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 LIB R_ARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
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 or ILLINOIS 
 
 C4515 
 v.l
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 OF A 
 
 SEA PORT TOWN. 
 
 HENRY F. CHORLEY. 
 
 " Thou lovest the woods, the rocks, the quiet fields. 
 
 But tell me, if thou canst, enthusiast wan. 
 Why the broad town to thee no gladness yields ? 
 If thou lov'st nature, sympathize with man— 
 For he and his are parts of nature's plan." 
 
 The Author of Com Law Rhymes. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 
 
 (successor to henry colburn.) 
 
 1834.
 
 LONDON : 
 SCHDLZE AND CO., 13, POLAND STREET.
 
 8^^ 
 
 TO JOHN RUTTER, Esq. M.D. 
 
 My dear Uncle, 
 
 This is not precisely the book which I 
 should like to have dedicated to you ; but it is 
 my first, and I can offer it to no one with 
 so much propriety or pleasure, as to the 
 person whom I have such good cause to re- 
 gard as my second father. I inscribe it to 
 
 ^you, therefore, as a mark of the grateful re- 
 
 3gard of 
 
 IT 
 
 ^ Your affectionate nephew, 
 
 ^ HENRY F. CHORLEY. 
 
 C
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 A BOOK like the following might, and 
 should have been presented to the public with- 
 out the ceremony (hke most other ceremonies, 
 wearisome) of a preface, did I not feel it almost 
 incumbent upon me to say a few words : they 
 shall, however, be as few as possible. 
 
 In the first place, some may imagine that I 
 have drawn the personages who figure in my 
 sketches from real individuals. To such I 
 would simply state the fact that these volumes 
 were written in the expectation of their being 
 pubUshed, with my name as their author, 
 while I was yet residing in the place, among 
 the inhabitants of which alone 1 could be 
 suspected of having found my originals. I 
 hope that this assertion is sufiicient to sa-
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 tisfy any one that such could not have been 
 my purpose. Secondly, some may consider 
 that I have used a certain personal pronoun 
 overmuch. I must beg of them to beheve 
 that I have no more written in my own in- 
 dividual person than I have made free with 
 the characters of my neighbours ; — to bear in 
 mind that the style of description which has 
 been attempted, offers temptation, more than 
 any other, for an author to invest himself with 
 a fictitious nature, and to give utterance to, 
 and work out the fancies belonging to the 
 character he has assumed. This has not been 
 done without the example of many whose 
 names it would be thought a presumption to 
 associate with my own : but I trust, like them, 
 to be allowed the full benefit of the privilege. 
 
 London, June 1st. 1834.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Page 
 THE STREETS. NO. I. — CHARACTERS. ... 1 
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE 15 
 
 THE STREETS.— NO. II. — THE WORLD UPON 
 
 WHEELS — A FANTASY 42 
 
 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN BIRDS OF PAS- 
 SAGE 58 
 
 THE FURNIVALS — IN THREE PARTS .... 72 
 
 THE STREETS. NO. III. SOUNDS OF A SUMMER's 
 
 EVENING — SUNDAY IN TOWN 155 
 
 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. — IN FIVE 
 
 PARTS 175
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 OF A 
 
 SEA PORT TOWN. 
 
 THE STREETS, No. 1. 
 
 f CHARACTERS. 
 
 There is pleasure for the eye everywhere, if 
 it have once learned the wholesome lesson of 
 condescending to objects in detail, as well as 
 comprehending them in the gross. Even whilst 
 travelling along the flattest turnpike road, on the 
 noon of a dusty breathless July day, you may 
 often be refreshed by catching a peep of some 
 small fresh garden full of bay trees and roses. 
 It is in the barrenest moorland districts that 
 you meet those rich distances empurpled with 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE STREETS. 
 
 heath, so impossible to be painted, but so 
 delicious to be gazed upon. Has not Paul 
 Potter composed fair landscapes from the 
 canals and pollards of his own land, and 
 Moreland painted absolute romances of ruined 
 sheds and farm-yards, which cognoscenti will 
 tell you are beyond all price ? — Well then, 
 there is beauty every where, — ay — even in 
 the bird's eye view of our Sea Port Town. 
 
 Yes ; though the one whereof I treat boasts 
 hardly one vestige or antiquity ; though its 
 streets are so much alike as to be a cause of 
 considerable bewilderment to country strangers ; 
 
 m 
 
 — I do maintain, that, seen from the land- 
 ward, it has its attractions as a landscape, 
 even if we cast out of the account the noble 
 river emptying its waters into the sea, which 
 forms such a prominent feature in the back 
 ground. I have stood on the top of the hill 
 beneath which it is built, and looked with plea- 
 sure at its prospects of roofs and chimneys. 
 Gome and stand beside me, ye who are scep- 
 tical — ^take the clusters of buildings of unequal 
 height in place of clumps of trees, — the per- 
 spective openings of streets for glades, — the
 
 CHARACTERS. 3 
 
 domes of churches^ etc., for hills : — give to 
 these the advantage of the many shades of 
 colour wherewith Time knows how to beautifj^ 
 even brick walls and slate roofs ; — remark the 
 sunshine glistening upon distant windows — 
 the passing shades of smoke, — for, start not, — 
 there is beauty in the densest volume of that 
 calumniated vapour, which ever coiled itself 
 out of a manufactory chimney, — and you have 
 formed a picture of some variety at least, I 
 would boldly say, of some interest. 
 
 But my famiUar friends the Streets have 
 a farther value, as being the fields where un- 
 ceasing amusement and food for thought may 
 be gathered. To reap the full advantage of 
 these, however, you must be a zealous pedes- 
 trian at all hours, and through all weathers : — 
 you must cast in your lot among the market 
 carts and schoolboys in the morning, as well 
 as among the frock coats and feathers in the 
 afternoon ; you must waive dignity and walk 
 to your soiree at night, and from it again at 
 midnight : and if you have any power of ob- 
 serving what is around you, and any disposi- 
 tion to derive pleasure from the same, you will 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE STREETS. 
 
 experience for yourselves the truth of a maxim, 
 which I once heard a young lady deliver during 
 a pause in conversation, when a large circle of 
 listeners was waiting for the renewal of a tour- 
 nament of words between two of the most elo- 
 quent talkers whom I ever heard discourse. 
 " The town/' said she, in a tone of much 
 composure and authority, " has its pleasures 
 as well as the country, though they differ." 
 
 In one respect the promenader of a provin- 
 cial town has the advantage of him who goes 
 forth to study character on the pavd of the 
 metropolis. There cannot be the same sepa- 
 ration of classes and callings here, as in a city, 
 where Nobility is ensconced in the court 
 quarter, and Trade buys and sells on the Stock 
 Exchange, and Law takes counsel in his inns 
 of court. Here you will in one moment en- 
 counter a group of native characters, (I con- 
 cede the pre-eminence in brilliant exotics to 
 Oxford Street and Piccadilly), as heterogeneous 
 as the articles, which, in an old conundrum, 
 one liquid (ink) is said to have the power of 
 expressing. The knot of people before us is 
 not unworthy of being studied. There is first
 
 CHARACTERS. 5 
 
 the would-be aristocratess stepping from her 
 carriage, and carefully refraining from looking 
 around her, dressed in the richest of silks, and 
 the most deUcate of laces : — showing in strik- 
 ing contrast with the man who rudely brushes 
 past her, regardless of her pretty displeasure 
 at such a want of proper respect. He is 
 Captain of one of those small traders which 
 every fair wind brings into j^ort in myriads j 
 with a short, thick-set figure, — a tanned face, 
 tarry hands, — ^boots with abundance of sea 
 room in them, a rolling yet decided step : — 
 the strongest contrast in the world to her 
 of the dainty apparel, slim figure and sans- 
 souci carriage. 
 
 After him comes one of those itinerants, 
 whose existence upon his trade seems nothing 
 short of marvellous, acknowledged as a nui- 
 sance by every one, yet day after day to be 
 seen with the same ragged coat, and brown 
 hat, and slouching gait, and dull physiognomy, 
 dandering lazily up and down, and scarcely 
 seeming to have sense or voHtion enough to 
 support his tray ; — 'one half of which bears a 
 flock of lambs fleeced with shreds of cotton
 
 D THE STREETS. 
 
 wool, and mounted upon tin legs; and the 
 other, a fierce array of cocks, as gay as combs 
 of red duffel can make them. How different is 
 such a melancholy figure from one of the 
 wandering Savoyards, those bright eyed, knav- 
 ish, merry urchins, who, no less ragged, and 
 no more encouraged than the natural history 
 vender aforesaid, carry within them that prin- 
 ciple of perpetual gladness which defies hunger, 
 cold, and nakedness. It is next to impossible 
 to speak harshly to one of those varlets, even 
 should he beset you, as I have been beset by 
 a child, scarcely twelve years old, who, on the 
 strength of some penny of other days, was 
 wont to keep up a constant clatter before me, 
 from one end of a long street to the other, in 
 the hope of again attracting my charitable 
 notice. Kicking time with his clogs, to the 
 horrible tunes he extorted from his vielle, he 
 seemed to enjoy the noise and disturbance he 
 made, and never disheartened by the stony 
 disregardfulness with which I used to stalk 
 along, he would persevere in his importunity, 
 till we reached a certain corner, whence a 
 variety of less-trodden thoroughfares diverged,
 
 CHARACTERS. 7 
 
 where he always left me. I shall never forget 
 the particular ^' deil ma care'' sort of fling, 
 with which he used to turn back to torment 
 some other passenger, — ^in all probability, with 
 as little success. There is that in the nature 
 of an EngUshman, which will ever prevent his 
 becoming a merry beggar. Our paupers are 
 surly, or shrewd, or sheepish : — but they 
 rarely if ever, — and Heaven forbid that they 
 should learn it ! — exhibit that reckless uncon- 
 cern which seems to make a precarious out- 
 of-doors life, so Httle of a trial to the children 
 of the South, in spite of our drenching rains 
 and sea-coal fires. 
 
 But we are wandering from the streets, 
 when our purpose was to wander in them. 
 Next to the toy-merchant comes one of 
 those figures, perhaps of all others the com- 
 monest, and yet, belonging to a class in 
 which more is really achieved and endured 
 than in any other. That woman, be sure, has 
 been bred and born to walk ; — you may see it 
 by the firm, though ungraceful manner in 
 which she threads her way among the crowd. 
 She is most probably, the daughter of some
 
 O THE STREETS. 
 
 lodging-house keeper, — perhaps a small go- 
 verness ; — ^but that she is accustomed to be 
 much abroad, you may tell at once by her 
 stout shoes, her substantial cloak and bonnet, 
 which, like fortitude, " bids defiance to the 
 winds," — and this is a spring day, when most 
 of our town birds have already cast off their 
 dingy winter plumage. She has absolutely 
 nothing in her face, — you could never fancy 
 such an one being sought by a lover, or 
 knowing any thing beyond the way to the 
 market and back again ; and yet, of all that 
 group before us, she is the person most likely 
 to have a story to tell. How many such a girl 
 has been sought by some heartless scheming 
 fellow, who has deserted her, upon finding her 
 little hoard of savings a few pounds less than 
 his cupidity had resolved it should amount to. 
 She may have a father and brothers far at 
 sea, and though her toil is so unremitting all 
 day, that the sleep of weariness prevents her 
 listening to the wind at night, she may be 
 yet as anxious — though less unhappy, because 
 stronger in spirit, — as any countess of old, 
 whose lover went over seas to fight in Palestine.
 
 CHARACTERS. 9 
 
 She may have left behind her an ailing queru- 
 lous mother burdened Tvdth debt, who rehes 
 upon the work of her fingers for present sub- 
 sistence : or a crew of needy noisy brothers 
 and sisters aU to be educated, aU to be launch- 
 ed upon their several paths of life, — or a worth- 
 less husband, (she is old enough to be a wife) 
 — from whom, alas ! she has learned to conceal 
 that she is on her way to some shop or other 
 to be paid for her work ; and that one of these 
 trials may appertain to her lot is more than a 
 possibihty, though there is no trait either in 
 her dress or demeanour to arrest your eye for 
 one moment. Still, it is impossible to walk 
 through a crowd without speculating upon 
 what may have been the fortunes, what are 
 the inward feelings of those who surround 
 you, and remembering humbly and sadly, how 
 the wisest hve among their feUow men, as 
 in a dream. 
 
 Another character had well nigh passed 
 unmarked, while we were foUomng that 
 '^ young person" with our eye and thoughts ; 
 — a bond-fide character, — spencer, pigtail, 
 shovel hat, drab gaiters, and spectacles, all 
 
 B 3
 
 10 THE STREETS. 
 
 originals in their way. That man is one of 
 those remains of a former and more quiet 
 world, whom it absolutely startles you to meet 
 in the midst of the bustle and novelty of a 
 town : — one of those inhabitants who remem- 
 ber " when Queen Street was green fields/' 
 and " a sycamore grew in the Horse-market," 
 and " St. Joseph's church was quite in the 
 country," and whose own primitive abode, 
 once the smallest house in a retired and gen- 
 teel square, is now kept neat with difficulty, 
 in the midst of warehouses, pawnbrokers' 
 shops, timber yards, and distilleries. Boy and 
 man, that strange yet venerable looking per- 
 sonage has Uved under the same roof for se- 
 venty years or thereabouts, has gone over 
 much the same ground upon the same days of 
 the week for the last twenty. — He is singular : 
 one glance at the cut of his clothes will show 
 you that, — ^he is in easy circumstances, for 
 they are new, and of the finest materials : — 
 and he never changes his dress from January 
 to July, except that on very cold mornings, 
 he knots a red silk handkerchief loosely about 
 his throat, and, if the clouds threaten rain,
 
 CHARACTERS. 11 
 
 in the hand which is not hidden under his 
 coat tails, may be seen an antique brown silk 
 umbrella, with a straight handle. His talk 
 suits well with his appearance. He takes off 
 his hat to the few ladies whom he knows, with 
 an air which our half fledged beaux may never 
 hope to equal: — and, with his small news, 
 seasoned with reminiscences of the past, he 
 knows how to mingle compHments so daintily, 
 as to make their frequent use less distasteful 
 than it would be, were they presented less 
 skilfully. He goes on 'Change occasionally, 
 and holds up his hands when he hears the en- 
 terprising talk of the political merchants of 
 the present day ; and persists — for, though ci- 
 vil, he is pertinacious— -that it is impossible 
 they can be making any money. Twice a 
 week he attends prayers at the parish church, 
 and reads the psalms aloud from his large 
 quarto prayer book, Hke himself, quaintly 
 bound, and, though old, in good preservation. 
 He is never to be seen abroad in the evening 
 — a considerable mystery hanging over the 
 manner in which he passes those hours of the 
 twenty-four 5 if he is ever tempted forth, it is
 
 12 THE STREETS. 
 
 to play a quiet rubber with some old crony, or 
 younger neighbour, who is attentive enough to 
 the lonely bachelor to reiterate his invitation, 
 for he does not visit such, without being a 
 little pressed. His nephews and nieces are 
 dead, or live at a distance from him — and his 
 housekeeper, as great an in-doors curiosity as 
 her master is an out-of-doors one, is almost 
 the only person to whom he can say — '' Do 
 you remember what happened fifty years ago?" 
 but as they are both of them sparing in speech, 
 this is seldom said, however often recollected. 
 He is now on his way to the news-room which 
 he has so long frequented ; and in two minutes 
 more, he will be found in an arm chair and 
 corner so peculiarly his own, that, when he 
 dies, (and from his upright port and elastic 
 tread it may be gathered that he is in no 
 hurry so to do) it would be only justice to 
 carry away the chair, and wall up the corner. 
 No new occupant could satisfy the eye which 
 had once been used to the figure of Mr. Wil- 
 kinson. 
 
 Close behind him is a foreigner : — a French- 
 man — a Gascon, you may know him by the
 
 CHARACTERS. 13 
 
 boastful air of his person, and satisfied, though 
 still restless play of his sallow features. He 
 is a little man, done up in a frogged pelisse, 
 for it seems doubtful how he can ever have 
 got into it ; w^th an eye hke a jet bead, and 
 such a head of hair, as might animate tlie 
 waxen Adonis in yonder hair-dresser's window, 
 with very en\^" ; — the rest of his appointments 
 corresponding in flash and finish with those 
 already described. A dancing-master at least ? 
 — Ay, and a fencing-master, and dealer in 
 Eau-de-Cologne and reticules and perfumes, 
 and lithographs, and a thousand things besides 
 which he imports from his brother's magasin 
 in Paris to obhge his fair Enghsh friends, who 
 have been pleased to approve of his taste : — 
 he will order for you any thing you please, 
 from a pyramid to a poodle, with the most con- 
 descending kindness imaginable, and phrases 
 which it absolutely fertihzes plain men's wits to 
 hear. He was once, a long time ago, honoured 
 by a commission from the lady of the carriage, 
 and you may watch him, some steps before 
 they actually meet, getting up a bow of re- 
 cognition, with a shrug and a smile intended
 
 14 THE STREETS. 
 
 to express humility and devotion. Well-a- 
 day ! the proud lady does not deign to see 
 him ! — and he has no pretext on which to dare 
 a second attempt ; so he passes onward, with 
 a quick step, flourishing his silver-tipped rat- 
 tan in figures which an opera dancer need not 
 disdain to imitate, in the hope of concealing 
 his chagrin. 
 
 But, enough for the present, of the streets. 
 We shall be companions, it may be, in future 
 rambles ; and again see and hear something 
 which may be chronicled.
 
 THE captain's WIDOW's TALE. 15 
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S WIDOW'S TALE. 
 
 It was on one of those still black winter 
 evenings, when the winds are all chained fast, 
 and the atmosphere is so thick that the light 
 of neither moon nor stars can pierce it, and 
 the cold is so intense that few lingerers are to 
 be found in the streets, that a party of young 
 people drew as closely round the fire as their 
 numbers could permit ; so busily engaged in 
 talk, that the waning candles, and the warning 
 fingers of the time-piece were not heeded. 
 One thriUing story had succeeded another ; — 
 the chief narrator being an elderly lady, whose 
 earnest manner, and uncommon appearance 
 commanded attention. You might see that 
 grief had done its work upon her completely —
 
 16 THE captain's WIDOWS TALE. 
 
 she never smiled, — and, when silent, her coun- 
 tenance wore the distressed and astray expres- 
 sion of one whose occupation is with memory, 
 and that memory a hoard of griefs. It is won- 
 derful how the young and light-hearted can 
 enjoy to listen to the out-pouring of sad 
 stories, — and how they can find a strange plea- 
 sure in hearing of calamities, which, one day 
 or other, may darken their own lot. Our 
 little party sate and listened to her mournful 
 tales with increasing interest ; and excited by 
 their heart-felt attention, she became more 
 minute and impressive at every new recital, 
 and as the hour grew later, — until, I verily 
 believe, that there were few among her au- 
 dience, who would not have started, had they 
 turned round suddenly, and met their dusky 
 and enlarged shadows upon the dim wall be- 
 hind them. 
 
 At length, insatiable as we were, some one 
 of us remembered how delicate was the health 
 of the story-teller, and apologized for keeping 
 her up to such a late hour. 
 
 " It is of no consequence," said she ; " my 
 rest was broken years ago, with listening to
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 17 
 
 the wind, when my husband and sons were at 
 sea ; and I have never recovered it, though I 
 have no one for whose sake to Hsten now ! — 
 I then became so famihar wdth its tones, that 
 even in my own well-curtained rooms, (and 
 my husband, who knew my anxiety, of dispo- 
 sition, had purposely fixed our residence in 
 one of the most sheltered parts of the town) 
 I could tell, by the faint sounds which reach- 
 ed my ear, from what quarter the gale was 
 blowing, and I learned to calculate where- 
 abouts, if at all, it would meet my husband's 
 ship. But we were talking of coincidences — 
 I think I can tell you of as strange a one as 
 ever happened, — if you will call it by such a 
 name — I might perhaps, if I said I thought of 
 it otherwise, expose myself to your mirth ; so 
 we will call it a coincidence." 
 
 We stirred the fire and arranged ourselves 
 anew to listen. 
 
 " It is about fifteen years ago," she began, 
 " that Captain Barkholme, a cousin of my 
 husband's, disagreed so violently with his son, 
 that George was compelled to leave home, for 
 peace's sake. Some wondered at this, be-
 
 18 THE captain's widow's tale. 
 
 cause, though the old man was very unreason- 
 able and fierce-tempered, and, as some said, 
 half-crazed with spirit-drinking, and though 
 he had always behaved unjustly and tyrannically 
 towards his children, George had always sub- 
 mitted to his authority with the utmost gen- 
 tleness. I was not surprised, for I knew the 
 cause of their quarrel. George had privately 
 engaged to marry a young girl, and when their 
 compact was discovered, the old captain broke 
 out into such an outrageous passion, and 
 swore such awful oaths, as have never been 
 heard before or since. He was that sort of 
 man, whom nothing or nobody would please 
 when he was in certain humours, and made no 
 scruple of abusing his daughters in the most 
 shameful manner, when George was at sea, — 
 for the young man, with all his sweetness of 
 temper, had the spirit of a lion, and would 
 not have allowed any one so much as to look 
 angrily upon his sisters, had he known it. I 
 never could hear what was Captain Bark- 
 holme's objection to the poor girl : — she was 
 an orphan, the daughter of a sort of country 
 squire, who had once owned a small estate
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 19 
 
 near Malpas. But times were bad ; and her 
 father had hved beyond his income, so that, 
 at his death, his property was sold to pay his 
 debts, and his daughter was glad to take a 
 governess' situation. At the time when George 
 became acquainted with her, she was in Mr. 
 Wells' family. Mr. Wells was the owner of 
 George's ship, — and he approved of the at- 
 tachment, and promised to do something for 
 the young couple ; but the old man, as I said, 
 became frantic when he found it out, perhaps 
 he wished his son to marry elsewhere. How- 
 ever, he made George's home so uncomfort- 
 able that he left it, — to come back no more. 
 
 " The poor girl, who was the cause of all 
 this rage, was so terrified by Captain Bark- 
 holme's threatening and intemperate language, 
 that she might almost have been persuaded to 
 take any step, if her lover had not been at her 
 side. George's only remaining sister who 
 lived at home, the others being comfortably 
 married, became hkewise the \ictim of her 
 father's passion on this account. The old man 
 was never a very sound sleeper, and after his 
 son's departure, he would get up in the mid-
 
 die of the nighty and wander up and down the 
 house, with a candle in one hand, and a bot- 
 tle of spirits in the other, swearing most hor- 
 ribly, and muttering about wicked things which 
 he had done when he was off the Gold coast ; 
 — his old messmates did whisper something 
 about his having flogged a poor black cabin 
 boy to death. However this might be, he 
 never lay down, without a light at his bed- 
 side ', — and so violent became his threats, that, 
 at last, George determined upon being married 
 before he left port, in the hope that when the 
 step was irrevocably taken, his father would 
 moderate his anger, which could then answer 
 no possible purpose. 
 
 " I had known Mary Anne Parnell's mother 
 well, and was as fond of her as if she had 
 been my own daughter; besides, she was so 
 humble and patient that it was impossible to 
 help loving her. She would often come to me 
 in the evening to talk to me and ask my 
 counsel ; and truly, it was a difficult thing to 
 know what to advise, when one of the parties 
 seemed to be so entirely possessed by an evil 
 spirit. — It was on a beautiful October evening,
 
 THE CAPTAIN S WIDOW S TALE. 21 
 
 I remember it well, — that she came to me 
 much later than usual; I had not called for 
 candles, I love t^^ight so much, — and was 
 sitting over the fire alone. There was light 
 enough, however, to show her tears, and I felt 
 her tremble so violently, that I was compelled 
 to put my arm round her waist, and hold her 
 upon her chair. I took off her bonnet, and 
 soothed her as well as I could, but it was 
 some minutes before she could collect herself 
 sufficiently to speak; at length, she gasped 
 out, — ' O mamma !' — (for she always caUed me 
 mamma) ' I am going to be married to- 
 morrow !' 
 
 " * To-morrow, my Jove ! — what is the oc- 
 casion of all this haste ?' 
 
 " ' Some sudden business — but I scarcely 
 understand — my head runs round so — the 
 Royal Elizabeth is to go to sea early on 
 Saturday morning, and George wall hear of 
 nothing else — and to-morrow Friday too!' — and 
 at this she began to weep. When I prevailed 
 upon her to dry her tears again, she told me 
 farther that Captain Barkholme had broken 
 in upon them, scarce an hour before, and
 
 22 THE captain's widow's tale. 
 
 declared that he would appear at whatever 
 church they went to^ and forbid the ceremony's 
 taking place — ^ and then the shocking words 
 which he said about me,' continued the agi- 
 tated girl, — ^ the old man cursed so horribly ; 
 and George grew very angry — and — I can 
 hardly bear to tell you, they came to blows, 
 though I am sure that George only defended 
 himself as quietly as he could.' 
 
 " ^ And where is George now ?' asked I. 
 
 ^' ^ Gone for a license ; and he says that we 
 are to be married the first thing in the morning 
 — quite early — that his father may not find it 
 out : and that he will explain it to the clergy- 
 man—but I feel so terrified — every thing 
 seems against us ! ' 
 
 " Poor Mary Anne ! — she was indeed so 
 thoroughly nervous, that I resolved to keep 
 her with me all night. — She slept with me, 
 or rather we lay down together, for we neither 
 of us slept, though we did not speak. I shall 
 never forget the sadness of heart which came 
 over me, as I felt her tears falling upon my 
 shoulder; — she was of an extremely timid 
 spirit, poor girl ! and had always believed
 
 THE CAPTAIN S WIDOW's TALE. 23 
 
 herself to be bom to misfortunes. Some 
 fortune teller or other had told her so when 
 she was a child. 
 
 " Morning, however,' came at last, and we 
 were so much hurried that we had no time to 
 remember our forebodings. Besides, the sun 
 rose cheerily, and when once the night is gone, 
 it is wonderful how all its troubles are for- 
 gotten, however heavy they may have been. 
 George came to attend us to church ; he was 
 in high spirits, and a handsomer young man 
 I would not wash to see. Tliis sudden voyage, 
 it seemed, had been planned in consequence 
 of some private information which Wells and Co. 
 had received, and the Royal Elizabeth was to 
 be despatched to Charleston with the least 
 possible delay. Tlie wedding was to take 
 place at St. James', as being the church most 
 out of the way. I own, I shuddered as we 
 went thither, at the thoughts of some disgrace- 
 ful scene taking place before the altar, and there 
 was time to be afraid, for we had nearly a quarter 
 of an hour's drive from the extreme other end 
 of the town ; but the lovers did not partake of 
 my apprehension. — Mr. Wells, who had been
 
 42 
 
 up all night writing letters to go by the vessel, 
 had kindly undertaken to meet us at church, 
 and to give the bride away. 
 
 '^ We had to pass through a street at the 
 corner of which is the church, frequented by 
 Captain Barkholme's family. Will you believe 
 it? — ^he was there, sitting upon the steps of 
 the chancel door, with a thick stick in his 
 hand, and a few children standing round him, 
 and staring at him. I saw this at a first 
 glance, for I dared not venture a second lest 
 he should see me, — and I was miserable lest 
 either of my companions should chance to look 
 out, and be shocked by so strange a sight, for 
 he was, even then, completely intoxicated. 
 Fortunately, however, they did not, and we 
 accomplished our drive without any hindrance 
 or interruption. 
 
 " Mr. Wells, and the clergyman, and the 
 clerk were all there before us. The last was 
 a little pale paralytic man, — -with a large 
 baldish head, and half his face oddly drawn up 
 towards his left eye, who walked with diffi- 
 culty, and spoke in the most squeaking and 
 dry voice I ever heard. I think I see him
 
 THE captain's WIDOW's TALE. 25 
 
 before me^ though we only met twice — so deep 
 an impression did all these things make upon 
 me. The ser^dce passed over as usual — the 
 certificate was signed in due order. The 
 bridegroom seemed quite beside himself with 
 joy. * What are you stooping for ?' said I — ' I 
 have dropped my wedding ring/ said he ; ' And 
 on Friday too ; — croaked out the ugly clerk. 
 ' We will soon find it/ said George gaily — I 
 could not force a smile, as I stooped to assist 
 in the search : — without success however. The 
 ring had rolled away into some corner or other, 
 and, in short, was no where to be found. 
 
 " Ah ! I see you think me a fanciful old 
 woman ! — but how could any one expect such 
 an unlucky wedding to prosper ? — Mr. Wells 
 had invited us to his house, to breakfast, and 
 directed the coachman thither. We were 
 riding on, I pondering on what had passed, 
 when our carriage suddenly stopped. Mr. 
 Wells looked out of the window to enquire the 
 cause of our delay — when he drew in his head 
 again, his face was as white as a sheet : ^ Sit 
 still, ladies, for God's sake,' said he, ^ and do 
 not look out !' — and putting out his hand, 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 THE captain's WIDOW's TALE. 
 
 opened the coach-door and alighted — George 
 after him. I could not sit stilly and when I 
 looked out, the rumour in the crowd, of a 
 man kiUed, reached my ear, at the same 
 moment that the most frightful spectacle I 
 ever saw, met my eye : — and, gracious ProAri- 
 dence ! — the dead man was Captain Bark- 
 holme ! 
 
 " A scream, which I could not repress, burst 
 from me, — and at once a crowd of curious 
 passers-by crowded round the coach, with 
 details of the accident fresh upon their lips. 
 The wretched man, entirely stupefied with 
 spirits, had left his position on the church- 
 door steps, I suppose with some vague idea 
 of seeking out his son, and, whilst crossing the 
 street had been run over by a break, in which 
 a gentleman's groom was exercising a pair of 
 spirited young horses. The man had caUed 
 to him in vain, — the devoted creature tottered 
 directly into the midst of their path, was 
 knocked down, and the wheels went over his 
 head ! — 
 
 '^ You may imagine the confusion and 
 horror which this awful dispensation created :
 
 27 
 
 and how this was heightened by news from 
 the office, which was brought to us at Mr. 
 Wells' house, whither Mary Anne, almost in 
 a fainting state was carried. This was, that 
 by great exertion, the Royal EHzabeth had 
 been cleared out, and was now ready for sea, 
 and, as the \\ind was fair, it was decided that 
 she should sail by that afternoon's tide. The 
 poor wife, who had never seen her husband 
 since he had parted from her in the coach, to 
 accompany his father's mangled remains home, 
 was throT^^l into agonies by this cruel mes- 
 sage : and close upon it followed a note from 
 George himself, entreating her if possil^le, to 
 come down to the pier head, that he might 
 see her once more before he sailed — if only for 
 a minute. So rapidly had time gone over in 
 the confusion and distress occasioned by 
 Captain Barkholme's awful death, that the day 
 was already far advanced, and this the only 
 chance of the new married couple's meeting. 
 Mary Anne would go — at once. We called for 
 a hackney coach, — but none was to be had, — 
 so we set off to walk. It was a long distance, 
 and how we got over it, I do not know, for 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE CAPTAIN*S WIDOw's TALE. 
 
 poor Mary Anne was in such a state that I 
 expected her to fall down in the street at every 
 step she took. 
 
 ^' At last^ however, we did come within 
 sight of the pier-head. It was crowded with 
 people, and from the spot which we had 
 reached, we could see above their heads 
 huge piles of white canvas moving rapidly 
 alongside the shore, as the large ships which 
 had got clear of the dock basin were standing 
 out into the middle of the river, which was 
 studded with craft of all sizes, till then detained 
 by contrary winds. I dragged Mary Anne 
 along as well as I could; — and, in a few 
 moments we were at the top of the shp, in 
 the midst of passengers, porters, sailors' wives, 
 come on the same errand as ourselves. 
 We arrived just, and only just in time. 
 George who had delayed to the last minute, 
 was standing with one foot on the gunwale of 
 a boat. The stairs were so crowded that to 
 attempt to reach him was impossible to two 
 weak women, — one of them too, in such a con- 
 dition. But, thank Providence ! he looked up 
 and saw us ! and such a manly, affectionate
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 29 
 
 yet grave look he gave, as he kissed his 
 hand to her, before the boat pushed off. I 
 shall never forget ! We followed him with our 
 eyes to the side of the Royal EHzabeth — for 
 she was then only about five hundred yards 
 jfrom the pier-head. We could distinguish his 
 figure from the crew and passengers on deck, 
 as he waved his hat to us, — and while Mary 
 Anne stood there gazing after him, with all 
 her heart in her eyes, the gallant ship with 
 all her sails set, ghded from before us, like a 
 heap of snow floating down a brook. Before 
 long she began to melt into the heavy fog 
 which lay low upon the surface of the water ; 
 — but we watched her, till the eye strained 
 to its utmost, could not separate her, even as 
 a speck, from the grey veil which hung upon 
 the river, — and then, — we sorrowfully turned 
 homewards. 
 
 '^ You may suppose that to comfort Mary 
 Anne was no easy task. She would shiver 
 and turn pale, if a breath of air waved the 
 withered mignionette in the box on the window 
 sill. She would go down to the river side, 
 the first thing every morning, and talk to the
 
 common sailors herself, to possess herself of 
 their real opinions of the wind and weather, 
 I tried to represent to her, in defiance of my 
 own presentiments, that there was no more 
 danger in the present voyage, than in any 
 other which her husband had ever under- 
 taken ; but only found how like reasoning 
 with such fears is to twisting ropes of sea 
 sand. She heard every thing that I urged 
 with great patience, but it made not the 
 slightest impression upon her anxiety. In 
 short, her nerves were completely unstrung by 
 the various events of her miserable wedding 
 day, and I could only hope that time and 
 good news would quiet their agitation. 
 
 "It was on the Monday evening, that, 
 instead of coming to me as usual, I received 
 a note from her saying that Lucy Barkholme 
 was so low after the funeral, — her married 
 sister having that day left her for Yorkshire, — 
 that she had promised to stay with Lucy all 
 night. 1 was uneasy at this — for I knew 
 what dismal company two such sick hearts 
 would be to each other ; but I was so busily 
 engaged with my hands, that I had not time
 
 to brood over these gloomy things long to- 
 gether. I was sitting sewing most industri- 
 ously, when a sound reached my ear, which 
 I understood as well as the physician does 
 the hectic spot upon an invaUd's cheek — the 
 first shrill herald of a gale — a low murmuring, 
 so low indeed, that I said to myself stoutly, 
 ^ She will not understand it, and after all, it 
 may come to nothing;' — and I pursued my 
 work, resolving, if possible, to believe that 
 my senses had cheated me, — nay, — I tried to 
 sing to drown the sound, but it would not do, 
 — -the tune died upon my Hps, and I could not 
 help going to an upper staircase window which 
 commanded a tolerably extensive view. The 
 appearance of the sky was fearfully menacing : 
 huge masses of purplish black cloud, of 
 every fantastic form, such as towers, ships, 
 enormous trees, were saihng rapidly over a 
 field of pale greenish hue in the quarter where 
 the sun had set, and the wind, which every 
 moment became more keen and peremptory 
 than before, scattered the smoke of the neigh- 
 bouring chimneys hither and thither, as it 
 were into fragments. ' The Lord have mercy
 
 32 THE CAPTAIN^S WIDOw's TALE^ 
 
 upon poor Mary Anne ; this will be a stormy- 
 night/ said I ; then again I put my fears aside 
 with the thought that in all probability Lucy 
 would monopoUse too much of her time and 
 thoughts to permit her attending to the 
 weather. I went down stairs again^ and 
 stirred my fire : and as I could not chain 
 myself to my needlework^ went to my little 
 book shelves, and took down a volume — it 
 was Falconer's Shipwreck. This last evil omen 
 so completely unsettled me, that I felt that 
 I could no longer remain quiet at home, and 
 hastily putting on my cloak and bonnet, I 
 went to the house of mourning, which was 
 only a short distance from my own. 
 
