, for the present, my dear Lily," 
 said Mr. Morton. 
 
 " Farewell, Miss Penderel," whispered Hough, 
 assumino^ a firmness and indifference which he 
 by no means felt towards the lovely stranger. 
 
 " Farewell, uncle," faintly murmured the girl. 
 
 " Good bye, good bye," said both Mr. Morton 
 and Hough, while the rest of the party respect- 
 fully bowed their farewell. So saying, they re- 
 signed her to her attendant, that she might support 
 her to her own apartments. Scarcely had the 
 femme-de-chambre looked upon the death-Hke face 
 of her young mistress, than she uttered a dismal 
 shriek and fainted. Both for display, effect and 
 sensation, nothing which the young mistress 
 had said or done in the worst shock of her peril 
 could be compared. The butler and house- 
 keeper applied the usual remedies to recall the 
 damsel to sense and motion, but not to her 
 duty ; for her language and look when she began 
 to open her eyes were wild and wandering. She 
 screamed for a doctor — she screeched for a 
 priest, until the subject of her alarm, more terri- 
 fied at the consequence of such a call than for
 
 204 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 herseK, softly said, " Diana, this is no time for 
 fancies and stupors ; help to free me from my 
 wet dress." 
 
 " But oh ! what has happened ? What will 
 my lord say ? " exclaimed Di (as she was 
 generally called) aghast, with the necessary 
 expression of concern. " Oh ! my dear Miss 
 Lily — no. Miss Lily's ghost. Oh gi-acious 
 gimmeny and gilly-flowers. Oh Lor ! Oh my ! 
 What shall I do ? " 
 
 While Di gave vent to these idle expressions 
 of wonder and concern, Mrs. Mountain, the 
 housekeeper, a goodnatured sensible woman, 
 with the assistance of her less refined maids, 
 took ofi" the young lady's drenched garments, 
 and laid her on her welcome couch. She then 
 administered some restoratives, and soon had 
 the happiness of seeing the exhausted girl fall 
 into a sweet soothing sleep. 
 
 On learning that the fair girl was now in the 
 enjojnnent of that safety and repose she so sadly 
 needed, Morton and Hough, at the pressing 
 invitation of the old butler, entered the mansion, 
 feeling assured that the courteous and pressing 
 invitation of the servant was the surest indica- 
 tion of the hospitality of the master. The rest 
 of the party returned to the boat and resumed
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 205 
 
 theii' aquatic excursion in quest of the king and 
 the lo^-alists. 
 
 As the two gentlemen entered the spacious 
 hall, from which they had a varied and extensive 
 view of wood and water, the elder remarked, 
 " there was in early boyhood a sort of com- 
 panionship, if not intimacy between myself and 
 the present inheritor of Hurley, which continued 
 during om* youthful sports at college, as well as 
 at school, and even to a later period. He has 
 not, however, in our more advanced Hfe, included 
 me among his true friends. Politics divided us. 
 I preferred my loyal principles to the munificent 
 hospitality of a noble rebel. He could never 
 bring himself to tolerate the royal cause ; owing, 
 I think, less to his political principles than his 
 anti-catholic notions, which at this crisis lead 
 him but too plainly and powerfully to favour the 
 popular side of the religious question. He was 
 once a moneyed man, and had a keen eye to his 
 interests, which were hostile to his sovereign and 
 his duty." Lowering his voice, he added, '' He 
 has, I tell you in that confidence which your 
 disinterested adherence to the sovereign who has 
 trespassed on your vested rights merits, gone so 
 far as even to harbour and encourage traitors 
 who hatch plots in the lowest nests of iniquity.
 
 206 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Ay, in subterraneaxi haunts and cellars !" Here 
 the Squire with difficulty restrained his indigna- 
 tion which struggled for words, but mastering 
 his feelmgs, he exclaimed aloud, unable to with- 
 di'aw his eyes from the scene, '^Ah! happy hills, 
 and fields, and floods, over which my joyful 
 childhood long and often roamed. In yon 
 sequestered shades, before the demon of discord 
 divided us, I spent many pleasant hours with 
 Lovelace, long, long ago ; when we were both 
 young. And even since, I have strayed in 
 these woods vdth her whom I still mom^n, and 
 whose image I see in the dear girl whom you 
 this day saved." 
 
 Again sinldng his voice to a whisper, he con- 
 tinued — "In the underhand and private inter- 
 views which the Prince of Orange assigned to 
 Lovelace in the United States, that pious and 
 devout nephew and son-in-law, expressed him- 
 self highly delighted with his prudence, his 
 strategy, and the enlightened views which he 
 so liberally entertained of the factions which 
 afflicted his native country. His services 
 have earned promises of distinction from the 
 future religious deliverer. To make political 
 capital, he cherishes great designs against the 
 ancient faith, looks down upon his neighbours,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 207 
 
 and at the same time is so prodigal of his hos- 
 pitality to secret schemers, that his estates have 
 become deeply involved. He has borrowed an 
 immense sum on his own trust, as guardian of 
 Miss Penderel, on the secmity of this ' Lady 
 Place.' Against the Catholic heii'ess herself 
 he has designs which may transfer her to the 
 Protestant protection of the Dutchman ; but by 
 Heavens!" Before he could finish his sen- 
 tence dinner was announced. The Squire, who 
 for the last ten minutes had been standing with 
 his back to a huge fire of blazing wood, turned 
 round and led Hough to the library, in which the 
 repast was sumptuously laid out. So excellent 
 was the fare, so delicious the wine, that to 
 describe them would only be to tantalise a youth 
 with young Hough's appetite, but like his com- 
 panion unable to gratify it. The Demy, though 
 at fii'st thoughtful and absent, soon began to 
 feel at home, invigorated by the cheer of the 
 house and the captivating conversation of the 
 Squire. That unselfish courtesy which wins the 
 heart was natural to Morton, and rendered him 
 a universal favourite, especially with the young. 
 He yielded to the habits, feelings, and even pecu- 
 liai'ities of all with whom he conversed. It was 
 not the fals^ and varnished face of accomplished
 
 208 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 hypocrisy, under which hirks interested designs, 
 but that beautiful benevolence which silently 
 speaks and beams through such features as 
 his. His principles were a fortress seldom 
 assailed by the enemy; for his manner and 
 the charity which adorned it disarmed ani- 
 mosity and killed ill will. Yet his character 
 had often evinced a valour which even his 
 enemies, and they were few, were compelled 
 to respect. Under the exterior of the country 
 gentleman lay a depth of feeling and yet a 
 gentle urbanity, adapted not less to the court or 
 saloon than the battle and the camp. The 
 gentleness yet gaiety of expression which 
 reigned in his features gave an irresistible 
 charm to his actions, and even his gestm-es. So 
 far as the young man could form an estimate, 
 Mr. Morton was rather qualified to be the votary 
 of generous pleasures than the aspirant of lofty 
 ambition. After a few words which had refer- 
 ence to the nature and vintage of the mnes, 
 the resources of the delicacies of the table, 
 the elder gentleman spoke of his early youth, 
 and plunged forty years backwards into the days 
 when, like Hough, he was yomig. After much 
 conversation, he added, "It is difficult to grow 
 old with dignity and free from vain regrets.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 209 
 
 To enter the tranquil vale of years, with the 
 verdant vista of hope before me, and a happy 
 resting place at the end of it, is what I most 
 covet. But a sentiment of bitterness against 
 my contemporaries and neigbours poisons my 
 happiness and curses my old age." 
 
 " Then, sir," says Hough, " your countenance 
 is a h}^ocrite." 
 
 "No," says the Squire, ''but the greater 
 part of my Hfe has been social and serene, and 
 the bad passions which treachery and rebellion 
 have re^'ived, or rather created, have not yet 
 seated themselves outside. How can you or I, 
 or any man of honour, look passively on and see 
 the rightful descendant of our ancient kings 
 and his heir driven by his own subjects and 
 his childi-en from the throne of Great Britain ! 
 Oh ! that Lovelace and his rebel band could 
 retrace their seditious steps ! I would myself, 
 though fallen from my father's creed, welcome 
 home again the discarded ancient faith, sooner 
 than let our own King James be exiled from 
 our shores and excluded from his rights." 
 
 A tear stole down the loyalist's manly cheek. 
 Hough was shocked at such an alternative as 
 the ancient faith, which had already disturbed 
 the peace of his college ; but restrained his 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 •210 THE loyalist's daughtee. 
 
 feelings and was silent. While the young man 
 revered the Stuart dynasty, the religion of his 
 sovereign he di-eaded and ahhorred. 
 
 Only too glad to divert his thoughts and words 
 from such a theme to one of mutual interest, 
 " Sir," said he, "with your permission I will 
 pay another visit to Hurley, to enquire after the 
 health of the young lady, whom we are for- 
 getting." He blushed, and waited for a reply. 
 
 "I believe," said her uncle, "Miss Penderel 
 in other circumstances than those which sm-round 
 her, would have as much gratitude to express to 
 you, as the safety of the life which she owes 
 you may be w^orth. But as her uncle and 
 friend, I cannot advise you to approach her. 
 Besides there are other reasons, which bye and 
 bye I will give you for this counsel. In the 
 mean time let me learn something of your 
 plans." 
 
 The rlisappointed youth imparted so much of 
 his project as formed any distinct plan in his 
 thoughts. "But at this moment, Sii*," said he, 
 " I find myself unable very clearly to explain or 
 define our movements." 
 
 ' ' My advanced age and subdued spirits 
 chastened as they have been," replied the 
 Squire, "by the loss of my wife, and the solitude
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 211 
 
 of my lot, make me almost envy you the energy 
 which carries you forward. The very uncer- 
 tainty of the expedition as well as the romance 
 which throws charms around your adventure, 
 transport me back again into youth. The 
 danger and hardship, the toil and risk, invest 
 with enchantment the perils which we court. 
 Such, after all, my young friend, are the vicissi- 
 tudes, hardships and recreations which educate 
 the mind and body more effectually than the 
 sergeant's di'ill, or the schoolmaster's lecture. 
 The system of forming men to piety and great- 
 ness by example, is of all others the shortest, 
 the most easy, and the best. Pride recoils at 
 precepts, " exempla plus possunt quam prae- 
 cepta." The most heroic "virtue is made the 
 object of our senses, clothed as it were with a 
 body and exhibited to view in the bodily labours 
 and mental studies of the monks, who once 
 prayed in Lady Place and toiled in the fields of 
 Hui'ley for their daily bread ; leaving an example 
 which it is easier to condemn than to follow. 
 And though I am a stanch Churchman, I cannot 
 believe that the old monks who, seven hundred 
 years ago, according to all accounts, both 
 CathoKc and Protestant, filled the world with 
 such monuments of religion and science, can 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 have been so much worse than those who have 
 execrated their memory and trampled on their 
 graves." 
 
 " ' The evil being ever mingled with the good,' " 
 said the Demy, '' superstition which we detect 
 in the earliest records of Oxford, mars the gi-and 
 structure of science — the nursery of education 
 — ^to which England, we must confess, owes 
 something.' 
 
 " Our ancient university," continued the 
 Demy, " was a seat of learning before the monks 
 of Hurley dedicated their church to the 
 Virgin. Early in the eighth century Frideswide, 
 daughter of the subregulus Didon, and his wife 
 Safifrida, having received an early education under 
 Elgiva, a most pious devotee, succeeded to the 
 superintendence of the conventual church in 
 Oxford, dedicated by her father, the founder, to 
 St. Mary and All Saints. In the process of 
 time, by the mmiificence of the King of Mercia, 
 certain inns were constructed in the vicinity of 
 the church, adapted as much as possible to the 
 character of a religious establishment." 
 
 " Quite true so far," remarked the thoughtful 
 Squire, who had been, according to the fashion 
 of his day, a student at Christ Church when 
 quite a boy, before he went to the wars. " Much
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 before yoiir date, even in the sixth and seventh 
 centuries, there is scarcely to be found in the 
 whole Western Church the name of a person 
 who had written a book, but who dwelt in, or at 
 least was educated at a monastery. And you 
 are, of course, aware that the pious young lady, 
 Miss Fridesmde, to whom you allude, not only 
 embraced a monastic life herself, but induced 
 twelve other virgins of high families to follow 
 her example." 
 
 " But still," retorted Hough, " many centuries 
 before Protestant Christ Church, Oxford as a 
 University, was famous for its learning." 
 
 " I must remind you, my dear young friend, 
 that however sincerely we may be attached to 
 that pure and Apostolic branch of the Church, 
 planted in these realms, about a century and a 
 half ago, we cannot forget that long before 
 Universities were founded, monasteries and often 
 the palaces of bishops were the seminaries not 
 only of the clergy but the schools for noblemen 
 and statesmen : the nurseries of science as well 
 as the field of bodily exercise. 
 
 '' To the Ubraries and industry of the monks 
 we are under God indebted for the Bible in its 
 integrity, for the greatest works of the ancients, 
 and the sources of that very knowledge, which
 
 214 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 we exert against their memory and their faith. 
 There were many hooks in the archives of the 
 University which had scarcely met the light, 
 unless it was that light of conflagration which 
 consumed them, since the Eeformation." 
 
 " The Bishop of Oxford," said Hough, '' in a 
 lecture at St. Mary's, which was afterwards sent 
 to James for his sanction, edified us in such 
 terms as the following : — ' The soft whispering 
 zephyr, which at first was only breathed to fan 
 the chaff from the wheat, rose higher and louder 
 and still more loud, until it roared itself into 
 that awful storm which raged over the land, and 
 descending in fury upon the chm^ch of thirteen 
 centuries, swept away the most noble monu- 
 ments which the hand of religion had ever 
 raised.' His versatile Lordship was eloquent, 
 but not more so than the interesting ruins of 
 Lady Place." 
 
 "The Saxons," added Morton, "hated and 
 destroyed the most valuable memorials of the 
 British faith. If there were any records in 
 Britain, they were either burnt by our enemies 
 or carried away across the seas." 
 
 " So says Gildas," observed the young man, 
 not reluctant to show his reading, and then took 
 up the strain which the Squire had commenced.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 215 
 
 " As the Saxon treated the Briton so the Dane 
 treated the Saxon." 
 
 "Just so," remarked the Squire (in admi- 
 ration at the Demy's Church history), " but it 
 was reserved for the Reformation to desecrate 
 the Sanctuary, to destroy all which was most 
 sacred — most dear to the heart of a Catholic, in 
 the ' Isles of the Saints.' " 
 
 " I must admit," says the Demy, colouring, 
 " that at the twilight and dubious dawn of the 
 Reformation, or the new religion, as many of its 
 authors call it, abbeys, cathedrals, monasteries 
 and libraries, such as this in which we are 
 dining, all suffered more or less. Fearful, no 
 doubt, was the barbarous destruction enacted 
 and re-enacted within these very walls, and 
 many the volumes pillaged and destroyed which 
 had cost the old monks who inhabited this place 
 many years of hard writing." 
 
 The Squire, helping himself to a bumper of 
 old port, which had less dissension in it tlian 
 that of the Magdalen cellars, and passing the 
 bottle to the undergraduate declared that ''Neither 
 the Britons under the Romans and Saxons, nor 
 the English people under the Danes and Nor- 
 mans brought such havoc on the monuments of 
 learning as the Refoi-mers." To confirm what
 
 216 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 he said, he took dowii from one of the shelves 
 near him a work entitled ' Declaration of 
 Leland's Jom-nal, anno 1549, apud Fuller,' and 
 resumed the " Declaration." "The spoils of 
 England's most noted antiquities," &c., &c., he 
 went on to say, '* not only were these material 
 monuments, on which time had written the his- 
 toiy of the church, defaced and mutilated, but 
 the prestige of her greatness, sir, is gone." 
 
 At this instant a third person, unperceived by 
 the two speakers, so absorbed were they in their 
 discussion, joined them, and taking up the con- 
 versation said, ''Not only so, but the Unity of 
 Faith as well as the tablets on which it was 
 engi'aven was dashed to atoms." 
 
 "Ah! Mr. St. AubjTi, your arrival at this 
 moment is most fortunate, for I was about to 
 describe this mansion, which is a history in 
 itself ; but you who are so faminar vdth. its tra- 
 ditions and its vicissitudes, will be far more able 
 than myself to impart infoi-mation on the sub- 
 ject that will interest my young friend Mr. 
 Hough, an imdergi-aduate of Oxford, and you 
 will claim my thanks for so doing. In the 
 meanwhile I will make some inquiries after the 
 health of my niece, whom our young knight- 
 errant here has rescued from drowningf."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Dark, shadowy elms beneath embower 
 
 The cloisters and high fretted tower. — G. Richards. 
 
 WTiere once our fathers offer'd praise and prayer, 
 And sacrifice sublime ; 
 Where rose upon the incense-breathing air 
 The chant of olden time. — Casicall. 
 
 The gentleman to whom the request at the close 
 of the last chapter was addressed might be be- 
 tween forty and fifty years of age. In person he 
 was prepossessing, his eye thoughtful yet wan- 
 dering, his high, broad forehead, expressive of 
 benevolence ; his mouth, delicately formed, 
 softened when speaking into a smile of gi-eat 
 sweetness, and displayed a row of exquisitely 
 white teeth. He wore the sober dress of a plain 
 country gentleman and a dark penAvig. His 
 manners were calm and polished, yet reserved ; 
 and the smooth and silvery tones of his voice 
 were peculiarly pleasing. 
 
 " It gives me unaffected pleasure, sir, to meet 
 a member of the celebrated University of Oxford, 
 so illustrious in the annals of England, and so
 
 218 THE loy.\list's daughter. 
 
 distinguished by the vigorous resistance of the 
 loyal College of St. Mary Magdalen against the 
 unconstitutional encroachments of the king upon 
 the inalienable rights of the Presidents and 
 FeUpws." 
 
 The young man bowed and blushed, and said 
 that he had the honoui- to be one of the Demys 
 whose names had been, by the decision of 
 his majesty, struck out of the Buttery books ; 
 but that he had with the rest been again 
 restored, and owed his sovereign nothing but 
 loyalty. 
 
 " There is something so noble in the senti- 
 ment which you evince, that I only regret the 
 atmosphere of Lady Place is not such as you 
 can long breathe ; for though through many 
 vicissitudes it has been as true to the ancient 
 faith as loyal to the hereditary Sovereign, it is 
 not what it was. Are you, young gentleman, 
 related to your President, whose name you bear, 
 and whose manly defence of his position and his 
 college, not less than his loyalty, have won the 
 admiration of his country?" 
 
 " I have," replied the Demy, " the happiness 
 of being his nephew. I was present when he 
 desired leave to address the long's commissioners 
 — and appealed to the Sovereign himself, who
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 2l9 
 
 desired him to dispense with the statutes of his 
 college." 
 
 '' The Lord Sunderland it was, I think," said 
 Mr. St. Aubyn, " who a year ago summoned 
 your society to attend the king at Christ Church." 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the other, " the secretary 
 involved us in unnecessary difficulty." 
 
 '' As matters were," remarked St. Aubyn, 
 " your college was notorious for papists." 
 
 "I fear we must plead guilty to the charge," 
 said Hough. 
 
 " Did you ever see," said St. Aubyn, " Father 
 Petre, the Jesuit, in company with Sunderland, 
 or dissociated from both these a Franciscan 
 friar fi-om Lorrame, in close confabulation apart 
 with the king?" 
 
 " The ecclesiastic to whom you allude," re- 
 joined the young man, " enjoyed the confidence 
 of my uncle and the college." 
 
 "His name," said the elder speaker, laying 
 much emphasis on the word, " was, I believe, 
 Mansueti, a true friend to the king's best 
 interests." 
 
 " To resume our former subject," said Hough, 
 " there is so much about the old ruins, which 
 throws a mysterious charm around this old 
 place, that my curiosity will be greatly relieved
 
 220 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 by your guidance through some of the most 
 remarkable of its apartments." 
 
 " To give you the least idea of such a laby- 
 rinth would occupy hours — to extricate om-selves 
 from its mndings and secret passages might be 
 a task of difficulty, if not of danger. There is, 
 however, just over yom- head a gi-ound plan of 
 the ancient abbey and the modern building 
 erected on its site." 
 
 Hough, standing on a massive oak chair, 
 took down from the panelling a well delineated 
 terrier or chart, which was suspended between 
 two pictures. That on the left-hand was a full 
 length portrait of Richard Lovelace, the warrior, 
 who in the reign of EHzabeth erected Hurley 
 Mansion on the ruins of the monastery of Lady 
 Place. That on the right-hand was a much 
 fresher looking painting. The full length por- 
 trait of a commander-m-chief — captain general 
 of the army. There was also in the costume 
 a dash of the admiral, which blended strangely 
 with the military uniform. Singularly awkward 
 in his posture, and somewhat misshapen about 
 the shoulders, appeared the chief, in spite of 
 the evident efforts of the artist to conceal the 
 defect. Hawk-eyed, sharp featured, eagle- 
 nosed, and a brow as stern as it was impassive.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 221 
 
 Cold, however, and passionless as must have 
 been the original, he could scarcely have been 
 indifferent to the withering glance of scorn which 
 Mr. St, Aubyn cast on that countenance. 
 
 " You remember," observed he, looking down 
 on the coloured plan now on the table, 
 " approaching the house through an avenue of 
 noble elms ascending a gentle eminence from 
 the river." 
 
 "Yes," repUed Hough, "but Mr. Morton 
 interested me so deeply in the local scenes, 
 which he associated with the place, chequered as 
 they were by his recollections of other days, that 
 they tinged my own thoughts with a shade of 
 melancholy, and absorbed my whole attention." 
 
 This remark set the grave speaker off on the 
 traditions and legendary lore connected with 
 each nook and corner, over which he passed his 
 finger, but remarking the impatience of his 
 auditor, he returned to the description of the 
 house. 
 
 " This avenue terminates in the flight of steps 
 which lead to the entrance hall, and command 
 the wide wooded range of country you mention. 
 
 " The site of Hm-ley House was a Benedictine 
 monasteiy, founded in the reign of William the 
 Conqueror, and dedicated to the Blessed Virgin ;
 
 222 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 hence the house was termed Lady Place. The 
 Manor came into the Lovelace family ahout the 
 sixteenth century. Sir Kichard Lovelace, who 
 was knighted in the wars as his epitaph declares, 
 acquired a large sum of money in a naval 
 expedition with Su' F. Drake, with which he 
 built the house, on the ruins of the monastery. 
 His son was created Baron Lovelace. The 
 house is a perplexing labj^inth of dark rooms 
 running one into the other, and of passages that 
 lead to nothing. The garden, as you may observe," 
 continues Mr. St. Aubyn, ''lies in the front 
 of the house, and has of late been much improved 
 and kept with great care, especially these 
 borders and bowers which have been tended by 
 the beautiful Lily, herself the fairest flower. 
 Besides the entrance with which you are 
 acquainted, through this garden there are also 
 many others, but little known. 
 