 ^^ The place from which a corpse has been 
 carried in the morning must always look 
 cheerless and dismal in the evening. Captain 
 Barkholme had been a miser as well as a 
 tyrant, and so totally disregardful of all 
 home comforts, that his house, which was 
 large and awkwardly built, was barely furnished, 
 and looked desolate at the best of times. The 
 old servant, who, for love of their mother, 
 had remained with his daughters through all
 
 THE captain's WIDOW's TALE. 33 
 
 their trials, ushered me up the wide oak stair- 
 case into the melancholy parlour, where the 
 two young women were sitting. This room 
 was at the back of the house, and much shut 
 in by higher buildings : but I nevertheless 
 wondered that the gale, which was fast in- 
 creasing in violence, did not seem to have 
 pierced to the apprehensive ears of poor Mary 
 Anne, and this unconsciousness struck me so 
 forcibly as to appear almost unnatural. Lucy 
 and she were both of them surprised at my 
 entrance, well knowing how rarely I stirred 
 abroad after dusk ; and I hesitated so much in 
 endeavouring to account for my visit, that I 
 am now amazed, when I recollect how little 
 they seemed to notice this want of readiness. 
 I know that I proposed to stay wdth them all 
 night, for I felt a presentiment of impending 
 evil which nothing could charm away, and 
 which made me resolve to remain where I was, 
 in case of my ser^dces being required. The 
 old servant was ordered to prepare a room for 
 me : she frowned, and seemed on a point of 
 raising some objection, — and then, as if some 
 sudden thought struck her, left the apartment. 
 
 c 3
 
 34 THE captain's widow's tale. 
 
 " I do not pretend to tell you how that 
 miserable evening went over^ except that I 
 talked as fast as I could to keep myself from 
 listening or thinking. It was strange that poor 
 Mary Anne^ who^ till that day^ had only one 
 subject of discourse^ never once adverted to 
 George's absence^ excepting to remark that 
 ^ it was a rough nighty' which surprised me 
 yet more and more, as it seemed that she did 
 hear the storm. I did not then know that her 
 daily oracle, a humane old sailor, had told her, 
 that, by that time^ the Royal Elizabeth must 
 be out in the open sea ; and that she relied 
 upon his words as implicitly as upon her Bible. 
 
 " Bed-time came at last 3 — we kissed each 
 other and parted for the night. I was conduct- 
 ed by the servant into a large dark room, to 
 which a bright fire, and a more liberal supply 
 of furniture than was the general use of the 
 house, gave an air of comfort. I did not 
 undress myself, but, leaving my candle on a 
 table near the fire, threw myself upon the bed. 
 By this time the storm had reached its wildest, 
 the wind roared furiously in the chimney, 
 bringing down clouds of dust, and chips of
 
 THE CAPTAIN*S WIDOW*S TALE. 35 
 
 brick at every gust^ and assailed the large old 
 fashioned window with such violence, that I 
 expected every moment to see the floor strewn 
 with its shattered panes. The fire in the grate 
 flared fitfully into the room, and one bright 
 tongue of flame leaping out further than the 
 rest, disclosed to me, what I had not hitherto 
 noticed, a large mirror above the chimney 
 piece covered with a sheet. 
 
 '' I was in the room from which the dead 
 man had that morning been carried out ! — I 
 sprung up from the hateful bed, and my first 
 impulse was to rush out of the chamber, but 
 I knew that I must then disturb the other 
 inmates of the house, who would not have 
 ofl'ered me this accommodation if any other 
 had been available ; and besides, I took shame 
 to myself for the weakness of my fears, when I 
 remembered the One who is present and pro- 
 tecting every where. I could not, however, 
 persuade myself to lie down again, so I drew an 
 easy chair close to the fire, lighted my candle 
 again, and sat waiting — for, do not smile at me 
 if I teU you that I had as distinct an impression 
 of the presence of Death, as if he had stood be-
 
 36 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 
 
 fore me in a tangible form : in fact^ so great 
 became my terror, that I dared not turn 
 round in my chair, and felt a comfort in its 
 original cause, which was that the mirror was 
 covered. 
 
 '' I have been told that I fell asleep — I know 
 that I did not, for I heard distinctly the tre- 
 mendous uncontrolled tempest, which raged 
 with unbated impetuosity; and yet, through 
 aU this, I heard and could count the beating 
 of my own pulses, as full yet as minute as 
 the tick of a watch. I noticed also the fire 
 burning low, and the candle expiring, but I 
 could not prevail upon myself to extend my 
 arm to trim it. The door of the chamber was 
 on the other side of the fire to the one on 
 which I sat, — I had taken my eyes from it for 
 one instant, when they fell upon it again, it 
 was open, wide open; for I could distinctly 
 see the black cavern thus revealed upon the 
 dusky brown glow which mantled the corners 
 of the room. 
 
 " I breathed thick and low, and the oppres- 
 sion which I have described to you became 
 every moment more intense and constraining
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 37 
 
 than ever was weight pressed upon a sleeper 
 by night-mare : and yet every sense and per- 
 ception was sharpened. Presently I thought 
 that I heard upon the stairs an irregular lum- 
 bering sound, as of a'heavj^ sack raised from 
 step to step, — but I was not aware of any de- 
 cided tread. I could not choose but look, and 
 saw, as clearly through the gloom, as you can 
 make out objects in the dark parts of pictures, 
 a tall figure in a long sea-cloak, standing mo- 
 tionless in the door-way. The head was unco- 
 vered, the long black hair streaming with water, 
 the bright dark eyes, set and staring. I thought 
 that the appearance made strange un-Ufe like 
 motions with its lips and hands, looking fixedly 
 towards the bed, as if it were holding mute 
 discourse with some one there. I knew the 
 face as well as my own. T]ie horror which 
 seized.me is beyond description. I could not 
 have stirred, nor turned round, if life itself had 
 depended upon it. For a moment, I teU you, 
 I saw this apparition, and then it seemed to 
 melt into the gloom, like a bubble disappearing 
 in water. The strange sound which preceded 
 its coming I heard no more.
 
 " I remained for a few seconds entirely mo- 
 tionless. My sensations were totally different 
 from any that I ever experienced before : ex- 
 citement and an over-powering sense of the 
 nothingness of earthly things, being strongly 
 mixed up with mere animal terror. But, ere 
 long, the last preponderated. I arose, and 
 keeping my eyes fast shut, tottered out of the 
 room, — down stairs, — made my way into the 
 chamber where Lucy and Mary Anne were 
 quietly asleep, — threw myself upon the bed, and 
 I believe, fainted. When I returned to con- 
 sciousness, they were standing over me half 
 dressed, and morning was already in the east. 
 I kept the story of the night to myself, and 
 endeavoured to lay the blame of disturbing 
 them upon sudden iUness ; yet, whenever I 
 ceased speaking, I had that awful vision before 
 me — I was roused out of my own thoughts by 
 Mary Anne saying ^ We will breakfast betimes, 
 for I must go down to the pier head, and en- 
 quire if any damage has been done at sea.' — I 
 shuddered to hear her talk, and both Lucy and 
 myself vainly endeavoured to prevent her from 
 putting her intentions into execution. She
 
 THE CAPTAIN S WIDOW S TALE. 39 
 
 paid no attention to us, and continued inces- 
 santly repeating to herself: ^Pearson told me 
 that by this time the Royal Elizabeth was out 
 in the open sea, and that then there was no 
 danger.' Pearson had lied, alas ! to quiet 
 the young wdfe's fears. The Royal Elizabeth 
 had been detained in the channel by contrary 
 winds. 
 
 "This fruitless persuasion of mine, had, how- 
 ever, the good effect of strengthening my own 
 courage. We breakfasted speedily, and in si- 
 lence, and then accompanied Mary Anne down 
 to the river side. The morning was bright, 
 but the wind so high that none who could re- 
 main at home would have wished to go abroad; 
 the heaps of slates and chimney-pans in the 
 streets, and the comfortless appearance of many 
 unroofed houses, showed how A-iolent the storm 
 had been. In fact, when we reached the pier 
 head, we found the strength of the wind yet so 
 great that we could hardly stand upright. It 
 was a wild scene, and the fierce gaiety of the 
 tumultuous sunshiny sky and the hissing water 
 now at full tide, contrasted strangely with the 
 woeful and intensely interested expression of 
 the few that braved the gale hke ourselves, —
 
 40 THE CAPTAIN S WIDOW S TALE. 
 
 old sailors turning their spy-glasses towards 
 the signal poles : anxious merchants wrinkling 
 their brows with care, and holding their hats on 
 their heads ; and shivering, half-dressed women 
 and children clinging together to maintain 
 their footing. Before us lay the river boihng 
 up in short crisp foamy waves ; the water was of 
 a muddy turbid colour, and full of shreds of 
 timber, and bits of sea-weed as small as if they 
 had been chewed. We arrived at an unfortunate 
 moment. The corpse of a poor drowned sailor 
 had just been washed up, and they were carry- 
 ing it to the dead house upon a board. The 
 face was thrown upon one shoulder. They said 
 the neck was broken, the bare hands and feet 
 were all bloody, and the trowsers, (his only re- 
 maining garment,) torn into small holes, as 
 though they had been cut with knives. The 
 people shrunk together as the body was borne 
 past them, and many turned away their heads ; 
 but Mary Anne fixed her eyes upon it as 
 eagerly as if her fate was at the mercy of their 
 scrutiny. A sort of half smile ran across her 
 face, and she grasped my arm so violently that 
 it bore the print of her fingers for weeks, as she 
 cried out eagerly — ^ It is not — it is not he !'
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 41 
 
 " I entreated her to return home, to wait for 
 tidings there, which Mr. Wells was certain to 
 send her. And she, to whom constant change 
 of place seemed to bring rehef, consented. 
 What a day we passed ! every moment sending 
 messengers down to the office, who constantly 
 came back with the same answer, — no neivs ! — 
 Her agitation became so violent that I began to 
 fear for her reason, and when evening ap- 
 proached without bringing any tidings, I pro- 
 posed, that to reheve her mind she should go 
 herself to the office and make enquiry. She 
 answered me with a short hysteric laugh, — ^ And 
 so you are beginning to be uneasy ? Let us go 
 at once/ 
 
 " We reached the office about half past five ; 
 a time, when not many of the clerks were there, 
 and the few who remained lounging about the 
 desks, could or would give us no satisfaction. 
 While we were waiting, and she, poor soul ! 
 was poring over the ship news in the news- 
 paper, the conversation of two of the common 
 porters caught my attention, and I drew near 
 them to hsten. 
 
 *' ^ She was not out of the channel early yes-
 
 42 THE captain's widow's tale. 
 
 terday morning, Thomas ; Davey who came in 
 last night, told me so/ 
 
 " ' Of what ship are you speaking,' asked I. 
 
 " ' The Royal Ehzabeth, ma'am,' answered 
 the man, touching his hat. 
 
 " ^ And,' put in the other, ^ she leaked 
 when she went out to sea. Graham, — that's the 
 mate ma'am, — told me so, himself; and he 
 laughed, for he said crazy boats lasted the 
 longest : — he's as bold as the devil.' 
 
 '^ I could hear no more, and turned away 
 from the ill-omened talkers. Now the clerks 
 began to flock in from their dinners, and looked 
 somewhat surprised to find two ladies in the 
 middle of the office, standing there at such a 
 strange time of day. Our situation became very 
 unpleasant, and, having satisfied myself that no 
 news really had arrived, I was endeavouring 
 to prevail upon my charge to return home, 
 when a sudden rush of all the young men to the 
 counter interrupted me. I heard one of the 
 clerks say, ' To think of letters coming in such 
 state !' — another cried out ' Whatever is all this 
 bran for ?' — ' Good heavens 1' exclaimed a third, 
 ' look here, the Royal EHzabeth's letter bags !
 
 THE captain's WIDOw's TALE. 43 
 
 she is lost ! de — !' — when the cash keeper put 
 one hand on his mouth, and with the other 
 pointed towards us. There was a moment's 
 dead silence. The poor terrified creature began 
 to tremble, and sink upon her knees, and ere 
 I could support her, or any help approach, fell 
 flat upon the floor in a swoon, from which I 
 thought, — -and, God forgive me ! — hoped that 
 she would never recover ! 
 
 " It was at least two hours before we durst 
 make the slightest attempt to move her, and 
 even then, she was so much more dead than 
 alive, that I expected, each moment, to feel 
 her breathe her last in my arms. I was anxious, 
 however, to convey her out of the immediate 
 reach of rumours which began to come in, 
 bearing more and more certain intelligence of 
 the loss of the doomed vessel, it was said with 
 all hands on board. Mary Anne, however, 
 never revived till her fate was decided beyond 
 the shadow of a doubt, by the arrival of the 
 handful of passengers whose Hves had been 
 spared, and who had seen Captain Barkholme 
 washed from the deck of the Royal Elizabeth 
 a few moments before she struck on the rocks 
 near the old Head of Kinsale.
 
 44 THE CAPTAIN S WIDOW S TALE. 
 
 " The poor widow recovered, but only to be- 
 come so childish and confused that no one can 
 tell how much she feels or remembers. Mr. 
 Wells has been as good as a father to her. He 
 settled an annuity upon her, and at her own 
 request, removed her to a quiet village in War- 
 wickshire ; ' Any where' she murmured, ' to be 
 out of the way of the sea !' For my own part, 
 I have reason to beUeve that she has some en- 
 joyment of life ; except when strange fancies 
 torment her, and she thinks that her husband 
 is long in coming back, and will sit waiting for 
 him at her cottage gate for many hours at a 
 time. But such fits do not come very often. 
 
 " The coincidence of which I promised to 
 tell you is this. I was sitting alone, on the day 
 when the first of the passengers I mentioned as 
 being saved, arrived in town, when I was called 
 down to speak to the disagreeable looking clerk 
 of St. James's Church. He came to me (be- 
 cause he did not like to distress the poor wi- 
 dow by his presence,) to desire me to restore 
 to her poor George's wedding ring which his 
 wife had that morning found while she was 
 cleaning the church. It was broken ! I have 
 kept it by me ever since."
 
 THE STREETS, &C. 45 
 
 THE STREETS, No. 2. 
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS— A FANTASY. 
 
 ^' How provoking!" cried my fair friend, 
 ^^ another pin gone !" 
 
 I stooped, as in duty bound, to seek for it. 
 
 ^^ Do not trouble yourself — this is the se- 
 venth that I have dropped within the half 
 hour; I wonder what can become of them 
 aU!" 
 
 " What," said another gentle voice; " if 
 there be a world of pins, in some star or 
 other !" 
 
 We all laughed at the conceit, and, to one 
 of the company, who has the unprofitable ha- 
 bit of dreaming with his eyes open, it opened
 
 46 THE STREETS. 
 
 a long train of amusing speculations and 
 images. For I thought that I was in the 
 country of which the lady had spoken — the 
 region where the lost pins of aU ages are re- 
 united. The monarch of that strange and glit- 
 tering empire, was a diamond which had 
 dropped from its place in some fold of Cleo- 
 patra's robe, which the queen, in the osten- 
 tation of her extravagance, had forbidden 
 should be sought for at the moment of its loss, 
 — and it had thus been overlooked by page and 
 waiting-woman, when the gorgeous banquet 
 was over. I walked to and fro among the peo- 
 ple, an industrious race of those common-place 
 individuals, of whom an entire row at least 
 is dismissed to its destination, every time that 
 Belinda makes her toilette. I discovered also 
 the Canton of crooked pins — the territory too, 
 of those spectral looking creatures, whom some 
 evil chance hath decapitated — the quiet places 
 where bodkins lay their lazy length along, — 
 and the Elysium of departed needles; but 
 while I was pursuing my researches with in- 
 creasing curiosity, methought that some of 
 the inhabitants of this singular country, jea-
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 47 
 
 lous of the intrusion of a mortal, pricked me 
 so keenly that I cried out, — and behold, I was 
 wide awake ! 
 
 So deep indeed, had been my trance, whilst 
 I was busy exploring the mysteries and curio- 
 sities of this pin-world, that I had bid my 
 friends good night, and walked out into the 
 street without knowing it. I was now on my 
 way home, before one of those vacant spots 
 of ground, which at Christmas time, are oc- 
 cupied by itinerant caterers for the amusement 
 of the pubUc. The scene had that sort of 
 barbaric hfe and animation about it, reminding 
 me of the accounts one has heard of the palace 
 precincts of the rich Black Kings in Africa. I 
 have always fancied that the approach to their 
 presence must be through much such a ves- 
 tibule of tawdry finer}', and noise, and dirty 
 crowds. On the present occasion, I was 
 dazzled by the number and variety of the spec- 
 tacles before me, and could not help saying 
 aloud : " Well, if I have left the world of 
 pins, it is to alight in the fairy-land of the 
 World upon wheels !" 
 
 It was some moments before I could look
 
 4S THE STREETS. 
 
 coolly round me, and take an inventory of the 
 incongruous sights and sounds of this extraor- 
 dinary region, so confused was I by the cries 
 of the motley company of spectators, and the 
 clang of the wretched music, which seemed 
 valued in proportion to its dissonance. In the 
 centre of the vacant space of ground, now 
 hardened by a frost three weeks old, were 
 stationed three enormous caravans of wild 
 beasts, " containing," as their panegyrists set 
 forth, " the united natural treasures of both the 
 hemispheres," and naturally taking precedence 
 of the meaner establishments on either side 
 of them, in right of their superior size, and 
 their band of beef-eaters arrayed in tarnished 
 livery, whose horrible concert of wind instru- 
 ments out of tune, must have had an absolute- 
 ly surgical eifect upon any ear, which found 
 pleasure in well-assorted harmonies. Above 
 their heads, brilliantly illuminated by coarsely 
 flaring lamps, were pictures, as large as life, of 
 " the great Bear, and the little Bear, and the 
 Nylghau of the sandy deserts, and the Casso- 
 wary, and the Crocodile and the Boa-constrwc- 
 tor" (for which new reading I am indebted to
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 49 
 
 one of the crowd) — and upon the wooden steps 
 leading to this palace of animated nature, was 
 stationed a gigantic figure, chosen for his sten- 
 torian voice, who never ceased bidding the 
 generous pubhe to the entertainment within, — 
 whose vociferous invitations reminded me of 
 the " what d'ye lack ?" times, when shop- 
 keeping must have been an occupation worth 
 pursuing, for the variety and amusement it 
 afforded, instead of being as it is now, a res- 
 pectable hum-drum calling, carried on behind 
 counters, and under the shadow of festoons of 
 drapery. 
 
 Cornerwise with this splendid menagerie, a 
 corps-dramatique had pitched its tent, and to 
 stimulate the curiosity of the gaping throng, 
 ever and anon some hero in tin helmet, or 
 some queen in pink cahco train strutted out, 
 enacting dignity in dumb show j and then, as 
 if recalled to consciousness by the shrieks of 
 dehght which tlieir stately presence failed not 
 to ehcit, retired as majestically as they had 
 come forth. Once an hour too, a corps de 
 ballet turned out, to show the resources of 
 '' Mr. Hick's unrivalled company ;" but the ex- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE STREETS. 
 
 hibition of their skill brought me no mirth, 
 for the night was bitterly cold, and I could not 
 help wishing for an armful of blankets where- 
 withal to shawl the red necks and redder 
 elbows of the scantily dressed danseuses — and yet 
 many of these had probably, of their own mad 
 choice, preferred so scrambhng and degraded 
 a Hfe as this, for the sake of the trumpery and 
 tinsel thereunto appertaining, to the duties of 
 a more regular and profitable way of earning a 
 livehhood. 
 
 Next in importance to these was the house 
 of the Giant ! — What poetry and legend lies 
 in the name ! — the mind at once pictures it as 
 some lofty rock-pillared cavern, decorated with 
 huge shapeless carved images, hke sea-mon- 
 sters turned into stone. But how were such 
 pleasant and awful fantasies mocked, by the 
 neat appearance of the black and yellow man- 
 sion, with a chimney, and windows prank- 
 ed out with muslin curtains — a front door, 
 with its knocker, and brass plate, with the 
 Giant's name engraven thereon ! Nor was the 
 Giant permitted the dignity of a solitary Hfe — 
 he had his companions, " the Muscovian
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 51 
 
 Iwarf, the smallest woman in Europe," and 
 he " large girl" whose portrait, in a white frock 
 md pink toque was so satisfying, that one 
 jtepped back a yard, at the bare idea of en- 
 jountering such a mass of flesh and blood, 
 md, when one looked at her apparently ti- 
 ly residence, next began to wonder, Hke Peter 
 Pindar's King Solomon over the apple dump- 
 
 " How — got the apple in }** — 
 
 This was, without doubt, the favourite one 
 of all the minor entertainments, though more 
 expensive than the theatricals, and less diver- 
 sified than the show of the learned Pig opposite, 
 whosejoro^ramme of exhibition boasted, '^in ad- 
 dition to the feats of this wonderful and almost 
 rational animal," of a performance upon the 
 musical glasses, " and imitations of the feathered 
 tribe by the Sieur Sanche." These monsters too, 
 were patronized by people of a somewhat better 
 class ; persons who despised the representation 
 of " the Outlaws of the terrible glen," as a low 
 performance, and the learned Pig's display as 
 only child's play. It were endless to describe 
 
 D 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS UBRARlfl
 
 52 THE STREETS. 
 
 the coat of inferior exhibitions which surrounded 
 the aforesaid : Punches — raree shows — wax- 
 work, containing the King, the Queen, Bona- 
 parte, the Cham of Tartary and his wives, 
 Burke and Thurtell, — and all to be seen for a 
 penny ! — it were almost endless still, (could 
 such a thing be) to recount the humours of 
 the crowd of gazers — the strange remarks, cre- 
 dulous, shrewd, coarse, and witty, of the com- 
 pany assembled within this department of the 
 World upon wheels. 
 
 But the thoughts which arose upon turning 
 away from these head-quarters of hubbub, are 
 not so easily disposed of. What strange squa- 
 lid lives must these itinerants lead, when not 
 occupied in exhibiting themselves or their cu- 
 riosities ! They are as separate a class in 
 themselves as sailors or gypsies, and, in the 
 course of their constant vagabondising, and 
 constant alternation between misery and 
 display, must pass through adventures, and 
 experience feelings, with which those who 
 pass smoothly along the highways of this 
 life, can never become acquainted. How cu- 
 rious would be the histories which a confes-
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 53 
 
 sional might extort from the members of that 
 Thespian troop 1 — what tales of coarse reckless 
 revellings, and low knavery — what ill-ex- 
 pressed strivings of imagination, vouchsafed to 
 its possessor in measure sufficient only to ren- 
 der him lawless and thoughtless — what com- 
 punctious remembrances of days, when absolute 
 want of food, drove the run-away into wistful 
 thoughts of his father's house, quiet and per- 
 haps sternly governed, but provided with 
 bread enough and to spare. How many such 
 admissions as these might be wrung firom the 
 most careless I mixed up with so many strange 
 and stirring occurrences, that the ear could not 
 choose but hsten, while the judsment con- 
 demned. The giant and the dwarf too, would 
 have their story to tell, and one of a yet more 
 painful cast : — they would complain of con- 
 stant confinement, of uiinatural means resorted 
 to to exaggerate personal defects, of the 
 coarse insolence of -vulgar starers, of hard 
 treatment from those into whose hands it was 
 their evil hap to fall. They would tell such a 
 tale as this, I say, if their feelings had not 
 been blunted, and their faculties narrowed by
 
 54 THE STREETS. 
 
 the miserable life they led. It is to be hoped 
 that this last is the case, — that they may not 
 be tormented by the perceptions which make so 
 many recoil from the bare idea of looking upon 
 them ; — and it is to be hoped yet more that 
 this custom of the old feudal times which we 
 have retained, (while we have discarded so 
 much that is picturesque and poetical) of re- 
 garding those whom Heaven has visited, as 
 fit objects of entertainment, will, ere long, 
 wear out, and be obliterated by the spread of 
 cultivation and good feeling. 
 
 But which of us has not known moments when 
 a sudden inclination to wander has seized him, 
 and he could be easily brought to think, with 
 strange longing, of the lot of those who may 
 be drawn about in their habitation, if they like 
 it, half the world over ! To think, for instance, 
 of the enjoyment of passing from town to 
 town at will ; of halting, on some autumn 
 evening, at the outskirts of a wood to gather 
 nuts, and roast potatoes in the true gipsy 
 fashion ! — Such wanderers as we could envy, in 
 such a mood, must surely have another sense 
 or two, in addition to those possessed by people
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 55 
 
 '^ who sit at home at ease," and know the count 
 of the chimneys which their windows overlook. 
 While these free people are living, the world 
 is going round under them. New scenes and 
 new faces meet them at every step; if they 
 have breakfasted in a dingy country town, 
 they may eat their dinners in the midst of 
 some free heathery common, or within the 
 sphere of the scent of a bean-field, and still 
 be at home ; and halt to sup underneath some 
 ruined wall, catching the last sunshine, just 
 out of a rich old fashioned village. In such 
 a humour as our present, the small trials of 
 scanty meals wet days and mndy nights are 
 forgotten, and we covet nothing so much, as 
 to harness a pair of horses to our elbow chair, 
 and to set off to see the world at once ! 
 
 But enough of such immature, and (some 
 wiU say) unprofitable fancies — and yet into 
 how small a corner of the World upon wheels 
 have we peeped ! — No mention has been made 
 of the province of stage coaches — so fertile in 
 incident and character, so precious to the no- 
 veUsts of twenty years ago : though it is
 
 56 THE STREETS. 
 
 strange that in these days of gossipry, no Jehu 
 has raked up his reminiscences of the people 
 whom he hath driven, and the changes, which 
 the road, daily travelled by him for so many 
 years, hath undergone. No attempt has been 
 made so much as to enumerate the different 
 classes of equipages, albeit, if the vehicles in 
 a coach-maker's hospital could be induced to 
 talk, they would, doubtless, recount marvel- 
 lous pithy and profitable things. Nor, des- 
 cending thence, have I considered carts, taxed 
 carts, ass carts, (the meanest of all wheeled 
 carriages, excepting the model of a ship drawn 
 through the streets by the maimed and one 
 eyed sailor) — a strange presentiment having 
 " changed the spirit of my dream." Chemistry 
 is at work in his laboratory and Mechanics 
 upon his models, nor will they labour in vain. 
 Mr. Vallance's tunnel will be made available, 
 and people be shot abroad on their journeys 
 of business and pleasure. Rudders will be 
 contrived for balloons, and, if wheels be al- 
 lowed to remain, they will be only spared to 
 such vehicles as can be propelled by Mr. Po-
 
 THE WORLD UPON WHEELS. 57 
 
 cock's kites, judiciously regulated by reins. 
 And thus the things, whereon I have ventured 
 to lucubrate, shall depart Uke the phantoms of 
 a vision, and be seen no more ! 
 
 d3
 
 58 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 The chapter of things should never be 
 quitted for that of persons, without strict 
 self-examination on the part of the chroni- 
 cler. It is totally impossible to stand alone 
 in the midst of the world without feehng 
 neither love or hatred; it is almost as im- 
 possible to treat of that world, and remain 
 unbiassed so far by our individual impres- 
 sions, as not to flatter or 'falsify the original 
 in the picture we are attempting. What an 
 unreckoned up sum of wrong thinking and 
 consequently acting, do we owe to the 
 scandal devised by embittered feeling, and
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 59 
 
 slighted pretension 3 to the impatience of the 
 fastidious author, and the arrogance of the 
 narrow-minded one as displayed in their works. 
 How delightful then, would it be, if some in- 
 habitant of another planet would ahght upon 
 ours, with spirit and interest enough to carry 
 on the game among the rest of the puppets, 
 and superiority enough to protect his temper 
 from being ruffled by its \'icissitudes : with a 
 keen eye to discern and dissect character 
 -wdthal, and a spirit sweet and charitable 
 enough to allow their full consequence to 
 temptations and unfortunate chances, and to 
 excuse foibles and httlenesses. We might 
 then hope to see a true picture of life as it is, 
 set before us. At present, we can expect no- 
 thing better than a faint copy or a caricature. 
 
 It will therefore be by much the most pru- 
 dent for a resident to refrain from attempting 
 any very minute description of the society of a 
 sea-port town, lest he should be charged with 
 personahty, satire, etc. To speak generally of 
 its spirit, is another and easier matter. To say, 
 that in a place singularly destitute of nobility, 
 its inhabitants have themselves substituted an
 
 60 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 aristocracy of wealth in place of one of family, 
 is, perhaps, some little beyond the precise 
 truth ; and yet, it comes nearer to the truth, 
 than any other form of words which could be 
 used. There is as much subdivision into sets 
 and sects, as much exclusiveness, with all its 
 train of bad consequences, as in the wider and 
 nobler circles of the metropolis — and over all, 
 and through all, a mercantile spirit at work, 
 which is singularly unfavorable to the develope- 
 ment of mind. There is, indeed, scarcely any 
 inducement for a man to exact and improve 
 the powers with which he has been gifted, if, 
 valuing every thing by the standard of pounds, 
 shilUngs, and pence, he feels that his standing 
 is secure, that he may talk wisdom or foUy, 
 as he will, and still be looked up to in societ}^, 
 as a person of consequence and authority ; — 
 nay, that he is in most circles more popular 
 as he is, than he would be, were he to bear 
 the character of a hard reader, or a deep 
 thinker. The withering influence of Fashion, 
 has also its share in depreciating the standard 
 of intellijrence. Our circles are not wide enough 
 to allow of individuals setting up as charac-
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 61 
 
 ters ; in which case, alone, does she tolerate 
 any originaHty of thought, word, or deed — she 
 therefore, imposes upon her subjects an uni- 
 formity of conduct and manner ', trammelling 
 them as effectually within her artificial ordi- 
 nances, as the conjuror, when he confines the 
 chicken within his magic circle of chalk. 
 
 But, it seems to me, that we are fallen on 
 particularly cheerless times, as respects ease 
 or enjoyment in general society. As far as 
 concerns the men, the age of dandyism has, 
 thank Heaven ! passed over : the delicate 
 youths who put their hair in papillotes, and 
 ironed their cravats upon their necks, are now 
 striving, in the mart of business, for their 
 rising families, or shivering over their cheer- 
 less bachelor hearths, remembering days and 
 glories gone by, when it was at once their oc- 
 cupation and their pleasure to rival the ca- 
 prices of fair ones as fantastic and manier4 as 
 hemselves. But though the present race of 
 men may be less finical than the last, — poor 
 society is no gainer by their increase of manh- 
 ness. If they are less sedulous attenders of 
 balls than their predecessors, they are more
 
 62 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 constant at dinner parties ; — and at these they 
 love to herd together, to talk the strong talk 
 of emptiness — of their dogs, and horses, and 
 amours, — and to settle the great questions of 
 the day, over which statesmen are racking their 
 brains, and for the right understanding whereof, 
 philosophers are patiently drawing their conclu- 
 sions from the experience of the past, in a few 
 stout words, against which there is to be no 
 appeal. As to pursuit of any kind, beyond 
 the above mentioned amusements, it is almost 
 utterly unknown among them, and even should 
 any one be followed in secret, it is not to be al- 
 luded to in conversation, if its follower would 
 keep clear of the artillery of idle tongues, ever 
 ready to satirize what their owners do not com- 
 prehend. 
 
 On the other hand, the present system of 
 female training, has its share in making society 
 a burden, instead of an excitement and an 
 exercise to those who understand something 
 better than vapid talk about the nothings of 
 the day, or the more racy amusement of 
 quizzing your vis-a-vis in a quadrille. While 
 Fashion attacks any tendency to bluism with
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 63 
 
 her most blighting ridicule, and inculcates a 
 cold pos^ demeanour, under which every na- 
 tural impulse and feeling is to be impenetrably 
 concealed. Education has parcelled out the 
 time of her victim, and carried her at set hours 
 from French to history, from history to music, 
 from music to metaphysics, — and so on, with- 
 out ever stopping to study the natural biases 
 and talents born with her. What a mar^-ellous 
 discrepancy is there between these tT\'o codes ! 
 Routine (for it is dishonouring Education to 
 allow her counterfeit to assume her name) or- 
 dains that the young lady of the nineteenth 
 century, shall know every thing : — Fashion va- 
 lues her in proportion as she talks as if she 
 knew nothing — Routine crams her with book- 
 learning, — Fashion teaches her to sneer at clever 
 people ; and thus, between the two, the natu- 
 ral buoyancy of girlhood, which never stayed 
 to consider whether the laugh was a tone too 
 loud, or the step a thought too quick, or the 
 talk a shade too confidential, is as completely 
 crushed as if it had never existed ; and there 
 seems now no longer any intermediate step 
 between the child on her way to school, and
 
 64 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 the well-tutored, well-dressed woman, armed 
 at all points for society, and equally proof 
 against enjoyments and annoyances. 
 
 Grammarians tell you to prove a rule by its 
 exceptions, and it would be as ridiculous as 
 false to say that we have not many who stand 
 out, in bright relief, from amidst this general 
 barreness. But sectarian diiFerences of re- 
 ligion and politics keep these much asunder : 
 and the powers, which they might indivi- 
 dually employ for the edification of general 
 society, are sadly cramped by the suspicious 
 dislike wherewith the world of common place 
 people regard them : — a world unjust as it 
 is vain, and, at any time, more ready to 
 overlook moral defect than to forgive mental 
 superiority. Thus it is, that unless a man 
 wishes to expose himself to the sneer of the 
 miUion, he must as sternly confine every 
 symptom of enthusiasm and imagination within 
 the silence of his own breast, as if it were a 
 noxious influence, instead of being a link of 
 that golden chain which connects the world 
 below with the world above. Thus it is that 
 the teachers of our children, those to whose au-
 
 BIRDS OP PASSAGE. 65 
 
 thority and discretion we intrust our most pre- 
 cious treasure, are so often humbled to the con- 
 dition of superior menials ; — that the weak and 
 ignorant hsten to the malice of antique preju- 
 dice or the folly of ridicule, and regard the 
 artist as a hirehng from whom a certain quan- 
 tity of a given commodity is to be purchased, 
 instead of as one who is honourable, from the 
 inspiration of talent which has descended upon 
 him, and as worthy of courtesy and conside- 
 ration, as if he were the founder of a fortune, 
 or the rectifier of a popular abuse. And what 
 is the consequence of all this strange pride and 
 pertinacity ? — The artist, heart-sore at finding 
 that, in these enlightened days, the calling to 
 which he belongs is considered httle more 
 respectable than that of the jongleur or mounte- 
 bank in the old feudal times, is too often dri- 
 ven by his irritability into low and disgraceful 
 courses ; and if he is too high minded to be- 
 come a sycophant, frets out his life in scorn of 
 those, to whose patronage he is compelled to 
 be indebted for the means of subsistence. 
 