 " On entering the hall, which is large and 
 lofty, you would doubtless observe the ceiling 
 so richly covered ^^ith plaster mouldings of 
 elegant flo^\TQg scroll work, intermixed with 
 fruit and flowers, and the walls also ornamented 
 with gi'oups of musical instruments and books, 
 all in stucco work. On one side of this 
 spacious apartment is a staircase leading to a
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 balcony running roimd it, into which the doors 
 of the Yarioiis apartments on the second floor 
 open. The upper hall or saloon has some 
 veiy fine painted landscapes in the panels, which 
 have been by some attributed to Salvator Eosa, 
 and by others to Antonio Tempo sta. 
 
 " The lower rooms, with their large bay 
 windows and massive furnitm^e, have a rich 
 imposing appearance, while the upper rooms, 
 simply mtended for the sudden and indis- 
 pensable claims of hospitality, have none of 
 the elegance and comfort you see around us. 
 
 " The most curious and interesting portion of 
 the building is the subterranean vaults and 
 passages — remains of the old monastery ; these 
 are invested by the peasantry of the neighbour- 
 hood with a mysterious awe, which has, I 
 think, been encouraged of late by the present 
 owner. The largest and most curious is the 
 vault imder the hall, and under a portion of the 
 room in which we are sitting. The ceiling of 
 the vault is about six-and-a-half feet high ; it 
 was formerly the burial place of the monks. 
 How peiwerted, alas ! is tbat sacred crypt, the 
 catacomb of the holy dead, who still speak from 
 their tombs and upbraid such sacrilege. Look 
 here at this inscription on the floor: — 'Three
 
 224 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 bodies in Benedictines' habits were found under 
 this pavement, and many other relics of the 
 ancient faith.' In a deep, dark recess beyond 
 which few here have hardihood enough to enter, 
 there are, I am told, various ^Titings." 
 
 "I am cmious to ^dsit this mysterious vault," 
 said Hough. 
 
 " I fear it will not be in my power to be your 
 companion to the lower regions," said the other. 
 * Facilis est descensus Avemi ;' but to return 
 may not be quite so easy." 
 
 *' The following inscriptions record the chief 
 facts connected with the histoiy of the vault. 
 They have been copied fi'om the brasses and 
 stones into this paper," said St. Aubyn, handing 
 a transcript to Hough : — 
 
 ' Dust and ashes, 
 
 * Mortahty and vicissitude to all. 
 
 * Be it remembered that the monastery of 
 
 Lady Place (of which this vault was the burial 
 
 cavern) was founded at the time of the Great 
 
 Norman Revolution, by which revolution the 
 
 whole state of England was changed. 
 
 * Hi motus animorum atque haec certamina tanta 
 Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt.' " 
 
 "Indeed, sir, it is said that several secret 
 consultations for calling the Prince of Orange
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 into power, have been held in this vault. And 
 doubtless, in the Protestant history of England 
 and in the affections of the usurper, should he 
 succeed to his uncle's throne, this refuge of the 
 traitors will be honoured; and by his mighty 
 highness and his successors held sacred." 
 
 The young boatman was here tempted to put 
 in his oar. " However this may be, or however 
 individuals feeling themselves aggrieved may, as 
 loyal subjects, be justified in rising against their 
 lawful sovereign, and inviting an invader to usurp 
 his hereditary dominion, I know not ; but the 
 histoiy of Lady Place is the history of England 
 and all the revolutions, the political and religious 
 changes of which Mr. Morton was spealdng, when 
 you gave us the happiness, and, as I may now 
 say, the edification of your company.'* 
 
 Mr. St. Aubyn was just making a remark on 
 the sin of rebellion against the reigning dynasty, 
 and pressing Mr. Hough to try a second bottle 
 of claret, when the feeble blast of a French horn 
 cut short their conversation ; the confused cry of 
 many voices and the tramp of many feet w^ere 
 heard almost under the window of the library. 
 
 All was bustle and excitement, yet it was not 
 the well-known clear notes of Lord Lovelace 
 which had startled the. household. Dimly in the 
 
 VOL. I. ' Q
 
 226 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 distance they perceived a horseman approaching 
 by the avenue ; some cried, " 'Tis om- noble 
 lord himself." 
 
 " My lord sits his horse more proudly," said 
 another ; " and his charger is a bright bay ; but 
 the miserable animal you see is gi'ay." 
 
 Indeed, any darker colour could not be dis- 
 tinguished at this hour ; for the last rays of a 
 December sun were but faintly lingering on the 
 verge of the horizon. 
 
 As the horseman came nearer, his di-ess 
 indicated a private soldier of Lord Lovelace's 
 cavalry ; and the stumbling, jaded pace of the 
 heavy animal he rode showed that all was not 
 right. The poor steed advanced more according 
 to his ovm mil than by the guidance of the 
 dejected rider, who, it was now observed, clung 
 to the saddle for support, more like a dead thing 
 than a soldier. No sooner did the way-worn and 
 distressed beast drag himself and his helpless 
 burden to the courtyard than it was but too 
 plain that both horse and rider were wounded, 
 and faint from loss of blood. The poor man 
 could neither retain his seat nor dismount with- 
 out the assistance of two grooms. The dismal 
 babel of this hubbub on the outside soon excited 
 a wild tumult within. Lights began to fly from
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 227 
 
 window to window, and females' voices were heard 
 demanding in shrieks the cause of this sudden 
 alarm, to which the confused and contradictory 
 cries of those who were in the courtyard afforded 
 no distinct reply. 
 
 At length a window on the staircase was sud- 
 denly thrown up, and the tremulous but shrill 
 voice of Diana Vine cried out, sensitively, "What 
 means this disturbance ? — you will shock my 
 young mistress." , 
 
 " The Colonel — Lord Lovelace — our master 
 is retm*ned moi-tally wounded, Mistress Di Vine," 
 was the answer of the many from below. 
 
 Xo sooner had these words reached her ear 
 than she tripped dowTi into the yard with her 
 snow white handkerchief at her eyes and an 
 appearance of great mental agitation, " Oh ! my 
 dear young lady! 'twill be the death of her. 
 The cream-faced loons ! the murdering villains ! 
 the bloody hounds ! the wretches !" Scarcely 
 had her feelings vented themselves in these 
 affecting exclamations, ere she was struck with 
 shame at the paroxysm to which she had given 
 way, for on first glance at the poor object which 
 lay before her she exclaimed, " Good heavens ! 
 gracious powers ! Oh ! lor ! if it isn't Tommy 
 Tidmarsh, the trooper !" 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 However pathetic the beginning of her lamen- 
 tation might have been, the conclusion pro- 
 voked a titter which the melancholy circumstance 
 could not suppress. The abashed abigail, 
 conscious of the ridicule which greeted her, and 
 sensible of the deep interest which her news 
 would have for her young mistress, made a more 
 hasty than graceful retreat. Extremely indig- 
 nant at the whispers of the company, she 
 hastily ascended the stairs to Miss Penderel's 
 room, exclaiming as she went, " Well to be sure ! 
 Trooper Tom Tidmarsh ! who could have thought 
 it?" 
 
 No sooner had she reached the apartment of 
 her mistress, and communicated her tidings, than 
 Mr. Morton descended into the scene below, and 
 joined Mr. St. Aubyn and his young companion, 
 who had been already attracted to the spot. 
 
 Amid expressions of sorrow and joy ; — sorrow 
 for the wounded soldier, — joy that the dying 
 trooper was not his colonel, their lord and 
 master, — the three gentlemen could with diffi- 
 culty make themselves heard. No sooner, 
 however, did they learn the real state of affairs, 
 than they approached the sinking soldier, and 
 tenderly administered a stimulant, which so far 
 levived him as to enable him to answer such
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 229 
 
 inquiries about Lord Lovelace and his troops, as 
 theii* pressing curiosity or concern brought 
 uppermost. It was with pain and difficulty the 
 poor fellow gasped out, that Colonel Lord Love- 
 lace, at the head of one hundred horse, of whom 
 he was one, was marching towards Exeter with 
 the intention of joining the army of the Prince 
 of Orange there, when his party was suddenly 
 attacked, defeated, and cut to pieces, and himself 
 taken prisoner by the militia, near Cirencester, 
 The trooper owed his escape from the field to 
 the freshness of his horse, which had not been 
 wounded till the time of his flight. 
 
 Having learned as much of the affray as the 
 weakness of the soldier allowed him to narrate, 
 the Squire invited Mr. Hough to walk home 
 with him, observing that the hour was late, and 
 that the return of his companions seemed un- 
 certain. A groom led his horse. Both gentle- 
 men wishing Mr. St. Aubjm farewell struck into 
 a path through the woods, making a short cut 
 across the Oxford Koad for Morton Manor. 
 
 It was a starlight night, not a sound was 
 heard, save here and there the rustling of the 
 underwood, from which a deer, startled by their 
 footsteps, sprung across the path. The Squire 
 was the first to break silence : — " Poor Love-
 
 230 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 lace ! misguided and disloyal as he is, I am 
 Sony for his fate. Had he confined himself to 
 his home duties and the management of his 
 estates, how happy might he have lived — a friend 
 to the royal and the loyal ! — a friend, too, and a 
 true guardian and protector of Miss Penderel, 
 his ward." 
 
 Hough, un-^dlling to trust himself on such 
 delicate gi'ound, tm*ned the conversation. 
 
 " During my first long vacation, two years 
 ago, I had an opportunity of hunting in this 
 neighbourhood, and am familiar A\ith the ground 
 over which the old fox led you this morning, but 
 I never saw one take the water so desperately. 
 I recognised many a fence which I had taken. 
 The glades and meadows stretching away into 
 Berkshire, are fresh in my mind." 
 
 Whether the pleasing impression upon the 
 young man's mind was entii-ely the effect of his 
 return to scenes associated with the himting 
 season of 1686, or, was the result of the past 
 day, we cannot at this remote period decide. 
 
 Desiring to indulge the young man in a mood 
 to which he himself some fifty years before had 
 been no stranger, the generous and grateful 
 cavalier entered fully into his feelings. He 
 regretted the necessity of the Demy's departure
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 231 
 
 from a neighbourhood in which he felt so 
 pleasing an interest. " Anxiety for your wel- 
 fare, however, compels me to say, that if you 
 return to Lady Place you will either meet with 
 a repulse, or, being suspected of the crime of 
 loyalty to yom* king, you may be severed from 
 yom* fi'iends, and even detained as a prisoner. 
 I have abeady, as a warning, extended my con- 
 fidence further than I had intended." 
 
 " Though I am a sound Protestant, I am 
 loyal," answered Hough, ''your confidence is 
 not misplaced, as you will find." 
 
 " I am sure it is safe with you," said the 
 elder man. " I have great faith in the franlmess 
 and honesty of youth. You have, young man, 
 that in your face, and voice, and manner, which 
 fully justifies my trust. Probably St. Aubyn 
 may have warned you against the perils of the 
 place. Beneath that mysterious vault sedi- 
 tion, treasons, and stratagems are hatched by 
 the heU-birds of the Orange faction." 
 
 How far he would have run on in this strain 
 we know not ; for at this moment the twinkling 
 of lights in the windows of Morton Manor house 
 attracted the attention of both the companions. 
 The next moment the hall door opened before 
 them and closed behind them. Morton con-
 
 232 THE loyalist's DAUGHTEPw. 
 
 ducted his guest into a snug dining room, with 
 a blazing wood fire on the hearth, which threw 
 an air of warmth and comfort over the apart- 
 ment. They were soon seated and chatting 
 away till midnight ; and when they shook hands 
 at parting for the night it was with feelings of 
 friendship, nay of affection, which the events of 
 the hunt and its consequences strengthened 
 more deeply in the course and converse of one 
 day, than an ordinary acquaintance of a year 
 could mature. 
 
 Our hero of the preceding day had been 
 exhausted by its adventures and fatigues, which 
 resigned him to late but deep sleep. He was 
 dreaming of the chase, of the extraordinaiy leap 
 of 'Brian on his Faugh-a-ballagh, but above all 
 of the singular and sudden apparition of the 
 charming young huntress, and the imminent peril 
 from which he had rescued her. In his di-eam 
 he was still vdth. great difficulty bearing her 
 through the water. The cry of the hounds was 
 still in his ears ; and this at least was no delu- 
 sion, for the distinct, but hoarse and exhausted 
 cry of two hounds still in agonising pursuit of 
 the same fox which they had found and lost so 
 often in the chase of yesterday, was heard in the 
 woods of Morton at davbreak ; so inveterate had
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 been the struggle for life and death, that it was 
 only interrupted, if at all, in the dead of the 
 night. 
 
 At length the dogs gave tongue so near the 
 house that the well-known music broke his 
 slumbers, and put an end to the dream with 
 which it had harmonized. Hough sprang fi'om 
 his bed, but his thoughts still hovered between 
 dreamland and reality. To dress, and to inquire 
 into the cause of so rare an occurrence, was the 
 work of a few minutes. The youth learned from 
 the grooms, who had at that early hour been 
 exercising the horses, that they had seen the old 
 dog fox in a shuffling trot making for an earth, 
 followed by two hounds that could scarcely drag 
 themselves along. Being hard pressed and un- 
 able to make the earth, the old fox took refuge 
 in one of the out offices of the manor-house, and 
 they had there secured him alive, and would 
 make a pet of him as long as he lived. The two 
 dogs were for ever disabled ; indeed the whole 
 pack was sorely injured. Some of the horses 
 were dead beat, and those that were riderless 
 dashed wildly away, leaving their owners behind, 
 so that the perilous adventure of Miss Penderel 
 was not the only accident of that celebrated 
 hunt.
 
 234 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Mr. Morton, naturally an early riser, had 
 been up some hours gmng the necessary orders 
 to his stablemen and boys for their various 
 employments during the day, before Hough 
 joined him. Theii' first greetings over, the 
 Squire took his guest's arm and walked into the 
 breakfast room. The room itself exhibited more 
 of the comfort than the elegance even of the 
 period. Seasoned logs of firewood burnt 
 brightly on the hearth of a wide fire-place, 
 round which a great number might enjoy the 
 agreeable heat. None of our modern dainties 
 graced the breakfast table ; no aromatic cofi'ee, 
 no fragrant tea imparting its delicious flavour to 
 the steaming water ; no fanciful shapes of butter, 
 or many-coloured shades of bread, or rich 
 tempting rolls ; but solid food — ham and beef, 
 and above all, the savoury venison pasty. Silver 
 flagons, in which the health of the Stuarts had 
 often been drunk, now mantled with October 
 ale, and lesser goblets of mild mead, formed 
 their repast. The appetite of the Squii-e was 
 sharpened by his morning exercise. They both 
 enjoyed the cates with a rehsh whi(ih only early 
 hours can bestow. At times, however. Hough 
 seemed more anxious to talk about Miss 
 Penderel than to gratify his appetite. Em-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 235 
 
 boldened by the friendly, cheerful tones of his 
 enteii-ainer's voice, he lifted his eyes and tried 
 to frame some excuse for his own protracted 
 delay in the neighbourhood of Lady Place. They 
 were now tete-a-tete, and mutually pleased with 
 each other. Morton, not thinking it possible 
 that such a short acquaintance with his niece, 
 even under such unusual and affecting circum- 
 stances, could have made any deep or indelible 
 impression upon any young man, however sus- 
 ceptible he might be of the softer passion, 
 talked pleasantly of Lily Penderel, her amuse- 
 ments and pursuits, her amiable disposition, 
 her deep religious feeling and her accomplished 
 education. ''He feared," he said, "that the 
 efforts of her guardian to win her to the Pro- 
 testant faith, or ahenate her property and apply 
 it to that interest which she despised, in the 
 deep seclusion in which she lived, would destroy 
 her happiness ' and chase the native beauty from 
 her cheek,' and then will ' sorrow eat our Lily 
 bud.' " 
 
 More than one tankard had been quaffed by 
 the squire, when, by his particular wish, to the 
 no small surprise of the Demy, he filled a 
 bumper and drank to the health of Miss Pen- 
 derel, " the Lily of the Valley," " Soon may
 
 236 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 she be transplanted from the hot-bed of treason 
 to the house for which she pines." 
 
 There was at the bottom of this convivial 
 mii'th so much gravity that Hough took it 
 seriously. He turned the conversation to the 
 hunt of the preceding day, he spoke of the 
 desperate endurance of the hounds and the fox, 
 and his dream which was broken by the real 
 cr}^ of the dogs. 
 
 The Squu'e smiled at the importance his 
 young friend appeared to attach to his dream, 
 and said carelessly, " What do you think, Mr. 
 Hough, of dreams ? " 
 
 " They are," said the youth, " a presentiment 
 of some coming event of solemn import." 
 
 " I think," said the other, *' they are rather 
 the impression of the past, the images of scenes 
 through which we have lately travelled, espe- 
 cially when the imagination has been excited at 
 every step, and the physical frame wearied and 
 exhausted. Fancy then reproduces for us in 
 sleep, or even in di-owsy hours, the phantoms 
 which haunted us throughout the day. The 
 whole of happy youth is but a dream both night 
 and day. Oh my boy, the thought of youth ! 
 the bright joyous dream of early days ! How 
 like Eden uncursed by sin and sorrow is the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 237 
 
 pure visionary trance which boys and gii'ls enjoy 
 in theii' bright di'eam of morning life ! " 
 
 '' Then, Squii-e," said Hough, "you believe 
 that youth is the sunny side of the hedge ? " 
 
 " The bitterest fruit of advanced life is expe- 
 rience. The prospect is Paradise ; the retro- 
 spect a wilderness," observed Morton, thought- 
 fully. ''It is not tiU the storm has come down 
 that the youth can believe a tempest may fall upon 
 him. The old man is afraid of tempests which 
 are not yet born, but which may 'be in the 
 womb of time.' " 
 
 " The judgment may, like good wine, I sup- 
 pose, rejoined Hough, be meUowed and matured 
 by old age." 
 
 " Just so," said the elder gentleman. 
 
 " Like that old port you praised so much." 
 He went on — "Wine and human nature lose 
 their strength unless both have been substan- 
 tially sound and good in youth." 
 
 "A man, perhaps, so far as activity is united 
 with vigour, is never in gi-eater perfection than 
 at twenty-five. Up to the age, however, of 
 thirty-five, in the course of ordinary Hfe every- 
 thing has been acquisition, and the development 
 of different powers, especially when such talents 
 are exercised. Thenceforward, or rather down-
 
 238 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 ward, all is gi-adual decay. At a much more 
 advanced age our Sovereign's judgment and de- 
 cision are not equal to the goodness of his 
 heart." 
 
 " And why not?" said Hough. 
 
 "Because a Sovereign who is really strong- 
 minded would never have placed himself in such 
 false hands as are consigning James to exile. It 
 is not his toleration of Catholics or all Christian 
 sects ; it is not his despotic theories, nor even 
 his notion of the Divine right of kings, that 
 throws the imputation of folly on his conduct ; 
 but a combination of amiable weaknesses, an 
 unsuspecting nature, a too fond faith in the 
 affection of his own flesh and blood and in his 
 pretended friends, which have conspired against 
 him." 
 
 " There is a power in love notwithstand- 
 ing," remarked Hough, " which masters the 
 world." 
 
 ''Only," replied the elder, "when it is exerted 
 by a Sovereign whose sterner and stronger 
 qualities command that respect which disarms 
 public indignation and lives above private ven- 
 geance. Speaking of these traits in the character 
 of a Sovereign, I cannot but regi-et the temper 
 of mind and violent outburst of impatience which
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 239 
 
 repoi-t attributes to James in his unwarrantable 
 aggi-ession on your college and its privileges." 
 
 They remained sitting at the breakfast-table, 
 Hough with all the exciting anticipations of an 
 impatient spirit under prolonged anxiety and 
 hope. The heavens for some time threatened a 
 do\Mifall, when the clouds suddenly broke and 
 roiled away before the wind, and a gleam of sun- 
 shine at length gave promise of finer weather. 
 Hough was about to wish the Squire farewell, 
 but the latter held him by the hand, saying, 
 *'We cannot part in this way, you must tell me 
 the course you mean to follow. Are you for 
 Oxford or London ?" 
 
 The reply was, '' I must seek my companions. 
 I can do nothing till they return to Hm-ley, and 
 bring me tidings." 
 
 Mr. Morton said, " Then let me hear of you 
 as soon as you can ;" and conducted his youn^ 
 guest through a spacious oak panelled hall, 
 which bristled with huge antlers and other 
 trophies of the chase, interspersed with various 
 curiously arranged arms, whose battered con- 
 dition attested the service they had done dming 
 the ciril wars. He pointed out, as they passed, 
 the armour he had worn when he received those 
 dreadful wounds which had been tended by
 
 240 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 the kind hand of his beloved Mary, sister 
 to those brave brothers whose courage and 
 faithfulness had preserved the life of their 
 king, Cliarles II. 
 
 At this moment a horseman found admission 
 to the Squire, and presented him a sealed 
 packet. 
 
 " The king," exclaims he, on reading it, ** is on 
 his way back to London, and I must join him 
 immediately at Gravesend. Farewell, my dear 
 young friend. We may soon meet again in 
 more active scenes. I shall be in the saddle 
 and on my way in an hour or two." 
 
 " I wonder for what the king can want Mr. 
 Morton," thought Hough, as he left the Manor 
 House. " Something is troubling the fine old 
 fellow's mind ; probably something about Lily."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love 
 Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
 
 The time now serves not to expostulate. — Shakespeare. 
 