 This is stating the case broadly, and some 
 will say rudely ; but the harm which society
 
 66 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 both commits and receives by perpetuating 
 this narrow spirit, is so great, that one cannot 
 touch upon it with a Hght pen or an indiffe- 
 rent heart. How much beauty, how much em- 
 bellishment, how much instruction is excluded 
 by the poverty of its judgment ! how much 
 talent is destroyed in embryo, how many a 
 gentle and earnest spirit embittered for ever 
 by its uncharitableness ! It is not to be wished 
 that all should be men of letters, all dilettanti. 
 Heaven defend us from affected enthusiasm, 
 and the apish criticisms of the shallow ! but to 
 every class should be allowed a clear stage 
 and a candid hearing ; and all who are sincerely 
 devoted to their several professions, be they 
 followers of arts, sciences, or commerce, should 
 meet on equal ground, and cease to cast in each 
 others' teeth, the terms of opprobrium be- 
 queathed to them by the imperfect enlighten- 
 ment of their ancestors. 
 
 But, to return from these grave considera- 
 tions ; — there is one feature in a sea-port town 
 like ours, at once its pleasantest and most 
 painful, of which one might write down remi- 
 niscences from " July to eternity'' without the
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. &J 
 
 fear of giving offence to any one — I mean, the 
 frequent appearance amongst us of " birds of 
 passage." Most pleasant is it to welcome to 
 your hearth cultivated and kind hearted stran- 
 gers, to exchange your ideas with theirs, 
 to become, through their means, familiar with 
 the persons and habits of foreign countries; and 
 most painful, when they have ceased to be 
 strangers, and you have long loved and cared 
 for them as part of your o\^ti household band, 
 to bid them farewell, and to know that it is 
 more than probable that, on this side of the 
 grave, you will meet each other no more ! 
 
 Nothing, indeed, is more agreeable than to 
 have free admission to a family circle which 
 is open to such chance society. Our town is 
 especially rich in foreigners : the trim and 
 gallant Frenchman, the true hearted German, 
 the earnest and industrious Swiss, the passio- 
 nate Italian may be found in almost every cir- 
 cle. I cannot but recal with pleasure the re- 
 membrance of a few acquaintances I have made 
 in one house where there is nothing of style, 
 nothing of money to attract, nothing but a 
 hearty Enghsh welcome, and a readiness to
 
 68 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 sympathise with feeUngs and interests a little 
 out of the beaten track of every day life. There 
 might not seldom be found the gifted of our 
 own land, as well as the stranger within its 
 gates. There it was that I often met with one, 
 for awhile resident amongst us, the music of 
 whose poetry has filled so many an ear, — and 
 yet the spirit which inspired her verse was 
 less bright and varied than the one which 
 shone out in her conversation ; whose thoughts 
 flowing spontaneously and richly forth formed 
 living breathing pictures : from whose lips any 
 romantic incident, any heroic trait, came forth, 
 with yet a further grace and glory : whose ima- 
 gination, when set free, can riot among the 
 quaintest and most etherial fancies, and dehght- 
 ed all hearers by its profusion, as well as its 
 gamesomeness : one, in whom with the utmost 
 feminine delicacy, was combined a subtle and 
 sprightly humour, which could extract rare 
 merriment out of the occurrences of the passing 
 moment : whose mind seemed to embrace and 
 retain, as it were, by instinct, every thing that 
 was elegant and refined. Alas ! she is now gone. 
 But among the less known individuals who
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 69 
 
 occasionally joined the circle I describe, and 
 who are now scattered to the ends of the 
 earth, there was much to interest, much to re- 
 member. Many of these were foreigners, sent 
 hither for a term of one or two years, to test 
 the strength of some love compact, or to ac- 
 quire knowledge of other languages and mer- 
 cantile experience at the same time, and who 
 won their way, at first by their homelessness, 
 in a strange land, by their uncommon speech 
 and ways of thinking, and afterwards, by a 
 degree of regard on their parts, which one 
 of the EngHsh, who, as the classical author 
 of De Vere so justly says, " are slow to move," 
 could hardly have conceived within so Umited 
 a space of time, and certainly, if conceived, 
 would not have exhibited. 
 
 There was Henri D , that strange mixture 
 
 of good feehng and bad temper, of talent and ob- 
 stinacy, whom you loved as you do a child, in 
 spite of his childish naughtiness ; although you 
 never knew whether " the observations he chose 
 to make," (to use his own phrase when pro- 
 voked) might not terminate your intercourse in 
 some sudden and awftd quarrel. He was every
 
 70 SOCIETY IN A SEA-PORT TOWN. 
 
 thing by turns : a dabbler in science, a musician, 
 a politician, and all these with a vehemence 
 and abandon which made wise heads shake at 
 his whimsicalities, tiU they resembled a man- 
 darin's in a tea shop. One night, sitting up till 
 dawn, to practise harmonics, and airs on the 
 fourth string of his violin, till the most musical 
 ear could endure no more, and tortured neigh- 
 bours rose up from their sleepless beds, and re- 
 monstrated ; on the next day, almost setting the 
 house on fire, his own bed in particular,^ with 
 some fulminating powder, or explosive gas ; 
 anon, deep over head and ears, in fierce and 
 noisy investigation and arguments upon the 
 secret history of the French revolution, and 
 withal, so affectionate while so unmanageable, 
 that you loved him even while you ached with 
 following his changes of mood. There was 
 
 Victor S , a true German : sentimental, 
 
 deep hearted, musical, and fond of good cheer, 
 who fell in love regularly about once in six 
 weeks, and as regularly upbraided me for 
 coldness, because of my inexperience in la belle 
 passion, and whose handsome face, guitar, and 
 inimitable waltzing, were so successful with
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 7^ 
 
 the fair, that he had an excuse for his frequent 
 inflammabihty, such as an obscure individual 
 like myself could never have pleaded. There 
 was poor, heavy, honest, right minded Marc 
 
 P , full of excellent feehng, and overflowing 
 
 with quiet and deep remembrances of his Swiss 
 home, his sister and her flowers, who always 
 seemed to me to be as unfit for the confinement 
 of an office, as a shepherd would be to take 
 charge of a cotton factory ; and who died sud- 
 denly, with few to attend upon him, and fewer 
 to remember him, save the mere acquaintances 
 of the moment like myself. O what memories 
 must have haunted his last hours ! what fond 
 impotent yearnings after that home, to speak 
 of which, even when he was in strong health, 
 never failed to call up a tear into his broad blue 
 eye, — what vague yet intense wishes to beburied 
 among his own people ! I never pass by his 
 grave in a neglected corner of a dismal subur- 
 ban church-yard, without feeling a strong pang 
 of regret, and making a vow, as often broken as 
 made, that I will never more embark any 
 regard or deep interest in a " bird of passage !"
 
 72 THE FURNIVAI>S, 
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Steward. Be patient. Madam, you may have your 
 pleasure. 
 
 Lady Bornwell. *Tis that I came to town for. 
 
 Shirley's Lady of Pleasure. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 It is not many years since a genteel middle 
 aged lady resident in one of the midland coun- 
 ties, was surprised, whilst sitting at her break- 
 fast, by the arrival of a letter, widely differing 
 from any of the epistles of her regular corres- 
 pondents, which, for the most part, contained 
 one side of condolence for some ailments, or of 
 expressions of personal regard, one side and a 
 half of gossip; and half a side and the ends filled 
 with commissions or accounts of the execution of 
 the same. The letter which made Mrs. Peters
 
 THE FURXIVALS. 73 
 
 smile and sigh at the thoughts of old times, 
 ran thus : 
 
 " My dear Charlotte, 
 
 '' I flatter myself that I am on the point of 
 creating a great sensation by suddenly pre- 
 senting to your notice your old and attached 
 schoolfellow, (for believe me, dearest Charlotte, 
 I have carried that attachment with me over 
 half the world, and brought it home with me 
 undiminished ; minds like ours, when once 
 united in the bonds of amity, are not easily 
 unlinked!) Yes, my dear Charlotte, I am 
 once more in old England, after having en- 
 dured many vicissitudes, and passed from the 
 sweet spring time of youth, in the bloom of 
 which we made our acquaintance, to the matu- 
 rity of middle age. So have you, my love, but 
 the flight of time need not prevent us from 
 mterchanging confidences as we did formerly : 
 and I hasten to show you that I at least am 
 not altered, by losing no time in claiming a re- 
 newal of our intercourse. 
 
 " You will, long ere this have heard, my dear 
 friend, of the irremediable loss which I sus- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 tained in the death of my dear Fumival, and 
 how the sole charge of four daughters at his 
 decease devolved upon me, alas ! from the 
 quickness of my feelings and the tenderness of 
 my aiFections, how unfit for such a charge I 
 My girls, have, however, thank Heaven! made 
 their mother's care a labour of love ; and though 
 great disparity of years exists between them, 
 the utmost harmony reigns in our little circle. 
 Yes, I am proud to say it, we are a happy 
 family, and what is there in money, my love, 
 
 (my poor F you will be glad to hear, left 
 
 a comfortable, though by no means a splendid 
 competence behind him) to compensate for the 
 absence of that most inestimable of all earthly 
 treasures, domestic felicity? My Charlotte, 
 will, I hope excuse me, if, with a mother's 
 partiality, and a friend's confidence, I attempt 
 their portraits. 
 
 " The eldest of my flock, called after myself, 
 Letitia, resembles me no less in person, than 
 in name. She is considered very handsome, 
 and is endowed with that dearest charm of 
 beauty, utter unconsciousness of its possession. 
 Her capacity, though not brilliant, is sub-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 75 
 
 stantial and sufficient, and she loves her own 
 home with a devotion equal to that which made 
 me feel it so momentous a sacrifice to accom- 
 pany my dear Furnival to the altar. She is 
 my chief comfort, though I would not for that 
 reason have you undervalue my Alice, my 
 second daughter. Of a more mercurial tem- 
 perament than her rightly judging sister, my 
 Alice has caused me many fears, unconsciously 
 on her part, dear girl ! I must own ; but thougli 
 she is a little volatile, I know that I can de- 
 pend upon her principles, and is every day at- 
 taining to more regulative power over the sal- 
 lies of her imagination, which you will agree 
 with me, my dear Charlotte, are any thing but 
 desirable in a young woman, accompanied as 
 they are in the case of my Ahce, with a vrarm 
 temperament and a persuadeableness which 
 makes me watch over her anxiously : though, 
 of course, without exciting suspicion on her 
 part. Of my two younger daughters, Hester 
 and Carolina, (the last so named in a freak of 
 poor dear Furnivars, because she was born on 
 the day that a ship of his, of the same name, 
 arrived from America) I have less to say : they 
 
 E 2
 
 7G THE FURNIVALS, 
 
 are amiable and affectionate children, and, un- 
 der the care of an exemplary young woman. 
 Miss Annesley, whose only fault is being a 
 little too romantical, (and that I must endea- 
 vour to correct), will, I doubt not, prove a cre- 
 dit and comfort to me, when their elder sisters 
 leave me in compliance with that law of nature 
 which deprives mothers of the solace of the 
 company of their offspring, at the time when 
 they need it most," 
 
 '' Dear me, what long sentences l" said Mrs. 
 Peters, laying down the letter, wiping her 
 spectacles, and taking breath. She proceeded 
 thus — 
 
 " Mr. Radenhurst, the agent for my property 
 in Tortola has prevailed upon me, — you re- 
 member, love, my extraordinary facility of 
 temper, — to establish myself in this thriving 
 and opulent place. I have sacrificed my own 
 wish for retirement and quietness to the in- 
 terests of my girls. They must enjoy the ad- 
 vantages which a town alone affords ; were it 
 not for their sakes, how should I delight to 
 fly to some sequestered retreat like your own, 
 and spend the remaining years of my life
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 77 
 
 amongst affectionate friends, in peacefully re- 
 membering the follies and pleasures of the 
 days of our youth. 
 
 " Write to me immediately — often, my own 
 Charlotte ; \\Tite to me as unreservedly of your 
 hopes and prospects, as I do of mine, and my 
 girls ! and believe me, that want of space 
 alone, (I never cross a letter, my poor dear 
 Furnival used to say that a woman who crossed 
 a letter must be a bad manager), prevents me 
 from explaining to you more fully, how de- 
 votedly I am always 
 
 " Your affectionate, 
 
 " Letitia Furnival." 
 
 *^ Well to be sure !" said the quiet lady, 
 *^ to think of my getting such a fine long letter 
 from Letty Johnstone ! I wonder whether her 
 hair is as flaxen as it used to be ?" 
 
 The above high flown production brings us 
 at once into the full current of our narrative, 
 as to waste words upon finishing a picture 
 already as complete as the one presented by 
 the lady's owm letter, would be tedious and 
 impertinent. Mrs. Furnival had no sooner
 
 78 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 established herself and her flock in our thriv- 
 ing and opulent city, than she began to look 
 about her for acquaintance ; and, being a 
 woman of open hand, not uncomely exte- 
 rior, and active ten years beyond the usual 
 activity of forty seven, ^' success," to use her 
 own language, ^^ crowned her endeavours." 
 Her card rack was crammed with the names 
 of a large acquaintance ; and had not the hours 
 " which her dear girls devoted to their studies" 
 been carefully portioned off from the rest of 
 the day, she was wont to boast, in the triumph 
 and thankfulness of her heart, that her knocker 
 would not have been still for a moment. But 
 her girls were to be accomplished as well as 
 fashionable; to play with the last finish of 
 musical perfection, and to draw sketches from 
 nature, and for this purpose, masters were 
 sought out at any cost or charge, and enter- 
 tained with good words and better cheer, that 
 they might take an extraordinary interest in 
 their pupils' advancement. In short, within 
 a wonderfully narrow space of time, Mrs. Fur- 
 nival's name was almost as well known in the 
 town as the mayor's, or the rector's; and
 
 THE FURXIVALS. *JB 
 
 many of her guests were so complimentary as 
 to assert that the attractions of the mother 
 surpassed those of the daughters. 
 
 Letitia Fumival, the eldest, and the musi- 
 cian, was easily set up with a grand piano, and 
 a harp, and two masters. The cultivation of 
 Alice's talent for drawdng seemed to be a matter 
 requiring rather more deliberation. Mrs. Fur- 
 nival lamented loud and long to every ac- 
 quaintance, " the great want of graphic talent 
 in the provinces. Could they recommend a 
 drawing-master to her ? — -Mr. Love's colouring 
 was cold — Mr. Skelhorne's perspective had been 
 objected to ; and then ma'am," Mrs. Fumival 
 would say confidentially, " (Alice, my love, 
 you need not Hsten) ; she is so sentimental, so 
 susceptible, that it requires particular care to 
 choose a master for her, and drawing, you 
 know, Miss Mottram, drawing is a silent oc- 
 cupation, and I never should have had patience 
 to sit by while she was taking her lesson ; so 
 that you see, ma'am, it is particularly necessary 
 to be guarded in making my selection. Mr. 
 Douglas, ma'am ? — I never heard speak of him 
 before, who is Mr. Douglas ?'*
 
 80 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Who Mr. Douglas was^ is not to be told 
 in a few words. Every body agreed in des- 
 cribing him as being so odd ! His father had 
 amassed a large fortune as a merchant, and, 
 having been accustomed from his childhood 
 upwards, to consider money-making the one 
 thing worth living for, had early endeavoured 
 to instil similar propensities into the mind of 
 his only son. It was in vain : you might as 
 easily have made a poker of a painter's brush, 
 as a " steady clerk" of Robert Douglas. The 
 boy, even in childhood, showed that extraor- 
 dinary degree of quiet energy, which would 
 have warned any person with more than one 
 idea not to indulge himself in the fallacious 
 hope of turning aside the very strong current 
 of natural propensities. He would be a painter, 
 — he was detected and punished for scrawling 
 gryphons and queer looking old men, whom he 
 called Polanders, upon the waste leaves of the 
 ledgers, to which he was introduced when so 
 small, that he could not descend from the 
 counting-house stool without assistance ; he 
 appropriated his weekly half-pence (old Douglas 
 being far too economical to allow his son any-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 81 
 
 thing beyond copper), to the purchase of a 
 colour box; he sate up stealthily at night, 
 and drew by the light of hoarded candle ends ; 
 and as soon as it was dawn, applied himself 
 wdth avidity to his beloved labour of daubing. 
 In short, Nature manifested her will so early 
 and decidedly, that every one, except the 
 nearest party concerned, saw that it was 
 useless to think of opposing her. 
 
 But old Douglas, like many a one before 
 him, thought within himself that he would be 
 stronger than Nature. He resolved that Robert 
 should be a merchant, and employed every 
 engine which want of sympathy, sarcasm, 
 coercion, and neglect could famish, to with- 
 draw his son from his favourite pursuit. His 
 labours were fruitless. The acanthus was not 
 hindred from growing by the tile with which 
 its leaves were pressed do^vn ; they formed the 
 capital of the fairest order of Grecian archi- 
 tecture; — the boy's genius throve in all the 
 more original fashion for being discouraged 
 and repressed, and every day that he grew 
 older, he bent himself to carry its aspirings 
 into effect more firmly and coolly than before. 
 
 E 3
 
 82 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 He was not one of those wild, hot-brained 
 characters, who run riot in eccentricity, plead- 
 ing talent as an excuse for their follies : — the 
 developement of his reason kept pace with the 
 unfolding of his abilities : and the two con- 
 joined made such a formidable head against 
 the purposes of the old man that, at last, 
 when Robert had reached the age of eighteen, 
 with many a bitter feeling of disappointment, 
 he was fain to desist from urging his son any 
 further ; declaring, at the same time, that, as 
 the boy had chosen his own path, he should 
 maintain himself therein, for that lie would 
 lend no assistance of purse and countenance to 
 contravene his own intentions. 
 
 The young man assented to this decree 
 without a single remonstrance, and sedulously 
 set to work to further his own views. And 
 first, with the intention of laying by a fund 
 for the purposes of foreign travel, he began to 
 take pupils, to the amazement of every one 
 who had heard him profess himself to stand 
 in need of further instruction. These did not 
 trouble themselves to consider, that since the 
 early age of ^nq years old, he had been un-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 83 
 
 remittingly occupied in exercising a quick eye, 
 and a ready hand upon every object presented 
 to his view — that he had walked miles to 
 study a prospect, or catch a peep of a picture 
 or a statue, and returned again to correct his 
 first sketches ; they did not know that he was 
 himself endowed with as keen an impatience 
 of mediocrity, as the most fastidious critic 
 among them, and they were presently unde- 
 ceived as to the extent of his acquirements 
 by his extraordinary success. In fact, he 
 would have already been in Rome, at the time 
 when my tale commences, had not his father's 
 health began to dechne very rapidly; and 
 Robert, with a dutifuhiess equal to his energy, 
 deferred the execution of his plans to attend 
 upon the old man ; "v\dthout, however, the satis- 
 faction of finding that he had gained any 
 ground in his affection. It was the merchant's 
 boast, that he never forgave or forgot; and 
 his friends who knew him best shook their 
 heads, as they prophecied that he would go 
 dowTi to his grave without bestowing a blessing 
 upon his son's endeavours. 
 
 This, then, was the master engaged by Mrs.
 
 84 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Furnival for Alice : " Just the thing — so steady, 
 so gentlemanly, and so grave -, he was not the 
 man to put any nonsensical notions into her 
 daughter's head, she was sure !" — 
 
 Never was good lady more completely mis- 
 taken in her calculations. Alice Furnival was, 
 indeed, endowed with a more than moderate 
 portion of that romance, the delusions whereof 
 were so much dreaded by her mother. In 
 fact, she possessed it in a place of talent of a 
 higher order. She could, to a certain degree, 
 appreciate the gifts and graces of other minds, 
 without possessing many of her own ; if she 
 had been educated among persons of intellect, 
 she might, possibly, have been made an 
 amiable and elegant young woman ; as it was, 
 for want of support, her fancies, (to use a 
 garden simile,) trailed aimlessly over her mind, 
 without growing to a strength sufficient for the 
 bearing of flowers or fruit. She was a devourer 
 of novels in secret ; she kept an album and 
 sometimes wept over it, and then again wept 
 because her lot was cast among people who did 
 not understand her character, — the common 
 complaint of young ladies when they have
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 85. 
 
 nothing else to complain of. The engagement 
 of Douglas as her drawing-master was dropping 
 a spark upon tinder, with a vengeance ! She 
 had heard his history, and been touched by it j 
 " It was so like something written in a book ! 
 — such an interesting young man as he 
 was !" She admired his drawings — she admired 
 his hands as he drew; the chivalresque and 
 melancholy air of his person, (he was consi- 
 dered by common observers to be black, shy, 
 and somewhat morose looking). From this, 
 the step to admiring what he said, was a very 
 easy one : and, it must be confessed that, 
 flattered by a reverence which had never been 
 paid to him by any of his other pupils, Robert 
 laid himself out more in talk, during the hour 
 in which he initiated AHce into the mysteries 
 of savage looking old trees, and tumble-down 
 houses, than in any other of the twenty four. 
 
 Gradually he was compelled to own to him- 
 self that he looked forward to this lesson with 
 peculiar interest. His pupil, as she was 
 almost clever, so she was almost pretty : — but 
 a strain of weakness ran through the character 
 of her face and figure, as well as of her mind.
 
 86 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Yet a ruder being than Robert could not have 
 refrained from contemplating her with pleasure, 
 as she lifted up her white ringletted brow from 
 her drawing, to listen with eager interest to 
 his more eager explanation of the terms and 
 difficulties of his favourite art. 
 
 Time danced away so quickly over the heads 
 of this gay family, that two years seemed gone 
 like a day, and Mrs. Furnival found herself 
 ^^ stiU undeprived of the company of any of 
 her offspring." True it was, that her house 
 was the resort of an infinite number of gentle- 
 men — she boasted that she could command 
 three to every one lady when she gave a ball ; 
 but they came and went, and as she thought 
 within herself, it was very " extraordinary that 
 nothing came of it," — surely they had not 
 heard of the hurricane which had devastated 
 half of the Plantain Waters' estate, and, for 
 the present, diminished her income materially ! 
 Meanwhile, a suspicion began to creep across 
 her mind, " that Alice was wonderfully steady 
 over her drawing, and yet she did not finish 
 so many pictures either." For the first 
 moment when she became aware of the ten-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 8? 
 
 dancy of her impressions, she was unspeakably- 
 shocked — gradually, she began to remember 
 " how civil Mr. Douglas had been to them — 
 so quiet and unobtrusive ! and how he had 
 drawn that sweet picture of Alice in an oval, 
 which hung over the drawing-room chimney 
 piece, and which some gentleman, who knew all 
 about pictures had mistaken for a Mary Mag- 
 dalen; and then his father was very rich, and 
 every body said, hkely to die soon ; and Hester 
 and Carohna were growing up fast, and promised 
 to be handsomer than either of their elder 
 sisters, and better mannered — Miss Annesley 
 was a nonsuch of a governess ! — In short, she 
 really thought that it might be best to let 
 matters take their own course ; '^ and, my dear 
 Charlotte," thus she concluded a letter to Mrs. 
 Peters, wherein she somewhat mistily stated 
 her surmises and perplexities, " if I commit 
 the happiness of my darling child into the 
 hands of all powerful fate, it is because I 
 know my own inabihty to decide for the best, 
 and not that a mother's heart has ceased to 
 vibrate with the deepest anxiety for her 
 daughter's welfare, as also to feel that unre-
 
 88 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 mitting affection for my old friend, which 
 makes me sul)scribe myself your devoted 
 
 Letty Furnival." 
 
 And how was Robert all this time ? — Why, 
 dreaming such a dream as would never have 
 entered the head and heart of a person one 
 jot less enthusiastic and inexperienced in the 
 world's ways, than himself: — in love of course. 
 He had sketched out to himself a plan of im- 
 proving and instructing one so docile and 
 capable as Alice, and was little aware that, 
 instead of carrying it into effect, he was him- 
 self becoming day by day blinder to the de- 
 ficiences which he had proposed to amend. 
 At last, (and how it was brought about without 
 a direct declaration, no one concerned ever 
 could or would tell) it became an understood 
 thing that Robert Douglas was to be regarded 
 as Alice Furnival's admirer; her mother, all 
 the while secretly resolving in her own mind, 
 that she would only allow the affair to proceed 
 
 in case , and, for this purpose, while she 
 
 always received Robert with the utmost frank- 
 ness and gaiety, she discountenanced all ru-
 
 THE FURNIVALS, 89 
 
 mours among her acquaintances with — " Now 
 I begj — now really there is no truth in it, — 
 now I would not have it said for the world, 
 it would place us all in the most awkward 
 situation possible — for my Ahce's sake/' and 
 the hke ; and, as the young lady in question 
 was by no means so entirely occupied with her 
 tacit engagement as to wish to shut herself 
 out from society, or to refrain from enjoying 
 herself when she was there, the world was 
 simple enough to believe Mrs. Furnival's 
 version of the story ; and careful mammas 
 wondered " that she would allow Mr. Douglas 
 to be so much about the house, — ^but his father 
 was enormously rich,'' and so forth. 
 
 Things were in this state when, one day as 
 Robert and Alice were sitting drawing together, 
 or, to be more precise, as he was leaning over 
 her shoulder, to finish a certain birch tree, 
 which, as she declared " would not hang 
 prettily," Mrs. Furnival burst into the room 
 in all the amphtude of cloak, hat and feathers, 
 with an open letter in her hand. 
 
 '^ Bless me ! how quiet you are, and 7ne in 
 such a bustle ! where' s Letty ?"
 
 90 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 ^^ Walking out, I believe, mamma." 
 
 " And Hester and Carolina, and Miss An- 
 nesley ?" continued she eagerly, " tell them 
 I want them all at once, why cannot they 
 come to me ? — Such a piece of news, Alice !"-~ 
 
 The children and their governess obeyed the 
 summons, and Mrs. Fumival, as was her 
 wont, continued walking up and down the 
 room at full speed, talking as she went : 
 
 " Such a piece of news ! I never knew before 
 that Arthur Fumival had left any children ; — 
 let me see, — he is your second cousin, and, I 
 dare say, will be here to speak for himself by 
 the next ship." 
 
 '^ A cousin, mamma !" cried the young girls. 
 
 " Children ! how you shout ! I wish. Miss 
 Annesley, that you would be so obliging to 
 make them attend a little to the modulation of 
 their voices ; — yes, Alice ! a cousin ! who has 
 not been in England for these ten years or more, 
 has written to me from New York to request 
 my permission to pay his respects to us as he 
 passes through. It seems that he is rich, and, 
 I should think, gentlemanly. I am sure of it 
 by his writing ! but, listen to his letter ; and
 
 THE FURNIYALS. 91 
 
 I declare, here's Letty ! dear girl ! always just 
 at the right time ! — I beg you fifty pardons 
 for not speaking to you before, Mr. Douglas ; 
 nay — now, you are not going ; — well, if you 
 must go, good morning." 
 
 " I do not wish to intrude" 
 
 '^ Nay, Robert," whispered Alice gently, 
 " you know that we all consider you as one 
 of — her mother laid a peremptory finger on 
 her arm, and the lover was allowed to depart. 
 
 " And now girls ! now Alice ! — by the way 
 you had no need to have asked Robert Douglas 
 to stay — now for the letter !" — 
 
 " What about, ma'am ?" enquired the im- 
 perturbable Letty. Alice and Miss Annesley 
 could not help laughing at her quiet voice and 
 apathetic manner. 
 
 " Miss Annesley — Alice — here is nothing to 
 laugh at. You shall hear, Letty my love, you 
 shall hear what he says !" — 
 
 " Then it is a letter from a gentleman," 
 remarked Lett)-. 
 
 " Hush, love! I am going to read it;" and 
 standing still in the middle of the room she 
 began —
 
 92 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 '^ My dear cousin, 
 
 '' It was with sincere pleasure that I chanc- 
 ed, a few days ago, to hear that a family of 
 near relations, (and such agreeable ones too), 
 
 were now residing in I have long been 
 
 a wanderer, having never, from inclination or 
 necessity, entered upon a living — 
 
 " A living — Letty — what can he mean ?" 
 
 " A living — ma'am ?" 
 
 " Perhaps," suggested Miss Annesley, " he 
 may be in the church." 
 
 " Ah very true ! a very likely thing ! — to go 
 on then — 
 
 ^' Entered upon a living ; — ^but I am at last 
 tired of vagabondizing, and look forward with 
 pleasure to returning to my own country, and 
 to making acquaintance with such relations as 
 yet remain to me. I shall sail from this port 
 by the next ship, and only send this before 
 me as an avant courrier that you may not be 
 startled by the actual appearance of yours very 
 sincerely 
 
 " Sydney Furnival." 
 
 " A charming letter, isn't it ? — Sydney Fur-
 
 THE PURNIVALS. 93 
 
 nival ! what an elegant name ! and rich too ! — 
 Alice come up stairs with me at once, I must 
 have some talk with you — you need not, Letty ; 
 — did not Captain Cronie say that he should 
 come into luncheon ?" 
 
 '^ Yes, mamma." 
 
 " Well then, will you make him my best 
 compliments, and excuses, and say that I am 
 particularly engaged this morning ; and do not 
 forget the ginger, you know that he dotes upon 
 it ; and I hope he will come as usual to meet 
 our new relation. — Bless me ! and the wind is 
 fair for vessels coming in ; come, Alice ! there 
 is no time to be lost." 
 
 Mrs. Furnival led the way to her dressing- 
 room; and having disencumbered herself of 
 her walking apparel, took one of the easy 
 chairs, and motioned her daughter to occupy 
 the other ; assuming an air of thought and 
 mystery, which sate ill upon her comely and 
 usually restless features. 
 
 " Ahce," said she, " I am going to talk to 
 you for your good." 
 
 Alice groaned inwardly, remembering a pert 
 remark which Carohna had once made on a
 
 94 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 similar occasion : " that mamma was very over- 
 coming when she began to lecture." 
 
 " Alice, do you remember how old you were on 
 your last birthday ?" 
 
 " Twenty. . three, mamma." 
 " I hope not : surely not ! why then Letty 
 must be twenty-five ! but the more need for 
 both of you to mind what you are about. I was 
 married before I was nineteen : my poor dear 
 Furnival was so pressing 1" 
 
 " But, mamma, Robert and I are both of us 
 willing to wait," said her daughter simply, not 
 as yet, dreaming of any one else 5 and, to do her 
 justice, little skilled in //xe^^e. 
 
 " i?o,..» Whom did you say, child?" said 
 Mrs Furnival, affecting stern surprise. 
 
 ^' Mr Douglas, you know mamma," replied 
 Alice softly, hanging her head. 
 
 " My love, what is it I hear? what have 
 you been doing ? what have we all been doing ? 
 A drawing master! Alice, you have surely 
 not committed yourself — I am angry —'I am 
 very angry with you !" 
 
 " But, my dear mamma," returned Alice, 
 beginning to cry, " you know. ..."
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 95 
 
 " I know ! No, indeed, I do not know 1 and 
 when our new cousin is on the point of coming 
 over ; and is so hkely, that is, 7night wish to 
 pay his addresses to you — O my love, not a 
 word ! — it must be given up ! what would Cap- 
 tain Cronie think of such a connexion?" 
 
 " But mamma," sobbed Ahce, moved by this 
 unusual display of vehemence, " you forget 
 Letty " 
 
 " And what would Captain Cronie say to 
 that ?" rephed her mother triumphantly — " No, 
 no! I trust that Letty is provided for, and a 
 brilliant prospect it is. The castle Cronie es- 
 tates, he told me, so lately as the night before 
 last, bring in a clear five thousand a year! and. . 
 and besides this fancy of yours — a mere teacher ! 
 What will our new cousin think of us ? Answer 
 me, you silly girl, have you committed your- 
 self?" 
 
 " I thought, mamma, that you understood. . " 
 
 " I understood!— -I wonder how you could 
 imagine such a thing ! but has he — now tell me 
 at once, — if you do not mean to make me very 
 angry " 
 
 Now Ahce knew that Mrs Furnivars very
 
 96 THE FURNIVALS'. 
 
 angry meant something very terrible indeed, 
 which was only exhibited once in seven years 5 
 and the remembrance of the last wrath was so 
 awful, that she durst but say : " that she was 
 sure that Robert Douglas wished to marry her; 
 and that she should — ^l)ut that no definite en- 
 gagement had passed between them." 
 
 " I am mightily glad to hear it," replied Mrs 
 Furnival, whose brow seemed to change its in- 
 tention of thundering that day, " mightily! such 
 engagements are very awkward things to dis- 
 pose of; we are all safe then, so long as no- 
 thing has been said. Alice, you must look your 
 best while your cousin Sydney is with us; you 
 shall have a pink satin." 
 
 ^^ But, dear mamma, (now don't look as if 
 you were going to be angry again) if you please 
 I do not wish to— to — " 
 
 " Well, simpleton, to what ?" 
 
 " It would be using him so very unhand- 
 somely!" 
 
 " Cousin Sydney, do you mean? him is any 
 body. Mercy upon us ! what time and trouble 
 it takes to manage some people ! Don't you see, 
 you foolish child, that nothing has been said;
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 97 
 
 such things go on every day. I insist upon 
 you doing as I bid you ; and after all, no one 
 knows how it may end ; and so — in short, you 
 gieed not be uncivil to Douglas, you know." 
 
 " Thank you, mamma," said Alice, wiping 
 her eyes. 
 
 " But remember you are to take most par- 
 ticular pains to please cousin Sydney, — a 
 scholar, a gentleman, a travelled man, Alice, 
 and a rich man!" 
 
 Alice could not help listening a little less un- 
 happily than she had done awhile before. 
 
 " Not that I would do an unhandsome thing 
 for the world," said her mother -, " but fancy 
 must give way to reality, and experienced heads 
 must manage silly young folks' concerns. Well 
 now, have you done crying? — you shall have a 
 new pink satin ; we will go to Beck's and buy 
 it at once, and look at his furniture prints — I 
 shall fit up the yellow room for cousin Sydney." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 9S THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 " Men have died and worms have eaten them. 
 But not for love." 
 
 Whilst the mother and daughter were deep 
 in the perplexities of India sprigs and fast co- 
 lours, Robert Douglas was at home, Hstening to 
 a communication, no less extraordinary in its 
 way, than Mrs. Furnival's. His father, who 
 was now entirely confined to his chamber, had 
 sent for him, immediately upon his return from 
 his morning's round, and Robert, who drew au- 
 guries from the slightest notice (it having often 
 happened that the two had been weeks in the 
 house without any intercourse passing between 
 them) obeyed the summons with the alacrity 
 of hope.
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 99 
 
 The old man was sitting in the full light of 
 the window, closely wrapped in a grey duffel 
 dressing-gown, with a fine and spotlessly clean 
 white cambric handkerchief knotted loosely 
 about his neck. His face, at a first glance, 
 might have been thought fine and venerable, 
 from the strong lines of his features and the 
 profusion of long white hair which shaded it : 
 at a second, a physiognomist would have dis- 
 covered traces of worldly wisdom and mean 
 desires sufficiently marked to destroy the illu- 
 sion. His appearance however, was eminently 
 respectable, his voice sonorous, his pronun- 
 ciation plain and good; he always fixed his 
 eyes full upon the person whom he was addres- 
 sing, and never removed them, or turned them 
 aside, till he had entirely finished his speech. 
 
 '^ Sit down, Robert,'' said he very cooUy. 
 
 " I hope you find yourself better this morn- 
 ing," was his son's answer, as he took a chair 
 close to his father. 
 
 " You are too near me, sir! — there — that 
 chair will do. No, sir, I rather think that I am 
 worse:— a month ago I was at the office every 
 day, and now I can hardly crawl down stairs." 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 " I should hope that when spring comes. . " 
 
 " Stop,'* said his father, in the same severe 
 tone: " I have nothing to do with your hopes, 
 except to tell you what you are not to hope. 
 Robert, I was told yesterday, for the first time, 
 that you are in love.*' 
 
 The young man crimsoned deeply. *' I should 
 have told you myself, sir," said he, ^' but — *' 
 
 " Nay, I have no claims upon your confidence; 
 but I suppose you will wish to marry the young 
 lady. Now, sir, I have sent for you to explain 
 to you the circumstances in which you stand, 
 with respect to your expectations; it has been 
 always my intention to tell you whenever you 
 should wish to settle for life " 
 
 Robert bowed respectfully and his father 
 went on, 
 
 " As long as you were only hving on here 
 from day to day, it did not much matter how 
 rich or how poor you were ; now, I suppose, it 
 is or will be of some consequence for you to 
 know. I have been disappointed in you, Ro- 
 bert ; — cruelly disappointed! All my hopes, all 
 my labours have been rendered worse than 
 fruitless by your obstinacy and disobedience;
 
 tHE FURXIVALS. 101 
 
 my love has kept pace and proportion ^yit]l 
 them. I cannot^ indeed, regard with compla'- 
 cency a living monument of my vexation ; 
 therefore your presence, instead of being a sa- 
 tisfaction to me in my old age — " 
 
 " I beg, sir/' said his son rather quickly, 
 " that if you have any thing with which to re- 
 proach me, you will also do me the justice to 
 remember — " but he checked himself; he could 
 not bring himself, even in self-defence, to state 
 the sacrifice of his own views, which he had 
 made that he might attend upon his father. 
 
 " You interrupted me. — This being the case, 
 Robert, it would be absurd to expect that I 
 should enrich you with the fruits of my long 
 life's labour; you, who have made its latter 
 years so full of vexation. When I die, (I do 
 not tell you this out of anger or sudden whim, 
 you know me to be cool and inflexible), you 
 will inherit an income of three hundred a year: 
 the rest I have bequeathed otherwise. It be- 
 hoves you, therefore, to exercise some prudence 
 in deliberating how you mean to live, before 
 you load yourself with the burdens which be- 
 long to married life. I tell you this, once for
 
 102 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 all, that you may hereafter have no cause to 
 complain of having been permitted to indulge 
 false expectations. And now, sir, have the 
 goodness to leave me, I hear Doctor Hammond 
 upon the stairs. Go, if you please, and re- 
 member what I have told you.'' 
 
 Robert snatched up his hat from the floor ; 
 and, stunned, shocked, grieved beyond the 
 power of utterance, rushed out of the house. 
 He made his way to the pier head, which, at low 
 water, is always a deserted place, and flung 
 himself down upon a coiled cable. To think 
 over the late conversation was no pleasant em- 
 ployment: it was not the idea of the probable 
 loss of money which grieved him, not the pros- 
 pect of a mean inheritance which had sent the 
 blood to his cheek, as if propelled thither by 
 an engine: it was the stern-heartedness which 
 had prompted so unjust a resolution, it was 
 the passionless tone in which the communica- 
 tion had been made, that stung him to the 
 heart. And soon a strong feeling of indignant 
 resentment would have arisen had he not re- 
 pressed it by turning his thoughts into another 
 channel. He was bound in honour to make
 
 THE FURNIVALS, 103 
 
 Alice acquainted with the news. How would 
 she bear it? What influence would it have on 
 the more than good understanding, which, at 
 present, subsisted between them? There was 
 little comfort in the involuntaiy answer to this 
 mental question; and as if a weight of scales 
 seemed to fall from his eyes, cold doubt was 
 the reply — how different from the lover's ho- 
 nest trust which would maintain in the face 
 of all the world, that his mistress was superior 
 to aU mercenary considerations ! She was so 
 gentle, so facile;—- and had been brought up to 
 consider the luxuries of life as indispensable to 
 her happiness, and even to her respectability. — = 
 Yet this disappointing conviction, which flashed 
 across his mind with a \dvidness not to be 
 extinguished, did not by an atom, diminish the 
 strength of his affection, which continued, as it 
 had began, unbased on reason. For two years, 
 he had unconsciously anchored all his hopes of 
 future happiness upon it, and now he might be 
 the destroyer of his own peace, by performing 
 the duty of acquainting Alice with his father's 
 intentions. 
 
 With this purpose of heart he availed him-
 
 104 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 self of his first disengaged evening to call upon 
 the Furnivals. He found the drawing-room full 
 of company — there was a strong detachment of 
 ^* the standing army of men," as they had been 
 facetiously called, who lounged in whenever 
 they had no better engagement: sure, at least, 
 of finding Mrs Furnival to laugh at, a good 
 supper to eat, and choice wines to wash it down. 
 Captain Cronie, a tall red-haired Scot, six feet 
 two inches high, was sitting very dutifully be- 
 side Letty; Miss Annesley was winding silk 
 from a chair; Hester and Carolina learning 
 their first lesson in flirtation from two spare 
 cavaliers, who were thought too small game 
 for their elder sisters; Mrs Furnival was play- 
 ing at shorts with three other young men ; 
 talking, laughing, dealing and winning, all in 
 the highest spirits; — and she, whom his eye 
 sought out at the first instant, Alice, was sit- 
 ting a little apart from the noisy throng, with — 
 O most unwelcome sight ! — a stranger seated 
 on a footstool at her feet, looking up, and talk- 
 ing to her with great animation, whilst she, it 
 seemed, listened not displeasedly. Her head 
 was drooped towards the speaker — her eyes
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 105 
 
 were half closed — and her mouth unconsciously 
 answering his narrative with little quick smiles, 
 which passed away only to return again and 
 again. 
 
 The stranger, to whom he was introduced as 
 the family's new relation, was a tall well-made 
 man, with a dun complexion that might serve 
 for either twenty-five or thirty-five, a down 
 look, and crisp black curly hair which covered 
 entirely a head a little too large for strict pro- 
 portion. If, as Robert jealously thought, he was 
 deficient in manner, the lack thereof was com- 
 pensated abundantly by a fluency of speech, 
 equal to Mrs. Furnival's own, and a conceit of 
 himself, which made the presence of strangers 
 rather a stimulus than a restraint. He was 
 already quite at home among his new relations ; 
 he had, in the course of the first ten minutes, 
 adroitly possessed himself of Mrs Furnival's 
 good graces; he had shaken hands with Captain 
 Cronie, as a person whom he was resolved to 
 like for his cousin Letty's sake ; and had over- 
 come Alice with such profuse and eloquent 
 descriptions of his rambles in foreign parts, 
 such a phantasmagoria of traveller's wonders, 
 
 F 3
 
 106 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 " .of the riches of nature in the tropics ; of the 
 primeval grandeur of the American forests ; of 
 the unexplored sublimity of the Andes, and the 
 extreme awfulness of a Chilian earthquake;" — 
 and the like, — that the tender-hearted maiden 
 was thrown into a perfect fever of delight and 
 enchantment thereby, and began to regard the 
 bold youth who could so well describe what he 
 had seen, with an extraordinary degree of vene- 
 ration. Douglas gazed for an instant on the 
 unpleasant picture before him, in speechless 
 uneasiness — ^when a simple voice behind him 
 recalled him to his senses with — " Bless me, 
 how like old Mr. Tubb, the button-maker!" 
 
 It was an old clergyman who spoke : one of 
 that class of unaffected, pious and faithful- 
 hearted divines, which has almost merged in the 
 two extremes of over-strained enthusiasm and 
 haughty self-indulgence — a man who was active 
 and yet unpretending; and though wise in alarm- 
 ing the self-deluded, and gentle in encouraging 
 the dispirited, as ignorant of the ways of the 
 world as a child. Mrs. Furnival was fond of Mr. 
 Evesham—" for he had known her j)oor dear 
 Mr. F — " and he was occasionally found among
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 107 
 
 her guests; perhaps because he thought his pre- 
 sence might have its use ; perhaps, because he 
 held in no disdain the occasional amusement of 
 a rubber. He was very much interested in the 
 fortunes of Robert Douglas, and had made one 
 or two ineffectual attempts to mediate between 
 him and his father — and now shook the young 
 man's hand warmly, with an expression of 
 countenance which said: " You see, I don't 
 forget old friends for new ones," — an indiscreet 
 mode of greeting a jealous lover certainly, but 
 a characteristic one. 
 
 " Have you seen this Mr. Furnival before?" 
 said Mr. Evesham, drawing Robert aside ; " I 
 do not like him much." 
 
 " No, I suppose he only arrived yesterday." 
 
 " The day before — and see how intimate he 
 is with the girls already ; calling them Letty 
 and Alice as familiarly as if he had known them 
 all the days of his life! I never thought that 
 young men who had been long abroad came 
 home good for much, — ^if any thing." 
 
 " And have therefore always so strenuously 
 recommended my trying to be content at home," 
 rephed Robert a little bitterly.
 
 108 THE FURNIVAL^. 
 
 '' He is to preach for me on Sunday/' re- 
 sumed Mr. Evesham, meandering pleasantly 
 along in the current of his own thoughts. " I 
 wonder what sort of a sermon he wiU make." 
 
 " I wonder too," echoed Robert mechani- 
 cally. 
 
 " You are right I you are right! he does not 
 look like a clergyman —and such bold eyes too, 
 as he has ! I wonder at Alice's allowing him to 
 stare at her in that confident manner. — I'll go 
 and break up their conference." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, no !" cried Robert, his 
 words choking his throat. 
 
 " Why," continued the other, " they look 
 much more like lovers then Miss Letitia yonder 
 and Captain Cronie; — bless me, if he is not 
 holding Miss Annesley's silk ! I must go and 
 disturb these two, however ;" and escaping from 
 Douglas he made his way across the room. 
 
 Left to himself, the unhappy young man 
 proved all the bitterness of feeling, which every 
 one must have experienced who has seen him- 
 self neglected for a new comer; — and this was 
 further deepened, by the consciousness that 
 the secret which he had come thither to impart
 
 THE FURXIVALS, 109 
 
 was not likely to reinstate him in his former 
 welcome. Tmce he arose to go — and his heart 
 failed him. At last the whist party broke up; 
 Mrs. Furnival, who had won every game, and 
 had the satisfaction of seeing every thing pro- 
 ceeding just to her mind, swept towards the 
 corner in which the artist had niched himself, 
 with a book in his hand, so ingeniously held 
 (up side down) as to screen himself from the 
 possibility of catching or answering a look, 
 should Alice be disposed to waste one upon him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Douglas,'' said she very gaily, 
 " why are you moping here aU alone? I cannot 
 permit any of my gentlemen to be so unpolile. 
 Come, get up, get up, and do not look so sour ! 
 Here, Miss Annesley, come and amuse Mr. 
 Douglas." 
 
 Miss Annesley declared her wniUingness to do 
 her best; and as she rose to obey Mrs. FurnivaFs 
 summons, the rest of the party, anxious per- 
 haps for somehttle change, followedher example. 
 
 " O, Mr, Douglas, do you know— that sweet 
 picture of your pupil, — cousin Sydney admired 
 it so much, that do you know, I have absolutely 
 given it to him. He is quite a judge, I can as-
 
 110 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 sure you and draws beautifully. He is to give 
 me his own picture in return." 
 
 " Have you seen any of his drawings?*' 
 asked Mr. Evesham simply. 
 
 " I, I — Alice — do ask cousin Sydney to 
 shov/ you some of his drawings — he will refuse 
 you nothing ! Mr. Douglas, do not you think 
 that there is an extraordinary likeness between 
 them? Alice is my poor dear Furnival's 
 image; they might almost be taken for bro- 
 ther and sister." 
 
 " Can the force of folly any further go ?" 
 said Douglas to himself, approaching Alice, 
 whom her cousin had now quitted — " Alice/* 
 said he very softly — " Miss Ahce Furnival, 
 when will you allow me to speak a few words 
 to you in private?" 
 
 Alice looked round her, as if afraid of being 
 being watched or overheard, — perhaps for some 
 assistance. But no help was at hand ; and her 
 lover repeated his question. 
 
 '' To me, Mr. Douglas? we are so much en- 
 gaged just now — ^but do not look so grave — let 
 me introduce you to my cousin Sydney — you 
 will like him amazingly, I am sure— he is so
 
 THE FURNIVALS. Ill 
 
 cultivated — so agreeable and has seen so 
 much that. . . " 
 
 " That you cannot spare a few moments to an 
 eld friend ! Well, it is perhaps no more than 
 I ought to have expected. But do you mean, 
 Alice, that it is to be all over between us ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Douglas," replied the feeble 
 girl, now trembling with real agitation, " indeed 
 I cannot — you must excuse me this evening — I 
 am not well." 
 
 " Well Alice," said Robert, sinking his voice 
 to its lowest tone : " I think I see how it is: 
 but I did not expect that you would have given 
 me up quite so easily — this new cousin, then, is 
 — is — It is perhaps best for us both. Farewell 
 then, and God bless you!" His composure was 
 fast failing him, and he had no other resource 
 than to leave the house abruptly, and for ever. 
 No one enquired " why Mr. Douglas had not 
 stayed to supper ?" — for Mr. Evesham was al- 
 ready gone; and Alice, after a little soreness of 
 conscience, protested to herself, that she was 
 too much hurt to be able to think about it; and 
 allowed herself to be anew interested by cou- 
 sin Sydney's showy tales of foreign parts.
 
 112 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 But the vrctim of Mrs. Furnival's schemes 
 for the aggrandizement of her daughters and his 
 father's implacabiUty, could not bear all these 
 changes with quite so easy a mind. He looked 
 at the naked truth, that he was cast aside and 
 slighted, with a determined fortitude which 
 did not shame his energetic character. He 
 suffered intensely, it is true, but wisely ; for he 
 resolved to probe the wound to its core, to 
 the end, that his cure might be eiFectual. For 
 two days he allowed his tenderness to apologize 
 for the capricious and heartless behaviour of 
 Alice, in the hope of receiving some message, 
 some note of explanation. On the third, when 
 none came, he manfully turned aside his mind 
 from the contemplation of what might have 
 been and what was assuredly now never to be 
 — and resolved to seek for comfort and diver- 
 sion of his thoughts, in arranging and matur- 
 ing his plans for the future. 
 
 One instance, though slight in itself, must 
 be mentioned, to show how resolutely he re- 
 fused to yield in the least to the fond luxury of 
 nursing his sorrow. A taste for music, as is 
 often the case, was conjoined with his talent
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 113 
 
 for drawing; and among other modes of in- 
 dulging it, he had joined an amateur choir of 
 gentlemen who sung the service every Sunday 
 in a certain church. That church was the one 
 at which Mr. Evesham officiated — where cousin 
 Sydney was to preach on the coming Sunday — 
 and though his natural feelings prompted him 
 to fly as far as possible from the place, he 
 resolved to command them, and to appear in 
 the orchestra as usual — though the effi^rt was 
 so great that he heard the beating of his heart, 
 as distinctly as the treading of his feet, when 
 he entered the church-yard. The bells were 
 ringing merrily, the river, close beneath his 
 eye, was sparkling and dancing in the sunshine ; 
 but he noticed them not, and stalked towards 
 the belfry door, wrapt in the gloom of his own 
 reflections. 
 
 It was well that he was not aware of a party 
 entering the holy precincts by an opposite gate 
 and about two stones throw further from the 
 church than he was. These were Mrs. Furni- 
 val and all her family — Mr. Evesham in his ca- 
 nonicals, cousin Sydney and Captain Cronie; in 
 short, the group of all others, that he would
 
 114 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 have least wished to have encountered. Mrs. 
 Furnival, with Ahce leaning upon her arm, 
 walked the first, between the two clergymen, 
 a little hurried by the breeze, which, however, 
 to compensate for its boisterousness, did full 
 justice to her well-turned ancle and neat boots. 
 " Yes, cousin," said she, " this is a fine old 
 church; the tower is one of the very few remains 
 of antiquity — " 
 
 " Not at this door to day," said Mr. Evesham, 
 '^ we have just time to enjoy the sea view — and 
 will go in through the baptistery. Ah ! yonder 
 is Douglas with his psalm book, looking as 
 sober as if he were a Dean — See — at yonder 
 corner of the tower — Almighty God ! — look ! — 
 look!—" 
 
 All eyes followed his finger, as, rigid with 
 horror, he stood rooted to the spot, pointing 
 towards the building. The tower, which had 
 resisted so many gales and the safety whereof 
 was in no wise lessened, (so knowing people 
 had said) by its swinging to and fro, whenever 
 the full peal of bells was rung — seemed for one 
 instant to lean over the body of the church, 
 ^ hand's length further than it was wont ; — so
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 115 
 
 far as to be beyond the possibility of recover- 
 ing its balance. The compact stone work be- 
 gan to tremble, as if agitated by some inward 
 convulsion — the unconscious ringers within 
 apphed all their strength to the ropes — then the 
 outer side of the spire was sent with a sudden 
 gash; and, with a long deafening sound, its 
 whole length fell at once upon the roof of the 
 church, which gave way beneath it, like a cob- 
 web under a stone. A stifled shriek from those 
 within the building — a piercing cry of agony 
 and horror, from those collected in the church 
 yard — and one or two persons rushing madly 
 out, maimed and bloody — and the catastrophe 
 seemed complete! So sudden had it been, 
 that its spectators could hardly trust the evi- 
 dence of their senses ; and sick with the excite- 
 ment of the moment, reeled wildly to and fro 
 like men drunk with wine ! 
 
 It was a blessing, for which the congregation 
 could never be sufficiently thankfal, that this ca- 
 lamity happened before the service began. One 
 or two old persons and a body of children be- 
 longing to some charity school had, indeed, been 
 seen to enter. Immediately, as soon as the
 
 llf> THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 horror of the moment had subsided, a crowd of 
 able bodied men, (for the church-yard was pre- 
 sently filled with a multitude of people,) made 
 their way into the building through the chan- 
 cel doors. They found that only that part of 
 the roof, which had covered the south aisle, was 
 left entire ; — and that so overloaded that it was 
 momentarily expected to crash down upon their 
 heads. The rest of the interior of the church 
 was filled with a confused mass of rubbish ; 
 with one or two pillars yet standing, and a 
 few ragged rafters and the bare blue sky above. 
 Heedless of the warning of falling plaster from 
 the small sound portion which yet remained, 
 they began to force their way among their ruins 
 and to encourage with assurances of help those 
 who, it was hoped, might yet be spared. In 
 the north aisle, which was almost entirely 
 choked with beams, slates and enormous stones, 
 they heard the weak cry of a child, and a groan 
 which suddenly died away; — to that point the 
 labourers turned the full force of their exer- 
 tions. Meanwhile the windows were covered 
 with the faces of those who had clambered up 
 from without and were watching their proceed-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 11/ 
 
 ings with agonized interest. At last, a strong 
 man, a mason by trade, was seen to insinuate 
 himself between two perilous looking masses of 
 ruin, in the hope of finding some clear space 
 within, or some means of delivering those who 
 might be there buried alive. It was in vain — 
 he encountered a mass of destruction, to re- 
 move which, would require the labour of hours; 
 he had fallen upon some crushed thing, for he 
 came out with his clothes and hands stained 
 with blood! A shriek burst from the crowd 
 that filled the windows ; and many a miserable 
 woman knelt down upon the tomb stones and 
 prayed, in the bitterness of anguish, that her 
 child might not be counted among the slain; 
 but, alas ! it was soon ascertained that one de- 
 tachment of the charity children had entered 
 the church a few moments before the spire fell, 
 and of these only three or four came forth 
 alive ! 
 
 But to return to the personages of our story : 
 — Mr. Evesham was the first to remember 
 that Robert Douglas had been seen to go in 
 at the belfry door, — and that he had never re- 
 turned. Nothing could prevent this excellent
 
 118 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 man from forcing his way into the thickest of 
 the ruin^ calling upon his friend to answer, — ^if 
 he were yet alive. Captain Cronie was by his 
 side; as for the rest of the party, they had 
 been escorted home in fits by the considerate 
 cousin Sydney : who judged wisely that " it 
 was no place for ladies," and led them from 
 the spot. 
 
 Meanwhile, as every instant narrowed, so 
 did it also deepen the interest of survivors. 
 Gradually it became known, among the crowd, 
 who must yet be among the ruins. One or 
 two who had been extricated, had been carried 
 home in the midst of their weeping families, too 
 much awe-stricken to rejoice at their preser- 
 vation; — it became too, more certain that those 
 who had not been drawn or dug out, must 
 have perished ; and Mr. Evesham was on the 
 point of leaving the building, with the most 
 miserable fears for the fate of poor Robert, — 
 when, on again venturing into the corner of the 
 south aisle to which a roof still remained, — a 
 low dull sound, as of a voice trying to make 
 itself heard through many stones, reached his 
 ear. He listened again, in an agony of atten-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 119 
 
 tion— it was repeated. " Hither ! hither !" 
 shouted he to the masons, " there is some one 
 alive in this corner.*' — They obeyed his sum- 
 mons, and Martin, the strong man already 
 mentioned, broke in the baptistery door, by 
 throwing himself against it with all his weight, 
 crying out in his loudest voice, '' Help at hand ! 
 — who is wdthin there ?" and listening acutely 
 for an answer, whilst he watched with an 
 upward eye, the roof above, which was now 
 perceptibly bulging downwards — The same 
 voice as before, answered, — but they could 
 distinguish no words. 
 
 The space within the baptistery door was 
 entirely fiUed with enormous fragments of stone- 
 work and mortar. The men held an anxious 
 consultation. " It is as much as any one's 
 life is worth to attempt to pull them down, — 
 but, poor fellow ! there must be some one 
 jammed upon the belfry stairs, and we must 
 get him out at aU events." 
 
 But how to get him out was the question. 
 It was feared that their very attempt to deUver 
 him who was immured, might itself hasten his 
 destruction 5 for to remove one stone, was to
 
 120 THE PURNIVALS. 
 
 incur the risk of bringing twenty after it. 
 Nevertheless, as this was their only chance, 
 they resolved to try it. Mr. Evesham took a 
 pickaxe and crow bar, and worked among 
 them ; and in the course of an hour, they had 
 with cautious exertion, penetrated one of the 
 layers of the ruin, behind which they sup- 
 posed their victim to be imprisoned. They 
 were rewarded for their labour, by receiving 
 an audible answer from the object of their 
 search, — that Robert Douglas was within, and 
 as yet unhurt ; though so hemmed in that he 
 could hardly move, and that he feared any fur- 
 ther attempt on their parts might end in 
 crushing him to death. Mr. Evesham turned 
 deadly faint on hearing these words ; — the risk 
 and peril had now reached their most critical 
 point. 
 
 " Indeed Sir," cried Martin, " you can do 
 no good here ! you had better go out into the 
 air, while we endeavour •" He was inter- 
 rupted by the sudden falling of a shower of 
 dust. — " Lord have mercy upon us ! we are 
 all dead men !" cried one of the masons ; but 
 with true English stout-heartedness, they
 
 THE PURNIVALS. 121 
 
 refused to abandon their work of mercy. It 
 was well, — ^for the cause of this new alarm was 
 presently evident; through a narrow cranny 
 of the ruin, a damp, clammy hand was sud- 
 denly forced. " Is Mr, Evesham there ?" 
 said the same voice within 3 " I fancied I 
 heard him speak." 
 
 " It is I — Robert — I am here — we are at 
 work to dehver you.*' 
 
 " You cannot," replied the other faintly but 
 firmly, " I hear already something giving way. 
 Shake hands, Sir ! for the last time ; let me 
 have your blessing, and I pray of you all to 
 leave me, for charity's sake !" 
 
 '' Leave you !" cried the men, encouraged 
 by hearing him speak so near them, " that we 
 will not — till we have brought you out. Gre- 
 gory — that bar here ! Allan, help Mr. Eves- 
 ham, he is fainting like V 
 
 The clergyman was now in that state of 
 excitement which rendered his presence dan- 
 gerous in their present imminent peril. He 
 grasped Robert's hand eagerly. " Bless — 
 bless " — he sobbed out. 
 
 " Come away Sir ! come away !" shouted 
 
 VOL. T. G
 
 122 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Martin, " you must go ! some one is calling 
 you without ; and you, inside there, draw in 
 your hand. Now boys ! death or deliver- 
 ance !'* 
 
 Unable to endure the tumult of his feelings 
 any longer, the divine suffered himself to be 
 pushed back through the crevice, and was, in 
 another second, in the open air. He was 
 awaited by a no less moving scene than the one 
 which he had just quitted. The crowd eagerly 
 calling him by name, made way for him to pass 
 to the spot to which old Douglas had been 
 brought. He had heard of the accident, and, 
 stung by a late-wakened remorse, had crawled 
 from his sick chamber, and, dressed in his 
 house garments, made his way thither to as- 
 certain the fate of his son. He had scarcely 
 entered the gates, when, wearied by so extraor- 
 dinary an exertion, he fell to the ground. 
 Some compassionate persons supported him, 
 and a chair was brought from a neighbouring 
 house, — ^for he resisted every attempt to remove 
 him, with a violence even more dangerous 
 than his exposure to the open air : and sat, 
 with his eyes strained towards the church.
 
 THE FURXIVALS. 123 
 
 ejaculating such broken sentences of anguish — 
 for he durst not pray — as made those who sur- 
 rounded him tremble. As soon as Mr. Eves- 
 ham approached him he seized him convul- 
 sively by both hands. Miss Annesley, who 
 had hngered behind the rest of the party, was 
 supporting his head, — for his exhaustion was 
 momentarily increasing, and he cried out vehe- 
 mently, shedding torrents of tears — -'^ Pray for 
 me ! pray for me ! — will he be saved ?'* 
 
 Mr. Evesham, summoning all his self-com- 
 mand, could not frame one sentence of com- 
 fort; but he mingled his tears with those of 
 the miserable old man, who grew more tre- 
 mulous and incoherent every moment, accus- 
 ing himself in the most poignant language of 
 severity and injustice -, calling upon his son, 
 and promising him the fiillest forgiveness and 
 aflfection if he only yet lived ! 
 
 At length a low murmur ran through the 
 crowd ; it gave way, — some one staggered for- 
 wards. Mr. Evesham dared hardly look— but 
 it was Robert Douglas— aUve, and unwounded, 
 though as pale and as ghastly, as if he had 
 been entombed for a month. In an instant, 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE FURNIVALS, 
 
 he was on his knees before his father 5 in ano- 
 ther, the old man, so tremendously stricken 
 by remorse and anguish, " fell upon his neck 
 and kissed him," but could not speak. He 
 was borne home and laid upon his own bed ; 
 but the conflict had been too strong for feeble 
 nature to struggle through. He never spoke 
 again, and expired quietly that night in the 
 arms of his son 1
 
 THE PURNIVALS. 125 
 
 PART III. 
 
 I am Dromio ! pray let me stay ! 
 
 Comedy of Errors. 
 
 The impression which such scenes as the 
 one I have attempted to describe, make upon 
 the frivolous and superficial, is Ught — and soon 
 passes away. The Furnivals met at breakfast 
 the next morning, and neither by their de- 
 meanour, nor any allusion in their conversa- 
 tion could a stranger have guessed, that only 
 the day before they had looked upon so dread- 
 ful a sight ; or that an intimate friend, (and they 
 had certainly allowed if not encouraged Dou- 
 glas to consider himself as such), had so nar- 
 rowly escaped an untimely and horrible death.
 
 126 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Every thought, every look of Mrs. FurnivaFs 
 was devoted to cousin Sydney — and he seemed 
 to be one of those enfans gates of fortune, who 
 love to be made much of. He devoted him- 
 self, in his turn, to the task of pleasing Alice, 
 and kept her in such a dazzled state of mind, 
 with the floweriness of his talk, and the extrava- 
 gance of his protestations, that she had neither 
 time nor composure to think of the steps by 
 which her heart was becoming fast estranged 
 from its former and long entertained fancy. 
 Mrs. Furnival too, was in extacies at the sight. 
 His fortune was handsome, his person pleasing 
 — he was acquainted with so many persons of 
 distinction abroad and at-home ; — and then she 
 thought, with proud satisfaction, of Letty 
 and Captain Cronie. Happy ! happy woman ! 
 She relieved herself of but a small portion of 
 the exuberance of her gladness, by writing an 
 enormous letter to Mrs. Peters — and visions of 
 white favours, and coaches, and bridesmaids, 
 and all the other joyous appurtenances of a 
 wedding, danced as vividly before her eyes, 
 sleeping or waking, as ever they appeared to 
 boarding school girl after she has bought a good
 
 THE FURXIVALS, 127 
 
 fortune, by crossing the sybil's palm with her 
 long hoarded half-crown. 
 
 " Here is a hot muffin, cousin Sydney ! — 
 Alice, take that other one out of his way — 
 and some marmalade, cousin, of Alice's mak- 
 ing," — (a white or rather an orange lie !) 
 
 " And so you are going across the water this 
 morning ? — Well, it is a beautiful day, and 
 you will have a charming sail. I wish I could 
 go too, but I must stay at home, and write 
 letters. Bless me ! how dehghtftd ! Captain 
 Cronie — just in time for breakfast ! — a cup and 
 saucer. Potter, for Captain Cronie ! — ^here, sit 
 down, there's plenty of room beside Letty. 
 How well you look, Captain ! quite a colour I 
 declare !" 
 
 Captain Cronie was obliged, but he hac 
 breakfasted. 
 
 ^^ Quite military hours, you keep, upon my 
 word ! — are you intending to ride this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 A sort of half smile passed over his lips — 
 he was sorry — ^he was particularly engaged — 
 Miss Annesley^ — 
 
 " Lord bless me ! to think of poor Miss 
 Annesley ! so terrified as she was yesterday
 
 128 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 — came home with a face as white as a sheet ! 
 and would have fainted if I had given her the 
 least encouragement — ha ! ha ! ha ! I beg your 
 pardon, Captain, but I am in such spirits ! — 
 Potter, another hot muffin for Mr. Furnival, — 
 wanted ! — Well, I will come back directly — in 
 the mean time, Letty, there's that new song 
 you can sing for the Captain — I am sure he'll 
 excuse the piano being out of tune !" and away 
 she swept. 
 
 It was Miss Annesley who requested the au- 
 dience. This young lady, — who, though as re- 
 tiring as the most fastidious or aristocratic 
 person could wish his children's governess to 
 be, was generally entirely self-possessed, — ^was 
 now much confused — blushed — and hesitated 
 once or twice before she could open the con- 
 ference. At last, with much difficulty she 
 spoke ; and thanking Mrs. Furnival for her 
 kindness and liberality since they had hved 
 together, requested that that lady would be 
 obliging enough to look for some one who 
 might succeed to the situation which she must 
 now resign, and promised to remain with her 
 until an efficient substitute should be found. 
 
 " Upon my word. Miss Annesley ! I cannot
 
 THE PURNIVALS. 129 
 
 have heard you, surely ; I was never so much 
 amazed in all my life !" 
 
 " I should be very sorry to have surprised 
 you," replied the governess a Httle archly, 
 " could I have helped it : and did I not know 
 that sometimes surprises are not unpleasant 
 things — but I should be still sorrier to put you 
 to any inconvenience, and therefore" — 
 
 ^' But, Miss Annesley, why must you talk 
 of leaving us? — what will become of Hester 
 and CaroHna when you are gone ?" 
 
 " They are fond of me, I beheve, but". . . . 
 
 '' Nay, or if it be that, mention your o^\ti 
 salary, and you shall have it ; I cannot part 
 with you." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Furnival, I am much obhged 
 by your wish to retain me, but it cannot be : 
 — I would have acquainted you with this 
 earlier, had I not thought that months, and 
 even years might have elapsed before it could 
 take place." 
 
 " Take place ! — ^look at me ! — I vow as red 
 as coral — why. Miss Annesley, are you going 
 to be married ?" 
 
 The young lady looked down and said " Yes." 
 G 3
 
 130 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 " And who — ^who ? I am rejoiced to hear it. 
 Young women can never settle too early in 
 life. Who is to be the happy man? — Mr. 
 Rigby ?'' — (this was the dancing master). 
 
 " O dear no^ ma'am 1" 
 
 " Its rude to guess, I know/' continued her 
 voluble patroness, " but who ever can it be ? 
 — Mr. — Mr. Evesham ? — O yes ! — ^it must be 
 Mr. Evesham ! — delightful ! — so good and 
 so gentle ! — so considerate ! — the very man of 
 all others ! — Let me run and tell the girls — but 
 how sly you have been V 
 
 " Pray stay one moment — vre have been so 
 undecided in our plans — it was but this morning 
 — that the news of his cousin Sir Hector 
 Cronie's death" — 
 
 " Cronie ! — our Captain Cronie ! — what did 
 you say ?" 
 
 Miss Annesley made no reply, save a blush. 
 
 ^^ Letty's Captain Cronie ! — speak — tell me 
 at once ! — it can't be !" 
 
 " It is as strange to me as it can be to you, 
 now that it is reaUy settled ; but we have been 
 engaged for these many months." 
 
 " Dare you tell me so ? — what a dupe have
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 131 
 
 I been ! such a thing was never heard of in a 
 decent house before ! I wonder you can look 
 me in the face after such clandestine doings — 
 and he too, the hypocrite ! to pretend to come 
 sneaking here, after Miss Furnival ! it makes 
 me mad to think of it ! — and Mrs. Peters, and 
 cousin Sydney, what wiU they think of it ?'' 
 
 " I am sorry to see you angry, madam ; but 
 I think that when you are cool, you will acquit 
 me of having given you any just cause." 
 
 " Just ! to be carrying on such a thing, and 
 nobody seeing or knowing a word about it ! 
 I wonder how you can have the assurance to 
 say so !" 
 
 Miss Annesley rephed with some animation ; 
 " We were both of us particularly careful that 
 no one should guess our secret, and if Hector 
 did make use of the entree to your house, it 
 might be wrong; — yet I think the circumstances 
 in which we were placed excuse it ; and beyond 
 this, I am sure that you must acquit him of 
 any ungentlemanly conduct." 
 