 Hough as an undergraduate had seen but few 
 females of grace and beauty, and these only at a 
 GRAND COMMEMORATION, or an occasioual display 
 of beauty and fashion in Christ Church meadows. 
 The inexperienced youth was therefore subject 
 to that first impression which is the strongest 
 and the deepest. The merest accident of an 
 hour had pressed to his bosom a being, whom 
 the romantic adventure had invested with all the 
 charms of imagination. He had enshrined her 
 in perfect beauty, and endowed her with all the 
 riches of virtue and intellect. Harry Hough 
 was bookish, but his reading on the whole, had 
 not confirmed his choice of celibacy and a fellow- 
 ship. How could such a meeting be his first 
 and his last with such a girl ! Her religion 
 and his prospects at college, it is true, were 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 inseparable obstacles to an^iihing more than a 
 mere visit of inquiry. He would see her only 
 this once, and with this very prudent resolve, 
 he retraced his steps of last night to Lady Place, 
 singing as he went, 
 
 " By all the vows that ever men have broke, 
 In number more than ever woman spoke, 
 In that same place thou hast appointed me, 
 To-morrow truly will I meet with thee," 
 
 Then he would stop suddenly and sigh to 
 himself, " has she appointed me to revisit her ?" 
 Then new fears and undefined suspicions of her 
 reception of him as a young stranger, mingled 
 with his concern for the happiness of the lovely, 
 lonely giii. Anxiety for his king, for the safe 
 return of his companions, all struggled for a 
 place in his thoughts. 
 
 After all, there was one thing certain, the 
 necessity of his visit to Lady Place on account 
 of Miss Penderel. His step, which before had 
 been impelled irregularly by the varied feelings 
 which agitated him, now became more regular 
 and measured, the vdld, quick whistle, which 
 had been tuned by his conflicting thoughts, now 
 subsided into soft, sweet cadences expressive of 
 a calm decision. He had soon passed through 
 the private parterres and pleasure grounds, and
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 243 
 
 was in some doubt, at a spot where seven 
 similar paths branched off into seven different 
 dii-ections, which way to proceed, when the 
 gardener startled him by a rough challenge 
 and repulse. The Demy in that off-hand, 
 dashing style, peculiar to young men of spirit, 
 assumed an angry air, and asked the fellow 
 whether he could not distinguish a friend of 
 Lord Lovelace and the good cause from an 
 enemy. The horticulturist recognising the 
 voice as that of the young gentleman who had 
 been admitted with Mr. Morton the previous day 
 to the gi-eat house, changed his manner, and 
 doffing his cap said, '' Hope no offence, sir, I 
 was ignorant at first of your rank or your object. 
 My lord's orders are strict." 
 
 Li reply to his first inquiry, Hough learned 
 that poor trooper Tom had early that morning 
 breathed his last, in the arms of Cicely, the 
 kitchen maid. For that poor sufferer, it ap- 
 peared, there was one heart which had throbbed 
 in sjTQpathy, which had bled more painfully than 
 his wounds. That of a lowly maid in Hurley 
 mansion, whose joy, whose hope, whose very 
 being had been blended with the being of the 
 prostrate trooper. The silent, secret depths of 
 her sorrow, her love, and her lament gushed not
 
 244 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 to her lips ; yet her concentrated gi'ief for the 
 man whom she loved, and who had loved her, 
 was the most pure and affectionate which the 
 human heart is capable of feeling. So deep 
 was her gi-ief that, as the gardener observed, 
 " she could not long sm-vive her sweetheart." 
 No further tidings of his lord had reached Lady- 
 Place, he was certain. "If, sir, • you desire to 
 know the nearest approach to the house, take this 
 path through the ruins, then keep to the left until 
 you come to a flight of steps. When you reach 
 the top, turn to the right and continue straight on 
 till you come to a door, through which you can 
 reach the main entrance. But now I think of 
 it that door is locked, and 'tis as much as my 
 place is worth to give you the key." 
 
 " Surely you might to a friend." 
 
 " Have you any token, sii- ?" 
 
 " Yes," says Hough, thrusting a Jacobus into 
 his hand. 
 
 '' These be ugly times, but a gentleman is a 
 gentleman. Bide a bit, sir." And straightway 
 he hurried off, returning in a few minutes with 
 the key, charging Hough to be sure to bring 
 it back to him. 
 
 Hough follo^^dng his guide's directions soon 
 found himself entering a narrow passage, secured
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 245 
 
 at the end by a door of great strength, wrought 
 curiously with iron ; he with difficulty opened it, 
 and descending a few steps discovered what ap- 
 peared a main entrance to the mansion, from 
 which branched off several narrow passages run- 
 ning into a secret labyrinth of turnings among 
 the ruins. Following the main passage, he at 
 length reached an open door leading into a spa- 
 cious corridor. He was about to make known 
 his visit, when an apparition flashed by the door. 
 It was no other than Lily Penderel herself, 
 gracefully attired in all the elegance of the 
 period — the lady whom he had been so desirous 
 once more to approach — the very object of 
 his visit ! She cast on him a look of recogni- 
 tion, placed her finger on her lips, and signed 
 him to retreat, then vanished. The door at the 
 same time closed between the lady and her pre- 
 server. The bolt grates harshly on his ear, he 
 feels that the bright vision, which had been all 
 but within his grasp, is lost to him for ever. 
 Unconscious of danger, he yet felt that the 
 silent sign of retreat was intended as a 
 warning, and that his presence might en- 
 danger the Uberty and happiness of the fair 
 being whose life he had preserved, if not his 
 own; he therefore slowly turned to make the
 
 246 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 best of his way back. So lost was he in thought, 
 that he became unmindful of the intricate wind- 
 ings of his path, and unconscious of having made 
 a wrong turning, until he found himself in a long 
 passage, the dim light of which enabled him to 
 discern strange figures in niches and emblems of 
 the ancient faith, which but too plainly told him 
 he was in the depth of the subterranean caverns 
 of the old monastery. Vainly did he endeavour 
 to regain the right path ; passage after passage 
 did he traverse in the hope of discovering some 
 opening to the grounds above, until, notwith- 
 standing his great strength, he sank down on a 
 detached portion of the building which had fallen 
 in, utterly exhausted. While thus resting him- 
 self, the perplexed young man for the first time 
 heard, or thought he heard, the sound of human 
 voices. He listened more attentively, and was 
 now convinced that the sounds he heard were 
 the voices of various speakers. He could not 
 distinguish the words, for they seemed to cling 
 to the beetle-browed vault from which the 
 sounds arose. His first impulse was to call 
 aloud for assistance, but the sign and look Lily 
 had given him kept him silent. He listened 
 again. The speakers were indubitably in secret 
 conclave, and their half - smothered accents
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 died away dismally and were buried in the 
 sepulchre which was the chamber of their birth. 
 At times a voice more shrill than the rest de- 
 clared its meaning, and made the youth, who 
 was the very soul of honour, regret to find him- 
 self an involuntary auditor. 
 
 So anxious was our young friend of Magdalen 
 College to extricate himself from this delicate 
 and dangerous position, that he made several 
 most desperate but ineffectual efforts to gain his 
 way back into the garden, or to escape by some 
 other passage from the subterranean caverns in 
 which he had entangled himself. At moments, 
 oppressed by the dread of his detection under 
 such circumstances, his impulse was to effect an 
 entrance, if possible, into the chamber whence 
 the voices reached him, and at once to throw 
 himself on the mercy of the speakers. But, on 
 mature reflection, he felt that his mind was not 
 in a frame befitting such a bold decision. 
 
 After their first greetings, he heard the 
 speakers, in a general sort of conversation, 
 thank God for the downfall and ruin of the 
 Stuarts and their family ; charging them at the 
 same time with what appeared to him to be the 
 inventions of falsehood and calumny. When 
 these patriots ofi'ered up praises to the throne of
 
 248 THE loyalist's daughtee. 
 
 Him that cannot err, for delivery from Popish 
 plots which never really existed, he could 
 scarcely restrain his feelings and he silent. But 
 when he heard one of the party regret the 
 absence of Lord Lovelace at such a crisis, and 
 his infatuation in still indulging that Popish 
 Penderel girl, his ward, in her fancy for a priest, 
 and the mummery of the bloodthirsty Catholics, 
 his blood boiled at the insult, not to her religion 
 but to herself. The old superstition would soon 
 be so confirmed in her, it was observed, that her 
 conversion to the Protestant faith and her 
 marriage with a man of the right sort would be 
 not quite such an easy task as Lovelace 
 imagined — that though old Morton was Pro- 
 testant, he had still some lingering in his breast 
 after the Harlot. He was not to be trusted ; nor 
 would her vast estates conduce to the support of 
 her Protestant guardian's prodigality, unless his 
 sinking fortunes give her a more affectionate 
 interest for him, and the suitor whom he recom- 
 mends, than he had been able to obtain from her 
 when his worldly estate and political prospects 
 were more exalted. These remarks came so 
 painfully to Harry's ear, that he could not resist 
 the temptation which a crevice in the thick 
 partition that just caught his eye offered
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 249 
 
 him, and both the eye and the ear mutually 
 made a sort of necessity their united apology 
 for theii' cui'iosit '. He thus discovered 
 that the remarks which so far had been made 
 were rather of a domestic and private character, 
 connected mth Hurley House and its surround- 
 ings, than with state aJBfaii's. " While we are 
 priest-hunting," said one, " my lady Lily is 
 fox-hunting, — yesterday in the chase, she had a 
 ducking which was enough to settle a witch, but 
 a young fellow who happened to be on a wild- 
 goose chase in an Oxford boat, hauled her out of 
 the water, dripping like a river-goddess as she 
 was, and placed her in his bosom as a forget- 
 me-not. 'Tisn't every young blade who would 
 pick even a beautiful papist girl out of the water 
 in these times, when, as Lord Lovelace said, 
 " there should not be a Popish man-servant, not 
 a Popish maid- servant, not even a Popish dog to 
 bark about the king." 
 
 "But then a Popish water-mymph, or Popish 
 Venus rather, and she an heiress, may be wor- 
 shiped even by a good Protestant without the 
 sin of idolatry," cried another. 
 
 Poor Hough felt strongly tempted to charge 
 the speaker with insolence, with profanation, — 
 but to yield to such a feeHng had been insanity.
 
 250 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Patience was his strength. To avoid what he 
 conld not endure was the feeling which drove 
 him from his present position, and ui'ged him 
 he knew not where ; more than once forcing 
 himself through narrow doors, or rather holes in 
 the walls, he found himself nearly suffocated hy 
 the dust of the coffins of the old monks, into 
 which he had helplessly sunk amid the dark, 
 dank, silent abodes of the religious dead. Several 
 attempts to gain access to the chamber out of 
 which the voices struggled to his ear were 
 defeated by opposing walls or closed entrances, 
 apparently identical with the walls themselves. 
 Not that he would trust himself to the inmates, 
 but make good his former resting-place. After 
 much groping up and down, he at length re- 
 covered the old spot from which he was so glad 
 to get away. Yielding to what he considered 
 his fate, he resumed once more his seat on the 
 fragment of the building, or the statue of some 
 saint; he could not tell which. The noises 
 which at first had been suppressed and conver- 
 sational had risen into more regular and mea- 
 sured accents. Eemote footsteps of new comers 
 awoke the echoes of the crypt, and when they 
 had subsided, after the pause of a minute, which 
 to him appeared an hour, he could not but
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 251 
 
 distinctly hear a call from mingled voices for 
 " Sydney, Col. Sydney," who responding in a 
 clear ringing voice, said gaily, " Here I am, my 
 lords, at my country's service, and at your good 
 pleasure. Fii'st of all let me heartily congratu- 
 late you on the signal triumph of our cause. 
 But where is my right reverend and gallant 
 friend, the military Bishop of London ? Who 
 so fit to preside over brother officers of the 
 army as this distinguished officer of the church mi- 
 litant ? What says Lieutenant- General my Lord 
 Churchill to the question ? " 
 
 The answer was cool, calm, and unhesitating, 
 but in a tone naturally, or perhaps organically, 
 gruff and unpleasant : — ^' The Bight Reverend 
 prelate. Dr. Compton, having preconcerted the 
 escape of the Princess Anne, is making pre- 
 parations to accompany her Boyal Highness, 
 and forming a cavalcade at the head of which 
 he is to escort her Boyal Highness to Oxford, 
 so that she may to-morrow join her amiable 
 spouse, or even fall in with the Prince of Orange. 
 There will be a grand reunion, probably in one 
 of the halls of the university ; the progress of 
 her Highness and the Bishop will most likely be 
 through Beading. But here comes m / Lord 
 Halifax, the delight of the senate, born and bred
 
 252 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 to move in assemblies, — bearing all tbe marks of 
 a hard ride : vote bis lordship into the Chair." 
 
 A third speaker complimented the great 
 secretary as a popular leader — the most im- 
 portant of the three commissioners sent by the 
 king to the prince. 
 
 '' And as a minister in the confidence of both 
 parties," added Sydney, sarcastically. "Besides, 
 his influence over the provisional government of 
 the peers in the metropolis will give weight to his 
 counsels and direct the decision of this meeting." 
 
 The wily minister excused himself by saying 
 that he had only that very morning presided at 
 the council of the Peers at Whitehall. " I was,' 
 cried he, " actually adjourning the sitting, that 
 I might be present much earlier at Lady Place, 
 and avert gTeat mischief, if not civil war, by 
 prompt action and conference with the Prince, 
 who is at hand to redress our wrongs, and whom 
 the nature and purport of the information which 
 I have received most materially concerns, when 
 my Lord Mulgrave appealed to the feelings of 
 the assembly. The tender Sheffield spoke to the 
 feelings of the heart, and gained the majority of 
 the Peers to his side. The feelings of the heart 
 mastered the honest convictions of the head, and 
 compelled us to resume our seats, for a purpose
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 253 
 
 which I will communicate in the course of our 
 deliberations. 
 
 '' All I can do after the business in which I 
 have been so many houi's incessantly engaged, is, 
 to dechne the honour which you offer me. At 
 Whitehall it was only the absence of the Arch- 
 bishop which imposed upon me the task of Pre- 
 sident of the Council." 
 
 " His Grace, the Archbishop," observed Not- 
 tingham, "has then, it would appear, become 
 as indifferent to the interests of the Prince of 
 Orange, as he had been morose to King James, 
 and uncivil to the queen and the royal babe." 
 Before the Earl could say more, Sydney was 
 unanimously elected to that Chair which he had 
 so often filled at such meetings, previously to 
 the landing of the Prince of Orange on our 
 shores. Among the titles which were challenged. 
 Hough, who by this time had a sort of accidental 
 glimpse of the members of the conclave, could 
 distinguish those of Lords HaUfax, Churchill, 
 Clarendon, Nottingham, Combury, and the Duke 
 of Grafton, who all appeared to be present : many 
 others were called w^ho answered not to the 
 summons. After several calls for Sunderland, 
 to which there was no response, Colonel Sydney 
 without reluctance took his place, and briefly
 
 254 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 opened the business of the meeting, if indeed 
 crimination and reciimination deserved the name 
 of business. 
 
 '' There is no need," says the Chaii-man, who 
 also assumed the office of chief speaker, " there 
 is no need that I should detail all the eventful 
 changes and political conflicts which have dis- 
 tracted our country since our last meeting." 
 
 Taking his lesson from the illustrious chief at 
 whose couii, and in whose service he had learned 
 the science of political intrigue, he continued, 
 " Usurpation, I am cominced, can never be a 
 real success, till legitimate succession is branded 
 vdih. infamy and odium ; for even up to this 
 crisis the prestige of the old family and the in- 
 ahenable rights of the hereditary monarch cling 
 too closely to every class, especially to the com- 
 mon people, the private soldiers, and faithful 
 sailors, to allow the approaching revolution to be 
 crowned Tsdth unquestionable ^dctory. Then, 
 why not expose the ^ices of the tyrant ?" 
 
 The Dutchman's motives were too personal, his 
 object too ambitious, his treachery too palpable 
 to be long concealed beneath the transparent 
 veil of Protestant purity, or rehgious zeal. His 
 succession could not for some time, at least, be 
 respected. The long designed edifice of his o^vn
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 dominion in Britain must be erected on the bat- 
 tered and scattered materials of the house of 
 Stuart. 
 
 If any man in Europe was well calculated 
 to promote the interests of the Protestant 
 champion, and secretly aid him to avenge the 
 country's ^Tongs in this emergency, it was 
 Sydney — bm*ning to resent, yet deUberate and 
 cautious in visiting upon James retribution for 
 the pimishment that monarch had inflicted upon 
 his discarded subject, whose brother, too, owed 
 his death to the brother of James. 
 
 The unexpected birth of the ' royal boy,' 
 whose advent prophetic bards had sung, awoke 
 the jealousy of the royal sisters, Mary and 
 Anne, who affected suspicion of their step- 
 mother to conceal their feehngs of disappoint- 
 ment at the event. But William of Orange, 
 who, in right of the king's eldest daughter Mary, 
 had long and fondly entertained a hope of the 
 three crowTis, through the medium of Van 
 Citters, the Dutch ambassador, and Sydney, 
 entered into the feelings of the Protestant mal- 
 contents, and espoused their cause. The in- 
 trigues of "William, supposed to be secret, were 
 confided to so many, that they became too appa- 
 rent at last, even to him against whom they were
 
 256 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 contrived. A single agent, in every way fitted 
 to elude suspicion, was indispensable. In the 
 person of Henry Sydney, the younger brother of 
 the ill-fated Algernon Sydney, a ready instru- 
 ment for the purpose was found. His political 
 principles, his Protestant predilections, and 
 above all his animosity to James, which bm-ned 
 to avenge on the house of Stuart the death of 
 his brother Algernon, qualified him for a spy 
 and a ringleader of the disafi'ected, and recom- 
 mended him to the piince. 
 
 At this secret meeting he sketched with a 
 masterly genius the whole reign of James : he 
 exhibited him dispersing favom-s to papists and 
 theii' priests — undoing the glorious work of the 
 Eeformation — handing over Protestant England, 
 shackled and enthralled by the yoke of more 
 than Egyptian bondage, to Kome. The Estab- 
 lished Church had taken his support on tmst ; 
 she had accepted his promises as fads, and 
 what is the result ? He drew a frightful picture 
 of the country, sinking at once into Romanism 
 and hopelessness. He went on to contrast the 
 temporal as well as spiritual destitution of 
 popish lands with the great, glorious and free 
 institutions, and the blessings of the Protestant 
 North of Europe. ''I know not," cried the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 257 
 
 orator, '" whether this idolatry be addressed 
 more affectionately to the Harlot of Babylon, or 
 shamefully opposed to the Chm-ch which her 
 royal head is sworn to defend. However this 
 may be, my lords, the work of destruction can 
 only be corrected by your energy and decision. 
 But to remind you that as the dynasty, which is 
 justly abandoned, has redeemed no pledge, so it 
 merits no sympathy, — were only an insult to 
 your patriotism and your understanding. I need 
 not tell Englishmen that a king who loses his 
 crown must have deserved his fate. If in every 
 instance he has not abused his power, he has 
 been too weak to use it worthily. Though he 
 let the courts of justice follow their own de- 
 cisions, not only are the sins of tyranny and 
 oppression to be laid at his door, but there are 
 plenty chargeable upon his popish but less indis- 
 creet predecessor. In the name of liberty, for 
 the sake of honour and truth, in the name of 
 freedom of conscience, let him be at once and for 
 ever dethroned. The time has arrived. His doom 
 is fixed. His fate is signed and sealed. For the 
 freedom of thought, the unbiassed choice of a 
 religion, and the supremacy of conscience, the 
 people will pardon anything. We are all friends 
 to loyalty ; ' we love the king who loves the law,' 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 respects its bounds and leaves us free. But, 
 my lords and gentlemen, trust him not too far. 
 When once the king turns pope, and dictates 
 om- religion, foreign interference is not only 
 sanctioned but desired by the masses of our 
 countrymen, who at this moment of excitement 
 have no time or thought to inquire whether a 
 liberated and gi-ateful people will realise all 
 their expectations. It is enough for them to 
 feel that they are oppressed. The reigning 
 dynasty must not only be dethroned, but ex- 
 pelled. A truer and a better, but, above all, a 
 more Protestant system, must be set up in its 
 place. The Protestant hero is at hand. He is 
 come rather to conciliate than divide us. He 
 regards not the sacrifice of his personal interests 
 — his domestic ties, when ofi'ered up on the 
 altar of a country's freedom and a people's 
 rights. He will not stain our hands in the 
 blood of him who slew our brothers. We will 
 not resent the atrocities of the butcher Jeffreys, 
 The tyi-ant cannot face justice. He will abdi- 
 cate — we shall be free !" Cheers of applause, 
 mingled with a murmur of dissent, followed this 
 peroration. The gallant speaker took breath, 
 and went on to revert briefly to former delibera- 
 tions in which he had taken a prominent part,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 259 
 
 and which for many months preceded the actual 
 invasion of the Prince of Orange. He recalled 
 the attention of his noble hearers to some of the 
 most important of their assemblies, in which, as 
 he said, he had the honom- to take a leading 
 part dm-ing the year w^hich was closing so aus- 
 piciously on their efforts. He entered on what 
 may be called a narrative of the foreign policy of 
 James' reign, which had alienated his foreign 
 relationships and gained him no advantage at 
 home. The faith of treaties had been broken. 
 Names, dates, places — even statistics — were 
 quoted by him orally, without any written aid. 
 " However modified by passing events in Europe 
 — especially in Holland — and at this moment," 
 says the speaker ; ' ' however influenced by the 
 armed forces which are on their way to the 
 metropolis to demand that justice which we have 
 dutifully asked in vain ; whatever may be the 
 nature and extent of the redress of our griev- 
 ances (and they are many and severe), whioh 
 the reluctant monarch has conceded ; we know 
 that his clemency is extorted by a power which 
 he cannot resist. The measures of his abdi- 
 cating majesty and of his popish cabinet, his 
 conversion to Protestant interests from his past 
 misrule, are the result of that mean fear which 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE LOY.y^IST's DAUGHTER. 
 
 the invading deliverer inspires, and affords not 
 the shadow of a shade of any real or permanent 
 advantage. We have been taunted," said he, 
 "with the charge of fomenting discords at 
 home and animosity abroad. We have been 
 arraigned as disturbers of England's peace, 
 the promoters of foreign aggi-ession, as con- 
 spirators in league with the enemy. But 
 what, my lords, are the foreign alliances which we 
 would sever ? what the domestic policy which 
 we condemn ? — The unnatm-al federacy of Protes- 
 tant England, with Papistical France, against 
 the powers of Europe. The despotic tyranny 
 of unmitigated supremacy of Priestcraft over 
 your mves and daughters, your privacy and your 
 homes sacred to family endearments and con- 
 fidence ! I, for one, am free to confess that I 
 mingle my private wrongs with a nation's gi-iev- 
 ances. I cannot, however, conceal from others 
 or from myself, that I once enjoyed a place in 
 the household of James, when he was Duke of 
 York, and was attached to his person" 
 
 *' Or rather to his Duchess," sneered Grafton. 
 Clarendon coloured deeply. 
 
 " And if I voted for his exclusion, my motives 
 were consciencious. But my habits and pur- 
 suits were always more congenial with those of
 
 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 
 
 261 
 
 the late king than with those of his brother 
 James." 
 
 " Until," cried Cornbury, " his late majesty 
 refused to sanction your command of the British 
 forces in the service of the States." 
 
 '' Though deprived," retorted the other, " of 
 the command of the British troops in Holland, 
 I was never distrusted by either Government, for 
 after the defeat of Monmouth I was sent back with 
 Bentinck to the Prince of Orange, and," con- 
 tinued the speaker, in a tone of half-concealed 
 sarcasm, "this honour conferred upon me was 
 looked upon by all parties as an indication of a 
 good understanding between the two Govern- 
 ments. Had this confidence lasted, and had 
 James not been mad, ' quem Deus vult perdere, 
 prius dementit,' my stay in England might have 
 averted his ruin. But as matters ripened in 
 England, and prepared the way for the Prince 
 of Orange, I naturally and unavoidably moved 
 in the scene of action and fixed myself in 
 Holland. I am free to admit — nay, I glory in 
 the charge, that I have been the chief agent of 
 communication with the disaffected in England, 
 and the great promoter of the revolution ; but 
 I need not tax your patience — We acted con- 
 sistently. We have shrunk from no responsibility.
 
 262 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 We have 'feared no danger. Burnet, Herbert, 
 Scliomberg, and myself have boldly accompanied 
 the expedition to England, mimindful of our 
 safety or our personal interests, with heart and 
 soul devoted to the cause in which you, my 
 lords, as well as myself, are involved." 
 
 "It was," said Halifax, "the oppression, 
 venality, and injustice of the great men of Kome 
 that awoke the tempest which swept away their 
 empire, — swept away their glory. The bar- 
 barians held them in such contempt that they 
 made their name a term of reproach. When 
 they wished to disgi-ace a mortal enemy they 
 called him ' Roman.' " 
 
 " And so do we," said Churchill, gruffly, "any- 
 thing Roman — especially a Roman Catholic." 
 
 Sidney, the ever gay and heartless rake, 
 feeling that he had gone too far, attempted a 
 joke, and declared that he would not keep a 
 horse with a Roman nose. 
 
 " Every nation," rejoined Clarendon, " that 
 has not faith in the justice of its rulers, is 
 always ripe for anarchy ; when the measm-e of 
 the monarch's iniquity is full, the remedy soon 
 follows, and this sometimes seems worse than 
 the disease, so violent are its effects." 
 
 " For instance," said Nottingham, " when
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 263 
 
 the arch-enemy of Royalty, whose genius and 
 miUtary tact hrought about the Great Rebellion, 
 from which England has scarcely recovered, 
 then did many excellent persons expiate the 
 crimes of their fathers. The people were reli- 
 giously taught to violate the sanctuary with a 
 rage which seemed to have gathered strength 
 from ages, — to sweep away the church and the 
 monarchy together." 
 
 " Those," cried Sydney, with emotion, '' who 
 abuse their power, such as the ' Man of Sin,' who 
 thinketh that he is God, and usurps God's place, 
 as James, the last of the Stuarts who shall ever 
 sit on England's throne ; such are the men 
 who excite in the hearts of their victims an im- 
 pulse of vengeance. ' Sic semper tyrannis.' 
 The Commonwealth may be a Rebellion, and the 
 change which we contemplate a Revolution, but 
 by whatever name they are called, their object 
 is the same — to tear every shred which covers 
 the nakedness of the great Whore, — to dash to 
 pieces the image of Dagon, before which idolatrous 
 priests would at the sound of the Royal sackbut 
 and psalteiy make us fall down and worship." 
 
 ''You would turn our churches into stables 
 for your horses," said Nottingham. 
 
 ** Better," answered Sydney, "that they
 
 264 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 should bear the traces of such noble animals 
 than retain on their old Popish altars the mark 
 of the Beast." 
 
 " Flatterers, parasites and calumniators who 
 never open their mouths, but to advance their 
 own interests," broke in Grafton, " are those to 
 whom the king, God help him, confides the 
 destiny of the nation. They make him swallow 
 whatever absurdity they please, because they 
 wrap it in popery, gilded by what they call truth." 
 
 "By just retribution," said Halifax, "such 
 persons destroy him whom they first deluded." 
 
 "And destroy themselves," thundered 
 Nottingham. 
 
 "But," resumed Sydney, "what a desperate 
 task has mine been, how hazardous and daring 
 has been my part of the undertaking ! Now, 
 however that the Liberator is at our service, our 
 councils may emerge from the dark vaults, and 
 henceforth burst into life, light and action ; Om- 
 an ticipations are realized. The Protestant hero 
 is come, he has seen, he has conquered. The 
 standard of Popery shall flaunt its bloody banners 
 no more in our faces. Do^n with it to the 
 ground ! Let us rally round the Orange colours 
 of Protestantism ; or raise another Cromwell to 
 give us liberty of conscience and the Bible, our
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 shield, oiir sword. The policy of the Stuarts is 
 conservatism — conservatism is the quintessence 
 of Popery." "Question. Call the Chairman to 
 order, or we ourselves must practically illustrate 
 the principles by which he is guided," cried many 
 voices, sternly. " Let him who would govern all 
 mankind, govern himself." 
 
 " Pardon my zeal, call it passion if you will," 
 said Sydney. " Well, passion is at such a crisis 
 the best orator to persuade — the wind which 
 propels om- vessels." 
 
 '' It is," continued the Republican, subsiding 
 into a quiet and sedate manner, " about six 
 months ago that I had the happiness, with the 
 co-operation of the friends of the Prince of 
 Orange, with whom I shared that confidence to 
 which his Highness admitted me, to form an 
 association, whom we convened at the house of 
 the Earl of Shrewsbury. Of the distinguished 
 members who there and then signed the memo- 
 rial to that gracious potentate, I scarcely see one 
 present. But I presume they all consider their 
 great object already attained. Dr. Compton's 
 apology, however, is what we might have ex- 
 pected ; for it is but natural that the sagacious 
 and military bishop should lead his body of 
 reserve into ambush. Like my noble Lord
 
 266 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Churchill, he discreetly anticipates the fortunes 
 of the probahle successor to the throne, and 
 therefore earns her good will." 
 
 " Others there are," vociferated Cornbury, 
 " who even in the days of James's power secretly 
 opposed him, under the shelter of a prince who 
 might precede the Princess Anne in the govern- 
 ment of the kingdom." 
 
 *' It is scarcely to be expected," added Sydney, 
 " that the many individuals of high rank and 
 extensive influence, aimed all at one and the 
 same object. Danby had sought the friendship 
 of the prince, and promised him his support to 
 crush the enemies of the Church." 
 
 *' Or rather," said Clarendon, ''to evince his 
 feelings towards James, whose banishment when 
 Duke of York he had effected." 
 
 " Or perhaps," said Halifax, "to resent his 
 imprisonment in the Tower." 
 
 " Of the illustrious noblemen," observed Syd- 
 ney, glancing around, "who as early as June last 
 sent letters filled with expressions of attachment 
 to William by Dyckvelt, I see before me the 
 Marquis of Halifax, the Earls of Nottingham, 
 Clarendon, and Lord Churchill. Zulestein also 
 pursued the same conduct as Dyckvelt, and 
 returned to the Hai^ue with assurances of our
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 267 
 
 support. The prince is now here with that 
 armed force which we invited, and is ready to 
 draw his sword in the defence of our common 
 reUgion. 
 
 *• Opposition to the court and dynasty of James 
 arises from various causes ; but our object in the 
 succession of William, is one and the same," 
 said Sydney with a sarcastic sneer ; *' the 
 common good. My Lord Devonshire, whose 
 jacket Culpepper peppered, after the prudent 
 part he is taldng, will only have to keep his 
 counsel and retain his £30,000 which the 
 King's Bench fined him. William's liberal 
 Lords will not value so slight a cut at so high a 
 price. These patriots will stand aloof until 
 the triumph of one party or the other wins their 
 services." 
 
 ** Were, indeed, the power of Lords Craven 
 and Dundee equal to their valour, or were the 
 strength of Balcarris and Berwick, and the 
 friends which Queen Mary Beatrice can com- 
 mand equal to their loyalty and attachment, 
 there might still be some doubts of our 
 success." 
 
 " The army is with us," said Cornbury. 
 
 ''Only the officers," replied Sydney, *' in 
 whom James aifectionately confided, they only
 
 268 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 have deserted their colours and stolen away from 
 the soldiers, whom they leave behind them 
 staunch and true." 
 
 " Sunderland," cried Halifax, " played the 
 best game." 
 
 To this Lord Churchill replied, " Whatever 
 may have been the religious convictions of 
 Sunderland, we cannot I fear respect them, yet 
 he was a sound statesman, formed by his own 
 talents, cultivated as they were by experience 
 and circumstances, to organize a continual oppo- 
 sition, rather than to head a conspiracy." 
 
 " Probably, what might fairly be deemed con- 
 spiracy in a Colonel, is something less degrading 
 in a Lieutenant- General, who owes his promotion 
 to him whom he betrays," said Cornbury. 
 '' What, my Lords, is the opinion of Marshal 
 Schomberg on such a delicate question?" 
 
 Churchill bit his lip, but was silent. 
 
 "For my own part," continued Sydney, " I 
 did not and could not abuse confidence with 
 which I was not trusted, nor could I betray the 
 colours of a sovereign to whom I owe nothing 
 but my banishment, who treated my honour with 
 as much contempt as a gi-eater hero and his 
 renowned general treated the loyal valour of a 
 greater man than Henry Sydney. It is scarcely
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 269 
 
 natural that the sovereign to whom a commander- 
 in-chief offers that allegiance which is due to 
 the king whom he has deserted should trust 
 him. When such a man goes over to the in- 
 vader of his master's throne, the world cries 
 ' traitor !' the abandoned and deceived cry 
 ' Judas !' " 
 
 ''We have not yet been spies in a foreign 
 court, making the ruin of our king the price of 
 his enemy's hospitality," said Cornbury. 
 
 "Better," retorted Sydney, " even at the risk 
 of such an imputation, to promote the highest 
 interests of om- religion and our country than to 
 repose on a reed which will pierce all who lean 
 on it, or bend under us when we need it most. 
 Better do what I have done than to betray a 
 confiding uncle and disgrace our colours." 
 
 " True enough," says Clarendon. " All hope 
 founded on such a delusive basis is folly." 
 
 " It is always safer to trust to nations than to 
 kings," resumed Sydney. 
 
 " Yet a republic is dangerous to the army," 
 said Churchill : " for the officers of inferior rank 
 and the private soldiers appeal from the judg- 
 ment, if not the command of their generals, to 
 the decision of the people." 
 
 " Even such a jurisdiction is more tolerable,"
 
 270 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 replied Sydney, " than the false rale and decep- 
 tion of the Stuarts." 
 
 " What a lesson do they afford us," chimed 
 in several voices. " See what recompense those 
 faithful loyal Englishmen received who had 
 perilled and lost all for the cause of the Stuarts. 
 Charles II., whose ingTatitude is proverbial, left 
 many to pine away in that indigence which de- 
 votion to his cause had entailed upon them." 
 
 " The confidence of James," remarked Hali- 
 fax, " in the disinterested attachment of the 
 holy proselyte Sunderland, confirmed that 
 statesman in power, and enabled him to mono- 
 polise the direction of public affairs." 
 
 " He could not with all his real or assumed 
 popery," rejoined Clarendon, " induce His Ca- 
 thoHc Majesty to make him Lord High Treasurer 
 of England." 
 
 "No," added Churchill; "he did much to 
 bring about the expulsion of James, and pro- 
 moted those measures which eventually deprived 
 him of his crown." 
 
 " He did still more," broke in Halifax, "to 
 acquii-e power for himself. In this light the 
 English Court and foreign envoys considered his 
 conduct." 
 
 " The review of the past can only persuade
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 271 
 
 US," remarked Sydney, "that without the counsel 
 and concuiTence of Sunderland, the Prince of 
 Orange, as the future king of England, cannot 
 form an efficient ministry, or conduct the affairs 
 of the country." 
 
 " But," said Halifax, " let us not dally with 
 the past ; surely the present is full enough of 
 action for the most energetic amhition." 
 
 '" What may be made practically of this day's 
 deliberation," said Churchill, " and how it may 
 be turned to real account, is the only question 
 worth our notice."
 
 272, •■ THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I have heard some of the first judges of whist say, that it was no 
 host who played best by the true laws of the game that would 
 win most, but those who played best to the false play of others ; 
 and I am sure it is true of the great Game of the World.— (rrere'He. 
 
 "Personal crimination and recrimination can 
 only prejudice om- interests and disunite us," 
 observed Halifax, sternly. 
 
 " This is very well for the great statesman, 
 who has w^on his way to the very summit of his 
 honours, and secured his own promotion for the 
 future with any dynasty which may accept his 
 services and appreciate them ; hut less favoured 
 serv^ants of the state must secure their interests 
 and serve their country as best they may," said 
 Cornbury. 
 
 " The noble mastiff majestically disdains the 
 snarl of the cur," remarked Halifax. 
 
 ''But," observed Sydney, ''be he 
 
 " Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, 
 Hound or spaniel, brack or lym, 
 
 in him you may behold the great image of 
 authority."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 273 
 
 " A dog's obeyed in office," said the Earl of 
 Nottingham, giving way to persiflage, unwoi-thy 
 the gi-eatness of the occasion, and suggested that 
 even at the eleventh hour it was not too late to 
 retui-n to theii* allegiance, and propose such 
 terms as James might concede or William might 
 accept. 
 
 "As the noble earl," said Sydney, addressing 
 himself to the meeting in his blandest tones, 
 •' refused to sign the original memorial last July, 
 pleading what his lordship called scruples of 
 conscience, but what the rest of the associates 
 termed cowardice, so now he is inclined to 
 defeat the objects of our present deliberations, 
 and probably to promote prelacy, and even 
 Popery, and be ingenuous enough to reveal our 
 designs." 
 
 Nottingham excused himself by saying he 
 apprehended no ill consequences to religion, or 
 the just (laying an emphasis on the word just,) 
 interests of his Highness, which a little time 
 would not efi'ectually remedy. 
 
 '* My refusal," exclaimed the Earl, "was, I 
 submit, rather a proof of my valour, than my 
 signature had it been extorted by intimidation, 
 nor do I even now imagine that the Papists are 
 able to make head against the supremacy of 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 public opinion. Englishmen hate Popery as the 
 Devil hates holy water." 
 
 " The same," concurred Halifax, " had always 
 been my opinion, even during my correspondence 
 with the Prince." 
 
 " Granted," rejoined Sydney ; " but you had 
 not then been admitted to his confidence, nor 
 had he placed any trust in your professions of 
 service ; your position at this moment demands 
 a decision and a defined line of action, which, 
 may, perhaps, after all, be better known to his 
 Highness than to us, who are only so many 
 steps in the ladder by which you would ascend 
 to office, and then kick it away." 
 
 " At the expense of court favour," replied 
 Halifax, " I opposed the establishment of a 
 standing army. I resisted the abolition of the 
 Test Act ; and was, as you all know, removed 
 from the council. When a statesman, at the 
 sacrifice of emolument and place, adopts a 
 certain course of policy, however you may cen- 
 sure his judgment, you must honour his prin- 
 ciples, and repose on his sincerity. Examine 
 the last acts of my official life amongst you," 
 exclaimed the speaker, and here he raised his 
 voice and moved right into the midst of the 
 assembly, which by this time seemed to have
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 275 
 
 increased in numbers. "I desire to make this 
 public declaration, and I care not who hears me, 
 that, as often as I have been solicited to accept 
 of situations of trust and profit under the crown, 
 I have as uniformly declined them, not, it is 
 needless to say, fi'om disincKnation to political 
 power, but fi-om a discrepancy in the views of 
 the cabinet into which I was invited. No such 
 discrepancy at this crisis, I believe, distracts our 
 counsels, for we are agreed on every point. But 
 upon the precise means of maintaining our own 
 freedom and futm'e course of policy, there may 
 be a difference." 
 
 The quiet glances of intelligence which were 
 exchanged through the assembly were in strong 
 contrast with the forced calmness of Sydney, 
 who could barely suppress his rage at such 
 moderation. At length, after an immense effort, 
 he answered, with a tone of ill-concealed imper- 
 tinence, " Ha\dng never held high office, I can 
 scarcely appreciate the peril and the delicacy of 
 a gi-eat statesman in a new and untried posi- 
 tion which he knows not precisely how to con- 
 firm. But I am confident he will be converted 
 into a staunch supporter of the new govern- 
 ment." 
 
 Halifax said, " We want not so much a new 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 government as a reformation of the old under 
 the new dynasty." 
 
 '' Your favourite theory," cried many voices. 
 '* My lord would support prelatists and a state 
 church unconsciously to himself; but he will 
 certainly, amid the atmosphere of a Catholic 
 court, hatch the Protestant grubs, which are 
 now apparently dead, in the winter of national 
 discontent, into popish butterflies, by the first 
 gleam of sunshine which re^dves the spirits of 
 the Stuarts." 
 
 '' If you have ah-eady made an}* pledge on our 
 parts to which we lent our sanction," said 
 Churchill, " of course in honour we are bound 
 to redeem it ; we must sustain your interest as 
 well as our own credit with the prince." 
 
 '.' Heaven pity the poor king ! he -^dll have 
 enough on his hands," cried Nottingham, " mth- 
 out the flutter of gaudy butterflies, which were 
 more to the taste of the gay and merry 
 Charles." 
 
 " Such butterflies, or even moths, will, ere 
 many weeks," cried Sydney, " singe their wings 
 or burn themselves by the candles which they 
 themselves have lighted." 
 
 "It is mere modesty in my Lord HaHfax," 
 said Clarendon, with a look of the serio-comic,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 277 
 
 " to make so humble an appeal to our sense of 
 his integi-ity and his worth. You ought, my 
 lord," continued the speaker, glancing at the 
 late secretary, " to know by this time that no 
 government can go on without you. Your lord- 
 ship will in due course be the very mainspring 
 to regulate the new Orange machine." 
 
 " My notions may be antiquated or they may 
 be in advance, but the opinion," said Halifax, 
 " that the time will come when statesmen can 
 only gain the highest prize for which they strive 
 in the wheel of fortune by voting, not only for 
 the repeal of the Test Act, but for the remission 
 of all rehgious disabilities and political disqualifi- 
 cations, \\ill prove true. The absolute removal 
 of penal restrictions and the free admission of 
 the suffrages of the people will be a necessity, 
 not a merit. The people, like a steed who has 
 once found out that his power exceeds the 
 restraint of bit and bridle, will assert their 
 domination, and dictate terms to the members 
 whom they send to represent their conflicting 
 interests and religious polity in Parliament." 
 But, as if to qualify what he said, he added, 
 " men will ever be strong partizans, zealous and 
 eager for their own side ; but there is something 
 higher and holier than party, — the common good."
 
 278 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 " Party contests are all very well in their 
 way," admitted Churchill. " In the govern- 
 ment of a country they are a benefit, if not a 
 necessity. Without them where are the colours 
 under which we are to fight?" 
 
 " Yes," retorted Sidney, with much heat, 
 " but there are those who run with the hare, 
 and side with the hounds. The man of mock 
 liberality, or even moderation, who afi'ects friend- 
 ship to both sides, separately expressing good 
 will to either, would," shouts he with vehe- 
 mence, " take precedence of those far more 
 holiest, decided, but less cautious than himself. 
 Ye cannot serve two masters is as cei-tain in 
 politics as in theology." Those to whom this 
 observation was addressed seemed to feel its 
 force, but were uncertain what to say. 
 
 At length, the Duke of Grafton observed, 
 " The very best thing I know about a command 
 is family interests. As a bishop is always sure 
 to portion off his daughters with deaneries and 
 rectories, so your knowing old general always 
 marries his daughters among his staff." 
 
 '* And hence it is," said Sydney, " that every 
 ecclesiastical, as well as military mamma, is a 
 Judicious Hooker." 
 
 After a sullen murmur, which bore no ai-ticu-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 279 
 
 lated sounds to Harry Hough, the voice of 
 Sj^dney was heard accusing Lord Nottingham of 
 indifference to the Protestant Church. To which 
 that nohleman rejoined that he was sincerely 
 attached to the Church of England, but was 
 as reluctant as he ever had been to drive the 
 monarch from his country and his throne. He 
 believed that some security might be required 
 and obtained for the interests of the establish- 
 ment. 
 
 " I am certain," replied Sydney, " that the 
 Prince will concede not an iota to popery or its 
 toleration. You must remember," continued 
 he, "that the departure of Dyckvelt had been 
 followed by a striking change in the behaviour 
 of the Prince ; that he became the dictator, 
 rather than the counsellor, of his Koyal father- 
 in-law. His demands on behalf of an oppressed 
 people are now enforced by an army. His last 
 words to me on leaving his camp were, that not 
 for those three crowns of Great Britain, nor 
 even for all the crowns in Europe, would he or 
 the Princess consent to the repeal of the laws 
 which they thought necessary for the support 
 of the Protestant religion." 
 
 " The Holy Catholic Sunderland," said Hali- 
 fax, " will notwithstanding the Protestant spirit
 
 •280 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 of the Dutch, reap his reward in the same field 
 as Zulestein, and both ^\ill flourish together 
 under the new dynasty." 
 
 " Zulestein," said Sydney, " only pursued the 
 same conduct as Dyckvelt ; and having con- 
 sulted the chiefs of the malcontents returned 
 to his master with the letters and assurances 
 of support, which we are this day called on to 
 make good." 
 
 "Not only so," said HaHfax, "but I can 
 myself produce direct proof that Lady Sunder- 
 land on the seventh of March last warns the 
 Prince of Orange of certain propositions to be. 
 offered to him by the king, and advised him to 
 reject them. Her apolog}^ for addi'essing him I 
 could quote from a paper in my hand. 
 
 " Kead, read," cried Cornbury. 
 
 " I vnll gratify the gallant Colonel. The 
 absence of Mr. Sydney, the only person whom 
 I can trust," &c., &c. 
 