 " I can think of nothing but your artfulness, 
 and when I was praising you up to every one 
 as such a treasure ! — O ma'am, I wotdd not
 
 ]32 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 have you remain here another hour, to incon- 
 venience yourself or the Captain ; — I would not 
 for the world. I will go myself and acquaint 
 him that you are free 1" and she strode majes- 
 tically towards the door. 
 
 '• Nay, Mrs. Furnival, do not let us part in 
 anger ; and by this time, I believe. Hector will 
 have acquainted my friends Letitia and Alice.'' 
 
 " Hector 1 our Captain Cronie 1 and your 
 friends Letitia and Alice ! indeed, I am amazed 
 at your audacity ! But it is of no consequence, 
 not of the least, ma'am! good bye to you! 
 and I wish you all health and happiness," — and 
 with a groan of mortification, she burst from 
 the parlour, ran up into her own dressing 
 room, locked the door, and vented her chagrin 
 in a violent fit of sobbing. So fair a castle as 
 she had built ! and to be destroyed by a gover- 
 ness ! how could it be expected that she was 
 to endure such an event with anything like 
 patience ? 
 
 But the same spirit of activity which had 
 urged her to plan and to hope, ere long came 
 to her aid and comfort. She knew that Letty 
 had not very quick feelings, and some one else
 
 THE FIRNIVALS. 1S3 
 
 might be found more suitable and handsomer 
 than the late object of her ambition. Then 
 too, it would be impolitic in her to seem dis- 
 appointed ; — it would argue that expectations 
 had been entertained, and that was always a 
 great disadvantage to a young woman ; and if 
 the scindalous world got hold of such an idea, 
 it might combine it with the supposed ill-usage 
 of Robert Douglas, and do an infinity of mis- 
 chief. As to tlie letter she liad written to 
 Mrs. Peters, what a blessing it was that she 
 lived at Towcester, whence any tales she might 
 
 spread would hardly reach to ! so that, 
 
 all things considered, it was better to gain 
 some credit for keeping Miss Annesley's secret, 
 than to raise a riot because the Captain had 
 fallen sliort in what was expected from liim. 
 Last of all came the puzzling questitm of what 
 would cousin Sydney think ? — but as no medita- 
 tion could devise a means of blinding him or 
 evading his natural wonder, Mrs. Furnival 
 wisely resolved " that as she could get no good 
 by thinking, she would think no more about 
 it ;" and thus, by the operation of her reason, 
 restored to her wonted glossiness, she re-
 
 134 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 appeared in the family circle, and even forced 
 her complaisance so far as to congratulate 
 Miss Annesley, and to request that in remain- 
 ing or departing she would consult her own 
 convenience — Hester and Carolina were now 
 grown to such an age, that it was hardly worth 
 while to engage another governess for them. 
 She tried too, to say some flourishing thing or 
 other to the bridegroom expectant, but to this 
 degree of hypocrisy she could not attain ; and 
 he was compelled to carry away his beloved 
 from under the shelter of her protection with- 
 out the benefit of her good wishes. 
 
 Now then, all her hopes were concentrated 
 upon the affairs of Alice and cousin Sydney, 
 and these prospered to her heart's content. 
 He was not slack in speaking his mind expli- 
 citly, and requesting, with an impatience which 
 did him honour, that the marriage might be 
 allowed to take place without any unnecessary 
 delay ; " he was impatient to be put into posses- 
 sion of so inestimable a treasure,' ' and the like. 
 These words were oil and balsam to the 
 mother's chagrined spirit. As for Alice, she 
 made no opposition beyond a little hanging
 
 TlIK Fl)UNIVAI,M. l.Sf) 
 
 back, u few pic^turoscjuc inis^ivin[;s, u little 
 lioiirt-sorcncss when she thouf^lit of Douglas. 
 The paillcuhirs of his lather's unjust will! had, 
 l)y this time, been noised abroad, and some 
 wanderini; fancy that it was not f^cnerous to 
 break with one whose fortunes were falltin, did, 
 sometimes, cross her mind to disturb its dr(;amH 
 of upproachinf^ happiness. Hut thest; moments 
 were few and far !)etween, and when siie had 
 experienced the last spasm of self-reproach on 
 r(;ceivin^ \\\h pour prendre C07iy<^^ she dismissed 
 such unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and 
 resolved, as her mother said, " to enjoy tlie 
 HNisonable delight of (.'ontemjjjatinf^ a vista of 
 future felicity." 
 
 At length the ev(^ of tlu* day on vvhieli the 
 joyful ceremony was t,o takir places arrived, 
 and Mrs. I^'urnival, thou^^h passives on m(jst 
 points, had over-ruled cousin Sy(Jney's objee- 
 tion to a crowd of indiderent [Xioplc, and in- 
 \\Iva\ a s(;lect iruvny to tak(i htavct of" Ali(;(;; 
 who, poor f^irl was ^oin^ on the morrow, t,o 
 leave \\vv for Dorscttshin;. (jir(^'it sorrow was 
 on her li|)S, but j^cater joy was in her heart, 
 as she went t(j and fro receiving tin; condo-
 
 136 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 lances and felicitations of sympathising friends. 
 The happy pair, so soon to be, were sitting 
 together in a corner, engaged in close conver- 
 sation, which was, certainly, a little unpolite ; 
 but, upon these occasions, young people are 
 apt to be so engrossed ! Alice had been very 
 low all that day, and only partially recovered 
 by the exhibition of a white satin bonnet with 
 clumps of orange flowers amongst beds of 
 blonde, an absolute garden of millinery — a 
 long veil of French lace to hide her blushes 
 withal, and a pearl coloured satin pelisse, the 
 simple wearing of which ought to have satisfied 
 any young lady — even there had not been a 
 husband into the bargain. Letty too, was not 
 in her usual spirits, — " her friend. Miss Annes- 
 ley that was, had left town for Castle Cronie, 
 only the day before, and Letty was as fond 
 of her, as if they had been sisters ;" while 
 Hester and Carohna, emancipated from the 
 restraints of a school-room, were doing the 
 honours of the house with great and gay zeal. 
 The company were just standing up for a 
 dance on the carpet, when the man servant, 
 who was remarkable for a loud voice and a
 
 THE PURNIVALS. 137 
 
 distinct delivery, entered, and announced, " a 
 gentleman below stairs who wished to speak 
 with Mr. Furnival." 
 
 " Sydney ! — a gentleman to speak with you, 
 who ever can it be ?'* 
 
 '^ The tailor, I dare say, — take the things up 
 into my room. Potter, and say that I can see 
 no one to night: — lam particularly engaged, 
 am I not, Alice, my love ?" 
 
 " Shall I go down and see, Sydney ?" said 
 Mrs. Furnival. " Potter surely knows the 
 tailor when he sees him." 
 
 " O, by no means, if you please ma'am; 
 desire him to send up his name," said the 
 reverend gentleman, a httle uneasily. 
 
 Potter disappeared, but returned almost im- 
 mediately. 
 
 " If you please. Sir, the gentleman will not 
 send his name up stairs," and says, " he must 
 see you, and to-night f 
 
 " Pshaw ! how tiresome ! — some nonsense 
 or other ! I can't go down to him." 
 
 " But I can, Sydney," said Mrs. Furnival ; 
 " I protest I am curious to know who it can 
 be."
 
 138 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 " And, Sir," interrupted Potter, who never 
 gave a message by halves, he said, " that if 
 you did not come down to him, he must come 
 up to you." 
 
 '^ O by all means. Potter," said his mistress, 
 " go down, and give the gentleman Mrs. Fur- 
 nival's compliments, and hopes he will do her 
 the favour of joining her circle." 
 
 " No — no — no," interposed Sydney, turning 
 ashy pale as he spoke, " I will go to him 
 myself, and get rid of him, whoever he be." 
 
 '^ And, Sydney, bring your friend up stairs 
 when you have disposed of your business — he 
 will have no objection to a quadrille, I dare say. 
 Pray, gentlemen and ladies, stand up ! Mr. 
 Sherlock, may I beg of you to lead Letty to 
 the piano ; — I wonder who it can be that wants 
 Sydney at this time of night ; can you guess, 
 Alice ?" whispered she to her daughter. 
 
 *^ I ? — O dear mamma ! I don't pretend to 
 be intimate with his private concerns yet." 
 
 " No partner, Mr. Gillibrand ? — I am afraid 
 that you will hardly prevail upon Alice to 
 stand up with you to night,— and to-morrow — 
 Well, it won't do to be sorrowful ! and besides
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 139 
 
 she must wait for her cousin — perhaps you 
 will accept of me though, if I have not for- 
 gotten all my steps. — Hark ! they are talking 
 very loud below ! — what can it mean ? — 
 Women, you see, Mr. Gilhbrand, are always 
 curious, — the same all the world over ! — To 
 think of me standing up in a quadrille ! what 
 would poor dear Furnival say if he could see 
 me ?" 
 
 Now, to reheve the curiosity of those, who, 
 like Mrs. Furnival, " wondered who it could 
 be that wanted cousin Sydney at that time of 
 night," we will accompany him down stairs. 
 Slowly and tremulously did he descend from 
 step to step, and when he reached the dining- 
 room door, he paused for a moment ere he 
 could summon resolution to enter ; — there was, 
 as far as he could see by the glow from the 
 fire reflected by the crimson walls, a gentleman 
 standing on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " Come in, and shut the door," said a stem 
 voice. 
 
 " I — I— Lord bless me, Mr. Evesham ! is 
 it you ? how you frightened me ?" 
 
 *' Now, Sir," said the clergyman, advancing
 
 140 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 determinedly, and seizing the terrified young 
 man by his collar, " tell me at once, what are 
 you about here, and what have you to say for 
 yourself?" 
 
 Cousin Sydney dropped upon his knees as 
 suddenly as if he had been wounded ; — " For 
 God's sake. Sir! — leave me; say no thing about it! 
 let me alone only till to-morrow, and I will give 
 you every satisfaction you may require, — only 
 till to-morrow Sir ! have mercy upon me !" 
 
 " Till to-morrow, you villain !" cried the 
 clergyman vehemently, " till the mischief is 
 done ! — No, Sir ! I will call for instant help, 
 and deliver you as an impostor into the hands 
 of justice, if you do not at once tell me who 
 you are and whence you come ; you are found 
 out, remember! — If you stir a step till you 
 have told me every word, I will execute my 
 threat that very instant." 
 
 " But Mr. Evesham ! dear Sir !" moaned 
 out the detected knave, '' only till to-morrow!" 
 
 " I will not wait another moment," answered 
 the clergyman, whose stratagem had succeeded
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 141 
 
 beyond his fullest expectations, " tell me, in 
 the first place, where is the real Mr. Furnival ?** 
 
 " In France, I beUeve Sir, but" — 
 
 " Go on ! or take the consequences ! — ^my 
 hand is on the bell ! — and who are you ? — 
 another struggle, and" — 
 
 " My name is Barton." 
 
 ^^ I thought so — Barton, is it ? — and a pretty 
 scoundrel you are ! —and where from ?" 
 
 " Birmingham ! — ^pray let me get up !" 
 
 ^^ Not till I am satisfied — well, and how 
 came you to know any thing of Mr. Furnival ?" 
 
 " We were passengers in the Ajax." 
 
 *' Ah— I see ! — from New York— and what 
 might you have been doing at New York ?" 
 
 " TraveUing for orders, Sir." 
 
 " More fools they who trusted you. Well 
 Sir, and what next ? — ^what put it into your 
 head to personate Mr. Furnival ?" 
 
 A voice was heard at the door — " Cousin 
 Sydney." 
 
 "Say that you cannot come; or " 
 
 whispered the clergyman authoritatively. 
 
 " I win come presently," croaked out the 
 prostrate hero.
 
 142 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 " Dear me ! — well — I suppose I must wait." 
 
 " Poor woman! she will know soon enough 1" 
 said Mr. Evesham with feeUng ; — " and now to 
 the point, Sir, time is precious ; what put it 
 into your head, I say, to play such a trick as 
 this, upon a respectable family ?" 
 
 " Mr. Furnival himself. Sir, — you hurt my 
 throat so ! — ^he gave me his letters and luggage 
 to deliver for him ; we had become quite inti- 
 mate on the voyage." 
 
 " And why did not the silly fellow dehver 
 them himself?" 
 
 " He was met, upon his landing, by a letter, 
 summoning him without delay into France, 
 and so"— -^ 
 
 *^ And so — this scandalous piece of roguery 
 is the consequence ? I see it all ! and why 
 you have been in such a wonderful hurry," 
 and he gave the knave another shake. " Well 
 Sir, you see you are unmasked ! Now if you 
 will go away quietly at once, I will promise 
 you, for this young lady's sake that there shall 
 be no further inquiry made into the matter, 
 and no charge laid against you for opening 
 Mr. Furnival' s trunks, etc. etc. If you resist,
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 143 
 
 if you ever show your face within these four 
 walls again, you shall be punished, as far as 
 the utmost law can do it. There is the door, 
 sirrah ! I think that you will never preach for 
 me again^ — and your text too, Lying lips are an 
 abomination ! Get out, Sir ! without a word." 
 
 " Cousin Sydney, we are quite impatient," — 
 said Mrs. Furnival, half opening the door. 
 
 " Do not come in for Heaven's sake !" cried 
 Barton eagerly, struggUng hard to free him- 
 self from Mr. Evesham's grasp, " here is a 
 madman !" 
 
 " Madman !" shrieked Mrs. Furnival, " Mr. 
 GiUibrand, Mr. Sherlock, gentlemen, come 
 down ! help ! a madman ! O Lord ! how shock- 
 ing ! I shall go into fits I declare !" 
 
 " It is only I — Mr. Evesham," said the 
 divine very quietly ; still keeping a firm hold 
 upon Barton's coat. 
 
 " He is mad, I tell you !" shouted the im- 
 postor, " put him out at once ! or he wiU do 
 himself or some one else a mischief! do not 
 listen to him, put him out !" 
 
 " You, Sir ?" said Mrs. Furnival, venturing 
 a nearer peep, when she heard Mr. Evesham's
 
 144 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 voice, *^ and what are you making all this dis- 
 turbance about ? surely, Mr. Eresham, you are 
 not mad !" 
 
 The good man, in spite of his emotion, 
 could not help smiling at the question. " I 
 have at least, sense enough left to prevent 
 serious mischief being done: — this young man. 
 Madam" 
 
 *' Do you mean cousin Sydney ?" 
 
 " No more cousin Sydney than I am, un- 
 less he has two names ! Clergymen do not 
 usually travel for the house of Rasp and Sharp- 
 ies, Cutlers, Birmingham, as this card testi- 
 fies, which he has just dropped from his 
 pocket : and if you want further proof, compare 
 his signature with the real Mr. Furnival's, — 
 but take care of Miss Alice, some of you, — she 
 will faint, I am afraid." 
 
 " My poor child ! my dear child !" cried Mrs. 
 Furnival, spreading her substantial arms round 
 the damsel, after the fashion of the wings of a 
 brooding hen; " can this be true ? Pray, Mr. 
 GiUibrand — Letty — ^help me ! — she is gone 1 
 and as for you. Sir," and she cast a furious 
 look on her son-in-law elect, " please the Lord,
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 145 
 
 I will see who you are, when I come down 
 stairs again !" 
 
 But to wait for this formed no part of the 
 impostor's plan. He saw that his game was 
 up, his fraud detected. Springing into the 
 hall with the rapidity of hghtning, he seized 
 a hat, — and before any one had recovered pre- 
 sence of mind, so much as to attempt to hinder 
 him, he was out of the house, and halfway 
 down the street. 
 
 Mr. Evesham, it must be confessed, was ab- 
 solutely dismayed at the success of his scheme. 
 It is true that his suspicions, which were with 
 the utmost difficulty excited, had been, for 
 some days, fully aroused ; and when once set 
 upon the watch, no eye could be more acute 
 or vigilant than his. The strange hurry of 
 Cousin Sydney's wooing, the very unclerical 
 omission of one or two prayers in the liturgy, 
 when he had officiated in the pulpit, his igno- 
 rance of some points of family history Vi'ith 
 which he should have been acquainted, and 
 a certain bluster of manner, a sure sign of cov\'- 
 ardice and ill assurance, had been ail noted and 
 put together by the good old clergyman, whose 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 observation was sharpened by his indignation 
 at the ill-treatment Robert Douglas had ex- 
 perienced. Cousin Sydney too, was very shy 
 in his manner towards the divine, and had 
 been caught by the latter, interrupting himself 
 
 in it could not be an oath, but it sounded 
 
 very like one : and silly, silly Mrs. Furnival 
 had pressed for no settlement on her daughter, 
 although the wedding day was fixed, — " Cousin 
 Sydney's honour ! she was sure that he would 
 do every thing that was handsome, and she 
 was not mercenary, thank Heaven !" 
 
 Mr. Evesham, I said, remarked all these 
 extraordinary circumstances, and was haunted 
 by the most restless suspicions ; and though 
 often tempted to abandon his researches by an 
 unwillingness to interfere or to pry into the 
 concerns of others, he could not help return- 
 ing again and again, under the panoply of his 
 ecclesiastical character, to watch and to con- 
 sider, and to determine that Alice should have 
 fair play. So came on the wedding-day, and, 
 almost in a fever betwixt his fancies, that 
 cousin Sydney was not what he should be, and 
 his fears, lest he 7night prove a sound and ve~
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 147 
 
 ritable clergyman, he resolved on adopting the 
 stratagem I have related ; — it has been seen 
 with what complete success. For the sake of 
 the family, to whose good name it was of the 
 utmost importance, that such a scandalous 
 adventure should be concealed as much as pos- 
 sible, Barton was allowed to escape unpursued ; 
 and, I need hardly add, reappeared no more 
 to claim his bride ! 
 
 In spite of feeling how richly Mrs. Furni- 
 val's folly had merited chastisement, Mr. 
 Evesham could not help pitying her bewilder- 
 ment and horror, when the glaring fact was 
 fully before her, that she had ruined the hopes 
 of a faithful and talented man, for the sake of 
 an adventurer. Her self reproach was, indeed, 
 almost more than she could bear. So kind as 
 she had been to him ! and that he should turn 
 out a traveller for a cutler's house, (for Rasp 
 and Sharpies, when written to, acknowledged 
 the connection, and expressed some surprise 
 at Barton's non-appearance ;) and the prepara- 
 tions which she had made, and the triumph 
 with which she had trumpetted the match 
 among their friends — were each of them, so 
 
 H 2
 
 148 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 many additional drops of gall in the cup of 
 mortification ! As for Alice^ she did not suffer 
 a tithe of what her mother endured : she had 
 been merely passive, and after a week's weep- 
 ing, was ready for any other venture. Mrs. 
 Furnival, however, smarted so bitterly under 
 the consciousness of her own credulity, and 
 fears of " the world's dread laugh," that she 
 snatched at the pretext of Letty's ill health, 
 let her house, sold her furniture, and removed 
 " herself and flock" to Bath, there to begin 
 anew the task of cultivating society and esta- 
 blishing her daughters. 
 
 My tale is not quite concluded. We must 
 follow the steps of Robert Douglas, whose 
 foreign travel was crowned with the double 
 success of high advancement in his art, and 
 the diversion of his mind from its regrets. We 
 must not, indeed, tarry to count up the studios 
 he visited, nor the pictures he painted, the 
 cardinals who purchased them, or the cogno- 
 scenti who criticised them, but, skipping over 
 the space of five years, restore the artist to his 
 own countr}% It was on a certain fine mornr- 
 ing in the month of June, that he stole into the
 
 THE FUBNIVALS. 149 
 
 exhibition room at Somerset House, and was 
 listening as he passed, to the praises bestowed 
 by an admiring group, upon a splendid picture 
 of Medea, after the murder of her children, 
 whereupon he had expended many a day's 
 thought and labour, — when he felt a light finger 
 laid upon his arm. He turned round, and lo ! 
 Mrs. Furnival stood before him, looking 
 younger, livelier, and more gaily dressed than 
 ever. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Douglas ! how you stare ? wel- 
 come back to old England again ! I am heartily 
 glad to see you !" 
 
 Resentment had long faded from his mind ; 
 and a " kent" face, and a cordial voice, are 
 worth something to one who has been many 
 years an exile. He shook the proffered hand 
 heartily, " And how are you, Mrs. Furnival ?" 
 
 " O Lord ! well I declare ! — how droll that I 
 must tell you myself! Lady Dilton, if you 
 please ! — Sir Gabriel—" 
 
 A tall wizened man, curried by long expo- 
 sure to a Bengal sun, obeyed her call. 
 
 " Sir Gabriel Dilton ! this is my old friend
 
 150 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 Mr. Douglas, who painted Ah, well! we 
 
 will say nothing about old times !" 
 
 Sir Gabriel gave a grin, a scrape, and a 
 chatter — then put up his glass, and screwed up 
 his face again, and turned away to admire the 
 Medea. 
 
 " O that splendid picture of yours ! Sir 
 Gabriel cannot take his eyes off it, and would 
 buy it, I am sure, only we lead so unsettled 
 a life, and it is rather too large to carry about. 
 Carohna, this is your old friend Mr. Douglas." 
 Carolina had blown into a pale modish looking 
 London girl. 
 
 Robert now thought it only civil to enquire 
 after the other members of her family. 
 
 " Did you say Letty ? why, where have you 
 been, never to have heard of her marrying Sir 
 Thomas Polt^ot, my Sir Gabriel's first wife's 
 brother. She is very well ; they are down at 
 Poltrot Place, in Northamptonshire.'^ 
 
 " And Miss Alice," continued Douglas 
 stoutly, " I hope she is well." 
 
 " Ah, poor Alice ! no ! she has hardly had 
 the luck of her sisters. Hester married the
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 151 
 
 first ; — it seems that I must tell you all the 
 news, — and is now the Honourable Mrs. San- 
 key Smythe ; she went with her husl^and to 
 France, in the ambassador's suite. Poor Alice 1 
 Mr. Gillibrand left her a widow w^ith two 
 children, scarcely a year ago ; — but Sir Gabriel, 
 you must surely have had enough of that pic- 
 ture, unless you mean to eat it. You will dine 
 with us to morrow, Douglas, won't you ? 
 I assure you, I hear of nothing so much as 
 your Medea. Come then, Sir Gabriel: — and do 
 you go and see Pasta, it's her crack character, 
 — go with us, we have a box." 
 
 " Thank you, and where shall I hear of Mrs. 
 GiUibrand ?" 
 
 " You are very good, I will give you her 
 direction to-morrow. We are living at No. 
 29, Chester Terrace, Regent's Park." 
 
 Douglas excused himself from the dinner, 
 not a little amused at the extra coat of plating, 
 which his old acquaintance's manners seemed 
 to have received. She was now, ob^dously, in 
 her own oj^inion, a woman of fashion, and he 
 judged rightly in concluding that the Nabob
 
 152 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 must have had a double gilt bait, even to hook 
 so willing a prey as herself. 
 
 But poor Alice ! the merchant's wadow, ne- 
 glected by her foolish relations — Robert's heart 
 yearned with compassion when he thought of 
 her. Business, ere long, led him to his native 
 town ; and he lost no time in seeking her out. 
 He found her in miserable lodgings, in a dull 
 street, forsaken by all her former gay acquaint- 
 ances, left in straitened circumstances, her 
 beauty all gone, and her health entirely shat- 
 tered. Her selfish mother and sisters whis- 
 pered and laughed significantly when they 
 heard of this visit, and thought that he would 
 be infatuated enough to renew his old suit, and 
 to invite her to share the competence, which 
 he had now so fair a prospect of realizing. 
 
 They were, however, mistaken : his love 
 had been too entirely eradicated ever to be 
 cherished into life again. It is true that the 
 meeting was fuU of embarrassment on both 
 sides, and pain to one of the parties ; but no 
 allusion was made to their former compact. 
 He spoke to her, as a friend who compassio-
 
 THE FURNIVALS. 153 
 
 nated the desolateness of her situation : and if 
 his kind words did kindle any fancies in her 
 breast, it was but for a moment ; for she was 
 now experienced eneugh to read in his quiet 
 demeanour and brotherly speech, that he had 
 forgotten how to address her in the language of 
 love. Her family had abandoned her to a hard 
 strife with an unkind fortune — ^left her, a melan- 
 choly wreck of youth and gaiety. The sight stirr- 
 ed his indignation ; she told him herself, with 
 all the prolixity of disappointment, the conclu- 
 sion of the story of the false Sydney, and how 
 their real cousin had never appeared, having 
 written to them from Marseilles, within a few 
 weeks after the detection • of the counterfeit, 
 to announce to his relations, that there was 
 now httle probabihty of their meeting soon. 
 He had been summoned thither to attend the 
 death bed of his tutor and guardian, and was 
 now on the point of settUng abroad for life, 
 (further accounts added) with the purpose of 
 marrying that tutor's orphan daughter. Upon 
 hearing this unwelcome news, Mrs. Furnival 
 had urged Ahce to accept Mr. GiUibrand, who 
 had given a most convincing proof of the 
 
 H 3
 
 154 THE FURNIVALS. 
 
 strength of his regard by following her to Bath 
 to prefer his suit : and she, heart-sick and list- 
 less, allowed herself to be persuaded into the 
 match. • 
 
 How little had she thought, in former days, 
 that she should find the last solace of her life, 
 in pouring out the tale of its griefs to her re- 
 jected lover ! the only friend save good Mr. 
 Evesham, who did not desert her, in her fallen 
 fortunes^. A fever, brought on by mortifica- 
 tion of spirit and a long neglected cold, mer- 
 cifully cut short her days ; and her orphan 
 children were, one of them claimed by Mr. 
 Evesham, — for her heartless family allowed 
 others to perform their duty — and the other, 
 a little girl, the image of her mother, was 
 adopted by Robert ; who found in the care of 
 her, and her grateful affection for the same, 
 the pleasure of his life, and the joy of his old
 
 THE STREETS, &C. 155 
 
 THE STREETS— No. 3. 
 
 SOUNDS OF A SUMMER'S EVENING- 
 SUNDAY IN TOWN. 
 
 Those, whose home is some quiet country- 
 retreat, some white cottage, for instance, with 
 a high thatched roof, and small casement win- 
 dows garlanded round with honey-suckles and 
 roses, and, if the owner be a fancier of flowers, 
 w^ith one or two rarer creeping plants, — the 
 parlours whereof overlook a lawn, shut out 
 from the road by a rich screen of flowering 
 shrubs, and evergreens, encroaching promon- 
 tory-like upon the grass, and so tall, that, 
 though the elms behind them are middle- 
 aged well-grown trees, their transparent upper 
 foliage is alone visible ;— those, I say, who
 
 156 THE STREETS. 
 
 own such a tenement as this, — and, on some 
 fresh May morning are cheered by the warble 
 of spring birds, that clear juicy sound, so 
 magical in dispelling any " shadow of an- 
 noyance," who hear the merry breeze bearing 
 its part in the concert, and the sound of the 
 tiny feet of the choristers, as they alight on 
 the narrow flagged terrace before the window 
 — may well hug themselves in the posses- 
 sion of such luxuries, and compassionate the 
 dwellers in a town, with its days of dust, and 
 nights of noise ; — and, if they have occasion 
 to seek the city, — deafened by the ceaseless 
 roll of wheels, the barbarous cries of the 
 hawkers, and the nasal song of the ballad- 
 monger — may be excused if they fret and 
 long for the delicious, but not soundless quiet 
 of their fair homes. For even the veriest town 
 bird, whose heart is with his treasure, will, 
 at times, sicken as with a calenture for the 
 repose and balminess of a night in the country ; 
 and if, like myself, he have passed entire sum- 
 mers, and scarcely seen a rose on its bush, or 
 heard the reviving sound of running water, — if 
 he be one to whom the calendar of flowers is
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 15/ 
 
 a sealed book, and the feeling of fresh grass 
 under foot almost forgotten, — ^he may be for- 
 given if, — on some sultry evening of June, 
 when he has not the heart to stir abroad, and 
 the measured tramp of feet upon the burning 
 pavement, and the glare reflected from the 
 window-panes on the opposite side of the 
 street, break in, perforce, upon his retirement 
 — he give way to a temporary despondency and 
 discontent, and vent his yearnings somewhat 
 after this fashion, 
 
 O summer air ! 
 Thou dost on thy pinions bear 
 Murmurs from deep woods, and strains 
 Brooks have taught thee, on the plains 
 Where didst fly on golden wing 
 Balm and music gathering ; 
 Why — when green fields wooed thy stay. 
 And thy call did flowers obey. 
 Springing up beneath thy feet. 
 Bright and plentiful and sweet, 
 Comest thou here ? — O spirit rare ! 
 What hast thou to do with care. 
 
 Soft summer air ? 
 
 Thou knowest nought 
 Of days, wherein the hand hath wrought
 
 158 THE STREETS. 
 
 From the dawning, until night 
 Sets the taper's fire a-hght ; 
 For the bee, that busy one. 
 Ends his toil, when sinks the sun. 
 And their wings the wood-birds fold, 
 Ere the west hath lost its gold, 
 * Wilt thou leave then, hive and tree. 
 Where thy playmates sleeping be. 
 To come to me ? 
 
 Thou knowest nought 
 Of treasure by the watcher sought ; 
 If of gold thou dreamest indeed, 
 'lis of king-cups on the mead ; 
 If of pearls — it is the dew ; 
 If of sapphires — violets blue ; 
 Nor their wealth thou needs must seek. 
 With tired hand and pallid cheek. 
 Like his, whose cell thou enterest noWj 
 And breathest round his burning brow 
 
 Thy music low. 
 
 Then go thou back 
 Upon thy glowing joyous track ; — 
 To me thou dost too sadly tell 
 Of haunts in boyhood loved so well ; 
 Lonely valley, dim and cool. 
 Glassy, water-lilied pool. 
 Rich turf carpet under trees
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 159 
 
 White with wood anemonies ; — 
 O to wander there again ! — 
 Go ! — thou canst not melt my chain ! 
 Nor the heart-sick captive bear 
 To his home, so far, so fair ! 
 
 Soft summer air ! — 
 
 Yes — after a long day's toil at the desk, a 
 summer evening, spent in town, is a dismal 
 thing ; — especially if you have to go so far to 
 seek for fresh fields and hanging trees, that 
 their distance discourages you, when jaded 
 and out of spirits, from making the attempt. 
 At such a time, all the advantages, all the 
 privileges, to be enjoyed only in a city, — its 
 temptations to active exertion, the superiority 
 of its society — are forgotten or underv^alued : 
 and the old innocent love of Nature seems to 
 inundate the mind wdth a flood of yearnings 
 and reminiscences, not to be withstood by 
 reason — or gainsayed by worldly wisdom. 
 Then the weary one looks back with inex- 
 pressible tenderness towards the days, when 
 the first sight of the ocean was an excitement 
 almost too great to be borne; when the child 
 stole out at night-fall to watch the moon rising
 
 160 THE STREETS. 
 
 round above the cottage roof and the brown 
 wood beyond, and danced with deUght on find- 
 ing the silver bell of the first snow-drop upon 
 the stained grass-plot, or in the dark garden 
 bed. Then self-reproach grows busy, and 
 paints that child as he is now, sophisticated 
 by his intercourse with the world ; — counts up 
 a long catalogue of pure feelings vitiated, of 
 right principles distorted, and truths sneered 
 as it were into the lumber corners of the heart 
 — and the man, ashamed and sad hearted, con- 
 templates the doleful picture which she has 
 drawn, till he forgets that it is possible she 
 may in the warmth of the moment, have been 
 a little unjust, a little intolerant, that she may 
 have drawn the least in the world of a carica- 
 ture of the evils of a city life, without showing 
 any of its good, even in the back ground. 
 
 But if to such fatigue of body, and mourn- 
 fulness of spirit, be added the further trial of 
 feeble health, how immense, at such a time, ap- 
 pears the pre-eminence of the country over the 
 town in the eyes of the fastidious invalid ; who 
 imagines that its quiet, and its purity, and its 
 leafiness would work an immediate cure — bring
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 161 
 
 coolness to his feverish head, and sleep to 
 the eyes that ache with wakefidness. If he be 
 sofa-ridden, he tantalizes himself with thinking 
 how he might be wheeled to some open win- 
 dow, overlooking a flower-garden or a field ; 
 — and cheat time of its weariness by watching 
 the wind swaying the meadow-waves of rich 
 and fragrant clover, or the sun lighting on 
 some blossomy spot of peculiar richness in 
 the parterre : — to say nothing of the gambols of 
 birds, bees and buttei-flies. He could breathe 
 the fresh air — unloaded by dust, unpoUuted by 
 evil odours : and should he have reached so 
 miserable a pitch of sensitiveness as to be 
 wearied by the worky-day sounds of common 
 life, he knows that there, and there only, he 
 could enjoy the luxury of one day of perfect 
 rest out of the seven, one period of morning 
 and evening whose' passage is alone marked by 
 the sound of church bells softened by distance. 
 O the weariness of a Sunday in town ! when 
 you would give a fortune if you had it, to pur- 
 chase an escape from the perpetual jangle of 
 chimes, and the noise of the gay hohday groups 
 who pass your window without ceasing, from
 
 162 THE STREETS. 
 
 morning till night, and the stream of whose 
 talk is never still ! The activity of the week 
 has now merged in gaudy pleasure-taking ; — 
 the street beneath you is a constant phantas- 
 magoria, in which almost every puppet is ani- 
 mated by the same spirit of conversation and 
 finery — O the weariness of a Sunday in town ! 
 " Patience !" whispers a gentle voice, close 
 to the ear, " you must surely be bilious, to 
 speak of the world without in such a railing 
 and uncharitable tone ! You have forgotten 
 how many hearts are gladdened by the sun- 
 shine of this glorious evening, — how many 
 busy ones there are, who to-day leave their 
 looms and forges, and lock up their houses, 
 and come abroad to stretch their limbs, and 
 breathe the fresh air ! You forget the cellar- 
 dwellings in close dingy streets, where the sun 
 shines so very scantily, and a flower was never 
 seen : the dusty noisome garrets, w^here pale 
 men and women ply some sedentary trade to 
 minister to your luxury — and defraud them- 
 selves of their just portion of natural rest, that 
 your fancy might not be disappointed by one 
 hour. You forget the estate of hard working
 
 SOUNDS OF A SUMMER S EVENING. 163 
 
 servants hurried to and fro^ from Monday- 
 morning to Saturday night, by the half dozen 
 caprices of as many masters— of weary clerks 
 and porters, who have been broiled in the sun, 
 or withered by the bitter wind, by the side 
 of some dock, or have been bowing them- 
 selves into a consumption over some ponde- 
 rous ledger. Remember all or any of these 
 things, Sir Hypocondriac, and be patient with 
 the relaxation of this holiday, if you cannot be 
 indulgent." 
 