 " Time presses, and nothing which does not 
 immediately and practically claim my attention 
 must detain me longer at Hurley," exclaimed 
 HaHfax, impatiently. 
 
 " What is yom- lordship's destination to- 
 night ?" said the Duke of Grafton. 
 
 " First, I must see WiUiam, and then pre-
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 281 
 
 cede him with others of his adherents to 
 Windsor, where I join Godolphin and the Court, 
 to receive the prince in state. Sunderland, for 
 reasons best known to himself, has departed 
 from Windsor, where he retii-ed after his dis- 
 appointment." 
 
 " He prefers Amsterdam to London," said 
 Sydney, with a look towards Churchill. 
 
 Lord Cornbmy, feeling that he was a mere 
 cipher in the gi-eat account, declared that a 
 secretary of state who had prostrated himself 
 before the tp-anny of Rome, and induced his 
 unhappy son meanly to degi'ade himself to the 
 same level, could not reasonably return to his 
 fu'st estate or espouse the interests of a Pro- 
 testant prince." 
 
 " Such reflections," remarked Churchill, " are 
 scarcely worthy of the great project we have at 
 heart. And perhaps, after all, the religious conver- 
 sion of my Lord Sunderland and his unfortunate 
 son was not less sincere than the political conver- 
 sion of another nobleman and his icorthy son, 
 who are more closely associated with Royalty." 
 
 " I must confess," returned the Earl of Cla- 
 rendon, " that when I consented to be asso- 
 ciated as one of the three " commissioners with 
 the Earl of Oxford on the side of the prince, in
 
 282 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 tlie anxious hope of coming to an amicable 
 arrangement with my Lords Halifax and Not- 
 tingham here present, and my Lord Godolphin, 
 who is absent, I was not prepared for a change 
 of dynasty, nor were we aware that William's 
 ambition would brook nothing short of the crown. 
 Such a revolution we were not inclined to pro- 
 mote." 
 
 Tbe last sentence seemed to tremble on the 
 disappointed statesman's lips. The plaintive 
 tone of the traitor only elicited fi*om the Chair- 
 man the foUowing sarcastic condolence — 
 
 '' My Lord of Clarendon seems ill disposed ; 
 ihe affliction which broke his heart a month 
 ago is still upon him." 
 
 Burning to prove his courage and redeem his 
 character, Cornbury could not brook this taunt 
 unanswered. " My sword," he said, with pas- 
 sion, " was never in the scabbard when my 
 country's service required that it should be un- 
 sheathed." Then turning to Churchill, he 
 added, " Should the nobleman who has dared to 
 insult Lord Clarendon wish to put its temper to 
 the test, let him measure it with his own." 
 
 " My own position and the insolence which 
 runs away glue my sword to its scabbard," was 
 the indignant reply of Churchill.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 " Would that the associated colonel's tongue 
 were glued as firmly to his mouth," cried Sydney, 
 with a contemptuous sneer at Cornbury. 
 
 " Neither your words nor your interest with 
 the king or the prince, as the case may be, can 
 confer honom*, or impair it," cries Cornbury. 
 
 " To give it here would be to throw it away ; to 
 impaii- what has no existence is certainly beyond 
 my power," retorted the president ; then direct- 
 ing his voice to Clarendon, he said, comically, 
 
 " If well-respected Honour bid me on, 
 I hold as little counsel with weak fear, 
 As you" 
 
 Nottingham, desiring to turn the conversation, 
 cited the words : '' There is what is called the 
 highway to posts and honours." 
 
 " And there is a cross and byeway which is 
 much the shortest," recited Sydney. 
 
 " The questfon before us is, I apprehend," 
 said Halifax, " how far we, as sworn subjects, 
 can wage war against our lawful king ?" 
 
 Sydney. — " If lawful governors become tyi*ants, 
 or govern contrary to the laws of God, they 
 must be expelled ; and, if necessaiy for the 
 common good, slain." 
 
 " But who is to decide between the father and 
 his children, the monarch and his subjects ?"
 
 284 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 asked Nottingham. " A third party," cried all. 
 '' The Prince of Orange," concurred the majority. 
 
 "Do they, or do they not forfeit then* right 
 to the throne, which in virtue of succession they 
 occupy?" demanded Nottingham. 
 
 "It certainly is the opinion of the bishops," 
 answered Halifax, "that if we resist the king, 
 and favour an usurper, we violate the law of the 
 Supreme Euler of the miiverse. Such at least 
 were the principles laid down by the Bishops at 
 Oxford." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord, but how long ago ? Princi- 
 ples may change. So recent as 1683 the Right 
 Reverend Prelates enjoined, ' that if lawful 
 governors become tyrants or govern otherwise 
 than by the laws of God or man, they do not 
 forfeit the right they had unto the Government.' 
 This is the great point we should consider, 
 before we take a step which we cannot retrace," 
 observed Nottingham, " and favour an usurper. 
 Tillotson and others on his side go so far as to 
 apply St. Paul's rule to the subjects of King 
 James. 'Let every soul be subject to the higher 
 powers.' " 
 
 "They at one time," rejoined Halifax, "went 
 even to gi-eater lengths, and asserted, that 
 ' whosoever resisteth the power, resisteth the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 285 
 
 ordinance of God ; and they that resist shall 
 receive to themselves damnation.' " 
 
 '' Certainly," retorted Sydney, who was im- 
 bued with a dissenter's prejudice. " That a 
 creature should resist its Creator is a crime 
 which deserves the penalty which good Queen 
 Bess was so ready to inflict upon her bishops. 
 To take a more lenient Yiew of such an offence 
 must be difficult. To say the least of it, this 
 doctrine of non-resistance and passive obedience 
 must be a difficult dogma for a Protestant bishop 
 to maintain, against the supremacy of Rome. 
 It was easier for the Defender of the Faith to 
 fortify than for his successors to defend. Since 
 you are reviving the spirit of theological dis- 
 cussion, and making a Convocation House of this 
 bmial vault of the monks, I should not wonder 
 to see some holy father start from his grave and 
 sleep of ages to scare away such heresy and 
 sacrilege." 
 
 "The Apostles," said Clarendon, "were 
 accused by the Pagans, who were worse, if pos- 
 sible, than the Papists, of a deep design to 
 subvert the constitutional authorities. All the 
 Apostle would impress on his hearers was, that 
 this was no part of his mission." 
 
 " Nero's will was law," repHed Sidney, " but
 
 286 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 we are Britons. With us the king is as much 
 bound by the laws as we are bound to obey him ; 
 that is only so long as he preserves our Pro- 
 testant rights. It was not until a small portion 
 of that indulgence which the Protestant Chm-ch 
 herself enjoyed was conceded to others, who 
 had broken away from her, as she had from the 
 Chm'ch of Rome, that her rigliteous indignation 
 was aroused. The under- current, which tolera- 
 tion of any but herself excited, had not begun to 
 ruffle the sm-face of the angry deep, until 
 James played Pope over his bishops. To 
 tolerate a Papist, was, I admit," added he with a 
 smile," to undo the refoiTQer and to demolish the 
 prelatist." 
 
 " We cannot bow to yom* ecclesiastical policy, 
 Colonel Sydney," said Halifax, " for I thought 
 to bring the relieved dissenters into league with 
 the orthodox Chmxh, and to make them dwell 
 together, like brethren in unity." 
 
 *' Just so," said the irreverent jester, " but 
 the ointment of Aaron's beard did not flow down 
 to the skii-ts. The oil, which made the Estab- 
 lishment glad, and which made it of a joyful 
 countenance, descended not to naked dissenters, 
 who had stripped themselves of the last rag of 
 Popery."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 " In spite of this ribaldi-y," said Notting- 
 ham in a whisper, which soon swelled into full 
 tone, " we all desired to form a coalition 
 within and without the Cabinet ; but not even 
 ' The Anatomy of an Equivalent,' by my Lord 
 HaKfax could effect om- object." 
 
 '"In this respect less successful," observed 
 Sydney, " than your distinguished colleague 
 Secretary Sunderland, who smashed the ' Magna 
 Charta of Conscience,' before it could be sub- 
 mitted to the legislatm-e." 
 
 " Om* gallant Chaii^man's supremacy over the 
 fair sex, may well confer on him some distin- 
 guished title, and associate him with his patron, 
 under a djTiasty rich in dignities, which 
 few but Dutchmen can expect, and for which 
 the adherents of James are ineligible," said 
 Clarendon. 
 
 " There may be those," sneered Sydney, " in 
 a worse position to-morrow than the adherents 
 of either. You know the old adage." 
 
 " And I know," repHed Cornbury, "that the 
 dexterous hand which fitted the crown of Charles 
 on his royal brother's head, can as easily fit 
 it to the head of WilHam of Orange, and as 
 loyally keep it steady on the Dutchman's brow." 
 
 " Lord Chm'chill, impatient for the termina-
 
 288 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 tion of he meeting, deprecating so much irre- 
 levant discussion croaked out, that he must leave 
 them, as he had objects to effect that veiy even- 
 ing. He desii'ed if possible to see William, and 
 also to meet the Princess Anne of Denmark, in 
 her progress to Oxford." 
 
 " Two praiseworthy designs, my lord," re- 
 marked Sydney. " Probably the great captain is 
 as anxious, and for a similar reason, to make 
 the Princess Anne a queen, as the sarcastic and 
 witty Sedley was to promote the Princess Maiy 
 to the same honour. 'King James,' said Sedley, 
 * made my daughter a countess, and I have been 
 helping to make his daughter a queen.' " 
 
 A conversation here ensued, which was 
 fast degenerating into personal abuse, and en- 
 couraged Cornbury to say something disrespect- 
 ful of James in connection with the Countess 
 of Dorchester. 
 
 Sydney, whose gay and humorous sarcasms 
 spared no one whom they could reach, and cut 
 sharper than a sword, pronounced Lord Corn- 
 bury beyond the jurisdiction of the court of 
 honour, declaring, at the same time, that 
 cowardice is often more successful than valour. 
 
 Cornbury turned pale and red by turns, 
 scarcely able to keep down the rage within him.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 He only muttered half audibly, " He shall rue 
 this insult." 
 
 This threat having been overheard by Lord 
 Clarendon who happened to be standing near 
 the last speaker, he rebuked him with an air of 
 parental authority; " You have in more instances 
 than one," said the discontented earl, "in- 
 curred the charge of meanness and indiscretion, 
 loquacious and at the same time secret, obse- 
 quious and insolent, trusty and dishonest, and 
 still there is a miserable conceit left in you at 
 this crisis of our fortimes ; you have betrayed 
 the interests of the king and secured no favour 
 with the prince to whom you have sold yourself 
 without a bargain ; you are already up to your 
 knees in trouble, and by yom* rashness will 
 overwhelm me in sorrow ; you were first to bring 
 disgrace on our family, and you are last to 
 aggravate the annoyance which j^ou com- 
 menced." 
 
 " I never hoped, sir, to sell myself for gold," 
 said the noble son of a noble sire, '* but I had 
 hoped for something better." 
 
 ''Pray what is that?" asked the afflicted 
 father. 
 
 *' Gratitude," answered the other, " and the 
 thanks of the parent whose example I had fol- 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 lowed so faithfully. If my interpretation of your 
 will, sir, be as erroneous as my desii'e to consult 
 it was eai'nest, pardon me ; I was under the 
 delusion that my career and the event of my 
 conduct was the plan if not the creation of my 
 illustrious father — that your o'^ti sentiments, 
 yom* scrupulous honour and political decorum, 
 your probity were my guarantee for the steps 
 which I ventured towards the confidence and 
 esteem of the invader." 
 
 ''Yom- words and yom- actions, Cornbury," 
 answered Clarendon, " are well assorted." 
 
 " If the union of my father's qualities "wdth 
 that skill and that rectitude which have made 
 him the most distinguished man in his new 
 sphere of duty be not my inheritance, I trust he 
 will not measure my ser\ices by the mere evi- 
 dence of my success." 
 
 " How could I," asked the earl, "look the 
 king in the face when my son, who was in- 
 vested with the royal confidence, left me to 
 lament his depravity?" 
 
 " This, sir, seems a new ligbt which is 
 breaking on our broken fortunes ; for I had 
 ignorantly believed that you were confederate 
 with William, and that you only waited for a 
 discreet opportunity to throw ofi'the mask."
 
 THE loyalist's daughtek. 291 
 
 "Deceitful to the last," cried the enraged 
 father. 
 
 " There must," said the other, with bitter 
 sarcasm, which cut the father to the heart, " be 
 some latent spoil of honour buried beneath the 
 ruins of my royal uncle's fortunes, which will 
 shine out more brightly when the rubbish is 
 removed, and when the men who defied and 
 destroyed him see more clearly what they have 
 done and what they have acquii-ed." 
 
 " Be that as it may," whispered the son in 
 the father's ear, '' I am ready now to return to 
 that allegiance which you seem to recommend, 
 and to retrieve, if possible, my fortunes with the 
 king." 
 
 Clarendon's look was blank and very different 
 from the sly malice that twinkled in the eye of 
 Combmy. The earl pressed his hands to his 
 face and appeared overcome by conflicting 
 emotions. 
 
 " I begged," at length muttered he, '* I sup- 
 plicated, — I did all ; but he refused me. There 
 is now no way of restoring the Stuarts to their 
 own. They will not accept such terms as we 
 can offer. There is no peer in the land more 
 anxious for such a consummation than myself." 
 
 " You had rank, sir," replied the son im- 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 pertinently, " and wealth, and influence, and 
 every tie which could have bound you to the 
 long ; YOU had family influence, more than enough 
 to have made yom- weight felt and acknowledged, 
 but YOU seemed to have wavered, you had no 
 definite object, or ends, you were off with the 
 old love before you were on with the new, you 
 became a party -without a purpose." 
 
 "You are," said the father, *' evidently 
 unaware of the very nature of the association 
 into which we are incorporated." 
 
 " I know this, there is enough to split us into 
 a dozen parties," cried the son. 
 
 " Well," observed the father in a low and 
 serious tone, " had you adopted one steadfast 
 line — I care not what, save toleration of Popery 
 — and taken yom- stand on that alone, all might 
 have been well." 
 
 " And if, sii% you, on the other hand, had 
 dealt your cards differently and aspired to fame, 
 no matter what might have been the game you 
 played, even if you rested your claims on one 
 single question, one great demand for an3rthing, 
 — Romish interests always excepted — had you 
 but stuck to your one specific point for a quarter 
 of a century, you would have been certain of the 
 highest in place the Government. Two opposing
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 parties vdU ever be ambitious, either would buy 
 youi- alliance at any price. So it would have 
 been with me on the contrary side, and thus, 
 sir (if I am not too presumptive), we might each 
 of us have held a trump -card and won by 
 honom-s." 
 
 The earl was silent, although a flush of 
 shame was on his cheek. The heavy demand 
 on his caution overcame much of the expression 
 of that paternal anguish, which the satiiical 
 retoi-t of the son inflicted on the earl, who, 
 glancing around, saw that he was observed, and 
 turned abruptly away from the judicious colonel, 
 as do we also who have no interest for either. 
 
 Indeed the interests of our story do not 
 requii-e us to dwell minutely on this miserable 
 squabble between father and son. We may 
 remark, however, that of all the bitter barbs 
 which crime has poisoned, there is not one, 
 perhaps, more painful to a parent's heart than 
 the conviction that to his example the erring 
 child owes his worst sins and sorrows. Only 
 less intolerable is the consciousness that the son 
 sinned and the father '* restrained him not." 
 
 Notwithstanding Clarendon's efforts to evade 
 obsen-ation, Chm-chill, noticing theii' discontent, 
 said in a whisper only audible to the earl, '' Since
 
 294 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 our concessions do not come up to the expecta- 
 tions of the prince, and his reception of our 
 homage is no pledge of his good wiU, suppose 
 we return to om- allegiance, and reinstate the 
 king?" 
 
 Sydney by this time perceiving that there was 
 hesitation in the minds of the noblemen, and 
 that they were no by means unanimous in their 
 support of William, cried out, " The die is cast, 
 the Eubicon is passed. To retreat or recede 
 is treason, and will be treated as such. Were 
 Craven and Dundee as powerful as they are 
 vaHant, they could not help you, my Lords." 
 
 " Adjom-n, adjourn," reverberated through the 
 vaults. 
 
 "Not before a vote of thanks and the ful- 
 filment of our engagements to his Highness be 
 recorded," thundered Sydney. " I have authority 
 from head- quarters that there shall be no tolera- 
 tion but by Act of Parliament, and no toleration 
 for Romanists by act of anjihing." 
 
 " We have not decided to depose the king," 
 said Nottingham, boldly. 
 
 "Then, my lords," cried Sydney, "you are 
 conspirators against the Protestant Chm'ch." 
 
 "Not so," retorted Nottingham, "but we 
 cannot abet treason to om- sovereign."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 *' King James has forfeited liis allegiance — 
 'Tis treason to uphold him." 
 
 " We will not uphold you, Colonel Sydney," 
 roared Cornbury. 
 
 " Then shall you not leave this vault," declared 
 the other, with a threatening frown, speaking in 
 theatrical style. 
 
 " 'Tis time to look ahout; the powers of the 
 kingdom are divided," cried Nottingham. '^ But 
 what says my Lord Halifax — a commissioner, a 
 president, a statesman charged with the fate of 
 empires ?" 
 
 '' Yes," added Sydney, "my Lord Treasurer 
 has Court holy-water enough to allay the dust 
 which has been raised by our deliberations." 
 
 "I will," replied Halifax, "tell my noble friends 
 all that I know of the king and his intentions. 
 I would also briefly state the object of my hasty 
 and most fatiguing journey from Whitehall to 
 Hurley, at a time when my health demands that 
 rest which my solicitude for the State denies 
 me." Amid the most profound silence and 
 attention he continued, " Know, then, that it is 
 your fault that you resign office, or suspect the 
 coming sovereign. All circumstances well con- 
 sidered, the Ught and fortune of his happy stars 
 will, no doubt, make us prosperous in his reign.
 
 296 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Only, you peers, continue this ' united league.' 
 There are obstacles still between the prince and 
 the throne. But I eveiy horn* expect an embassy 
 from William to the king, which \\ill confii-m 
 His Highness in power and redeem us from 
 oppression." 
 
 " But what more news with you, my Lord 
 Halifax ?" cried Chm-chiU, 
 
 *' ' None good, my lord, to please you with the 
 hearing,' " answered HaHfax. 
 
 " ' Nor none so bad,' " said Sydney, " but well 
 may be reported." 
 
 ** Once more," cried many voices, " what news 
 from Whitehall ?" 
 
 "James is on his way to London," said 
 Halifax. 
 
 " Wliite-livered renegade ! Why goes he 
 there ?" roared Sydney. 
 
 Halifax, tm-ning to those present, " I know 
 not, my lords, but by guess." 
 
 What do you guess ?" demanded Churchill. 
 Encouraged by some false, relenting lords, 
 or foolish counsellors, he makes once more for 
 London to resume his croA\Ti,' " said the frowning 
 secretary. 
 
 " But who is England's king but great Wil- 
 liam ?" exclaimed Sydney. 

 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 297 
 
 Halifax. — '' I have colder news, but these 
 must be told. 
 
 ** ' The king's chaii* is not empty — the empire 
 is not yet impossessed. A royal battle may be 
 won and lost.' Well nigh two days of stormy 
 outrage had passed before any tidings reached 
 us of the king, when a Kentish clown is suffered 
 to disturb om* deliberations. His woeful tale, 
 seconded by Lord Mulgrave's appeal to men as 
 weak as himself, prevailed over the discretion of 
 the assembly ; — a scrap of crumpled paper, bear- 
 ing the well-known handwriting of the king, but 
 without any signatm-e, was delivered by the 
 rustic to the comicil, informing the peers that 
 the king was in the hands of the rabble at Faver- 
 sham. ' Sick in the world's regard, wretched 
 and low,' cried Sheffield, ' our poor fallen 
 king is at the mercy of lawless turbulence. 
 Can we be base enough to leave his sacred but 
 mistaken Majesty to be torn to pieces by an 
 infuriated and drunlien mob as seditious as it is 
 bUnd ?' ' Let us remember, my lords,' appealed 
 Lord Mulgi-ave, ' that in spite of his Popery 
 James is still our Sovereign.' 
 
 " How," continued Halifax, " can I tell you, 
 my Lords and Gentlemen, the result of his 
 eloquence ? The Lords Aylesbury, Lichfield,
 
 298 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Yarmouth and Miclclleton at this very hour are 
 posting down to Faversham to acquaint the king 
 that his guards are on the way to escort his 
 most gracious Majesty hack to London, whither 
 his friends desire and expect his return. Alas ! 
 that I should be the hearer of these unwelcome 
 tidings to the Prince of Orange, w^hom I must 
 join before he arrives at "Windsor." 
 
 All present seemed agitated and were stunned 
 into a momentary silence ; after w^hich Colonel 
 Sydney flashed into one blaze of fiery passion : 
 "We'll not endure it," he thundered. "The 
 rebel lords * are swayed with every gale and 
 vary of their masters.' They are false traitors, 
 * false to the prince, their country and their 
 honour,' " he recited. 
 
 " Why the King of England is so suddenly 
 called back, know you the reason ?" demanded 
 Grafton, anxiously. 
 
 " Something, doubtless," said Nottingham, 
 " he left imperfect in the state which since his 
 departure is thought of by Lord MulgTave and 
 his friends, something which imparts to the 
 kingdom so much fear and danger, that his 
 personal retm-n was most required by those who 
 loved him least." 
 
 " And Popery most," shouted Sydney.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 299 
 
 " Did my Lord of Nottingham say ' most 
 required ?'" 
 
 " Yes," replied that Lord, and ''necessary." 
 
 " Who says so conspires against this high 
 ilhistrioiis prince," rejoins his champion. 
 " Despite their valour and their boast, they are 
 traitors — 'most toad-spotted traitors.' " 
 
 " * Back do we hm-1 foul treasons on thy 
 head,' " declaimed the Duke of Grafton. 
 