 Some such considerations as these may 
 smooth the hours of the invalid's town Sunday, 
 even should his irritable spirit be rebuked by 
 no higher thoughts than those of this reason- 
 able benevolence. But then, again. Fancy, 
 often busy to contrive mischief, sets forth in 
 quest of others, hke himself, imprisoned — and 
 expends its sympathy upon their desolate cap- 
 tivity. I shall never forget the pale face of a 
 poor young fellow, whom I used to pass ever)^ 
 day for many weeks, and whose constant po- 
 sition at the same window, dressed in the same 
 deshabille of loose cravat, and grey dressing 
 gown, told a woeful tale of bad health, abandon-
 
 164 THE STREETS. 
 
 ment by his friends, and a lack of pursuit and 
 occupation. It was a face which spoke of no- 
 thing more than of melancholy and ennui ; — 
 give it colour and life, and you could fancy such 
 an one surmounting the shoulders of some 
 Jehu, famous for the taming of restive horses, 
 or shining out in full glory, beneath the shelter 
 of a neat jockey cap. I was sure that the te- 
 nant of No. 23, street, must be country 
 
 born. I had once assigned his triste look to 
 a man of business, who was pining for his 
 ledger and circulars ; but there was not enough 
 calculation in the eyes to fulfil the character : 
 and a country gentleman I accordingly re- 
 solved that he must be ; — and pitied him ac- 
 cordingly, as evening after evening, I watched 
 him looking more and more woe-begone : a 
 sort of melancholy centre, round whom street 
 vagabonds swarmed, for whom dancing-dogs 
 skipped their painful dances, and hurdy-gur- 
 dies droned out their most favourite, ei^go most 
 hackneyed airs. At last I missed him — whe- 
 ther his doctor had dismissed him to health, 
 or the church-yard, I never could discover — 
 I suspect the latter : and have been sometimes
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 165 
 
 pricked by conscience, that I did not once 
 break through the ordinances of ceremony,— r- 
 and offer my own poor powers of entertain- 
 ment, in default of better, to the deserted 
 being whose confinement bore so heavily upon 
 him. What a long chapter, of such good in- 
 tentions which come too late to be of any use, 
 would every honest man's diary supply ! 
 
 But if we carr\' the invalid one step out of 
 his chamber, our discontent at the bustle and 
 publicity of the streets of a large town, reaches 
 its zenith. What can be more miserable to the 
 frail creature full of the fancies of convales- 
 cence, who would like to step out upon a lawn 
 a hundred times a day, than hot flags and 
 inquisitive passers by : — who, as they take the 
 measure of his crutch, and stare at his hag- 
 gard face, shake their heads and say aloud — 
 '' Ah ! poor young man ! he'll never get over 
 this !" What agony is more desperate than is 
 awakened by the sight of some well known 
 bore and button holder coming deliberately 
 towards you, and, as he comes, fixing his 
 eyes steadily upon you all the while, as though 
 he had hardly confidence in your feebleness
 
 166 THE STREETS. 
 
 rendering you his sure prey — some person cu- 
 rious in sick rooms, and minute in the chap- 
 ter of operations ; who can talk by the hour 
 of every malady under the sun, " and has the 
 misfortune to belong to the most delicate fa- 
 mily in all shire !" And to know that there 
 
 is no hope of escaping the friendly inquiries 
 and condolences of such an individual; — to 
 watch his out-spread hand — >his lips already 
 framing a question, — why, it is as bad as 
 marking the approach of a cloud of dust which 
 which is to stifle you ; or, on some broiling 
 day of June, seeing some seven straight sha- 
 dowless miles of road before you, which, you 
 have the satisfaction of knowing, that you needs 
 must travel over on the top of a slow stage 
 coach. 
 
 But the soft voice speaks again — and would 
 stop our querulousness by recalling the thou- 
 sand alleviations to the sufferings and weariness 
 of sickness, which are in the reach of the 
 town invalid alone. It counts up the mo- 
 mentary caprices gratified as soon as formed ; 
 the treasures of books brought in daily variety 
 to the sufferer's couch ; it pictures, in pleasant
 
 SOUNDS OF A SUMMER S EVENING. 167 
 
 language, the faces of friends who looked in 
 upon us every morning with soft steps and 
 words of cheer, and news enough of the outer 
 world, to keep our sympathies ahve, without 
 making us ready to expire wdth envy. How 
 delightful are such tokens of kindly remem- 
 brance ! — how sweetly did the sense that we were 
 not forgotten neutralize the bitterness of re- 
 pining, that others were abroad acting and en- 
 joying things in which we might not hope to 
 share ; — how eagerly did we count the mo- 
 ments till we should hear their welcome feet 
 upon the stairs again! — how gratefully do we 
 appreciate the dehcacy that restrained the exu- 
 berance of their spirits as they sat beside us ! — 
 Let us leave the invalid in this better mood of 
 mind. 
 
 Our seaport town is kept alive, at this 
 season, by none of that gaiety which in the 
 metropolis. Fashion and Parliament protract 
 from March till mid-summer. Strange as is the 
 mixture of winter amusements with summer 
 temperature, — strange as it is to see, as I have 
 seen, the astonished setting sun flaring in 
 among the foot lights and chandehers of the
 
 168 THE STREETS. 
 
 Opera House, the loneliness of a town for- 
 saken in summer, as a residence, by all the 
 free part of its inhabitants who love to ex- 
 change their close mansions for the farm-house 
 in the midst of its garden, or the cottage on 
 the sea-shore, is, to my thinking, infinitely more 
 grievous than this forgetting of the seasons. 
 For my part, (although I know I am making 
 an avowal which some will call selfish), as my 
 lot is cast in a town, I would gladly not be 
 reminded of another state of being ; I would 
 fain, if possible, bar out such discontented 
 consciousness of imprisonment as is awakened 
 by letters received from parties gone to plea- 
 sure themselves among the wild scenery of the 
 Highlands, or the rich variety of Devonshire— 
 every paragraph whereof glows with renovated 
 health and excited spirits— or by the doleful 
 visions of houses shut up, of empty streets 
 and abandoned squares, in which the foot of 
 the dull barrel organist is alone heard as he 
 plods his rounds; grinding as he goes some 
 drowsy tune made hateful by long repetition, in 
 the vain hope of gleaning his old harvest of 
 coppers from " the young ladies and gentlemen"
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 169 
 
 in the balconies. The market dressed up 
 T\ath bouquets of flowers and baskets of fruit 
 reminds us sadly enough that the earth is 
 teeming with beauty which our eyes are not to 
 behold, wdthout the further mementos of si- 
 lence and neglect, in places where lately was 
 heard the laugh of children, the hum of men, 
 and the thousand other evidences of " some- 
 thing going on." 
 
 It is at this melancholy time, of all others, 
 that the hermit's ear becomes alive to the 
 sounds of the streets; that he learns to distin- 
 guish the diapason of one hurdy-gurdy from 
 that of another, and the cadenzas of a broom- 
 girl from those of her rival. The whole family 
 of street cries now becomes particularly odious; 
 the voice of the purchaser of rags, who can 
 hold the same note from one end of a long 
 street to the other — the barbarous shouts of 
 fruit women and fish wives, are aggravated into 
 nuisances which can hardly be endured. And, 
 in the midst of all this disgust, what associa- 
 tions are ever and anon wakened by street 
 music! Lord Byron broke off one of his de- 
 lightful letters — to listen to a waltz played in 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE STREETS* 
 
 the street beneath his window, for the tune 
 recalled him to the past enjoyments and scenes 
 of a London season, during which the melody 
 had been a favorite — and only adds — " Music 
 is a strange thing V Again, in the Diary of an 
 Ennuy^e, how touching is the passage which 
 describes her listening to "Di Piacer" ground out 
 of a wretched hand organ beneath the windows 
 of her hotel at (I think) Marseilles, and remem- 
 bering the brilliant scene where she first heard 
 that triumphant melody, — where she was all 
 light-hearted and full of hope, and he perhaps 
 at her side^ for the love of whom she was now 
 mournfully wasting away ! How touching are 
 these traits of real life and fiction ! — the stern 
 seared-hearted poet, turning aside in the midst 
 of his storm and sarcasm to remember the 
 past, half with regret, half with disdain ; — and 
 the desolation of the broken-hearted girl, whom 
 the strain sadly reminds that she must hope 
 tor nothing but rest in the grave ! 
 
 How often, indeed, has some familiar air, the 
 " Una Volta" from La Cenerentola, or " Duran- 
 dante e Belerma,'' or some yet simpler tune, 
 carried us back to the voice and guitar from
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. I7l 
 
 which we first heard it, and charmed our ex- 
 hausted feehngs with tender remembrances 
 and agreeable visions. And if we look out, to 
 bestow a penny upon the itinerants who have 
 thus, for a moment, transported us back into 
 fairy land, — how does the sight of the gaunt list- 
 less figure of the musician, or of the southern 
 complexion and haggard features of his wife, 
 set off by her fantastic head-gear, — with a little 
 child at her side, bearing, poor thing ! a tam- 
 bourine, or leading in a string a doleful looking 
 dog in a masquerade' dress — how does such a 
 group as this move our heart with a strange 
 pity for those who wander from their own bright 
 lands, and, amid toil and degradation, endea- 
 vour to pick up a pittance wherewith to pur- 
 chase a noon's meal and a night's lodging ! 
 I shall never forget the feelings of this nature 
 excited in my mind, by hearing the Tyrolese 
 minstrels for the first time, one sultry evening 
 in August. It was their third visit to this place; 
 our grandees were either absent from town, or 
 had satiated their curiosity; the concert room 
 therefore was indifferently filled wdth a third 
 rate audience; — and before them, and exposed to 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE STREETS. 
 
 the full fire of their vulgar remarks, stood 
 these mountain children pouring out the melo- 
 dies of their own land, every tone of which, 
 one would have thought, must have spoken to 
 them of their glorious Alpine landscapes : — ^with 
 snow peaks in the distance, and in the fore- 
 ground, green meadows and substantial farm* 
 houses, comely cows and cherry trees crushed 
 down by their weight of fruit. It may be that 
 custom had deadened their remembrance, or 
 that the hope of a return to these sweet native 
 scenes sustained them; but upon me their sing- 
 ing had a saddening effect, which I could not 
 cast aside for many days, and which wrought 
 itself oif in a string of verses, of which the two 
 following perhaps are the best. 
 
 Did not your snow-crowned mountains seem 
 
 To Heaven yet nearer than before ? 
 Did you not — when you left them — deem 
 The voice of every bird and stream 
 
 Was sweeter than of yore ? — 
 The sky was brighter than of old. 
 
 The lakes more clear, the woods more green ? — 
 Did not the sun-set seem to fold 
 The earth in robe of richest gold 
 That ever eye had seen ? 
 
 I
 
 SOUNDS OF A summer's EVENING. 173 
 
 And you could leave so fair a clime ! 
 Perchance 'twas in the summer time 
 You looked your last — O simple ones ! 
 The mountain patriarchs' wandering sons. 
 How can you sing their songs, and bear 
 Aftir to breathe the stranger's air? 
 
 «*«***♦• 
 
 And you — ye wake a thought of pain 
 "Which turns mine eyes to earth, — I see 
 
 How one stern despot, sordid gain. 
 
 Bows to his mercenary reign 
 The men of low degree. 
 
 And they must toil before his throne 
 To his harsh mandate bending low. 
 
 Till age has with its silver strown 
 
 Their clustering locks — and Time has thrown 
 His wrinkles o'er their brow. 
 
 And you must come from lands afar. 
 
 And yoked to his triumphal car. 
 
 Breathe out your simple mountain songs 
 
 To heartless ears and critic throngs. 
 
 Who know not, heed not how ye yearn. 
 
 To your own vallies to return ! 
 
 But we must not end in this pensive mood. 
 Let us think how pleasant it is to hear, — -as we 
 sit with opened windows, to catch the cool 
 night breeze — some chord of men's voices pass-
 
 174 THE STREETS. 
 
 ing along the street, and dying away with that 
 pecuhar dehcacy which the oj^en air imparts to 
 the coarsest musical somid ; let us recal the 
 delight excited by hearing two harps suddenly 
 strike up, played in such entire concord and 
 perfect time, that it was next to impossible to 
 refrain from acknowledging their influence with 
 our feet, in spite of the fever heat of the air 
 and the weariness of our limbs ; let us make 
 ourselves merry with remembering the grotesque 
 tunes which herald a peculiar Punch of our 
 acquaintance, tempting the old and utilitarian 
 to look out and laugh at the lawless doings of 
 that independent, thought not very respectable 
 character ; — and if none of these will avail — let 
 us turn round to the pianoforte, and listen to 
 a voice, clear as a silver bell, and gay as a lark's 
 — singing a ballad by that best of all modern 
 songsters, Barry Cornwall, whose cheering 
 refrain is : 
 
 '* — 'Tis better we laugh than weep/*
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 17b 
 
 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 
 
 " She — O Susannah ! — to this world belongs!" 
 
 Crabbb. 
 
 To those who love to contemplate variety, 
 and are more desirous in their intercourse with 
 the world, to meet with difference of character 
 than uniformity of creed, it will be often a 
 cause of regret, that sectarian prejudices shut 
 up entire classes within barriers as strong as 
 those that enclose the Hebrew quarter of many 
 continental toT\Tis: that the Church, as it were, 
 holds up the hem of her garment to avoid
 
 176 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 touching the robe of the Tabernacle, and that the 
 Chapel sits apart and vents her sarcasms on the 
 bigotry and priestcraft of the Church. It is 
 provoking to think how much character and 
 intelligence there must exist in a large town 
 like ours, of which we may hardly hope to ob- 
 tain a peep. 
 
 Yet sometimes the veil is drawn aside, by 
 some stray sheep who breaks out of the charmed 
 fold and proclaims to the world round about 
 the peculiarities of the flock which he has left: — 
 and the documents issued by the various bodies 
 of religionists — the Arminian magazine of the 
 Methodists, the Eclectic and Imperial of the 
 Independents, and other periodicals of a similar 
 kind, — these also throw light upon those sin- 
 gularities of thought and cast of mind, induced 
 by dwelling for the most part " among one's 
 own people." It was in the course of my 
 wanderings hither and thither upon the out- 
 skirts of certain sects, aided by communications 
 from other borderers like myself, that I became 
 acquainted with the following circumstances 
 belonging to the history of a family, so dis- 
 persed or destroyed, that I run no risk of
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 177 
 
 hurting the feelings of any one by bringing 
 them before the pubhc. 
 
 Possibly there never appeared in our sea-port 
 town two more perfect specimens of the dissen- 
 ter than John Lambwood and Esther his wife. 
 Both were zealously attached to their own par- 
 ticular congregation ; and yet the religion of the 
 one and its effects differed as widely from those 
 of the other^ as if they had belonged to different 
 churches. He was cold, inflexible, upright and 
 reasoning: she was equally strict, — but warm, 
 devoted, a little superstitious, sometimes more 
 than a little passionate. Some evil disposed 
 neighbour had once called them Hot and Cold ; 
 and it was remarked that, though they were 
 agreed at heart, as if they had been fashioned 
 of the same handful of clay,- — when they were 
 together, he hardly ever advanced a fact, which 
 she did not dispute lovingly though earnestly ; 
 and she scarcely broached one opinion which 
 he did not make haste to qualify or generalize. 
 They were proud of the situation which they 
 occupied in their own church; — ^both a little 
 impatient under a dispensation which denied to 
 their union the blessing of children. It chanced 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 however, that when they had passed the middle 
 period of hfe, this want was in some measure 
 supplied by a circumstance which consigned 
 two children — a boy and a girl — to their care. 
 
 It is a great mistake to limit the existence of 
 romance of mind to those to whom the entire 
 world of fiction and art is open, whose thoughts 
 are free to range whithersoever they please. 
 There is always abroad upon the earth a certain 
 quantity of that high and pure spirit which has 
 made poets, painters and sculptors; and though 
 aeras and circumstances may refuse to develope 
 it in that form in which men call it genius, it 
 may be distinctly recognized by the advertent un- 
 der its other manifestations. And among those 
 sects who denounce the region of beauty and 
 imagination as a place of snares and seductions 
 not to be trodden by christian feet, that spirit 
 sends those fervent promptings and visions which 
 excite men to the daring and endurance of mis- 
 sionary labours; it joins the delights of enter- 
 prize, the charms which sacrifice possesses to 
 the ardent mind, (the same which have upheld 
 so many amid the torments of martyrdom,) to 
 the severe sense of duty. But, to my story —
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 179 
 
 There were resident in our town, at the period 
 to which it refers, a young clergyman and his 
 wife, whose united ages hardly amounted to five 
 and forty years, who were bent upon the then 
 strange and almost perilous adventure of pe- 
 netrating to the remote parts of Hindostan, 
 for the purpose of preaching the gospel there. 
 William Grafton and his wife Sarah " were," 
 as their own church records set forth, " a re- 
 markable pair." Both country born and coun- 
 try bred, they had been attached to each other 
 ever since early childhood, with a purity and 
 fervency of love, which, some hold, has alto- 
 gether disappeared in these latter days. Their 
 parents lived in a remote part of the county of 
 York ; a district full of yeomens' grey stone 
 houses, set among orchards, with here and 
 there an ancient yew tree thrusting out its 
 dark head among the blossoming branches of 
 the fruit trees, and fragments of ruin startling 
 you with their serene decay in the midst of rich 
 meadows — a country, in short, were there was 
 quite enough to kindle the fancy and to im- 
 press a ready spirit with that most earnest and 
 delicious of all desires — of a close communion
 
 180 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 with nature and its Maker. Now the young 
 lovers were endowed with warm feehngs and 
 active imaginations 5 though educated in such 
 strictness that they were hardly aware of their 
 possession. Instead of books of poetry, they 
 went out and read the sky together; instead of 
 legends, they studied the two mishapen and 
 headless statues which lay prostrate among the 
 holly trees in farmer Grafton's east meadow: 
 and this union of their sympathies and interests 
 drew them so closely together, that when he 
 was no older than twenty-one and she than 
 eighteen, they overcame the scruples of cau- 
 tious relations, and were united — for better for 
 worse. 
 
 WiUiam Grafton had always been dedicated 
 to the ministry, as much by his own contem- 
 plative turn of mind as by his father*s purpose. 
 He had already frequently preached in the 
 open air among his own country folks, and as- 
 sisted in the services of the nearest chapel of 
 his sect. There was not much difficulty then, 
 as his character was blameless, in procuring 
 for him an appointment as pastor to a small 
 congregation in our town. A happier pair than
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 181 
 
 he and his young wife never crossed its bounda- 
 ries; the same freshness of spirit which they 
 had nurtured among their native scenery, ac- 
 companied them through the bustle and novelty 
 of a city life; and for awhile made the very 
 change pleasant. They were beloved by all 
 who knew them; Mrs Grafton within the three 
 first years of her married life^ gave birth to a 
 son and daughter ; and was renowned as the 
 most devoted wife, the kindest hearted neigh- 
 bour, and the most fortunate mother in all the 
 congregation. 
 
 And yet, at this very time, the young couple 
 were separately bending their thoughts towards 
 a project which was to separate them at once 
 and for ever from their present happy and 
 useful estate. This was nothing short of under- 
 taking a mission to the remoter parts of India. 
 Their desires grew up secretly; the enchant- 
 ment of a wish to wander had insinuated itself 
 into both their hearts; — mostly into the man's, 
 for the mother knew that if their purpose was 
 to be executed it was imperatively necessary 
 for her to resign the guardianship of her infant 
 children into other hands. It was a hard strug-
 
 182 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 gle, — but enthusiasm gained the victory, and 
 became ere long a sense of duty. When once 
 they had opened their minds to each other — 
 struck by the coincidence of their aspirations, 
 their purposes acquired such strength by union, 
 that no obstacle was mighty enough to prevent 
 their fulfilment. In short, they laid the call 
 which they had received before the elders of 
 their congregation ; and were listened to with 
 the utmost sympathy and such reverence as at- 
 tends those, who are willing to make sacrifice of 
 some precious thing, because they believe it to 
 be right so to do. Not a voice opposed them, 
 though many sighed to lose their faithful pas- 
 tor and his beloved wife; and they departed 
 under the auspices of their own missionary 
 society — having left, (it may be imagined with 
 how many tears, prayers and last embraces,) 
 their children to the care of those two discreet 
 relatives of Mrs. Grafton, who had eagerly de- 
 sired to be allowed to undertake the trust. 
 
 It was a sabbath evening. John Lambwood 
 and his wife, now grown old though not infirm, 
 having - attended the services of the day and
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREX. 183 
 
 assembled their household for family worship, 
 were sitting together as it was their custom to 
 do for an hour, pre^dous to retiring for the 
 night. They were, both of them, more than 
 commonly grave and silent. A large open bible 
 was laid upon the table before them, but nei- 
 ther of the two had as yet looked into it; the 
 eyes of the husband were fixed upon a profile 
 likeness of Mrs Grafton which hung above the 
 chimney piece^ it was faded — so many years 
 had elapsed since the original had left England 
 — those of the wife were bent upon his face, as 
 if she would gather his thoughts from his coun- 
 tenance without enquiry. At last the old man 
 broke the long silence, and sighing deeply said : 
 " Our dear sister little knew" — and paused. 
 
 Mrs Lambwood quietly opened the book and 
 read : If any man come after me, let him deny 
 himself and take up his cross aud follow me. 
 And again : He that loveth father or mother 
 more than me, is not worthy of me ; and he that 
 loveth son or daughter more than me, is not 
 worthy of me, " Our dear sister,'* continued 
 she, " when she entered upon her appointed 
 work, did utterly resign the care of these chil-
 
 184 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 dren into our hands, and we must not become 
 weary of it, nor murmur at the crosses which 
 appertain to it. We have perhaps desired too 
 ardently the blessing of children, and Provi- 
 dence is reproving us in this very thing." 
 
 " I will use the authority of a father over 
 her," replied her husband ; " but what hath it 
 availed hitherto? the girl is of a light and 
 worldly spirit: nay, and I think it increases 
 with her years. Thou wert wrong to permit 
 that intimacy with the Worralls. I will have it 
 broken off at once and decidedly; thou hast 
 been too tender with her, because she is beau- 
 tiftil." 
 
 " And full of understanding also,"*interposed 
 Mrs Lambwood, with something near akin to 
 the eagerness of maternal pride. 
 
 " Ay — that understanding hath been allowed 
 undue latitude. These idle poetry books, this 
 Cowper, this Pope, I will allow no more of 
 them; my love, liberality is not conformity to 
 this world's frivolity." 
 
 " And yet," ventured his wife, " her brother 
 hath been allowed the same liberty, and thou 
 seest how different he is : this must be diver-
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 185 
 
 sity of natural character, for thou wilt not 
 allow him to be inferior to her in capacity." 
 
 " I am amazed at thy pleading, Esther ; thou 
 wouldst absolutely excuse Theresa's levity; 
 tliou hast made her anxious after dress too.'' 
 
 " I, John?" replied the matron quickly, 
 looking down upon her own sober and unorna- 
 mented costume, " The child has walked in 
 the streets and seen gay clothes — I have done 
 no more; and she is a good child, John, though 
 a Uttle wilful." 
 
 " She has a lively tongue, I know; but she 
 has used it to sneer at Thomas Proudfoot, and 
 the good young man hath taken it much to 
 heart." 
 
 " Well, my dear, thou wouldst not force 
 her inclinations." 
 
 " Esther, what are her inclinations? — to- 
 wards the world and the things of the world ; 
 it is her nature to take pattern by any foohsh- 
 ness she sees; during that unlucky six months 
 when she was at school, there was more harm 
 done than wiU be ever undone, except — and 
 with Him there is nothing impossible! — ^but I 
 will be stricter with her than I have been. I
 
 186 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 believe that we shall hear nothing more of her 
 parents, — whether they yet live or not. I will 
 take up a father's authority at once." 
 
 " And yet, John, consider the evil that may 
 accrue from over much severity." 
 
 " Severity, wife ! art thou too growing lati- 
 tudinarian?" 
 
 " I feel towards her like a mother," replied 
 Esther earnestly ; " she hath never been al- 
 lowed many indulgences ; and excepting this 
 acquaintance with the WorraUs, her own blood 
 relations, I know not what we could take 
 away; and if we were to forbid her from going 
 to see them, it might I fear encrease her al- 
 ready strong hankering after gay company; 
 and she looks delicate just now; — -let us wait a 
 little." 
 
 " I am not accustomed to interfere with thee, 
 Esther; but in this thou art too remiss. I will 
 have her dressed in a simpler fashion." 
 
 " That cannot be : the colour and fashion of 
 her clothes is precisely the same as my own: 
 but Providence has given her a slender waist 
 and low shoulders, and the simplest dress be- 
 comes her. She is very beautiful, John 1"
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 187 
 
 " Her beauty is a snare to her," replied her 
 husband, surprised and displeased at his wife*s 
 pertinacity, " but from this night forward, I will 
 be more watchful over her, and I will speak to 
 Reuben, that he also may give her counsel." 
 
 ^^ Do not, my dear John, — do not, I entreat 
 thee, my dear husband ! They love one another, 
 and it is enough] he wall have no influence 
 over her] thou knowest he is so impetuous, and 
 she has by much the readier wit. Nay, do 
 not: let us not run the risk of weakening their 
 affection by setting him over her. I wiU talk 
 to her very gravely myself, and insist upon a 
 sober demeanour, and take away from her her 
 poetry books, and prevent her from going to 
 the Worralls, as much as I can: but I pray 
 thee, leave her in my hands a little longer." 
 
 " Well, Esther, well," said her husband ap- 
 peased by the ready compliance with his Tvishes, 
 which invariably terminated every matrimonial 
 debate: " I vnR try a httle longer; but as the 
 father of a family and the elder of a congrega- 
 tion, I cannot allow of such idle practices any 
 longer. It has been already declared, and I 
 am sorry, with so much cause, that I kept no
 
 188 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 order at home. Let us go to rest and pray that 
 Theresa may be endowed with a greater mea- 
 sure of sohdity of mind : trusting, that in due 
 season, our prayers will be fulfilled." 
 
 Little dreamed Theresa that night, of the in- 
 creasing strictness towards her, which her 
 guardians were meditating ; — and yet, to call 
 those things indulgences in which she was to 
 be stinted, would raise a smile on the face of 
 any, save those who have been familiar with the 
 strict household discipline of certain religious 
 bodies. They amounted, as far as Mrs. Lamb- 
 wood knew, to a great liveliness of talk, a 
 neatness of attire which made her unfashionable 
 costume appear becoming to her faultless figure 
 and striking face, and a decided rejection of the 
 distasteful courtship of Thomas Proudfoot. 
 As for Theresa's intercourse with the Worralls 
 — they were nearly related to her father ; and 
 Mrs. Lamb wood felt that she had no right to 
 prevent the portionless girl from creating for 
 herself an interest in the minds of her rich 
 and Hberal kindred. But she was totally igno- 
 rant of much that passed in the mind of her 
 adopted daughter; and had she been made
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 189 
 
 acquainted with Theresa's thoughts, could not 
 in the least have understood their nature. The 
 maiden was gifted with a generous and bold 
 spirit — and a certain irregularity and originahty 
 of mind, corresponding with her cast of fea- 
 tures, which were fascinating, though in some 
 points, exceeding the strict proportions of 
 beauty. Though she had been early taught 
 to regard Mr. and Mrs. Lambwood as father 
 and mother, on the plea that her omii parents 
 would never return to England, and that, in 
 fact, the silence of many years made the re- 
 signation of their natural authority complete, 
 and though she loved them well — she almost as 
 early learned to obey them with reserves such 
 as no child should keep from its parents — and 
 these every day increased in number, as few 
 and far-between ghmpses of the outer world 
 enlarged her desires and made her sensible of 
 the narrowness of the boundaries within which 
 she had been educated. There is a pleasure 
 particularly flattering to the vanit}', in opening 
 theeyesofthe uninstructed — and those who are 
 willing to see, through howsoever smaU a 
 cranny they have leave to peep, need never
 
 190 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 remain in ignorance of the world around them. 
 During a period of illness, when Mrs. Lamb- 
 wood had been ordered into the country, for 
 the benefit of change of air, Theresa had been 
 left at a school recommended by serious people. 
 Music and dancing, however, were taught to a 
 few; and Shakespeare was to be found in the 
 private book-case of the English teacher. The- 
 resa ere long acquired a relish for all three — 
 for the last in particular; and her occasional 
 visits to the Worralls, a gay, careless family, 
 who had recently come into possession of a hand- 
 some income, and though complaisant towards 
 their friends' scruples, were troubled by few of 
 their own — ^kept alive and nourished this taste 
 for forbidden pleasure. Many an hour of 
 reading did the delighted girl steal in the 
 library, when she found the family from home; 
 many a hint as to the minor ordinances of dress 
 did her quick eye gather up; and, as her mind 
 became daily more and more enfranchised and 
 her taste improved, her demeanour naturally 
 assumed that increased freedom, which had 
 given Thomas Proudfoot so much oifence, and 
 through him her foster-father. She was now
 
 THE ADOPTED GHILDREN. 191 
 
 nineteen years of age and could no longer be 
 chidden as a child; and yet^ unless some de- 
 cided step was taken, it was too probable that 
 ere long, she would break the prescribed bounds 
 of the strict household wherein she dwelt, in 
 some open and daring manner. 
 
 On the Monday evening after the conversa- 
 tion which I have recorded took place, Mrs. 
 Lambwood was perplexed by meeting Theresa on 
 the stairs, dressed in the utmost gaiety to which 
 she could attain. " Thou art not going out, 
 my love ?" said she, in an interrogatory voice. 
 
 '^ O yes, mother, I am — I promised to 
 spend this evening with the WorraUs, if I 
 could. . ..'' 
 
 " Thou shouldst have told me earlier." 
 
 " And why, dear mother ? — I was not sure 
 myself whether I should be able ; but I got up 
 at six o'clock this morning, and my father's 
 cravats are aU finished.^' 
 
 " Why— Theresa 1" 
 
 " Every one of them, mother ; and marked, 
 and laid upon his dressing table; and I have 
 heard poor little Ruth all her lessons — and 
 read my fifty pages of history," — and she might
 
 192 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 have added, her twenty pages of " As you like 
 it" from a precious volume which nestled among 
 her discarded muslins, — " so that I think I 
 have fairly earned a right to take a little plea- 
 sure this evening." 
 
 " Pleasure!" replied her mother gravely; 
 " thou art far too eager after pleasure ! and thy 
 father thinks that I have permitted thee in too 
 much liberty." 
 
 " Nay, mother, — if you only knew. ..." she 
 checked herself, wisely remembering that Mrs. 
 Lambwood never admitted the validity of an 
 appeal to any standard save her own ; — •" but I 
 must go, I am already late : you will send Reu- 
 ben for me at the usual time." — And ere Mrs. 
 Lambwood could recover from her astonish- 
 ment at the good-humoured independence of 
 Theresa's manner, or utter any further remons- 
 trance, that maiden was already many steps 
 beyond the hall-door, on her way to the Wor- 
 ralls'. 
 
 Another guest had arrived there before her; 
 a strange gentleman from the west of England, 
 a friend of Colonel Worrall, her host's nephew. 
 Theresa was always welcome to the gay young
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 193 
 
 people of the house, if only because, as they 
 said, " they loved to laugh the starch out of 
 her." " Here she is," cried Lucy Worrall, 
 running up to her eageriy, and kissing her. 
 " Here she is at last ! — Mr. Talbois, this is our 
 cousin. Miss Grafton." 
 
 The gentleman, a plain but distinguished 
 looking man of some twenty-three years old or 
 thereabouts, raised his head languidly from his 
 book, to acknowledge the introduction; — raised 
 it — but did not bend it down again, after he 
 had once looked upon the new comer. Theresa 
 was tall, but so perfectly formed and her figure 
 of such an exquisite roundness, that she could 
 in no wise be charged 'VN'ith awkwardness; her 
 complexion was pure and dazzling; her hair as 
 rich and profuse as that ofTitian's mistress, though 
 unhke its far-famed tresses, as black and bright 
 as jet. She was dressed in a gown of very pale 
 drab silk, its very plainess making the perfect 
 symmetry of her form more apparent; one rose- 
 bud was placed in her belt, and over her shoul- 
 ders she wore a large transparent muslin hand- 
 kerchief crossed in front, and pinned so high 
 as to disclose nothing below her throat. Her 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 hair, not permitted the ornament of curl or 
 plait, was simply braided and twisted up be- 
 hind; but it grew so thick and long, that there 
 was no preventing its forming a natural coronet. 
 There was a bright piquant smile upon her 
 brilliant lips, (detractors denounced her mouth 
 as being too wide,) a novelty in her expressions, 
 and a simpHcity in her manners, which went 
 direct to the heart, gained entrance there, and 
 kept possession. 
 
 " Come here, Theresa," cried Lucy Worrall 
 gaily, " come here ! look what Mr. Talbois has 
 brought for us !" and she drew her guest close 
 to the table which was spread with splendid 
 wreaths of feather flowers, at that time a 
 rarity in England. " Are they not magnificent? 
 The scarlet one is for me, and the gold- colour 
 and green is for Susan; are they not wonder- 
 fully natural ?" 
 
 " And how deliciously perfumed!" said The- 
 resa, taking up a garland of dehcate pink 
 blossoms. 
 
 " I declare, Theresa, you have the gayest 
 taste ofusaU!" exclaimed Lucy; and before 
 she could utter a " don't," her nimble friend
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN'. 195 
 
 had twined the long spray round her head, and 
 was forcing her towards a large looking-glass. — 
 Mr. Talbois appeared much amused by the 
 scene — and Susan WorraU stooping, said in a 
 low voice: " She is a Baptist — and O, so 
 strictly brought up ! — You know they are not 
 allowed to wear any ornaments." 
 
 But her communication was lost upon the 
 gentleman whose eye was fixed upon the maiden 
 at the mirror. In the first moment of dehght, 
 she exclaimed eagerly " O how beautiftJ !" — in 
 the second, she became, for the first time in 
 her hfe, aware that the words might be apphed 
 to the wearer, as well as the wreath. As this 
 sudden consciousness burst upon her mind, 
 an intense blush rose to her very temples, 
 and hastening from before the glass, she cried 
 out eagerly: " O take them off! O pray take 
 them off !" 
 
 " Not I indeed ! nay, you shall wear them 
 all the evening, should she not, Mr. Talbois?" 
 and then she held up her fore-finger menacingly, 
 in an attitude which said: " you must not tell." 
 
 ^' Indeed," replied the gentleman very gal- 
 lantly, with a pohshed composure of manner 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 entirely new to the unpracticed Theresa, " Sis- 
 ter Anne, of the Flower Convent whence 
 these came, must have been favoured with some 
 particular dream or revelation of Miss Grafton, 
 when she was making this coronal: it seems 
 to grow upon your head so naturally ; — I hope 
 you believe in dreams?" 
 
 " O yes I I would not disbelieve in them for 
 the world 1" 
 
 " You are strangely behind the fashion,'* 
 said her new acquaintance, in a tone of gentle 
 irony : " and, I am afraid, dangerous company." 
 
 '* Dangerous, Sir?" replied Theresa simply. 
 
 " Ay — dangerous in these days when it is 
 considered a merit to get rid of all old-fashioned 
 notions and prepossessions — when a person 
 who produces a ghost story in society is ridi- 
 culed — when Spenser is so entirely laid on the 
 shelf — and Shakespeare only tolerated for the 
 sake of Mrs. Siddons." 
 