 " 'It's the privilege of thy honour,' " recited 
 Sydney, accommodating, like each speaker in 
 the di-ama, borrowed passages to his purpose, as 
 if unconscious of the quotations, " to shelter thy 
 treason against the prince under thy ducal coronet 
 and the law of arms. His Grace is not bound to 
 answer me, but by my oath, my profession, I 
 
 protest" • Then gi-asping his sword, he 
 
 cried, " With this good sword and this right 
 
 arm" suiting his action to the word; but 
 
 before another syllable could escape him, a 
 tremendous crash, a dull fall, sent out a hun- 
 dred melancholy echoes through the vaults, and 
 startled the bewildered Demy from the fragment 
 on which he was seated. He rushed from the 
 spot he knew not whither. 
 
 So vehement had been the accidental stroke 
 of the uplifted arm which gave force to the
 
 300 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 speaker's animated words that a huge stone 
 crucifix which had survived all the changes and 
 chances of Hui'ley, came down, bringing with it 
 large fragments of the building, from which 
 time and decay had nearly detached it, dis- 
 persing all who were near it, threatening to 
 crush and grind them to powder. Never was the 
 figm*e of the crucifix more dreaded or avoided ; 
 the shattered splinters fled in all directions, and 
 one of them inflicted a painful wound on the 
 sword arm of Combury.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Onwards a figure came, with stately brow, 
 
 And as he glanced upon the ruin'd pile 
 A look of regal pride, " Say, who art thou 
 
 (His countenance brightening with a scornful smile), 
 He sternly cried, whose footsteps rash profane 
 The wild, romantic realm where I have willed to reign ? 
 
 Magic Mirror. 
 
 " A GLORIOUS omen! A happy augury!" ex- 
 claimed Sydney. " The great emblem of popery 
 is fallen ! The idol is broken ! So fall thy worship- 
 pers and priests, Baal ! The image set up in 
 the plains of Durah is prostrate ! No more shall 
 the sound of the royal sackbut and psaltery, and 
 the popish dulcimer make the stout knee of the 
 brave Englishman bow down before Dagon !" 
 
 '' Down with such images ! Down with them 
 to the ground !" chorused several voices, in a 
 spirit and tone which might have done credit to 
 the republic, or old Noll himself. 
 
 The Duke of Grafton, who happened to be 
 near Lord Combuiy, and observed that he did 
 not join in the general exultation, expressed a 
 fear that his lordship had been smitten by the
 
 302 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Lady of Babylon, and not being aware of the 
 accident affected pity for his feelings. 
 
 " According to his grace's rule of knighthood 
 he is safe from om- resentment," retorted Corn- 
 bm-y. " But even had my lord dnke been an 
 honest woman's issue, his gi-ace is not nearer 
 royalty than the son of Clarendon." 
 
 " Draw thy sword !" cried Grafton. " Spare 
 not my title or my rank. If any man of quality 
 or degi-ee mthin the hsts of the army will second 
 such an officer as Lord Cornbury, then my arm 
 may do me justice." So sapng, Grafton, put- 
 ting his hand on his sword, cried — '' I am 
 ready ! I defy thy taunts !" 
 
 " Despite thy victor sword," cried the noble 
 colonel, " over Stanley, the Earl of Derby's son, 
 I regard thee not. I am not less in blood, and 
 in honest blood, than thou art, Grafton." 
 
 *'But thou hast wi'onged me — insulted me." 
 
 " If thou art noble I forgive thee ; but how 
 can I even against one who courts a quaiTel, 
 raise that arm which is already disabled by the 
 blow which Sydney's vehemence has inflicted on 
 me?" 
 
 The Duke cast a withering and iacredulous 
 look at Cornbmy, and spm-ned him. The 
 insulted officer flung his glove upon the floor.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 Grafton took it up and followed him to the door, 
 muttering as he went, and pointing his finger 
 to the ruins outside beyond the Western arch- 
 way. While Grafton's usually degage air was 
 somewhat ruffled, Cornbury bit his lip and tried 
 to smile, and the gruff voice of Churchill was 
 heard proposing seconds ; the rest of the party 
 were anxious to prevent the hostile meeting. 
 Compunctious visitings seemed at this stage of 
 the affair to unnerve Grafton's arm on account 
 of the alleged wound which afflicted Cornbmy, — 
 so that some little delay took place immediately 
 outside the vault, where the two opponents were 
 steadily regarding each other, when the sudden 
 tramp of men's feet, the clatter of armom-, and 
 the sound of voices near the main entrance of 
 the vault multiplying the echoes so as to give a 
 notion of gi-eat numbers startled the two noble- 
 men. All inside were hurriedly and in much 
 alarm, rushing to the door, when their egress 
 w^as opposed by five men, the foremost of whom 
 was Combm-y, pressed by Grafton, after whom 
 pall-mall, all huddled together, came three others 
 forcing the intended combatants back into the 
 vaults. The confusion, caused by the collision 
 of those who were making for the door and those 
 who were forcing their way in was now at its
 
 304 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 height, when above the din and tumult the well- 
 known voice of Lord Lovelace prevailed, and at 
 once allayed the wild confusion within, which had 
 been excited by the hubbub without. ''Ah! my 
 Lords, I am just in time to prevent a duel, and 
 to detect a spy." A handsome young man in the 
 custody of Lord Lovelace's confidential servant 
 appeared among the new comers, and was pre- 
 sented to the meeting by his conductor, in a 
 tone of bitter sarcasm not altogether very flatter- 
 ing to the astonished yoimg gentleman to whom 
 he gave such a pressing reception. No sooner 
 had the amazement and hm-ried greetings of the 
 moment subsided, than the lord of the mansion 
 assuming a composure which he by no means 
 felt, declared that he was not aware of what 
 extraordinary circumstance it was, to which he 
 owed the distinguished honom- of the company 
 of the noble youth (pronouncing the word ' noble ' 
 with marked emphasis) whom he introduced to 
 their lordships. *' But," added he changing 
 his manner, in accents trembling between fear 
 and anger, " had our young friend's kind under- 
 taking been as effectual as his intentions were 
 honourable, I might have had to thank him for 
 a lodging as secure as that from which I have 
 just had such a miraculous escape."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 *' No man believes me to have been aware," 
 stammered poor Hough, but he could get out no 
 more. 
 
 Stai-tled by the crash of the fallen crucifix. 
 Hough, in his attempt to escape from such a 
 scene, rushed unconsciously into the arms of 
 Lord Lovelace, who was, on his return, thread- 
 ing the labyrinth of passages so familiar to him, 
 on his way to the vaults. Scarcely had he de- 
 livered the youth to William, an attendant who 
 followed his lordship, when he jostled up against 
 Cornbury, whom he forced back upon Grafton, 
 and thus completed the general uproar. The 
 effect this extraordinary collision produced upon 
 all present exceeds description. Even the gay 
 and reckless Sydney was speechless. Lovelace 
 looked from one to the other as though some 
 unexplained mystery still remained. He was 
 only restored to a consciousness of what was 
 going on by an explanation fi'om Lord Halifax 
 of all that had passed between Cornbrny and 
 Grafton. 
 
 Had Hough been pierced by a pistol bullet or 
 a sword thrust he could not have been more 
 stunned. The burning glow of shame was on 
 his cheek, and he felt as if some degi-ading insult 
 to the spirit within him would destroy his self- 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 esteem and utterly unman him. It was not that 
 he dreaded imprisonment, or even death, but the 
 charge of dishonour which he could not repel. 
 There was a stain upon his reputation, and the 
 suspicious situation in which he was detected 
 seemed to confirm his guilt. Indeed, an attempt 
 to account for his predicament could only involve 
 him still further in difficulty. 
 
 ^'I beseech you, my lords," cried Lovelace, 
 "'compose yourselves, return — deliberate — listen 
 to me — be guided by Lord Halifax — be ruled by 
 discretion." 
 
 Amid this address Hough gasped out, " Only 
 treat me as a gentleman and I will satisfy this 
 honourable company." 
 
 " Ay, ay," says the Lord Lovelace, " the 
 Devil is a gentleman, although his sable majesty 
 would scarcely stoop to such treacherous mean- 
 ness as eavesdropping. But I must have a 
 word in private with this gentleman," added his 
 lordship, laying stress on the last word. 
 
 I need not inflict upon the reader the nature 
 and extent of the examination which, of course, 
 ended in a conviction of Popish treachery and 
 cruel designs. Suffice it is to say that the result 
 provided the youth a lodging at least for that 
 night within the mansion of Hurley.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 307 
 
 "Come on, sirrah, come along, and I will 
 make you more familiar with the interior of this 
 interesting building. You have overheard that 
 which makes you an inmate of Lady Place — 
 Papist spy, a spy of spies, as you doubtless 
 are !" 
 
 The Demy was getting up his courage to 
 speak. But his host said, softly, " hush." Then 
 burst into a sort of chant. 
 
 Child Koland to the dark tower came, 
 His word was still — ' Fie, foh, fum ; 
 I smell the blood of a British man.' " 
 
 The room in which Hough was examined by 
 Lord Lovelace, who was a magistrate, was chill 
 and the whole region so dark that Lovelace 
 required a Kght. He took a bell from the table 
 and rang a loud peal. Immediately the con- 
 fidential sei-vant, to whom he had at first 
 intrusted Hough, appeared in plain clothes, with 
 a brazen lamp, which the master took from his 
 hand, desiring him to follow at a distance, then 
 leading the way, he said to the youth in a relent- 
 ing tone, " At the same time, I fear, young sir, 
 you will deem me but too pressing a chamberlain 
 who must now usher you to a place of early 
 repose, more rude than you have been accus- 
 tomed to occupy at Magdalen College, of which 
 
 X 2
 
 308 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 you say yon are a scholar. I wish you a very 
 good night, and such sweet slumbers as youth 
 and innocence ever enjoy." 
 
 " But which false accusations and injustice 
 ever deny," muttered Hough. 
 
 '' But we have not yet reached your chamber," 
 observed Lovelace. " Suffer me to have the 
 honour of being your escort. I must qonduct 
 you to a more exalted situation." Hough fol- 
 lowed him in silence up an old-fashioned wind- 
 ing stau'case within a turret. At the landinof- 
 place at the top was a sort of cell or recess in 
 the wall, where a rude pallet bed, two chairs, 
 and a small stone table formed the greater part 
 of the furniture. 
 
 " I know not, my lord," said the Demy, 
 ''whether I am to consider myself your pri- 
 soner or yom- guest." 
 
 "Whichever of the two you may please to 
 call yourself. It may be enough for me to tell 
 you, young man, that you are an intriguer — a 
 discovered spy, who doubtless cany tokens and 
 passages betwixt popish confederates, to whom 
 you communicate such interesting information 
 as you have this evening gained by your indis- 
 creet and too bold intrusion. To this charge 
 you will have to answer before a Protestant
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 309 
 
 magistrate, less personally affected by your 
 attempts than your entertainer." 
 
 Thus sapng, Lord Lovelace, turning hastily 
 from him left the room. Hough heard him but 
 too distinctly entrusting his safe-keeping to the 
 attendant, to whom the master handed the 
 key which secm-ed the prison. He hstened 
 to the footsteps of master and man hastening 
 down the narrow staircase. 
 
 " On what grounds," muttered he to himself, 
 when all was silent, '' dare any one accuse me 
 of such a crime as this proud traitor has 
 ascribed to me ? On me, the victim of his 
 cruelty, will he visit the revenge which he 
 cannot take upon the king's loyal troops, who 
 beat and imprisoned him. To-morrow, no 
 doubt, I shall be convicted, and threshed by 
 the Protestant flail, and of course found guilty 
 of abetting the foul, bloody, and damnable plot 
 for the re-establishment of popery, if not the 
 intentional murder of the Dutch invader, and 
 the massacre of all true Protestants. I, too, 
 the nephew of the champion who maintained 
 the fortress of Protestant truth against the 
 aggi*ession even of the king ! What luoulcl the 
 President say ? More to the purpose — what 
 can I say to exculpate myself — to escape this
 
 310 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 foolish dilemma ? What proof can I give of 
 my innocence ? I deny — I defy," he soliloquized. 
 Then from the defiant he fell into a more 
 soothing mood. " There is, after all," thought 
 he, " one bosom in this mansion that will, if 
 aware of it, sympathise in my distress. When 
 she signed me to retreat there was that in her 
 eye which spoke of something more than mere 
 caution. She may yet discover some way of 
 escape for one to whose fate she cannot be in- 
 different." With a heavy but not desponding 
 heart, with a light, unaccusing conscience, and 
 in that holy trust in Him who makes all things 
 work together for good to those who love Him, 
 in that calm confidence which constitutes the 
 true hero, and bids him hope against hope, the 
 Oxford scholar, yielding to what he believed to 
 be God's will, betook himself to meditation 
 which was, however, in an instant broken by the 
 sound of a bugle, calling together such troops 
 as Lord Lovelace after his recent defeat could 
 muster. The whole of the noblemen, states- 
 men, and officers of the army were heard in the 
 gi-eat hall by Hough, who soon perceived that 
 they were preparing for their departure, each to 
 his respective destination. Lovelace, to cut off 
 loyal parties, or suspected families on the way
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 311 
 
 either to join James or follow the queen to 
 France. Halifax, to confer with William while 
 on his road to Windsor. Churchill, by great 
 persuasion to rejoin the invading army, followed 
 by Sj^dney, who was returning to join the council, 
 of the Prince of Orange, followed by Clarendon 
 and Cornbury, who seemed to be wavering be- 
 tween his mighty highness and the returning 
 king. Nottingham might be seen by the light 
 over the great gateway, quite alone, and direct- 
 ing his horse's head to the London road. Others 
 there were whose names have not come down to 
 us, who seemed to be halting between two opi- 
 nions, and utterly at a loss for some safe guide 
 for theii* conduct. 
 
 The next morning the Demy was carried before 
 the neighbom-ing justice of the peace, for an 
 examination. The sagacious magistrate before 
 whom Harry made his appearance was a country 
 gentleman of honest intentions and Protestant 
 principles. The field of his talents was as 
 barren as his disposition was timid. The general 
 alarm given to England, and the recent outrages 
 which threatened to extend from the city of 
 London to the rural districts, as well as the 
 reiterated Popish plots and murderous designs, 
 which had been just discovered, made a deep,
 
 312 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 nay, an indelible impression on his mind. He 
 felt that in the present instance much might 
 depend upon his decision. From all that he 
 could gather, the culprit might be a Jesuit novice 
 in disguise, or to say the least a Papist, with 
 some desperate design Im-king under the exterior 
 of innocence and youth. Whatever might be 
 the latent fears of his worship, he was not only 
 quite conscious of his official duty and dignity, 
 but prepared, like his colleagues of the day, for 
 that martydom which Catholic cruelty had in 
 store for him, and for which he deemed himself 
 not altogether unworthy. 
 
 *' Heaven protect us!" said the just justice, 
 glaring condemnation at the Demy, " to what 
 a fearful height of audacity has this age of 
 Roman superstition arisen ! A mere stripling, 
 yet old in crime ! So hardened too ! Mercy on 
 us ! Nothing more or less than a Papist, I'll 
 warrant." He then put on his spectacles and 
 took his seat in his grand judicial chair, behind 
 a strong iron grating, which intervened between 
 him and the accused. The detail of Hough's 
 detection by Lord Lovelace was briefly given by 
 those whom his lordship authorised to bear wit- 
 ness against the prisoner. 
 
 " Caught and delivered over to justice," said
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 313 
 
 the gi*ave justice of the peace, "and that by a 
 true Protestant nobleman, a friend to his country 
 and a defender of its faith!" 
 
 Assuming more submission and respect for 
 the magistrate than he felt at his heart, and 
 anxious to conciHate him, the Oxford scholar 
 disowned that he was a Papist. " But," says 
 he, "I believe in the one holy CathoKc Church." 
 
 " In what, Sir ?" says the justice. 
 
 " I believe in the holy Catholic Church." 
 
 "Just as I thought," cried the sage magis- 
 trate. " You would not be called a Papist, but 
 you are at least at the Half-way House on your 
 way to Eome." 
 
 "How can that be, sir?" cried Hough, no 
 longer able to restrain himself. 
 
 His Honom* answered by another question. 
 " Had you not been a Papist how could you do 
 the work of a son of the Scarlet Whore ? Sir, 
 you are in the bond of iniquity ; in the gall of 
 bitterness. Know you not that the blessing of 
 the Pope is the curse of God ? You cannot be 
 blind to the gigantic stiides by which Rome is 
 marching in concei-t mth her dear son James to 
 regain this Protestant country, once the brightest 
 gem in the triple crown." 
 
 " I am well awai-e, your worship," said the
 
 314 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 youth, " that James is a Catholic, but I am 
 educated in the principles of the Church of 
 England." 
 
 ^' What better," replied the astute man of 
 law with his ' Coke upon Littleton ' by his side, 
 " are your Catholic Church and Episcopal suc- 
 cession than mere Popery ? You have adhered 
 to James it appears from what is alleged against 
 you. What or who is he but a lay Pope ? 
 What is your English ' Common Prayer,' with 
 its absolutions and its htany, but a mongrel 
 mass which our poor deluded predecessors 
 mumbled in Latin ?" 
 
 One of Lovelace's men who was present de- 
 clared that '' no one but the deadly spawn of the 
 dragon could have wriggled himself into the den 
 where Hough was discovered ; that no good 
 Protestant could breathe amid such Popery." 
 
 Feeling that it were worse than vain to offer 
 a defence which could only implicate him in still 
 greater difficulty, our poor friend Hough was 
 silent. 
 
 " Your reverence for that Gospel to which you 
 prefer man's traditions will, young sir, be no 
 obstacle to your oath on the Evangelists." Then 
 putting the New Testament into his hands and 
 to his lips, the worthy magistrate administered
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 315 
 
 the usual oath. " On your oath now," proceeded 
 the man of justice, " are you, or are you not, one 
 of those Papists whom James Stuart forcibly 
 obtruded upon the venerable Protestant Univer- 
 sity of Oxford ?" 
 
 The youth could scarcely suppress a smile, 
 but, composing his countenance and modulating 
 his voice, he declared that it was the first time 
 he had heard such an allegation against the 
 Demies or the fellows of Mary Magdalen 
 College, who had successfully for nine months 
 resisted the encroachments of Popery, even 
 in the most sacred person of the king. " I 
 am," said indignant Hough, almost satirically, 
 " under the delusion that every learned magis- 
 trate in England is versed in the proceedings 
 against the President of St. Mary Magdalen, 
 and the noble defence which he made." 
 
 " Your name, I know, is spelt like his in the 
 charge against you ; is it possible, young gentle- 
 man, that you can bear any relationship to that 
 champion of liberty and Protestantism ? " asked 
 the startled magistrate. 
 
 " I am," replied the Demy, proudly, '' not 
 only his nephew, but I am devoted to his in- 
 terests and his cause." 
 
 " But," breaks in the loyal assistant of the
 
 316 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 justice, ''you are all accused of disloyalty, and 
 most of your college of Popery." 
 
 " Disloyalty against whom ? " said the youth. 
 
 " The prince and the Protestant Faith," said 
 the clerk. 
 
 " Om- loyalty can only be questioned by him 
 to whom it is due. We render to all their 
 dues ; ' tribute to whom tribute, fear to whom 
 fear, honour to whom honour is due.' Our crime, 
 sir, is our allegiance to our lawful king, James, 
 to whom our love and our loyalty are only ex- 
 ceeded by our sense of duty and our honour." 
 
 *' You are clearly convicted of treacherous 
 designs. A popish plotter, and a spy's spy, you 
 stand before the bar of justice. I can hold out 
 no hope of your acquittal ; still, for the sake of 
 that name which you bear, I would be lenient. 
 How could you dishonour it ? I shall give you 
 a fair hearing, and shall be materially influenced 
 in my final decision by the statement which I 
 now call upon you to make. Recall all which 
 you ever witnessed of what passed between 
 James and the university, more especially with 
 reference to Mary Magdalen College." 
 
 '' Who were the commissioners against Dr. 
 Hough ? " demanded the justice, with solemn 
 gravity.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 317 
 
 '' Sii' K. Wright, Chief Justice of the 
 King's Bench, amd Sir Thomas Kennel, Baron 
 of the Exchequer." 
 
 " Go on, sir," cried his worship, writing down 
 every word, as if it was a deposition involving 
 the destiny of the nation. 
 
 Hough continues : — '' The Bishop of Chester 
 made a speech against disloyalty and disobe- 
 dience — ' The eyes of the world are upon you, 
 you men of Magdalen,' he said ; ' rebellion is as 
 the sin of witchcraft, and your deluded admirers 
 may be deluded by yom* example.' " 
 
 '' The names of the Demies and college ser- 
 vants were called over in the afternoon." 
 
 " Was the President allowed to speak ?" de- 
 manded the magistrate. 
 
 " Certainly," was the answer. 
 
 Bishop : " How say you, doctor? do you sub- 
 mit to our visitation ?" 
 
 Dr. Hough : '* We submit to it so far as is 
 consistent with the laws of the land and the sta- 
 tutes of the college." 
 
 Here the examiner interrupted young Hough 
 with the pertinent question, " But are not the 
 statutes tainted with popei7 ?" 
 
 The Demy repUed that if there was any tinc- 
 ture of Romanism in them it was now obsolete,
 
 318 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 and not binding ; but he declined to pass an 
 opinion on the subject, more fit for convocation 
 than for an undergraduate. 
 
 "But," cried the magistrate, "go on." 
 
 Hough, then, referring to a paper which he 
 had about him, continued — 
 
 Bishop : " The king has dispensed with the 
 statutes." 
 
 Dr. Hough : " Now, my lord, we have taken 
 an oath not only to observe the statutes," laying 
 his hand on the book, " but to admit of no new 
 ones or alterations in our ancient laws of the 
 university. I admit of no alteration in them, and 
 by the grace of God never will." 
 
 " Then, on your oath, sir, tell me, without 
 prevaricating," said Justice Toogood, " the 
 answer which yom* President made to the ques- 
 tion which was at that time in everybody's 
 mouth — ' Why, doctor, do you not read the 
 mass as there is a statute for the mass ?' " 
 
 " Dr. Hough replied, ' My lord, the matter of 
 this statute is unlawful ; besides the statute is 
 done away by the law of the land. As long as 
 the saying of mass is malum in se, and in my 
 conscience I know the matter to be unlawful, 
 that obligation ceases, and I am not bound 
 by it.' "
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 319 
 
 The justice, who was more of a puritan than 
 a chiu'chman declared that such statutes were 
 a disgrace to a Protestant university. 
 
 "But, sir," said he, "what was the up- 
 shot?" 
 
 " The keys were demanded of Dr. Hough, 
 and the fellows admonished not to obey him. 
 ' My lord,' cried he, ' I do hereby protest 
 against all your proceedings. I appeal to my 
 sovereign lord, the king, in his courts of justice.' " 
 
 " And could the youth of your college stand 
 this insult ojBfered to your society ? " asked 
 the justice, with feeling. 
 
 " No : may it please your worship," said the 
 Demy, " we kicked up a regular disturbance, 
 and gave unequivocal signs of disapprobation, 
 and such loud ' non-placets' that the chief justice 
 lost his temper, and resented our conduct ; 
 indeed, he was so incensed that, though the 
 President offered to make an affidavit that he 
 was in no way accessary to the annoyance, but 
 on the contrary was ashamed of it, and though 
 the bishop said he believed him, yet the chief 
 justice declared that such rudeness was not to 
 be borne. He bound my uncle in the penalty 
 of £1000, and in security to the same amount, 
 to appeal in the King's Bench the 12th No-
 
 320 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 vember following, that is last year," added the 
 Demy. 
 
 " Bnt, young gentleman, were there not some 
 who, in the spii-it of what you call * loyalty, 
 submitted to the king's unwarrantable aggres- 
 sion ; and were not you yom-self of that un- 
 happy number?" 
 
 The reply was : " Out of twenty- eight fellows 
 there were only two who submitted to the king's 
 proceedings." 
 
 " Name them, sir." 
 
 " Mr. Chamock and Dr. Smith. Charnock 
 was a decided Catholic." 
 
 *' Like yourself," muttered the magistrate. 
 
 "Dr. Smith a man of learning and abilities. 
 He was not partial to the Catholic religion, for 
 he was deprived of his fellowship by Bonaventure 
 Gifford, the Popish President, in August, and 
 though restored with the rest of the fellows I 
 am sure he will decline the oaths of allegiance 
 to the Prince of Orange." 
 
 The magistrate colom'ed and was silent. 
 
 " The Demies who did not appear when sum- 
 moned were removed and dismissed." 
 The sentence signed, 
 
 Sam. Oxon, P. 
 
 Rob. Charnock, V.P.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 321 
 
 " What do you know," demanded the magis- 
 trate, " of Farmer, whom the king ordered your 
 fellows to elect as President ?" 
 
 "He migrated from Magdalen Hall to 
 Magdalen College, where I myself heard him 
 declare at a wine party, that it was only for his 
 temporal interest he desired to be thought a 
 Catholic. At the very time when his Majesty's 
 letter came to our college, old Farmer was at 
 Abingdon, where he had been drinking to excess 
 three days and three nights. In the dead of 
 night, with his jolly companions, he threw the 
 town stocks into the river, and played off other 
 nocturnal pranks, which your worship will not 
 care to hear. The testimony of our college is 
 that ' in general the said Mr. Farmer hath had 
 the unhappiness to lie under ill fame, as to his 
 Hfe and conversation, as, by several letters and 
 certificates l*eady to be produced, will appear.' 
 Here follows his own confession of bad conduct 
 at a dancing school. There were also other 
 certificates against him during his residence at 
 Trinity College, Cambridge." 
 
 "But, sir, what took place at any of the 
 other colleges, and what part did the king take 
 in person at Oxford?" demands the magistrate. 
 
 " The Lord Sunderland sent an order to om- 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 fellows to attend the king at Christchurch in the 
 September of the last year. They attended 
 accordingly," continued Hough, reading a paper, 
 — " King to fellows : * You have not dealt mth 
 me like gentlemen ; you have done very uncivilly 
 and undutifully. They kneel. They offer a 
 petition, the king refuses to receive it and remon- 
 strates ; ye have been a stubborn and tm-bulent 
 college. I have kno^Ti ye to be so these twenty- 
 six years. Ye have affronted me in this. Is 
 this your Chui'ch of England loyalty ? . . . . 
 Go home and show yourselves good members of 
 the Church of England. Get you gone. Know 
 I am your king. I vnR be obeyed. Go and 
 admit the Bishop of Oxon, Head, Principal — 
 what d'ye call it? of the college.' " 
 
 "President," one said. 
 
 "I mean President. Let them that refuse 
 look to it." 
 
 " The fellows go out; are called back. The 
 consummation of the former election of a fellow 
 was deemed by the king downright disobedience, 
 and a fresh aggi-ession. ' Get you gone home,' 
 storms he. 'I say again go, and get you gone 
 and immediately repair to your chapel, and elect 
 the Bishop of Oxon.' They went to the chapel 
 where they declared to Dr. Pudsey that the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 323 
 
 statutes and their positive oath left them no 
 power to obey the king." 
 
 " Then, sir, am I to understand that you are 
 one of the thirty Demies whose names, in con- 
 sequence of the proceedings of the king, were 
 struck out of the college books at the commence- 
 ment of last year ?" 
 
 " I am, sir," replied the Demy, boldly. 
 
 " So far so good," observed the justice, with 
 a smile which mitigated judicial asperity, and 
 filled the prisoner with hope. " You are a 
 young man, but you have not passed your event- 
 ful day without observation of the times. What 
 is your opinion of the dispensing power ?" 
 
 " Your worship, I hope, will exert this power 
 by dispensing with my opinion on so grave a 
 matter?" 
 
 " I demand joui opinion," said the justice. 
 
 " By om' common lawyers it hath often been 
 affinned," added the Oxford scholar, solemnly, 
 " that this divinity which hedges round the king 
 is Httle less than that with which the Bishop of 
 Rome is clothed." 
 
 The justice shook his head and his wig, but 
 nothing came out of either. But his legal 
 adviser carelessly observed that there was such 
 a theor}'. Hough, who enjoyed pre-eminently 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 that most imposing of all faculties — the talent 
 to make the most of his knowledge — referred 
 the learned gentleman to Coke's Institutes 
 which were on the tahle, respectfully hinting 
 that some Hght might be borrowed from so great 
 an authority. After a long and anxious pause, 
 during which Hough was actually allowed to sit 
 down, the attorney, with his eyes on the book, 
 said : "It appears to be laid down, that what- 
 ever the Pope de facto formerly did mthin this 
 realm by the Canon Law, that of right belongs 
 to om- kings. That, the king claiming as 
 supreme head, such authority as the Pope had 
 doth of right belong to the CroTsii, and is annexed 
 thereto by the statutes of the 26th Hen. YIII. 
 and 1 Eliz. 
 
 " Well, suppose," said his honom*, " that by 
 an Act of Parliament yom* college statutes had 
 been utterly null and void, as those relating to 
 the mass, it appears, have been, are fellows 
 bound to keep the vacated statutes?" 
 
 " I am not," replied the examined, "in a 
 position, even were I better informed, to make 
 answer to such an important question. But, 
 however this may be, I am told. Lord Sunderland 
 and others esteemed the ecclesiastical supremacy 
 the richest gem in the crown."
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 325 
 
 " It must then be gi-and," said the man of 
 justice pleasantly, " for in the crown of state 
 there is one ruby, set in the middle of the 
 crosses, esteemed worth ten thousand pounds." 
 
 "About one year's income of a good bishop- 
 ric," remarked the attorney carelessly, as if to 
 himself. 
 
 " All which you have advanced, young man," 
 said the justice in his best magisterial tones, 
 " must convince a mind like yours how dangerous, 
 how fatal it must be to our country and the 
 Gospel to adhere to a king clothed with such 
 powers, and determined to use them against 
 religion and truth. The Idng might by these 
 laws impose such a quantity of Popery on the 
 people as neither they nor their fathers could 
 bear, and inflict upon our Protestant country 
 that authority which we swear the Pope hath 
 not, nor ought to have in these realms." 
 
 "What say you?" said Hough, who under 
 the impulse of the moment, and more ready to 
 display his knowledge and his loyalty than 
 mindful of his release, addressed the timid 
 magistrate nearly in the words of a letter directed 
 to Dr. Bayly and the fellows of Magdalen 
 College in the autumn of the preceding year. 
 " Permit me to remind your worship," cried the
 
 326 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 youth with more energy than discretion, " that 
 it was loyalty and conscience that, in the reign 
 of King Charles I., made thirty-fom- of the 
 forty fellows of Magdalen College, and most of 
 the scholars of our foundation quit their places 
 and embrace misery and ruin rather than submit 
 to the government of the usurper of the crown. 
 And in Monmouth's rebellion the same induce- 
 ments prevailed on us to raise a company at our 
 own charge, under the command of our fellows 
 to engage against him. These are a few 
 instances of the loyalty and zeal of our society 
 to the royal family, and which we have no doubt 
 vdll be received as evidences thereof, and assure 
 om- gracious sovereign that we are still devoted 
 to his service and his house." 
 
 Hough was hastily resolving whether he 
 ought, in prudence, to say a word more, being 
 fearful of what were called trepans, when the 
 justice assured him with great dignity mingled 
 with kindness, that his submissive behaviour in 
 the presence of magistracy carried less of the 
 malignant marks of the rebellious and fiendish 
 spirit of Popery than the facts of his case would 
 warrant. 
 
 " Therefore," said he, " as you are a goodly 
 young man, and of honourable quality, I should
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 327 
 
 be willing to stand between you and the severity 
 of the law. If your heart can resolve to give up 
 an attachment and loyalty to James, which he 
 never deserved, and enter a declaration to this 
 effect, I will, though I fear I am extending 
 this indulgence beyond my jurisdiction, release 
 you from your confinement, and from all the 
 penal labyi-inths, which are more intricate than 
 the secret passages of Lady Place, if you will 
 only sign this document." 
 
 The young man hesitated for a moment. 
 " Had I not better consent to the conditions on 
 which I am to be liberated ?" said he to himself. 
 But this misgiving of his resolution was but for 
 a moment. He speedily glanced through the 
 paper, and perceiving that disloyalty to James 
 and allegiance to the Invader were the price of 
 his liberty, Hough looked sternly at the sage 
 justice, and, in a distinct voice, reminded his 
 honour that a weU-wisher could never have 
 enforced conditions with which none but a traitor 
 could comply. " Such an offer of freedom at the 
 expense of my fidelity closes every door of hope." 
 
 " Then, young man," prayed the justice, 
 " may Heaven guide you to a sounder judgment 
 and a wiser course before you are brought before 
 a Protestant jury."
 
 328 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Having finished his official examination, he 
 made a signal to his attendants to remove Henry, 
 who was led along by the same passages which 
 he had traversed upon his entrance, escorted by 
 two understrappers of the law, to the river, 
 whence a boat conveyed him to the landing 
 place, of which there was a commanding view 
 from the windows of Hurley House.
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 329 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 'Tis Beauty, that doth oft make women proud ; 
 
 'Tis Virtue, that doth make them most admired ; 
 
 'Tis Modesty, that makes them seem Diwine.—ShaTcerpeare. 
 
 Congratulating himself as he went, that he 
 had resisted one temptation, though he was 
 not, he feared proof against another which 
 mastered his firmest resohition — his desire to be 
 near the innocent cause of all his disasters — 
 when, turning his thoughts and his eyes fondly 
 to that portion of the mansion in which his 
 fancy had placed the accidental cause of all his 
 embarrassment, he beheld streaming from a 
 window in the fresh breeze of noon a snow- 
 white handlcerchief waving him, he believed, 
 encoui*agement, though no guidance which he 
 could make out. He was not beyond the reach 
 of sympathy. There was one whose streamer, 
 and perhaps whose heart, fluttered for his fate. 
 Then came that sequence of reflections chasing 
 each other across his agitated mind like waves
 
 330 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 of the ceaseless sea in succession, but leaving no 
 trace of each other. Let Fortune do her worst, 
 there was one sigh of sympathy, one soothing 
 vision under the influence of which his fears 
 were lulled. He felt as a visitor attended by an 
 escort of honour to the mansion of her whom he 
 had invested with the charms of mystery and 
 romance. The enthusiasm of the moment sup- 
 ported him. He was, it is true, but young in 
 love, and only felt that the relative situation of 
 Miss Penderel and himself was more delicate than 
 secure. But he advanced towards the house 
 with a firm step, resolved to let matters take 
 their course. The heroine of the hunting field 
 might not, after all, repel his advances. The 
 rapid and varied events in which his fortune had 
 been involved for two days had made him feel 
 like a hero. His interests at this moment were 
 far more deeply engaged for Lily Penderel than 
 for a fellowship at Magdalen College, and all its 
 vague but golden future. Without venturing 
 any exchange or sign of recognition, he found 
 himself gazing at the figure in the window with 
 the waving signal in her hand. The foremost of 
 his guards cried to the other, " What precious 
 tom-foolery is that ! This, my young gentle- 
 man," said he, ''is no time for flii-tation. The
 
 THE loyalist's daughtee. 331 
 
 damsel, with the sky-blue muslin dress and red 
 ribbon, and bewitching cap is only waiting to be 
 made love to by some smart valet or serving- 
 man who may, perhaps, resent your sweet smiles 
 and sly glances on his gay girl and procure 
 board and lodging for such high-mettled gallantry 
 in a cage which has often held an older bird." 
 
 " Look at her," said the first speaker; " she 
 is a mettled wench. I see'd her at the junket- 
 ting while her young mistress was out a himting 
 the other day." 
 
 These words had scarcely reached Henry's 
 ear, when looking up once more to the window 
 sure enough there he saw Di Vine. Chagrined 
 and utterly overcome by shame at such an 
 extravagant outlay of sympathy, which, regard- 
 less of expense, he had bestowed upon the 
 retiring and disappointed fille de chambre, he 
 withdrew his gaze. She had evidently, judging 
 from her telegraphic devices, been expecting 
 another party. She concealed her face and 
 figure. Hough was hastened somewhat rudely 
 to the place of his confinement. This was for 
 the present in a small cell in one of the turrets 
 opening upon the gallery which we have before 
 noticed. The gentleman's gentleman to whom 
 Hough had been committed seemed now to be
 
 332 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 touched T\'ith a feeling of pity, for the pri- 
 soner's youth and gentlemanly hearing had 
 induced him to waive the indignity of every 
 coarse restraint which might remind him that 
 he was a prisoner and a criminal. 
 
 As soon as the cell door had closed, Hough, 
 exhausted in mind and body, sank into an arm- 
 chair, and sad and lonely sat musing on his fate, 
 vexed with himself and all the world, more 
 annoyed, perhaps, at his own mistaken attention 
 and absurd attraction to the hoity-toity piece of 
 finery, Di Vine, than any other passage in his 
 romantic exploits. Though inexperienced as he 
 was he had learned that the highest penny in the 
 world's market that will be bid for a young fel- 
 low never exceeds the price he puts on himself. 
 He had, in the estimation of his impertinent 
 observers, sold himself for a small commodity 
 in the shape of an abigail, by whom any lady, 
 be she Papist or Protestant, in his sphere of life, 
 might sweep with that air of majesty insepa- 
 rable from a true lady's rank. While the young 
 man, like the patriot of old time, was mom-ning 
 " all these things are against me," foriune was 
 contriving his dehverance by one of those unex- 
 pected freaks with which it delights her to 
 baffle the calculations of those whose destiny is
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 333 
 
 in her hands ; and as she fixes often on agents 
 apparently unequal to the emergency, just so in her 
 froHc during Hough's reflections, the fickle god- 
 dess thought proper to employ that very person 
 whom he held in sovereign contempt — the flex- 
 ible and interesting maiden, Di Vine. 
 
 The trusty body guard of the lord of the 
 mansion on his way down to the housekeeper's 
 room, by the merest accident in the world came 
 in coUision with Miss Di Vine, who was ascend- 
 ing to the apai-tments of her young mistress. 
 Comparing his looks with, all that she had ob- 
 served going on outside from the window, she 
 strongly suspected that the young gentleman 
 who had been favoured with the hospitality 
 of Hm-ley, about whom she had picked up waifs 
 and strays the preceding evening, was recon- 
 ducted to Lady Place. Her curiosity was quite 
 anxious. Even in her day a sensation was 
 better than a volume of anything else. She 
 was resolved to improve the opportunity which 
 this meeting on the staircase afi'orded. Many 
 and insidious were the pretty Httle endearments 
 with which she plied the valet. When he was 
 unrelenting and inexorable she called him Mr. 
 Faircloth, when he yielded a little he was 
 WiUiam, and when he was softened down to
 
 334 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 Willie she opened the recesses of his confidence 
 with a kiss — a favour which, on her honour, 
 she never vouchsafed to any man hut her 
 friend, she might say her brother, who told her 
 all he knew ivilly nilly about the gentleman 
 under his care. No sooner had she allayed the 
 agony of her own curiosity at the very fountain 
 of facts, than, in breathless excitement, she 
 darted off like lightning to her mistress, to 
 whom she communicated everything, save the 
 nature of the key which opened Mr. Faircloth's 
 hps and heart. " my dear young lady ! there 
 is a young gentleman under close confinement, 
 and when Lord Lovelace comes back again if the 
 Cavalier, for such he seems to be, cannot give 
 a better account of himself than he has given to 
 Justice Toogood there will be short work with him : 
 ' kneel do^\TQ,' ' make ready,' ' present,' ' fire' : a 
 jump up into the air, down again, and all is over!" 
 
 " It may be some poor loyalist," said Miss 
 Penderel, "whom we might succour." 
 
 " Lord ! madam, summut ought to be done. 
 He is so handsome !" 
 
 " He must," remarked the mistress, " be some 
 young soldier who has fallen into the hands of 
 the colonel." 
 
 ''I fear," said the obsequious yet considerate
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 335 
 
 maid, "it is Mr. Morton's young friend who 
 brought you to the hall door, or rather your 
 ghost, which made me faint and take on so. Mr. 
 Faircloth is in the house. I can ask him any- 
 thing. Will — I mean Mr. Faircloth, will not 
 refuse to answer me, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Kun, Di," said the alarmed mistress, '' and 
 ask him the name and quality of his prisoner, 
 and be back in an instant to my room, and let 
 me know what he says." 
 
 Feeling a sort of instinctive sense of the pain 
 which the news abeady acquired would inflict on 
 Miss Penderel, Di Yine hesitated on her errand, 
 and retm-ned without further inquiry. She either 
 felt or assumed such surprise and dismay as 
 expressed on her countenance a deep concern for 
 the prisoner. 
 
 " What ails the gii'l ?" said Lily, anxiously, 
 '' is it one of your acquaintances ?" 
 
 " dear. Miss Lily, it is doubtless the beau- 
 tiful young gentleman." 
 
 " Who ? you idiot," cried the lady in agony, 
 " It cannot be the steersman of the Oxford boat ! 
 He is not a CathoHc ; he must however be a 
 youth so brave, so noble and so generous that 
 he must be totally innocent. My uncle Morton 
 declared he was an Oxford scholar and that he
 
 836 THE LOYALIST S DAUGHTER. 
 
 had no connection with the insurgents, or, 
 indeed, with any of the unhappy dissensions 
 which distract the country. He must be 
 innocent, nay, above suspicion, unless, indeed, 
 he be a loyalist though a Protestant, standing up 
 for the invaded rights of liis sovereign." 
 
 "0 dear, mistress! these are the last times, 
 when right is wrong, when white is black, when 
 our Blessed Mother in heaven and the mother 
 of Him who called us all brothers and sisters is 
 reviled, her chapels destroyed and this, her once 
 loved abode of Lady Place, desecrated by heresy 
 and polluted by treason." 
 
 '' Hush ! hush !" cried the lady, '' none of 
 this. Think on yom* own admii-ation of Lord 
 Lovelace. Think on the danger and difficulty 
 of our situation." 
 
 ** There's no time to talk of delicacy. Let 
 us, my Lady, make the best of our way to the 
 place where the noble youth is locked up. I 
 will throw myself at the feet of William. I will 
 win over the sentinel. I will go anywhere, do 
 anything which you command me." 
 
 " I owe him my life," said the sorrowful lady. 
 
 " I would see him ; I would save him. I would 
 do all ; nay, more than I could for him," said Di. 
 
 Her mistress cautioned the maid once more to
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 337 
 
 be silent. " Let me have my own way," said 
 
 the abigail ; " abide where you are. There is a 
 
 rough trooper just under the window strutting 
 
 about as a sentinel. Hark ! I hear him 
 
 humming a disloyal song : — " 
 
 ' Tom Tidmarsh came from the field of the slain, 
 Drenched in his blood and full of pain. 
 By Popish hands he was hacked and shot ; 
 Then buried alone near this same spot ! ' 
 
 In reply to which she sang a verse of the 
 
 * Koyal Admiral,' sub voce, but loud enough to 
 
 be heard by one for whom it was intended, 
 
 rather out of season, but in excellent musical 
 
 time, — 
 
 ' Let Titus and Patience stir up a commotion, 
 
 Their swearing and plotting shall serve them no more ; 
 Now gallant old Jamie commands on the ocean. 
 
 And mighty Charles keeps them in awe on the shore.' 
 
 At this moment of hesitation and dread Mr. 
 Faircloth made his appearance at the entrance 
 of the room into which he was making his way 
 with some sHght pro\'ision for his prisoner. His 
 unexpected appearance confirmed Miss Lily in 
 her decision to comply with Di's counsel, and 
 retire before the gentleman's gentleman observed 
 her. 
 
 " Ah ! Ah ! " cries the gentleman in waiting, 
 " strange song to sing at Hurley ! 0, Miss Di," 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 o'SS THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 
 
 says he, "is this your proof of the confidence I 
 placed in yoiu- honour ?" 
 
 The agitated girl could only put her handker- 
 chief to her eyes, and make that appeal which a 
 woman's tears make not in vain to a man of 
 feehng. 
 
 " Your prisoner," she sighed, " knows some- 
 thing of one whom I fear has shared the fate of 
 poor trooper Tidmarsh. The rough sentinel has 
 now tm-ned his back to this part of the building, 
 and I could have a word with the young gentle- 
 man whose place in the Oxford boat Hubert 
 Hunter, the young huntsman, whom my Lord 
 Lovelace has discharged, supplied, and who has 
 been taken a prisoner in company with a party 
 of Eoyalists." 
 
 " Come, come, my pretty lass, your favours 
 and yom* regards are so general and so generally 
 received that you cannot afford much of your 
 esteem to any individual." 
 
 " Let me give you this little proof of my love, 
 Mr. Faii'cloth," she said, handing him a purse 
 full of gold pieces with which Lily had charged 
 her to open the prisoner's door. 
 