 " O, Mrs. Siddons!" cried Susan Worrall 
 starting up eagerly, and clasping her hands: 
 " take care what you are about, Mr. Talbois !" 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Worrall?" asked Theresa, 
 just sufficiently well versed in the world's
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 197 
 
 wisdom to remember that it was not correct 
 to be too much pleased with any one at a first 
 interview. 
 
 " Papa and mamma are out of town for a 
 day or two/' rephed Lucy archly : " and here 
 comes Robert! — Well — " 
 
 ^^ Come away, young ladies !" cried her bro- 
 ther gaily, " the coach is at the door. Come, 
 Theresa, for a drive! I declare, Talbois, my 
 sisters have not been slow in doing honour to 
 your present." 
 
 Robert was silenced by a significant look 
 from Lucy; but Theresa, remembering herself 
 stopped suddenly — " O stay one moment, pray 
 stay! let me take these off before I go down 
 into the street !'* 
 
 But the others were already half way down 
 stairs. Mr. Talbois who had eagerly stepped 
 forward and offered his arm, did not appear to 
 hear her exclamation; and was saying some- 
 thing so elegant and amusing about the con- 
 venience of wide old-fashioned stair-cases, and 
 in particular about the magnificence of a cer- 
 tain flight of steps in the Vatican, down which 
 he had seen the Pope and Cardinals descend in
 
 198 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 grand procession, that Theresa forgot her dis- 
 composure, and in another instant was shut 
 up in the coach with the gentleman at her 
 side. 
 
 It was a lovely spring evening — and as the 
 Worralls were often accustomed to take a drive 
 after their very early tea, (remember, fastidious 
 reader, that my tale goes back thirty years,) it 
 never occurred to Theresa to enquire which 
 way they were going: nor was she disengaged 
 enough to look out, so much delighted was 
 she with her companion's lively and enter- 
 taining conversation, until the carriage stopped 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Why — what is this ? — ^whatis the matter ?'* 
 — enquired she eagerly—'^' such a crowd of car- 
 riages ! — and they are opening the door ! — Lucy 
 — Susan" — they were already out, and Mr. Tal- 
 bois' hand extended to assist her to alight. 
 
 Theresa was too completely taken by surprise 
 to have time to divine the cause of this stop- 
 page. In another instant, her conductor had 
 led her into the midst of a crowd of people, 
 all looking their best, in gay evening dresses. 
 The liveliness of the scene enchanted her.
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 199 
 
 though she was utterly bewildered by its no- 
 velty, and grasping Mr. Talbois' arm suddenly, 
 she exclaimed: " O, Sir — tell me — where are 
 we?" 
 
 " Did you never see Mrs. Siddons as Lady 
 Macbeth ?" 
 
 Theresa absolutely grew sick with astonish- 
 ment and that choking feehng which always 
 attends any high degree of new excitement! 
 On the stairs — within a few moments of seeing 
 a play — a play of Shakespeare's — acted by Mrs. 
 Siddons — it was almost too great a joy to bear 
 and keep her reason ! and helpless with the extreme 
 of dehght and anticipation, she suffered her- 
 self to be conducted to her place in the front 
 of one of the boxes near the stage. The house 
 was rapidly filling. Long files of ladies sump- 
 tuously dressed, with ghttering ornaments and 
 waving feathers, feU into their appointed seats 
 with an ease and absence of astonishment sur- 
 prising to our heroine, who was too much 
 wrapt up in the novelty of the scene before 
 her, even to attend to her esquire, while he, 
 seated between herself and Lucy WorraU, to 
 whom this froHc was by no means the first of
 
 200 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 its kind, was pouring out an infinity of gay 
 and sarcastic remarks upon the house and 
 company, which at another time would have 
 afforded the utmost amusement to his absorbed 
 neighbour. 
 
 The orchestra began to play an overture. 
 Bad as was our provincial music then— bad as 
 it is now — the first sound of full instrumental 
 harmony produces an effect upon those " who 
 have music in their souls/' at once dehghtful 
 and troubling : an effect which is never to be 
 forgotten. It is like one of those vague and 
 dehcious pleasures of childhood which are en- 
 joyed all the more, because reason and criti- 
 cism enter not into the enjoyment. My own 
 first experience of orchestral music was Mozart's 
 Jupiter symphony; and I can compare the 
 feelings of pleasure it awakened in myself, to 
 none other than those produced by the first 
 sight of the open-sea; — and as I think of them, 
 grow melancholy from the thought the same 
 intense sensation of wonder and delight can 
 never be enjoyed again ! 
 
 But when the curtain rose and the tragedy 
 began, what a new world at once burst open
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 201 
 
 before Theresa ! Although she had been a 
 diligent reader of Shakespeare, and knew 
 this particular play almost by heart, — she hung 
 upon the progress of the scenes with a breath- 
 less rai:)ture5 which made her totally forget the 
 place in which she was, the crowd of which she 
 formed a part. And when the thrilling interest 
 of the story had reached its highest point, and 
 the stern ghastly Queen, (she had assuredly 
 at that moment ceased to be the actress,) walked 
 forth in her sleep, wdth glazed eye, stealthy 
 step, and hands that would wash themselves 
 clean of" the damning spot," — Theresa was so 
 violently agitated, that the attention of her 
 companions, entranced as they were by the 
 talent of that magnificent artist, was involun- 
 tarily withdrawn from the stage to the spec- 
 tator. Talbois, in particular, gazed upon her 
 with eager and intent admiration, as he perused 
 the lineaments of her speaking face, the fixed 
 and glistening eyes, the flushed cheek, the 
 parted Hps, the small white hands clenched 
 in each other and dropped upon the front of the 
 box. At that moment the fates of the future 
 lives of those two individuals were decided.
 
 202 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 It was over — and a heavy flood of tears 
 relieved Theresa of a part of the emotion which 
 had began to grow almost suiFocating. Many an 
 eye, inured to the fascinations of tragedy, was 
 turned on that box, to examine the features of 
 its beautiful inmate, who remained too closely 
 folded in her dream to be troubled with any 
 retrospections or presentiments. Her compa- 
 nions, however, now began to think of Mr, 
 Lambwood's stern reproofs, and Reuben's in- 
 terminable rhapsodies, and urged Robert to 
 find their carriage. " For Theresa's sake, you 
 know," said Lucy in an audible whisper; this 
 partially recalled her to herself, and the cir- 
 cumstance of some gentleman mistaking her 
 for an acquaintance and bowing to her, disen- 
 chanted her yet more completely. 
 
 ^^ To me, Susan ? it is impossible ! There 
 can be no one here who knows me — and what 
 will they say at home ? O why did you bring 
 me here?" 
 
 " You appreciate Mrs. Siddons, I see," ob- 
 served her neighbour, in the softest tone of his 
 rich voice. 
 
 " I have been delighted — O how much de-
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN/ 203 
 
 lighted!" replied she with a sigh, in which the 
 future mingled with the past. But the fears 
 of anticipation every moment increased as she 
 approached the Worralls' ! She dreaded the 
 thoughts of meeting the severe eye of her 
 enthusiastic brother, whose religious feeling was 
 characteristic by a strictness almost ascetic. 
 She repeated again and again to herself: " How 
 can I be blamed? I did not know where I 
 was going : and, after all, what a new and 
 delightful field of enjo}TQent has been opened 
 to me!" It v>^as in vain: — by the time that 
 she ahghted from the coach she would have 
 given anytliing, save the recollection of the last 
 three hours, for an alleviation to her uneasiness. 
 To her unspeakable rehef, however, she found 
 that Reuben had never been at Mr. Worrall's 
 to conduct her home: it was long past his 
 usual time, and the wondering what could have 
 prevented him was a new source of disquiet. 
 She took a hurried leave of her friends; re- 
 signed the tell-tale garland, the very existence 
 of which she had forgotten, till reminded of it 
 by Lucy, and escorted by Mr. Talbois, set 
 forth homewards.
 
 204 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 " I hurry you," said lie, slackening his pace 
 after they had walked a few steps together. 
 
 " O no, thank you, the faster the better: — 
 1 am very impatient to reach home." 
 
 Her companion had the delicacy not to en- 
 quire the wherefore of this speed. He could 
 hardly suppose it to arise from any objection 
 to his company; for, as they parted on the 
 steps of Mr. Lambwood's front door, it is ru 
 moured that she was artless enough to say: 
 ^^ Good night, Mr. Talbois, and thank you, I 
 hope that we shall soon meet again." 
 
 She rang gently once — twice — ^but no one 
 answered the bell: — a dreadful misgiving 
 crossed her mind. Could they mean to lock 
 her out for the night? — she had heard Mrs. 
 Lambwood mention such things being some- 
 times done in rigid households; and, almost 
 in a spasm of terror at the bare thought, rung 
 again and louder. This third time, however, 
 she was successful, for Reuben, opening the 
 door softly, beckoned her to come in. Mrs. 
 Lambwood was upon the stairs with a candle 
 in her hand. " My love how could we forget 
 thee ?" said she, surprised at Theresa's face of
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 205 
 
 concern ; " but this awfal judgment of Pro\^- 
 dence has overtaken us so suddenly. Thou 
 didst not hear it? — thy father, — my husband" — 
 and tears streamed do\\Ti her cheeks as she 
 spoke — " was stricken by the palsy scarcely 
 two hours ago — and Dr. Magrath, who is above 
 stairs, declares it to be almost the severest 
 case he has ever seen; — the Lord's will be 
 done!" 
 
 What a revulsion of feeling did these few 
 words cause in Theresa's mind ! — what a sudden 
 change from readiness to abide and answer 
 reproof, to that natural, yet most unreasonable 
 self-reproach which says: " Why was I away 
 when this happened ?" She followed her mo- 
 ther into the sick chamber, and was much 
 shocked by the terrible appearance of the in- 
 vahd. His face, always hvid, and now pecu- 
 liarly colourless, was drawn on the left side as 
 though it had followed the attraction of a mag- 
 net. One hand, totally useless, lay upon the 
 quilt : and the only sign of life which he gave, 
 was that inarticulate moaning so characteristic 
 of pain and feebleness. In answer to her ea- 
 ger enquiries, Dr. Magrath told Theresa that
 
 206 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 the turn which his disorder took would entirely 
 depend upon the eifect of the blisters and other 
 violent remedies applied: and that it was 
 imperatively necessary that he should be care- 
 fully watched all nighty as the case was one in 
 which a neglected symptom might prove fatal. 
 Mrs. Lambwood chose to sit up, and Theresa, 
 in spite of her remonstrances, insisted upon 
 sharing her vigil. 
 
 Reuben retired to rest, and the two addressed 
 themselves to their melancholy task. The night 
 wore slowly on, and the invalid lay in a state 
 of half stupor. Mrs. Lambwood and Theresa 
 sate crouching over the feeble night-lamp, the 
 former reading to herself in a low voice, com- 
 forting passages from her pocket bible : — the 
 latter, in spite of herself, forgetting the gloom 
 and stillness of the sick chamber, with the 
 long dark watery shadows cast upon the roof 
 by the weak light, and the tick of the time 
 piece — ^in the thoughts of the brilliancy and 
 animation of the scene which she had so re- 
 cently left. Every moment she expected her 
 companion to question her: but Mrs. Lamb- 
 wood made no enquiry — she was too much
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 20/ 
 
 absorbed in her own anxieties to remember so 
 much as that Theresa had been abroad on that 
 evening. 
 
 It was between one and two o'clock in the 
 morning that the sound of a footstep close 
 behind them, made both of the watchers start 
 and look up. The intruder was Reuben, — 
 robed in a long dressing-gown and carrying in 
 his hand a bible. His wild and thoughtful 
 features, now shaded by his long hair, which, 
 in the day, he wore combed back from his 
 forehead, wore now an appearance almost su- 
 pernatural when beheld by that dim light: 
 animated as they were by an expression of 
 amazement mingled with awe. " What is this, 
 Reuben," whispered Mrs. Lambwood, " that 
 thou art up again so soon ?" 
 
 " I have dreamed a dream," rephed he, in 
 a low solemn voice. ^^ My father will never 
 recover : I have seen him in his shroud, stand- 
 ing by my bed-side." 
 
 " O hush !" cried Theresa, " do not tell us 
 now !" 
 
 " Be silent, daughter," said Mrs. Lambwood 
 composedly, " if it have been given to Reuben
 
 208 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 to tell me anything, it is also my duty to hear 
 it. I trust that I shall be enabled to submit 
 myself to any burden which the Lord may be 
 pleased to lay upon me. Go on, Reuben." 
 
 ^' At the other side of my bed stood another 
 figure, also wrapt in a shroud ; the very image 
 of my own mother's picture ; — the two looked 
 quietly upon me^ and spoke together." 
 
 " And what did they say ?" enquired Mrs. 
 Lambwood eagerly, and with the most perfect 
 faith in the authority of Reuben's tale. 
 
 " Mother ! dear mother 1" interrupted 
 Theresa, " remember that this is but an idle 
 dream.'' 
 
 At this instant a moaning sound was heard 
 from the bed, as if the patient wished to turn 
 himself. The two females hastened to his 
 assistance. He was now evidently in very 
 great pain, and as the doctor had desired to be 
 summoned, in case of any change, Reuben 
 was despatched to bring him. He remained 
 with them until morning, and, by that time, 
 the remembrance of the vision of the night 
 had passed away. 
 
 A week went slowly over, and still Mr.
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 209 
 
 Lambwood hovered between life and death ; — 
 of the two^ nearer to the latter. His reason 
 was grievously affected, his speech utterly 
 taken away, and every measure resorted to 
 attended with only a transient success. At 
 length Dr. Magrath pronounced it as his 
 opinion that the sufferer's Ufe might be pro- 
 tracted for many months, perhaps even a year ; 
 — 'but that any thing like restoration to his 
 former state of health was a thing not to be 
 hoped for. Every succeeding day confirmed 
 the correctness of his opinion, and the steady- 
 hearted wife prepared her mind for a long at- 
 tendance on the invalid, and its termination by 
 his being released fi-om his pains by death. It 
 therefore happened that much of the former 
 order of John Lambwood's household was 
 broken up. Reuben was diligently pursuing 
 his devotional studies, with a view to the mi- 
 nistry. His character was a most singular 
 one, and its singularities began, at this period, 
 to be exaggerated by the most extreme vari- 
 ableness of health, and the constant recurrence 
 of acute head-aches, which were succeeded by 
 fits of the deepest mental depression. He
 
 210 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 possessed a morbidly tender conscience, which 
 magnified the most unimportant trifles into 
 matters of grave self-reproach ; and had far 
 outrun his instructor's requisitions in de- 
 nouncing every thing which bordered upon 
 relaxation, or would induce cheerfulness of 
 spirit. His mind was almost always in a 
 state of unnatural excitement, — diving rest- 
 lessly into the abstruse and mysterious parts 
 of the scriptures, and drawing thence wild and 
 new conclusions which often displeased as 
 much as astonished his foster-father. The 
 only link which seemed to bind him to this 
 earth was his sister, and their mutual affection 
 was beautiful, from the total dissimilarity of 
 their characters : his was fuU of scruple and 
 self-condemnation for loving any perishing 
 thing of earth so well ; — ^hers, tempered by a 
 fear, such as makes the people of the East 
 foUow softly the steps of those whom they 
 believe to be inspired. They spent little time 
 together, — they conversed little with each 
 other; — but, as Mrs. Lambwood had said to 
 her husband, they loved each other, and it was 
 enough.
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 211 
 
 The household derangement caused by John 
 Lambwood's long iUness was anything but 
 favourable to Theresa's solidity of mind. Her 
 character had reached that point when a few 
 influences decide its future cast. She was now 
 to be found at the WorraUs' more frequently 
 than ever, — not that she neglected her home 
 duties ; on the contrary, the management of 
 the house devolved upon her, and, besides 
 this, she managed to pass a large portion of 
 ever}^ day in the sick chamber, — cheering the 
 anxiety of her foster-mother with every im- 
 aginable de^^ce suggested by a hopeful tem- 
 perament and a Hvely fancy. All this time, 
 however, her mind was, mth rapid strides, 
 separating itself farther and farther from the 
 creeds and habits of thought in which she had 
 been educated. One cause of this sudden 
 change might be the frequent society of Mr. 
 Talbois, who chose to remain in — — — all that 
 summer, and seemed to take particular plea- 
 sure in developing her powers, and watching 
 the eager delight with which she possessed 
 herself of any new discovery. They walked 
 together, — they read together, but not always
 
 212 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 with agreement. She was in love with ro- 
 mance ; nothing was too stirring for her taste, 
 made aU the keener by its not having been fed 
 in childhood with fairy legends, and goblin 
 tales 3 nothing was too improbable for her be- 
 lief. He, whose enthusiasm, to begin was 
 far less in measure than hers, had been long ago 
 sneered into a certain smoothness and modera- 
 tion by the world in which he had passed his 
 life, would have pruned this exuberance, and 
 regulated these high flights if he could ; — but 
 he tried in vain; — those who cut the cord 
 cannot always call back the bird. She devour- 
 ed the " Arabian Nights ;" she reveUed in the 
 chambers of Spenser's mellow and antique 
 imagery; but, above all, worshipped with a 
 blind idolatry those rare and tremendous 
 writers, the old dramatists ; — and as she walked 
 to and fro in the noiseless house, her mind 
 was busily brooding over the magnificent, but 
 somewhat over-wrought scenes of Massinger 
 and Webster, and Beaumont and Fletcher 
 and Marlow ; and she began to long, and to 
 fancy, and project, — and was only drawn down 
 again to common life by the remembrance of
 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 213 
 
 something which Mr. Talbois had said. All 
 this time the Worralls looked onin silence, — at 
 first the silence of curiosity and amusement, 
 but ere long the quiet observation of sar- 
 casm. 
 
 Another passion was gradually awakened by 
 this sedulous nourishing of a too vehement 
 imagination, — the passion which, of all others, 
 is the one most fatal to a woman's happiness, 
 — a longing after fame. What had been in 
 her mother high-toned enthusiasm, was in- 
 herited by Theresa under the form of a yearn- 
 ing after distinction, an impatience of a com- 
 mon-place lot ; a love of power, veiled by a 
 delusive idea of the good and great things she 
 would achieve were it once in her possession. 
 In those days female authorship was not as com- 
 mon it is now ; and the bright few who had un- 
 dertaken its labours, were almost as much ad- 
 mired for their singularity as for their talents. 
 The cry of ^ Blue-stocking ' had been raised, 
 and men looked upon a woman's work with 
 that lordly superiority which could afford to 
 bestow a little praise. And this was not the 
 species of fame which Theresa felt would satisfy
 
 214 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 the cravings of her mind. A desire to appear 
 upon the stage, to embody some of the cha- 
 racters which she loved so enthusiastically, 
 was a castle which there was no harm, and 
 great amusement in buildings but, like the 
 fox into the churn, this intruding fancy pre- 
 sently made good its entrance, and estabhshed 
 its residence. It soon became natural to 
 Theresa to fancy herself the Lady Macbeth, — 
 the Virgin Martyr, — the Duchess of Amalfi ; — 
 she became familiar with their words, and, 
 from those, with their thoughts ; she felt how 
 they must have looked, how acted ; and it was 
 her favourite pleasure to pace to and fro in 
 her chamber, working herself up into a fever 
 by reciting the most passionate of their decla- 
 mations, till the indulgence of her ill-regulated 
 fancy became mistaken for the promptings of 
 destiny. 
 
 It was towards the end of June, when tree 
 and meadow are clothed with that deep and 
 profuse green, which becomes monotonous to 
 the eye, and gives the evening walk a sombre- 
 ness, almost a melancholy, equally remote from 
 the hopeful freshness of spring, or the gor-
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 215 
 
 geous variety of autumn, — ^that Theresa was 
 prevailed upon by Mr. Talbois to accompany 
 him in an evening drive, in spite of the teaz- 
 ings of the Worralls, " who were beginning,^^ 
 as she said to herself, ^^ to take a very un- 
 pleasant and familiar notice of her concerns.'^ 
 The fresh air was dehghtful to one who had 
 aU that day been inhahng the loaded atmosphere 
 of the sick room ; — and she rode on, by the 
 side of her courtly companion, undisturbed by 
 any wonder as to what he could mean by so 
 earnestly pressing her to allow him the plea- 
 sure of her company. He, for his part, was 
 in a reserved, if not a moody himiour, — said 
 much less than usual, and that little was of 
 the gravest, — and seemed purposely to select 
 those close and shady lanes which, towards 
 sunset, might suit the contemplative and the 
 serious. The hay-harvest was in its prime, 
 filling the air with balmy sweetness ; the wild 
 roses had climbed to the tops of the hedges ; 
 the lime trees hung heavy with bloom. There 
 could not be a more dehcious evening ; — and 
 yet Mr. Talbois was infinitely more silent than 
 usual. What could it mean ? Theresa almost
 
 216 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 thought she should venture to rally him on 
 this unusual taciturnity, if he drove on, say- 
 ing a word at every milestone, and no more, 
 and scarcely answering what she said. 
 
 But, just as the words were on her lips, a 
 little incident diverted the current of her 
 thoughts. There is, about four miles from our 
 town, a place, where four grassy lanes, gently 
 sloping down amongst plantations, meet ; and 
 their intersection is marked by two or three of 
 those curious old stones, commonly referred to 
 in the days of the Druids, upon which an- 
 tiquarian eyes have seen rings, and serpents, 
 and other symbolical figures. As they ap- 
 proached these, Theresa perceived that a small 
 group of persons was gathered round them, — 
 one standing a little higher than the rest, — and, 
 immediately after, the loud tones of a man^s 
 voice reached them. 
 
 " What is this ?" said Mr. Talbois, driving 
 more slowly, so as to take a deliberate view of 
 the little company. As they drew nearer, 
 Theresa perceived that the speaker was her 
 brother. 
 
 The young man was standing upon a frag- 
 
 M\
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 217 
 
 ment of stone which had fallen from one of 
 the larger masses. He had tied a coloured 
 handkerchief round his forehead, otherwise 
 his head was bare ; and his face, turned to- 
 wards the west, was just touched by one of 
 the last sunbeams that streamed in through an 
 opening in the boughs. This partial light, 
 falling upon his features, suited well their 
 elevated expression, and gave almost a beauty 
 to sallow cheek and sunken eye. Round him 
 were gathered a few hay-makers, middle-aged 
 men, leaning attentively on their rakes, and 
 brown comely women in their cool summer 
 dress ; one with a baby at her breast, another, 
 holding by the hand a little child : and he was 
 addressing them in a strain of plain eloquence 
 fresh from the heart, turning the season and 
 their employment to a religious use, and ex- 
 horting them to use the same diligence in the 
 spiritual as well as in the temporal harvest- 
 field. Tears stood in Theresa's eyes while she 
 listened, — for her companion, struck by the 
 picturesque appearance of the group, stopped 
 his horse ; and when, after a short pause, they 
 proceeded unnoticed, as it seemed, by the 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 ^18 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTKES^^ 
 
 preacher, she turned her head often to look 
 back, until the branches shut out the tall figure 
 with his outstretched arm, from her view. 
 
 " That young methodist was very like your 
 brother, was he not ?" said Mr. Talbois, break- 
 ing a silence of some moments' duration. 
 
 " That young man was my brother 1" re- 
 plied Theresa, thinking aloud ; " poor Reuben ! 
 I wish I were as good as he is '/' 
 
 There was another pause, even longer than 
 before. 
 
 ^^ Really," at last said Mr. Talbois, attempt- 
 ing a gayer tone, " this is too dismal, and 
 might be the prelude of a leave-taking for 
 ever, instead of only for a few weeks, or, at 
 the utmost a month or two." 
 
 ^* Leave-taking ! — a month or two !" cried 
 Theresa, surprised out of herself; ^^ are you 
 going away, Mr. Talbois ? — And when — ^when 
 must it be ? but I have no right to enquire." 
 
 " I leave for Dorsetshire at six o'clock to- 
 morrow morning. — You have every right to 
 enquire." — He again paused abruptly. 
 
 Theresa blushed deeply ; though she would 
 have given a king's ransom for the command
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILDREN. 219 
 
 of her colour ; — ^his last words were so strange, 
 and then this sudden checking of himself, as 
 though he felt that he had said too much. 
 
 " May I ask," resumed her companion, in 
 a more constrained voice, ^^ whether you are 
 likely to remain here, — I mean as a resid- 
 ent ? " 
 
 ^' I think so," rephed Theresa, and then, 
 
 strugghng to resume her old frank manner, 
 
 added : — " But we shall meet again, shall we 
 
 not ?" I am indebted to you for entrance 
 
 into a new world, — and it ^\411 amuse you to 
 
 see how many steps farther I have advanced, 
 
 by the time that you come again. — ^You will 
 
 come again to see the Worralls ?" — concluding 
 
 her sentence hastily, lest the tone of her voice 
 
 should betray the more than concern which she 
 
 felt. 
 
 " I shall come again," rephed Talbois with 
 
 an effort ; " but not to see the Worralls. If I 
 ask to see another friend whom I have learned 
 to know, and to admire, in — *— , shall I be de- 
 nied admittance ?" 
 
 Theresa could only muster sufficient com- 
 posure to falter out ;— " Surely, no." 
 
 l2
 
 220 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ^' Well then, I will try to live on that pro- 
 mise. — Here we are at home already ! Con- 
 found Bayard ! he is slow enough usually. 
 Farewell then, dear Miss Grafton ! — dear The- 
 resa ! — ^farewell — ^but to return !" 
 
 Theresa shook hands with him in silence. 
 One of her gloves was half off; — he withdrew 
 it entirely, and, as he drove away, she derived 
 some melancholy consolation from remember- 
 ing the reverence with which she had seen him 
 consign it to his pocket-book.
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 221 
 
 PART II, 
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A 
 DEBUTANTE. 
 
 " There are the players." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Mr. Clackworth, at that time the popular 
 manager of a theatre in a large and gay town in 
 the west of England, was breakfasting at his 
 ease in a chamber, the littered state whereof 
 would have made tidy housewives ready to 
 faint, while the objects it contained were suffi- 
 cient to have amused the most insatiable 
 of Fatimas during the week of her husband^s 
 absence, so that she should have forgotten to
 
 222 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 put her hand in her pocket only to feel for the 
 key of the blue chamber. It was a small 
 room, sixteen feet square, and its walls were 
 crowded to overflowing with curiosities and 
 ornaments, choice cabinet pictures and curious 
 costumes, mirrors, girandoles ; — ^here, a row 
 of black and gold shelves, creaking under the 
 weight of princeps editions of rare old plays — 
 there, some Turkish scimitar, or murderous 
 looking brace of pistols, which had done their 
 duty in Bajazet or Bobadil — here, a bust of 
 Mrs. Gibber— there, a French doll, dressed in 
 the newest mode, to resemble Madame 
 Rombot, the celebrated danseuse. The carpet 
 was a genuine Turkey rug— the table, with 
 its equipage of exquisite Sevre china, had 
 been purchased at some sale of the cast-ofF 
 goods of a Mancini, or a Pompadour ; and 
 before the fire slept a Persian greyhound of 
 remarkable beauty, which had been presented 
 to the eccentric manager by a physician, who ,J 
 had received it, in part of a fee for attending 
 six si<^k ladies belonging to the establishment of 
 Elfi Bey. 
 
 The owner of these treasures was, after all.
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DKBUTANTE. 223 
 
 the greatest curiosity in the chamber. A good 
 liver — you might see by his face ; a man of 
 breeding, you might guess from the splendid 
 volume of Brantome which lay open upon the 
 table, just beyond the neighbourhood of his 
 buttered muffin ; a gentleman, in right of that 
 indescribable air not to be misunderstood, 
 which even a somewhat theatrical parade of 
 jewellery on his fingers, and that peculiar style 
 of hair, as completely and characteristically 
 Thespian as the venerable green curtain it- 
 self could not destroy ; a kind man, as might 
 be divined from the attention paid to him by 
 a quaint, tidy-looking old lady, who came in 
 and out with great zeal ; his appearance was 
 so singular (though not unpleasing) that any 
 one, who possessed a taste for the extraordi- 
 nary, would have turned from all the inanimate 
 wonders of the place, to study the strange 
 figure of the humourist, its owner. He was 
 short in stature, and as perfectly round and 
 guiltless of a waist, as if he had been pressed 
 through a cylinder too small for his bulk ; his 
 eyes were small, keen, and set so far apart, 
 that his mouth, by observing the painter's rule.
 
 224 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESSY 
 
 which regulates its length by their distance 
 from corner to corner, was unaccountably long, 
 and so pinched in towards the middle, that its 
 under lip was almost entirely invisible. His 
 linen was of the finest texture, and scrupulous- 
 ly white ; his slippers of the costliest mo- 
 rocco, and his damask dressing-gown brocaded 
 with a perfect pantomine of dragons and rose- 
 bushes. 
 
 " A young lady in the anti-room, Martha ? — 
 can't see her, — can't possibly see her ; — ^never 
 will see people at meal times ; — tell her to call 
 again, and — stay a moment, Martha — ^what is 
 she like ?'" 
 
 " I can't positively say, Sir, except that she 
 is in deep mourning." 
 
 ^' O, Mrs. Meriden, the widow, I suppose^ 
 — tired of her weeds, and wishing to be re- 
 engaged." 
 
 " No, Sir ; it is a much younger lady than 
 Mrs. Meriden ; when would you wish her to 
 call again ? — This is quite a stranger." 
 
 ^' Stay a moment, Martha; — did she say 
 what she wanted ? — Perhaps it is that jade 
 Mademoiselle Chevre's maid come, with a long 

 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE, 225 
 
 face, to tell me that her mistress has a nervous 
 fever, and can't dance to-night, — and this her 
 last night, too, before she goes to Plymouth ! 
 Plague take these Frenchwomen ! why can't 
 English people be content without them ?" 
 
 "No, sir, — Mademoiselle Ch^vre's maid 
 speaks no English ; and, besides, I should 
 know that outlandish head of hair of her's under 
 any bonnet." 
 
 " Shew her in, then, Martha ; — I can't 
 think — alas ! for the days that are gone ! I 
 once could eat my breakfast in peace ! You 
 are sure she is young, Martha ? Shew her in ; 
 and, if I ring again, bring up some fresh cho- 
 colate," and the gentleman turned down the 
 cuifs of his dressing-gown, settled his wig, and 
 prepared to look gay and gallant. 
 
 ^^ What name shall I say, Ma'am ? " said 
 Martha, sending her voice before her^ after the 
 fashion of Homer's heroes. 
 
 " It does not matter," replied the most mu- 
 sical voice which Mr. Clackworth had ever 
 heard ; he again arranged the ends of his 
 cravat, so to do full justice to its frills of real 
 Valenciennes. 
 
 l3
 
 226 THE MISSIONARY AND THF ACTRESS. 
 
 ^^ Well^ Ma'am, it is very strange. The 
 lady. Sir,'' cried Martha, displeased at the vi- 
 sitor's reserve. 
 
 " Very well, you may go, Martha. Pray, 
 Madam, take a chair ; — that will do, Martha, 
 you need not wait." 
 
 " Well, to be sure," muttered the discomfit- 
 ed housekeeper, leaving the room as slowly 
 as she dared, '' to think of any one's coming 
 at this time in the morning ! " 
 
 " And now. Madam, that we are alone," 
 said Mr. Clackworth, edging his chair near to 
 the one occupied by his visitor, ^^ may I beg 
 to know the name of my guest, and what has 
 procured me so early an honour ?" 
 
 The veiled lady seemed to find some diffi- 
 culty in speaking. 
 
 " Very diffident indeed," observed Mr. 
 Clackworth, aside ; " pray. Madam, do me 
 the favour, if you have not breakfasted, to al- 
 low me to ring for some fresh chocolate." 
 
 " Thank you. Sir," replied the incognita, 
 " I have breakfasted." 
 
 " I am truly sorry to hear it ; it will con- 
 demn me to the dullness of finishing my repast
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 227 
 
 alone ; — you will excuse my proceeding. Here 
 Romeo ! Romeo ! — ^here, poor fellow ! I had 
 almost forgotten you," and he stooped and fed 
 his greyhound with the remains of the beefsteak. 
 
 *^ I ought to beg your pardon," said the lady, 
 breaking, at last, the somewhat awkward pause 
 which ensued, " for thus intruding upon you 
 at such an early hour." 
 
 " Never too early to allow me the happiness 
 of making your acquaintance," replied the 
 courtly manager, whose pohteness had not re- 
 ceived a check by the result of a stealthy 
 examination of the features which lurked 
 under the poke of the large crape bonnet. 
 
 " But I was told," continued his guest, 
 " that I should at this time be almost sure of 
 finding you disengaged, and was anxious to 
 wait upon you to know — if — in short, you 
 would allow me to — having long had a decided 
 inclination — " 
 
 " My dear young lady," repUed Mr. Clack- 
 worth, in his most encouraging tone, " I hope 
 you are not afraid of me ; but you are nearly 
 as mysterious as the Sphynx herself. To the 
 point, however, let us waste no time in useless 
 delicacies. Am I correct in guessing that the
 
 228 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 purport of your visit refers to a first appear- 
 ance^ which you wish to make upon the stage, 
 under my direction ?" — another motion of the 
 chair brought him close to her elbow. 
 
 " You are, Sir : — ^family difficulties — " 
 
 '' Well, my dear young lady, there is no 
 occasion to enter upon the chapter of reasons 5 
 we ought rather to speak of qualifications ; — 
 nay, really, you should taste my chocolate if 
 only to give you courage. Miss Farren made 
 it immortal, when she did me the honour to 
 breakfast with me, by calling it the elixir vitce. 
 What have been your studies ? — ^but, pray un- 
 derstand me, I am by no means sure that 
 I am in circumstances to offer you an engage- 
 ment except in case of the most decided suc- 
 cess/' 
 
 The lady hastened to assure him that such 
 was by no means her expectation. She was, 
 indeed, anxious to be permitted to appear 
 under his auspices, from the high character 
 which his management bore ; as to any en- 
 gagement, that was, of course, a thing for fu- 
 ture consideration, 
 
 ^^ Very reasonably said, my dear young 
 lady, I must confess.-— Down, Romeo, down
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 229 
 
 sir ! you are too greedy 1 — Yes, Madam, I 
 am aware the name of my theatre does stand 
 high ; and your wish is a very natural one. I 
 could mention a score of distinguished names, 
 at least, of those who could date their celebrity 
 from the time when they first trod my boards. 
 But then I have so much upon my hands just 
 now. I have engaged Mademoiselle Chevre, the 
 famous dancer, for three months, in conjunc- 
 tion with the Plymouth and Exeter people ; 
 and, while she is here, no one \Nill hsten to, 
 or look at any thing else ; and besides, — ^but, 
 however. Madam, will you do me the favour to 
 read a passage or two ; — you have never ap- 
 peared before, you say,— not even in pri- 
 vate ? " 
 
 " Never.'' 
 
 *^ Well then, supposing we say some of the 
 speeches in Portia's part, or JuHet's — which- 
 ever you hke. Here, Madam, is my pocket 
 Shakspeare, my breviary, as I call it -, will you 
 do me the favour ?" 
 
 " Thank you. Sir," rephed the no\dce, 
 trembhng as she dechned the book, " I think 
 I know them all by heart." 
 