 " I care not for such guerdon," said the lord's 
 confidant, pocketing a handful of jacobuses, 
 "but I must let you have your way. If the
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 389 
 
 colonel hears what I have done, he may include 
 me in the number of loyalists whom he calls 
 traitors." 
 
 Her tact and addi-ess, and the knowledge that 
 she herself was Mr. Faii'cloth's peculiar weak- 
 ness, mastered the reluctance of the temporary 
 gaoler, with whom the influence of gold possibly 
 had more weight than he desired to make evident 
 to the maiden. He opened the door ; she fol- 
 lowed unin^dted but unrepelled, and, to judge by 
 his manner, unseen. Like a wise man in office, 
 he heard not ; he saw nothing but the table on 
 which he was spreading Harry's frugal meal. 
 That young gentleman was pensive, but not in 
 despaii-; for a moment he seemed unconscious 
 of a second party in his Httle prison, but her 
 light step and the rustle of Miss Vine's blue 
 dress startled him from his reverie. He raised 
 his head fi-om his hands, in which it was 
 buried as he rested them on a stone bench in a 
 recess of his lonely abode. All the graceful and 
 neat little speeches which she had but a moment 
 before at her fingers', or rather at her tongue's 
 end for effect and address, suddenly forsook her. 
 She could only gaze on the youth, as if he was 
 an idol that it would be sinful to approach. His 
 attitude, his looks, but above all his manly 
 
 z 2
 
 840 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 beauty in such a degrading situation — ''like a 
 toad in the wall," as she afterwards expressed 
 it — stunned her. She could without much 
 effoi-t have fainted. The youth was unmanned, 
 for the apparition of Miss Penderel had so often 
 flashed across his eye or his imagination, that 
 for an instant he really mistook the figure of Di 
 Vine, whose countenance was shaded with her 
 hand, for his own little-known, now much-loved 
 Lily. 
 
 The young gentleman was silent. The lady's 
 maid could not say what she had designed. And 
 therefore for a moment said nothing. 
 
 His mind was a tumult. Her helpless curiosity 
 was a torture. At length she raised her eyes 
 from the ground on which they had been resting. 
 His glance met hers. He started at his own 
 delusion and mistake. He had all but addressed 
 her as the fair girl of his hopes and fears. 
 
 Before a word had been spoken on either side 
 the repast was set in order and the voice of 
 Mr. Faircloth was heard in a tone of pretended 
 sur^mse and alarm, crying, " Yn^o's here ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Good gi*acious ! For heaven's sake 
 Will — Mr. Faircloth I mean," bleated out the 
 girl, "let me speak one word to him." 
 
 " sir," says she, to Mr. Hough, " have
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 341 
 
 you seen Hubert ? His mother is an old depen- 
 dant of Lord Lovelace, who discharged him 
 from his service. And they say he has joined 
 yom- crew, and is, or may be ere this, captured 
 or slain by the skirmishers of the prince, or 
 even by the colonel himself, who is out to 
 intercept stragghng parties of the loyalists." 
 
 " The crew will keep a steady look out and 
 may be nearer than you expect by this time," 
 was Hough's answer. 
 
 "0, but, my dear young gentleman," she 
 whispered, "how can we get you out of this 
 honible hole '? " 
 
 "Give this to your lady," said he, with a 
 voice inaudible to Faii'cloth, on whom he kept 
 a steady eye. 
 
 She curtseyed. 
 
 He squeezed her hand into which he placed 
 something besides the paper. 
 
 If report be true, the Oxonian not only let 
 his eyes meet hers, but his lips, in the hurry of 
 the moment, touched her lips. However this 
 may really be, the damsel tripped off before the 
 nobleman's gentleman could urge her departure 
 as if she had something worth carrying to her 
 mistress, whom she found in trepidation and 
 suspense.
 
 842 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 The young lady felt that she had beeu rash 
 and perhaps degraded in the eyes of him whose 
 respect if not affection she desired. But his 
 life was at stake. No sooner, therefore, had she 
 snatched the note from the hand of her maid 
 than she read as follows : — 
 
 ' ' To you, my dear Miss Penderel, I owe the 
 hapijiest moments which have gilded my varied 
 existence ; it will be my happiness till the last 
 hour of my life to recollect that I was ready to 
 risk it for a being for whom I would sooner a 
 thousand times lay it down than be exiled fi-om 
 her presence. I know not under what autho- 
 rity or for what crime the investigation of my 
 conduct is to be made, nor in what plot I am 
 suddenly, sadly, deeply, but most unaccountably 
 implicated. You, at least, will not think me 
 guilty of anything save rashness. I sought to 
 see you once more — this is my presumption and 
 my crime ; forgive such a desperate imdertaking 
 and aid me. Could you but find means to let 
 my friends in the ' Mary Magdalen ' know of 
 my situation and my peril, all might yet be well. 
 They cannot be far off." 
 
 Of all the plans for Hough's relief and safety 
 the lady and her maid thought what he proposed 
 the most impracticable and precarious. Many
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 343 
 
 aud singular, but perhaps none quite original or 
 new to novel readers were the stratagems which 
 they proposed and as often rejected for the deli- 
 very of the captive. At one moment the mis- 
 tress would find admission to his cell, and dis- 
 guising him in her garments would remain in 
 his place and pass him off as Miss Penderel. 
 But this were unbecoming her sex and position. 
 Besides her very solicitude might defeat her 
 design. The maid declared she could personate 
 the yomig gentleman to the veiy life and man- 
 ner. He was the same size, only a little taller 
 than herself, and slightly built, and elegant 
 withal. And what would be a mere frolic to her 
 might prove, perhaps, a cat " 
 
 " A what ?" said the mistress. 
 
 * * A catastrophe to my lady . " She was actually 
 practising her pai-t before a glass, when a sail on 
 the river caught her mistress's eye and reminded 
 her of Hough's letter, and perhaps after all it 
 were better their motions should be directed to 
 the plan of him whom it concerned most. The 
 damsel accordingly, at the desire of her lady, 
 flung a wai-m mantle around her and hastened 
 out of the house, if possible to discover and 
 communicate with the friends of the unfortunate 
 prisoner.
 
 344 THE loy-\list's daughter. 
 
 Sensible of the weight of her mission, and 
 conscious of the mj'sterious secrets which she 
 could reveal, she felt not less anxious to receive 
 than to impai-t information. Her fii'st impulse 
 was to have a chat mth some of her neighbours, 
 to whom she might tell something new, and 
 hear fi-om them in retm-n something of the state 
 of the country, and learn their version of what 
 had been passing at the Great House. 
 
 The nearest abode where she could effect these 
 objects was the gardener's cottage, snugly 
 sheltered by the woods, and surrounded by ever- 
 gi'eens, through which she skipped like a fawn, 
 and soon found herself to her heart's content, 
 surrounded by a variety of persons, whom the 
 distracted times and precarious condition of the 
 country had thrown out of employment. A 
 hundred questions were asked and answered, but 
 nothing of real moment which has not ah-eady 
 come under the notice of the reader. She 
 longed to hear something of Hubert, but scarcely 
 knew how to open the conversation on such a 
 pomt, in such a mixed assembly. While she was 
 debating in her ovm. mind the next step to take, 
 the latch of the cottage door was raised and in 
 comes the gardener to his evening repast ; for 
 the day was drawing to a close. He was no
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 345 
 
 sti'auger to Miss Di Vine, for they had often met 
 in her yoimg mistress's flower garden. " Fine 
 news, miss, up at the house ; what's going on 
 there ? I met a young springald in the grounds 
 yesterday. The young fellow mil come to no 
 good, will he, mistress ?" 
 
 She stammered out something about his ren- 
 contre with Lord Lovelace, and how the Colonel 
 mistook the gallant for a spy. 
 
 This turned the conversation to the crew of 
 the Oxford boat, and the gardener began to 
 retail the news he had just heard from two men 
 in a sail boat fi-om Beading. Miss Di listened 
 in eager expectation, hoping to learn something 
 which might enable her to fulfil the mission with 
 which her mistress had charged her. The 
 gardener said he had learned from the men that 
 the Magdalen crew had mistaken a skii-mishing 
 party of William's for the royal troops, and had 
 been taken prisoners. " But what is worse," 
 said he, looking Miss Di Vine full in the face, 
 " they took our neighbour. Master Hubert, who, 
 since my lord the colonel has sent him to the 
 right about, is fain to pick up a li\dng as best he 
 may, as steersman; and he is Hke to steer both 
 himself and them into the veiy jaws of destruc- 
 tion. Only let my lord catch him, and his
 
 346 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 hempen is spun ; and I doubt, Miss Di, if you 
 
 are the mouse to cut the net into which your 
 young Nimrod is fallen." 
 
 She with great warmth disclaimed acquaintance 
 with any one of that name. She believed her 
 lord would neither spare Nimrod, whoever he 
 might be, or any other rod, that came across his 
 path to thwart him. The tidings she had heard 
 made her restless and uneasy, and rendered the 
 fulfilment of her mission hopeless. She there- 
 fore replaced her cloak and bonnet, which she 
 had taken off on entering the cottage, with the 
 intention of returning to Miss Penderel as 
 speedily as possible with the sorrowful tidings, 
 when the door opened a second time; and who 
 should stand before her but Hubert glowing with 
 all the freshness of exercise, excitement, and 
 adventure? To throw his arms round her neck 
 and salute her was the work of a second ; to 
 extricate herself from his embrace, and put on 
 the proper aspect of reluctance and resentment, 
 was a still more rapid proceeding ; but she could 
 not disguise the real satisfaction she felt at his 
 safety and freedom. Before, however, she could 
 obtain time for a moment's conversation with 
 him, a third visitor entered the cottage, old 
 Dame Hunter, the grandmother of Hubert, who
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 347 
 
 had been allowed on account of her age to retain 
 the rustic cottage, which she had long occupied 
 with her grandson who had incurred the dis- 
 pleasui-e of his employer, Lord Lovelace. She 
 whispered a word in her grandson's ear. He 
 suffered her then to lead or rather to pull him out 
 of the house. Diana Vine followed. 
 
 " You will bring me to the grave," muttered 
 the old woman, to the young fellow, " you will 
 by your pranks and follies ruin us both. You 
 are depriving us of a shelter while I live. You 
 ought to know better. The colonel fed you and 
 bred you, and now you are among the enemies of 
 my lord, and fighting against the religion in 
 which you were brought up. Ah ! Miss Di Vine, 
 little do you know what the boy has cost me, since 
 I first taught him the word of God on my knee." 
 
 The old woman's limbs trembled under her, 
 so that she climg to Hubert for support. From 
 her eyes, dim with age, streamed tears, through 
 which she looked in anguish on her gay and 
 dashing gi;andson. She entreated him to return 
 to his duty and fidelity to the house of Lovelace. 
 The lord (meaning the colonel) would pardon 
 him, and restore him to his place, when the 
 troubles which set those of the same household 
 against each other were over.
 
 348 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 On the other hand Diana's influence though 
 very different, was irresistible ; her promises, her 
 smiles, and the private encouragement, which 
 in public she denied, all conspii*ed to confirm 
 him in the service of the Oxford loyalists and 
 to enhst his efforts in their cause. The conflict 
 between obedience to his venerable relation and 
 his own dashing choice distracted him ; but 
 youth and beauty, in smiles, mastered age and 
 fondness, in tears. He tore himself away, not 
 without a pang ; he covered the old woman with 
 kisses ; the strong man yielded so far to aff'ec- 
 tion, that he wept like a child, begged her for- 
 giveness and plunged into the thickest part of 
 the wood with the tender-hearted maiden, whose 
 love, like light, was not exhausted by the numbers 
 whom it favom-ed. Each had his shai-e ; but no 
 one lived so near her heart as Hubert. 
 
 No sooner had the first mutual gi-eetings, 
 inquiries and replies relieved the anxious 
 maiden and assured the sprightly huntsman of 
 the perilous situation of his predecessor in the 
 boat, than he pledged himself to do all in his 
 power not only to liberate the youth but to place 
 him beyond the reach of danger. 
 
 It appeared the report of the sail boat was 
 only a ruse, that after many hair -breadth
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 849 
 
 escapes the Oxford boat was lying with her 
 crew in a creek, concealed from view wait- 
 ing for the dusk of the evening, that, in 
 the meantime he had landed in search of 
 Hough, whom his friends had expected to find 
 with Mr. Morton. ''They are," said Hubert, 
 " not only ignorant of his danger, but envy his 
 imaginary position." 
 
 The particular plan for Hough's liberation, 
 Hubert could not, or would not, dissociated as 
 he was at the moment, communicate to the fair 
 Diana. It was enough, he said, for her to 
 assure her mistress that his certain knowledge 
 of the place, and his co-operation with the 
 boatmen, would ensm-e the escape of one whom 
 he would rescue from the fangs of old Lovelace, 
 the Roundhead rebel, who had sent him from 
 hunting the fox to hunt his fortune where he 
 could find it. The old fox himself should soon 
 be driven to earth ; and, as sure as he ever 
 wound a horn, he would be in at the death. 
 " You may be sure," he added, " the fate that is 
 in store for my lord is a worse fate than that of 
 trooper Tom Tidmarsh," at the same time mut- 
 tering something like a curse. With these 
 pious expressions he dismissed the enterprising 
 Di Vine full of all which she had learnt, and of
 
 350 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 which she longed to imhui'den herself to her 
 mistress. 
 
 Only slower than her thoughts the damsel 
 tripped away on her errand. " The pretty 
 springald is safe," says she to herself; " and 
 while Hubert is in the mollified mood I can do 
 anything mth him." 
 
 With a note in her hand, which Miss Penderel 
 had entrusted to her for the boatmen, Di Vine 
 was emerging into the main avenue leading to 
 the river. " Hist," she said to herself, " it is a 
 distant noise ! It is the sough of the wind ! 
 or the rushing over of the brook !" But she 
 was mistaken. It was the galloping of a 
 horse she heard. The rider was a young and 
 handsome cavalier, whom she had never before 
 seen. "I have a curiosity to ask some ques- 
 tions about the country," said the traveller, 
 " and if I can judge from your pretty speaking 
 face, my fair little maid, I think you can 
 answer me." 
 
 " Pretty-little-maid me no pretty little maids. 
 Are you aware, sir, that I have been in the 
 society of your betters ? I am none of your coun- 
 try bumpkins, or rural rustic lasses." 
 
 The young gentleman courteously attributed 
 his mistake to the closing shades of evening
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 351 
 
 which had gathered round her to veil her beauty 
 and her bearing from vulgar eyes. 
 
 " AY hat is your question? ask it before I 
 answer it," said she, pertly. 
 
 " You have nothing to apprehend from me, 
 my dear young lady," says the gay rider ; "I 
 am only in search of an Oxford boat." 
 
 '' I judge," said Di, " you are a trooper or a 
 sportsman, by your scarlet-laced coat and your 
 knoTving hat." 
 
 " Talking of lace," says the inquisitor, " do 
 you know Lovelace ?" 
 
 "I love lace," says she, " when it sets off a 
 dress like yours." 
 
 " Where is Lord Lovelace, I mean ?" 
 
 This question she answered by another — 
 
 " Are you on the right side ?" 
 
 "I see," says the horseman, "you expect 
 your swain, and I agi'ee with you a third party 
 will make but an awkward figure in the 
 romance." 
 
 "I want no swain," retorted the lively girl, 
 " but the coxswain of the boat." 
 
 " Our object, then, seems to be the same, 
 and should make us friends. Listen to me, my 
 fair maid, I am not so rash as you may suppose 
 me, nor are my present motives so light and
 
 352 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 airy as only to gratify myself. But," adds he, 
 with a rich Irish brogue, " what is that little 
 white messenger, in youi- delicate little liand ? 
 Trust my honour and loyalty, both are pledged, 
 my Di Tine," says he. And whispering in her 
 ear, as if he feared the trees had ears, " entiiist 
 the note to me ; your mistress will have cause 
 to thank you for confidence placed in a friend of 
 her preserver." 
 
 '' How do you know my secret ? Oh ! Lord ! 
 Oh ! deceive me not ; betray us not !" 
 
 " Upon my sacred word of honour," says 
 
 he, '' I will neither do the one nor the other. 
 
 But, before we part, if you'll give me a kiss, 
 
 I'll give you a chant." He snatched the kiss, 
 
 and sang : — 
 
 " I'm O'Briau Clare, 
 
 The devil may care, 
 
 ! Divine and rare, 
 
 If you name me to Lily the fair. 
 
 With helm array'd, 
 
 I'm not afraid. 
 
 Of lance or blade, 
 
 My Divine, my lovely maid." 
 
 "What mysteries thicken round us!" cried 
 the be\\ildered maid, as she heard her own name 
 and that of her mistress, in the young horse- 
 man's mouth. Indeed, the reader may feel as 
 much puzzled at such levity in a noble youth,
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 358 
 
 who could, under sucli circumstances, thus 
 trifle in doggrel. 
 
 The young Irishman, for such he evidently 
 was, and no other than the dashing rider of 
 " Faugh-a-ballagh," and the sou of Lord O'Brian 
 Clare, the friend and favoured attendant of Mary 
 Beatrice, who carried under a sunny, rippling, 
 and sparkling surface, a depth of thought and 
 purpose, which even Di Vine could not fathom. 
 He gained her confidence and admiration, how- 
 ever, just as he hunted, or shot, or enjoyed him- 
 self in recreation ; he never carried business, and 
 seldom gravity, in his face. He could not resist 
 what he considered a playful smartness towards 
 the adventurous girl. That delightful common 
 sense English habit of treating mere trifles, or 
 indeed, as in the present instance, serious 
 matters, with stern solemnity, was not the 
 custom of young O'Brian or his loyal father. 
 Neither of them had received the reflex of that 
 dreadful matter-of-fact austerity which meets you 
 in London city and its thoroughfares. In such 
 company the 0' Brians could not feel happy in 
 Paradise. Still, in his self-wiUed, but unofl'end- 
 ing nonsense, he elicited more information than 
 the maid Di Vine would have cared to impart to 
 a more reser\'ed stranger. Waving his hand, 
 VOL. I. 2 a
 
 354 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 and signing to the maiden to return to Lady 
 Place, he was in a moment lost in the deepening 
 twilight of evening, as he dashed do\\rQ a glade 
 towards the Thames, and soon overtook Hubert, 
 who was on his way to rejoin the Oxford crew, 
 and whom young 'Brian had met in his ride 
 from the river towards Lady Place, in quest of 
 tidings just before he accidentally fell in with 
 Miss Diana Vine ; so that the yoimg guardsman, 
 for such he was, though recently an under- 
 graduate at Christ Chm-ch, was now cognisant 
 of the whereabouts of the aquatic loyalists, and 
 of the peculiar situation of their regular helms- 
 man, Harry Hough. Having mutually precon- 
 certed a plan for the concentration of all the 
 forces which they could command, and a skilful 
 manoeuvre for the liberation of the captive, they 
 parted — the Honom-able 0' Brian to muster his 
 men, to encourage the timid, and to confirm the 
 wavering — Hubert to discover the creek into 
 which his men had run the boat since he left 
 them. 
 
 Though a huntsman by choice, he was a man 
 of strong, deep, and even romantic, but transi- 
 tory and changing impressions. His poetiy 
 was the book of nature ; his romance, the in- 
 describable feeling which it inspires. While
 
 THE loyalist's DAUGHTER. 355 
 
 pondering his altered fortunes, and reflecting 
 on his past conduct and future field of action, he 
 had burst the barriers which his patron and his 
 venerable gi-andmother had placed around him. 
 There seemed a dark abyss between him and 
 the dear old and only relation whom he had on 
 earth. To see the old woman's smile of ap- 
 proYal, to hear her tremulous but afi'ectionate 
 accents, to be where all his happiest, because 
 his best, feelings were born and nurtured, his 
 cares lightened, his wild joys increased, yet, 
 subdued by aged counsel, had been long his 
 'greatest delight. His childish feelings revisited 
 him like accusing spirits. He felt that he had 
 forfeited his early home, with all the dear and 
 pleasing objects which used to make his return 
 fi'om the chase so glad. 
 
 Di Vine was bright and charming when she 
 wished to cany her point. In health and bliss 
 her voice was music to his ears, as soft as 
 s\Ten ever sung. The still small voice of 
 conscience, however, spoke within : " My old, 
 my loved,, my only friend, my guide who saved 
 me from want, and was proud of my manhood : 
 how can I forsake thee ! " Hubert, amid the 
 dreary desolation of that winter evening, heard 
 it above the whisper of the wind through the 
 
 2 A 2
 
 356 THE loyalist's daughter. 
 
 leafless woods of Hurley — *' How can I forsake 
 tbee?" While hovering between the sadness 
 of remorse and the dreamy reverie of imagination, 
 of which many a peasant, not less than a prince, 
 under the influence of scenery and association, 
 is susceptible, his eye caught a feeble tremulous 
 pulse of light which twinkled through the trees. 
 It was fitfully flickering in the night horizon. 
 While he watched and wished luck to his new 
 friends, whose destiny seemed linked with his 
 own, the distant but well known plash of oars 
 fell pleasantly on his ear. The measured sound 
 came nearer and still more near, and in a second 
 he heard a shrill whistle on the night breeze, 
 from the direction of the advancing light. He 
 returned in the same language a reply to the 
 signal, which was mutually understood, A boat 
 manned by six or seven youths he dimly dis- 
 tingTiished in the distance. The crew main- 
 tained deep silence, broken only by the stroke 
 of the oars, timed to a low measured chant, such 
 as our modern song, " The rapids are near." 
 The water at the bow rippled in cadence to the 
 melody of voices ; and was only less musical 
 to Hubert than the cry of his darhng lost 
 hounds, which could cheer him no more. The 
 boat neared the shore and ran right under tho
 
 THE loyalist's daughtee. 357 
 
 arching trees into the mouth of the creek. The 
 men shipped their oars ; the boat yielding to the 
 impetus which she had received glided smoothly 
 and silently Kke a phantom into a sheltered 
 nook, where on closer observation, even to the 
 eye of an Oxford man of the present day, she 
 would have cut no despicable figure, so far, at 
 least, as we may judge from the model which 
 we have just seen in the South Kensington 
 Museum of a ten-oared " shallop," built for 
 AYilliam III. about two years after the events 
 commemorated in this volume ; but which, of 
 com-se, was more highly decorated and more 
 costly than the Oxford boat from which our 
 crew now landed to make the necessary in- 
 quii'ies and receive the desired answers. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 J. Swift, Regent Press, 55, King Street, Regent Street, W,