 " Good ! good ! a well-stored memory is
 
 230 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 not a bad foundation for Thespian honours. 
 May I beg of you to remove your bonnet, — 
 you must excuse me, but I must be permitted 
 to form some idea 5— allow me ; though I fear 
 I shall prove but a poor lady's maid/* 
 
 Theresa gave back as he rose ; and, un- 
 tying the strings, divested herself of her 
 bonnet with such an unsteady hand, that 
 her comb too was loosened in the operation, 
 and a flood of long silken tresses fell upon 
 her shoulders, and mantled her brow, which 
 was now covered with the deepest crimson. 
 , " Ahem 1 ahem ! very satisfactory^," said the 
 old gentleman, apparently not discontented 
 with the revelation ; " and now may I ask 
 your name." 
 
 " Aubrey, Sir," replied our old friend in a 
 faltering voice. Alas for truth! "Aubrey ! a very 
 euphonious name indeed ! I will not enquire 
 whether it is genuine. Nay, don't let me dis- 
 tress you ; it is so very common a step on the 
 part of the timid and inexperienced. I remem- 
 ber hearing Mrs. Abington say, but that's no 
 matter; — now, my dear Miss Aubrey, some- 
 thing of Juliet, — suppose me to be your Romeo, 
 or, {do let me persuade you out of this extreme
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 231 
 
 sensitiveness) talk to my dog and forget that I 
 am by: — the balcony scene, for instance." 
 
 Poor Theresa, who had long ago, imagined 
 that she had screwed her courage up to the 
 sticking place, felt now that it was called upon, 
 how woefully deficient she was in nerve ; and 
 her voice faltered so much, that she was unable 
 to do justice to her own. very good and original 
 conception of the character of the love-sick 
 Italian girl: nevertheless, this very tremour 
 imparted a tenderness to her manner, which, 
 to use the professional phrase, seemed to take 
 mightily. Mr. Clackworth sate leaning back 
 in his easy chair, with the points of his thumbs 
 joined, occasionally putting in so much of the 
 dialogue as was necessary to the connexion 
 of the scene, and murmuring to himself, such 
 morsels of encouragement as, "Pretty! — ah! 
 very pretty ! — ah ! good ! don't be afraid of 
 gi\'ing way to your feelings: — a very sweetly 
 toned voice, upon my word ! we shall easily 
 add a httle more power. Thank you, madam, 
 I will tax your excellent memory no further." 
 
 " I should feel more at home in Constance 
 or Lady Macbeth," ventured his visitor. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! my dear, — excuse me, but I
 
 232 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 am an old man: never dream of Constance or 
 Lady Macbeth for these fifteen years to come 
 or, at all events, till you can write Mrs. before 
 your name. And now I really hardly can tell 
 what to say to you. I am pleased with you 
 there is no denying it; and nature has been very 
 bountiful to you: don't blush, we take all 
 these things into consideration — but, ..." 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of Mar- 
 tha — " Miss Randalls^ Sir, wishes to see you 
 immediately, Sir." 
 
 " Bless me! what can have brought her here 
 so early ? she always makes every one wait half 
 an hour at least at rehearsal." 
 
 " I hear him. He is in," said a sonorous 
 voice in the anti-chamber — " I will enter. 
 Speak, Sir, is this true?" 
 
 " Good morning. Miss Randalls," said 
 Clackworth rather distantly. 
 
 The lady was a full blown woman of thirty- 
 five, upon whom the wear and tear of stage 
 life, and some whispered, of self indulgence, 
 had told their tale. She was dressed in the 
 extravagance of fashion, and advanced with a 
 proud and somewhat resentful aii. 
 
 " I will not accept of your greeting," replied 
 
 (
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 233 
 
 she, in the same heroic tone, " until I know 
 whether it is to be peace or war, whether we 
 are friends or foes/' 
 
 " Pray explain yourself, Miss Randalls/' 
 " In a word then, who is this young person?" 
 and as she spoke she extended her arm in the 
 most imposing attitude towards Theresa, who 
 felt a Httle disposed to smile, a very little to 
 cry. 
 
 " This young lady, Miss Aubrey, — ^upon my 
 word. Miss Randalls, your enquiry is very ex- 
 traordinary." 
 
 " Am I to interpret this hesitation as confir- 
 mation strong ?" replied the tragedy queen. 
 ^ Am I to conclude that, at last, you are turn- 
 ing traitor to my cause, and with my cause, to 
 your own best interests?— am I, in short, to 
 be supplanted by this raw girl? look to it, Mr. 
 Clackworth, and answer me faithfully." 
 
 " Now, pray, what is the meaning of all this 
 intemperance?" 
 
 " Intemperance, sir ! wdll you dare to echo 
 that calumny ? — Clackworth, I will neither be 
 insulted nor trifled with: — you best know for 
 how many years I have been a faithful and
 
 234 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 zealous coadjutor of your establishment.— If 
 this young person is to be introduced to my 
 detriment; — be sincere, be honest in your vil- 
 lany,— if, I say, this Miss Aubrey is to be 
 engaged, we are two people henceforward and 
 for ever !" 
 
 " Upon my word, this flight is rather too 
 high," replied the manager, his civility waxing 
 smaller at every word he spoke: " I cannot 
 for an instant, allow your right to make this 
 enquiry; and must beg, that if you will visit 
 me at such untimely hours, you will do me the 
 favour of coming witl^ the intention of being a 
 little more agreeable." 
 
 " Is it so ?" replied the Randalls, her eyes 
 flashing a fire which she had never been able 
 to kindle for a Roxalana or Statira : — " Is it 
 so? — am I to be despised, — laid upon the shelf, 
 and, gracious Heavens ! for this girl? — Clack- 
 worth, you shall repent this! — and for you, 
 madam," — she swept across the room towards 
 the place where Theresa sat, absolutely tremb- 
 ling at the sight and sound of so much violence. 
 
 " And for you, madam," interrupted Mr* 
 Clackworth in his most decided tone, ^^ I must
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTF. 235 
 
 beg your attention for one moment. Miss 
 Randalls. Be pleased to consider our engage- 
 ment together as at an end — now and for ever. 
 You remember that on my part, it is entirely 
 optional how long I retain you, and that you 
 have annoyed me rather too often by these 
 scenes in private; which, allow me to observe. 
 Miss Aubrey, are in terrible bad taste. It is 
 your own doing, madam, that we are separated. 
 Good morning — and before you enter into 
 treaty with another manager, permit me to 
 recommend to you the study of keeping your 
 temper 3 particularly when you go out to pay 
 morning visits." 
 
 The rage which was provoked by this cool 
 reproof passes description. Mr. Clackworth 
 was known to be immoveable in his decisions, 
 and by this steadiness had been enabled to 
 maintain a long and successful reign over his 
 motley subjects ; and Miss Randalls was sober 
 enough to remember too well, how often she 
 had sinned and been forgiven, to entertain a 
 thought of making her peace on this occasion. 
 She had, therefore, no motive for restraining 
 her spite, and grew so violent, that at last, the
 
 236 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 manager took her gently by the elbows, and 
 conducting her to the door of the anti-cham- 
 ber, desired Martha to shew her out. 
 
 " Shew me out, you paltry fellow!" were 
 her last words — " but remember that you have 
 provoked me — and tremble !" 
 
 " A very violent person/' observed he coolly 
 as he returned to Theresa, wiping his forehead 
 after the exertion which the expulsion of the 
 irate Randalls had required: *^ A most extremely 
 violent person ! but I cannot submit to any 
 dictation, madam. I have done with her ; and 
 therefore, my dear young lady, if you can ma- 
 nage your first appearance tolerably soon, and 
 should succeed, I shall be glad to enlist you 
 as her substitute." 
 
 Theresa expressed her great satisfaction at 
 this unlooked for good fortune, and they then 
 began to enter into particulars which it would 
 be tedious to record. After a long interview 
 they parted, Mr. Clackworth having first ad- 
 vised Theresa to place herself under respectable 
 protection as soon as possible, and mentioning 
 a respectable family connected with the thea- 
 tre, whose conduct was unexceptionable, and
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 237 
 
 who could be of use to her in her profession, 
 no less as an assistance than as a safeguard 
 She thanked him for this fatherly care of her, 
 and took her leave with strangely mingled 
 feehngs of exultation and retrospect. We must 
 briefly examine the latter. 
 
 Many and various had been the events 
 crowded into the space of the last two years ; 
 strangely had the chains of circumstances seem- 
 ed to fall from around her, and leave her, if 
 not compel her to a freedom of agency, in 
 which it is so difficult for a young and beautiful 
 woman to act with discretion. In the first 
 place, Mr. Lambwood had Hved only a few 
 weeks after Theresa had parted from Mr. Tal- 
 bois on that memorable evening. His affec- 
 tionate wife, who had, all her life, prayed for 
 nothing so eagerly as that she might not survive 
 her husband, and who was utterly worn out 
 by her anxious attendance upon him, began, 
 \^ithin a few weeks of his decease, to show 
 symptoms of a consumptive tendency. So far 
 from being alarmed by their danger, with the 
 natural eagerness of her temperament, she re- 
 joiced in the prospect of so soon rejoining her
 
 238 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 departed companion. Some might have com- 
 plained that this extreme anxiety to lay down 
 the burden of earth partook of the nature of 
 selfishness, inasmuch as she rarely seemed to 
 advert to the future lot of the foster-children 
 she was leaving behind her — but it is an un- 
 gracious thing to interfere with the workings of 
 sorrow. " When she became assured," says 
 the eloquent minister, who drew up an account 
 of her last moments for the edification of sur- 
 vivors — " and that she was fast approaching 
 the valley of the shadow of death, an unspeakable 
 delight and thankfulness possessed her spirit, 
 which seemed to await its Maker's summons 
 with wings already spread — and to trouble 
 itself for nothing save to make haste and 
 possess the fair inheritance provided for it. 
 During the last month of her life, her adopted 
 daughter never quitted her side for an hour, 
 and had, as she thought, kissed her to sleep a 
 few moments before she expired. Never, in- 
 deed, was a death-bed less fearful ! No sooner 
 had the soul departed, than a smile, radiant 
 beyond all description clothed her pale but still 
 comely features 5 a smile, which told that the
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OP A DEBUTANTE. 239 
 
 hope of the deceased was well founded — and 
 that she had entered into the joys of Paradise." 
 
 Upon opening Mr. Lambwood's ^dll^ it had 
 been discovered that he had left all his dispo- 
 sable property to Reuben Grafton. The great- 
 er part of his income had arisen from annui- 
 ties upon his own and his wife's life ; so that 
 the sum bequeathed was by no means a con- 
 siderable one, and the charge given to the 
 young man to provide for his sister could only 
 be obeyed by his proving economical as well 
 as discreet, and adopting some calUng which 
 might increase his income. 
 
 Mrs. Lamb wood had bequeathed three hun- 
 dred pounds to the desolate girl, — desolate, be- 
 cause there was httle hope of her finding in 
 her brother either a protector or a counsellor ; 
 and her own mind was in that unsettled state 
 when both of the two were urgently needed. 
 Reuben had long since forsaken his first re- 
 ligious friends as lukewarm and too conform- 
 able to the world, and joined a sect of more 
 fervent and less educated worshippers, to 
 whom he became an oracle and a minister. 
 It was lamentable to see so fine a mind rapid-
 
 240 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ly approaching utter ruin, if not, partial in- 
 sanity ; but the evil was past remedy. His 
 old friends, in the strict quiet congregation 
 which he had quitted, remonstrated with him, 
 but in vain ; — he was always surrounded 
 by his new associates, for whom no doctrine 
 was too wild, or no zeal too excessive, and 
 whose labours were most chiefly exercised 
 upon those of the most illiterate and de- 
 graded class, and with the most profit 5 from 
 the same reason which renders the bodily 
 constitutions of such accessible to remedies 
 which would hurry those of more moderate 
 habits to the grave. 
 
 All this Theresa saw with dismay, — she 
 groaned under the infliction of the coarse so- 
 ciety of Reuben's new connexions ; — she 
 doubted and disbelieved his counsels, and pre- 
 sently became obliged, in self-defence, to 
 resist his requests, which were peremptorily 
 urged without patience or discretion. The ef- 
 fect of the few months which she passed thus 
 miserably under her brother's guardianship, 
 was to alienate her in spirit more than ever 
 from her old habits, and to give her floating
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 241 
 
 fancies form and snbstance. As for her pa- 
 rents, no one could give her tidings of their 
 life or death ; and the only other friends from 
 whom she had a right to expect help or coun- 
 tenance^ proved themselves, as worldly people 
 will always do on such occasions, selfishly un- 
 willing to do their duty by one who had some 
 claims on their sympathy. 
 
 Yes, it may be calculated upon as a certainty 
 that those, who, from idleness or vanity, are 
 the first to persuade another to change his 
 opinions or habits, are also th€ first to de- 
 nounce such a change, should it extend a 
 hand's breadth beyond the liberty permitted by 
 their own code. They will move the stone, 
 and then wonder that it rolls ; they will tear 
 away the cobwebs of old prejudices to let 
 in the hght, and then complain that their pu- 
 pil sees too much. Thus it was between the 
 Worralls and Theresa. They had opened her 
 eyes to the fascinations of th-e world ; they 
 had encouraged her m cultivating her intellect, 
 and now they began to blame her as frivo- 
 lous, because, though her heart was aching 
 with anxiety, she had not lost all power or 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 taking pleasure in the very things which they 
 had taught her to love ; and as free-thinking, 
 because her mind had taken to itself the li- 
 cense of passing the bounds of the circle^ 
 wherein theirs were trammelled, as strictly as 
 the Lambwoods had been within their nar- 
 rower ring of sectarianism. There were other 
 causes, too, for this heartless uncharitableness. 
 Theresa was a beauty, and admired ; and they, 
 who had brought that beauty into notice, were 
 jealous of the admiration which it excited. In 
 short, their friendship had visibly cooled ever 
 since the time of Mr. Talbois' visit, and even 
 before Mr. Lambwood's death, the girls had 
 reached the point of talking at Theresa, by 
 spreading all manner of reports, and drop- 
 ping such hints as, — " Mr. Talbois was so 
 gay at Weymouth,- — they had letters, — and it 
 was said that he was going to be married to 
 an Earl's ward ; — ^but they did not believe 
 it; — he was such a ilirt— not in the least 
 likely to marry, — they had known it when 
 he first came to them, and therefore kept 
 on their guard."' Alas for truth ! again ; for 
 the three first nights of his visit, Lucy and
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 243 
 
 Susan had lain awake trying to find out which 
 of the two he Hked the best ! The inter- 
 course between the Worralls and Theresa be- 
 came more and more constrained week by 
 week. The young ladies about this time 
 formed attachments, and their prudent pa- 
 rents began to think that their intimacy with 
 such a " strange young person" as Theresa, 
 was likely to do them much injury in the 
 sight of their beloveds, who were steady sub- 
 stantial men of business, and had no notion 
 of poetry or any such silly doings ; and though 
 they would go to the theatre occasionally to 
 see a play, regarded the authors and actors 
 by. whom they condescended to be entertain- 
 ed, much with the same contempt as the 
 Brahmin regards the Pariah withal. 
 
 It w^as long ere Theresa became fully ahve 
 to the unkindness of her companions, of late 
 so zealous to enlarge the sphere of her plea- 
 sures ; it was long before she could beheve, 
 that it would be a rehef to them to let the ac- 
 quaintance drop decently. Some who read 
 this, may possibly, at some period or other of 
 their lives, have made similar discoveries, — 
 
 m2
 
 ^44 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTKES^^ 
 
 and such only can understand the poignancy 
 of her feehngs^ which the buoyancy of youth- 
 ful spirits, and the hopefulness of her tem-^ 
 perament could hardly overcome or soften. 
 She was, however, diverted from dwelling 
 on their falseness by new trials. At this 
 juncture, Thomas Proudfoot renewed his ad- 
 dresses with a dogged perseverance, which as- 
 sailed her in the morning with the same soli- 
 citations as she had refused to listen to on the 
 previous evening. Reuben, too, would fain 
 have introduced to her notice as lovers, some 
 as enthusiastic, and more coarse than him- 
 self ; and even began to threaten her with 
 coercion should she refuse to entertain their 
 odious proposals. He regarded her as one 
 possessed with an evil spirit, which was only 
 to be expelled by force, and would pray over 
 her, and apply denunciatory texts of Scrip- 
 ture to her case, with a freedom which totally 
 destroyed her reverence for truths in such a 
 perverted state. At last, she could endure 
 no more, and resolved to take flight from so 
 comfortless and disturbed a home. Then 
 came the questions ; whither was she to go ?
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OT A DEBUTANTE. 245 
 
 what plans must she adopt ? The answer 
 was always the same, — the stage, — and so 
 strongly did circumstances second her natural 
 incHnation, that she thought herself only yield- 
 ing to necessity in adopting a theatrical Hfe 
 as her profession. Her plans were promptly 
 taken ; — she gathered together her few pos- 
 sessions and as much of Mrs. Lambwood's 
 legacy as yet remained to her, and, availing 
 herself of her brother's absence from home 
 on a tent-preaching excursion, took leave of 
 her native town ; and, braving the difficulties 
 of a lone woman's journey, arrived at — ■ ■ . , 
 as we have seen, sought out Mr. Clackworth, 
 and, thanks to the jealousy of Miss Randalls, 
 was conditionally enlisted as one of his 
 corps. 
 
 The family in which Theresa, at Mr. Clack- 
 worth's instance, took up her abode, consisted 
 of a couple who had been attached to theatres 
 ever since their infancy, and had been intro- 
 duced to the notice of the public as soon as 
 they were old enough to cry the parts of the 
 Babes in the Wood, and small enough to be 
 covered by the substantial leaves dropped
 
 246 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 upon them by the stage robin. They had, 
 therefore, grown up without any other ideas, 
 or habits than those of the green-room ; and, 
 happening to be thrown much together, had 
 married, as much for their mutual profit as 
 for mutual love ; and, with constitutional 
 carelessness, had laughed and bustled their 
 way through the rough and smooth of Hfe, 
 without encountering any very serious trials. 
 Both of the pair had preserved their good 
 name unspotted : — it is strange to see what 
 fair flowers, neglected plants, growing in rug- 
 ged places, will bear, — and, as strange, 
 what sound principles and right thoughts 
 sometimes meant in persons, whose lot 
 Nature seems to have cast in crooked paths. 
 *The little couple/ as they were constantly 
 called behind the scenes, were as truthful as 
 they were merry-hearted, as honest as 
 they were industrious, and continued favour- 
 ites with the public, and friends with each 
 other. She was the soubrette of the company, 
 — brown, nimble, and familiar ; — he, in virtue 
 of an expressive face, a smooth voice, and a 
 careful pronunciation, was trusted with the 
 
 1
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 247 
 
 parts of lovers and heroes when no star 
 chanced to be shining in the provinces. 
 Such were Mr. and Mrs. Tyrell ; and Theresa 
 soon learned to esteem herself happy in hav- 
 ing found such a cheerful and respectable 
 shelter as their house afforded. 
 
 She was not allowed much time for intro- 
 duction to the world behind the scenes, — -that 
 woeful region of disenchantment to those who 
 fancy the stage a fairy land full of courtesy 
 and happiness, — or she was desired to re- 
 hearse the part of Juliet, to prepare for an 
 early appearance. In the meantime, however, 
 she saw enough to terrify one who had been 
 educated in the strictest of strict households 
 
 9 
 
 — enough to make her thankful to creep to 
 Mrs. TyreU's side when the business of her own 
 part was over, and tremble whenever she was 
 addressed by a strange voice. And oh ! the 
 numerous disgusts which she was compelled 
 to endure, upon hearing the most splendid 
 passages of her favourite authors, mutilated or 
 debased by the incompetent or vulgar ! Then 
 she was perplexed beyond description by the 
 numerous stage practices and etiquettes with
 
 248 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 which it was necessary for her to become fa- 
 miUar, — entrances, embraces, and innumerable, 
 ©ther small matters of which she had never 
 dreamed before. It was well for her that. 
 Mrs. Tyrell liked her, and, with her ready- 
 wit and cheerful spirit, helped her through all 
 her troubles ; enough, however remained to 
 make her anticipate her debut with increasing 
 anxiety. She began to wonder whether to be 
 admired or hated was the greater trial ; to 
 have to endure Mr. Clackworth's old world 
 courtesies, which, in the opinion of by-stand- 
 ers, tended to nothing short of a renunciationr 
 of the dear delights of batchelor-hood, . at her 
 feet, — and the insolent compliments of those 
 patrons of the drama who were admitted 
 behind the scenes ; or to be mortified by the 
 undisguised contempt of Mademoiselle Chevre, 
 who was provoked by the succession of one 
 dangler from her train after another, — and 
 to discover that the Randalls had left her sting 
 behind her, and prepared not a few of her 
 new companions to regard her with suspicion. 
 Her beauty was a cause of envy ; — ^her ac- 
 cent an object of remark -, and then the daily
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 249 
 
 cabals and manceuvrings which she witnessed ! 
 — But, to be brief, she received one morning 
 a visit from Mr. Clackworth, who requested 
 her to prepare for her debut on the following 
 Tuesday, (the present day was Saturday;) 
 Mademoiselle Chevre being about to take her 
 farewell benefit, and " anxious,'' as the bills 
 set forth, " to present the public with as 
 much attraction as possible." This arrange- 
 ment was the result of an intrigue ; but The- 
 resa, herself as guiltless as a child, thought of 
 nothing but the terrors of her impending debut, 
 and turned, as Mrs. Tyrell said, " paler than 
 white," when that vivacious little woman 
 bustled into her room, bearing a bill nearly 
 as long as herself, printed in gigantic type. 
 
 AMAZING NOVELTY FOR TUESDAY EVENING !!! 
 
 MADEMOISELLE CHfiVRE 
 
 BEING POSITIVELY HER LAST APPEARANCE, 
 AND 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET, 
 
 THE PART OF JULIET BY 
 
 MISS AUBREY, 
 
 BEIXG HER FIRST APPEARANCE UPON ANY STAGE. 
 
 M 3
 
 250 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ^' Give you joy, Miss Aubrey 1" said Tyrell, 
 gaily, when he came home from rehearsal, 
 " there is not a place to be had in the boxes 
 on Tuesday for love or money 1" 
 
 " Mademoiselle Chevre is very popular,'* 
 was Theresa's answer. 
 
 '^ Mademoiselle Fiddlestick !" replied he -, 
 " she knew well enough what she was about 
 when she prevailed upon Clackworth to fix 
 your first appearance on her benefit night. 
 Had it not been for that, she might have 
 danced to empty benches, you may depend 
 upon it. Mademoiselle Chevre has been too 
 insolent here to have any right to expect much 
 countenance ; and, as she is to start for 
 Exeter on Wednesday morning, I have no doubt 
 she would rather witness your triumph, than 
 look at an empty box-sheet. These foreigners 
 are all alike — perfect Jews." 
 
 " She is insufferably rapacious," replied his 
 helpmate ; " Sir Harry Maristow sent her a 
 most splendid ruby ring the other morning, 
 in token of his admiration ; and, what do you 
 think ? — she sent it back to him to have the 
 ruby engraved !' 
 " Nay, Nancy — "
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 251 
 
 "And Sir Maristow, as she calls him in her 
 broken English, rephed that he could not 
 think of parting with the merest trifle she 
 could do him the honour to give him, that he 
 would certainly attend to her taste in the 
 choice of a motto, and wear the ring for her 
 sake." 
 
 " Excellent ! most excellent ! Nancy ; — but 
 dinner is growing cold while we are abusing 
 Mademoiselle Chevre. Come, Miss Aubrey, 
 sit down — this pigeon is for your benefit ! ha ! 
 ha ! ha !" and the three sat merrily down to 
 their dinner. 
 
 The next day was Sunday; — Mr. and Mrs. 
 Tyrell set oflf to the cathoHc chapel, leaving 
 Theresa alone, who was suffering from a se- 
 vere head-ache, and was resolved to in- 
 dulge herself with the dangerous luxury of 
 a few hours of perfect quietness. The Fates, 
 however, decreed that her reverie should be in- 
 terrupted; for scarcely had she enjoyed the 
 contemplation of her sweet and bitter thoughts, 
 for one poor half-hour, when a knock at the 
 door startled her ; — a weU-known voice, " Is 
 Miss Aubrey at home, alone ?'' increased her 
 perturbation, and the entrance of Mr. Clack-
 
 252 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 worth, dressed in his sprucest suit, completed 
 the measure of her annoyance. He advanced 
 towards her, bowing and smiling very sweetly. 
 
 " I cannot regret the malady which keeps 
 you a prisoner," said he seating himself, " as 
 it has also procured me the pleasure of this 
 undisturbed interview. I hope that you are 
 not very unwell, though Mrs. Tyrell, whom 1 
 met in Albany Street told me that she thought 
 you were feverish. Permit me to feel your 
 pulse; I am something of a physician." 
 
 " O thank you, Sir," replied Theresa lightly, 
 " it is only a head-ache ; a good night's rest 
 will be sure to put it to flight." 
 
 " Only a head-ache ! — surely that is enough, 
 my dear young lady, caused, I have no doubt 
 by a natural anxiety with respect to " the great, 
 the important day!" — Confess to me, are you 
 not a little afraid? It was of this particular thing 
 that I came to speak." 
 
 Theresa owned to a little fear. 
 
 " My dear and excellent young lady," con- 
 tinued the manager, " it was about this very 
 little fear that I wished to converse with you, 
 to consult with you what is best for our mu- 
 tual happiness."
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 253 
 
 " Our mutual happiness!" repeated Theresa 
 to herself, — " whatever can be coming? — if my 
 first appearance could be deferred. Sir" — 
 
 " Out of the question, my dear Miss Aubrey 
 — out of the question ! — couldn't be," if Heaven 
 would make me such another world, of one 
 entire and perfect chrysohtei" I should have a 
 riot to a certainty, so much has been said 
 about it. And besides, it would be a serious 
 loss to me. I have been obliged to pay Mrs. 
 Harrington of the Queen's three guineas a 
 night for the last fortnight: and that virago 
 Miss Randalls, goes trumpetting over aU the 
 town, that I have engaged an actress whom I 
 dare not bring forward — but I did well to get 
 rid of her, the vixen! — No, my dear young 
 lady, such a thing is not to be thought of." 
 
 " What is it then you wish me to do ?" 
 
 " Why, my dear young lady," replied the 
 manager, ^vith most alarming tenderness of 
 manner, " I have come hither on purpose to 
 consult with you. I should be loth, I am sure, 
 to throw any difficulties in the way, when 
 there are none ; most especially in your case : 
 but this excess of your amiable sensitiveness
 
 ^54 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 makes me a leetle nervous about your success 
 upon the stage, — you must excuse my frank- 
 ness on the score of my very sincere regard — 
 so that, in short, madam, for I am not a man 
 of many words, if you should be disposed to 
 exchange the triumphs of the theatre, for the 
 sohd comforts of domestic Ufe, I can offer 
 you" — 
 
 " O Mr. Clackvrorth!" cried Theresa, rising 
 very suddenly. 
 
 ^^ Nay, my dear young lady, to tell you that 
 you are admired, cannot, ought not to surprise 
 you. I have seen many ladies, in the course 
 of my tolerably extended experience, but none 
 who combine so many — I am serious, my dear 
 Miss Aubrey, and only tender my services to 
 you, as a faithful and devoted partner for life, 
 at this juncture, to convince you of my disin- 
 terestedness. I entreat you to give me a fa- 
 vourable hearing!" and he fairly sank down 
 upon his knees before her, and took one of her 
 hands between his own with a gentle violence. 
 
 Theresa, in spite of her amazement and 
 vexation at her suitor's perseverance, could 
 not but feel a little diverted at the sight of the
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 255 
 
 prostrate beau. Had she known the Yigo- 
 rous siege which had been laid to the manager's 
 heart, she might, perhaps, have set a higher 
 value on the conquest she had made. How- 
 ever, her momentary desire to smile passed 
 away, and she began, as connectedly as she 
 could, to apologize and to deny — Mr. Clack- 
 worth's earnestness totally precluding the pos- 
 sibility of her imagining, for an instant, that 
 he could be in joke. It was a difficult matter 
 to make him comprehend the purport of her 
 answer. She pleaded her inabihty to consider 
 such an entirely unexpected proposition. 
 
 " Time, dear lady, time shall be granted 
 you," rephed he, in a tone which would not 
 have misbecome Grandison himself. 
 
 She represented to him that he might have 
 mistaken a momentary fancy for a serious in- 
 clination. 
 
 " Excuse me, madam, though not vei^y old 
 I am not quite so easily deceived as to the 
 natxu-e of my own sentiments." 
 
 She entreated him to spare her: — she could 
 not bring herself to consider such a j^roposal, 
 for one moment, she would not deceive any
 
 256 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS* 
 
 one^ and in this case, she was sure that she 
 could hold out no hope. 
 
 At last, when his importunity had compelled 
 her to use strong, almost angry language, Mr. 
 Clackworth rose from his knee, with a very 
 dejected aspect. " Well, my dear young lady,'' 
 said he, " if it must be so, let us lay aside this 
 matter for the present : — ^you may have better 
 oiFers, it is true ; you can have no more disin- 
 terested one than my own, I am surcj and I 
 shall be only too happy to be permitted to 
 resume the treaty at some future period, leav- 
 ing you, in the mean time, to the unshackled 
 exercise of your choice; — nor, after what you 
 have said, shall I consider you are using me 
 in the least disingenuously, should you form 
 any other connexion." 
 
 Although firm in refusing such an ill-fancied 
 suit, our heroine could not but be gratified 
 and a little touched by the delicacy of this 
 retreat, and she felt for the instant, how glad 
 she would have been, if he would have con- 
 sented to receive her as a daughter: — but she 
 had already seen enough of him to know that, 
 with respect to his age, he was touchy. She
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 257 
 
 was therefore obliged to allow him to depart, 
 with nothing more on her part, than the most 
 general expressions of regard; — and when the 
 door closed upon him, felt that another was 
 added to the Hst of her already too numerous 
 discomforts. Upon Mrs. TyreU's return from 
 chapel, she was surprised to find her inmate 
 flushed and in tears. 
 
 " Why now, — what is all this about ?" said 
 the compassionate Httle woman — " this will 
 never do ! — 'red eyes ! — and such a pulse ! Why, 
 Miss Aubrey, think of Tuesday — you must get 
 well directly — what is to be done ?" 
 
 Theresa did not attempt to answer her en- 
 quiries, but still wept. 
 
 " It must be that old tiresome Clackworth," 
 continued Mrs. T^tcU, " I saw him coming 
 hither this morning as smart as sixpence. 
 What has he been sapng to you? — nothing 
 about Miss Randalls, 1 hope ; — I was told that 
 she had struck a bargain with Rugge of Exeter, 
 and that she was seen yesterday, taking a 
 place in the Delight. Come now, teU me what 
 ails you?" 
 
 With this she sate dowTi beside Theresa,
 
 1^58 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 and so beset her with surmises and guesses, 
 that, at last, the secret of the manager's errand 
 was extorted out of her very weariness . 
 
 " O mercy!" cried Mrs. Tyrell, springing up 
 as if she had been shot, and running to the 
 top of the stairs, " O mercy ! did I ever hear 
 the Hke!— Tyrell! —Bob Tyrell!— -make haste, 
 do come up! — what do you think? that old 
 bore Clackworth has been making an offer to 
 Miss Aubrey!" 
 
 Sunday passed over with fearful rapidity, 
 and, in spite of a disturbed and vigilant night, 
 Monday seemed to arrive sooner than ever 
 Monday arrived before. Theresa was per- 
 suaded by Mrs. Tyrell to accompany them to 
 the theatre in the evening. " It is so lonely 
 being left alone," said that lively woman, 
 " and who knows whether Clackworth might 
 not take the opportunity of bolting in upon 
 you again ?" 
 
 If being left alone was dull, the theatre was 
 by no means brilliant. There was no one in 
 the green-room, save the necessary comple- 
 ment of actors and their attendants ; in fact, 
 it was one of those evenings, the recurrence
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 259 
 
 of which must form such a large item of ennui 
 in every player's life : — ^w^hen the house must 
 be opened — but no one cares to perform his 
 best, to the lazy handful of audience, that have 
 lounged in from idleness, or because their 
 places cost them nothing. The play was the 
 Stranger, that most lugubrious of all absurdi- 
 ties ; — it seemed interminably long ! and Mrs. 
 Tyrell, whose husband performed the part of 
 the hero, began to grow cold and hungry, and 
 would have gone home, " only they must wait 
 for poor Bob," so, sitting down listlessly, she 
 fell asleep in the midst of some tale intended 
 for Theresa's amusement. The candles which 
 lighted the apartment were few and un- 
 snufFed, and the huge dim shadows cast 
 upon the walls and roof, recalled \dvidly to 
 Theresa's memory the night scene of Mr. 
 Lamb wood's sick chamber, only two short 
 years before, when her aspirations after fame 
 had been first awakened — the night too, of 
 Reuben's dream. 
 
 " This will never do," said she to herself, 
 and rising hastily, resolved to change the cur- 
 rent of her thoughts, by watching the conclu- 
 sion of the tragedy from the side scenes. As
 
 260 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS, 
 
 she left the green-room^ her eye rested, for a 
 moment on the neat Uttle figure of her hostess— 
 who sat bolt upright in her chair, nodding her 
 head — her eyes fast shut, and her mouth wide 
 open — ^there was no one beside in the green- 
 room just at that moment, save a squahd scene- 
 shifter who was warming himself over the fire, 
 nor sound to be heard, save the measured ca- 
 dence of stage declamation, softened by dis- 
 tance. She approached the side scenes : 
 '' Every box full to-morrow '/' said she to her- 
 self, casting her eyes dismayedly over the au- 
 dience part of the house : " Why they will see 
 how I tremble ! — and tremble I am sure I shall, 
 if there are any of those gentlemen in the stage 
 boxes,*' — then, she began to remember the 
 look and gesture of Mrs. Siddons in that ter- 
 rific sleep-walking scene : and, for the mo- 
 ment, thought that, to excite as deep emotions 
 as she excited, she would cheerfully pass 
 through the approaching ordeal — 
 
 There is another and a better world than this ! 
 
 How strange that a sentence upon the stage, 
 should so suddenly recall her thoughts from
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 261 
 
 the stage ! — but it was not the words them- 
 selves, so much as the tone in which they were 
 uttered, that seemed to startle her as though 
 they had proceeded from the mouth of an 
 oracle. — The voice was so hollow — so broken 
 — so hke the real gasp of death ! — so different 
 from TyreU's usual voice ! — and even while he 
 was speaking, he fell so heavily — and lay so 
 still ! — A mist came over her eyes_, as, dizzy 
 with a fearful imagination, she clutched at the 
 side scenes for support. And what stopped 
 the performance ? — was it — the prompter 
 sprung forwards upon the stage. " A surgeon ! 
 —a doctor ! — any one in the house ? — It can 
 only be a fit !" — became the general cry. In 
 another instant an active young man had clam- 
 bered across the orchestra, and was by the 
 side of the prostrate man — he bent over him— 
 there was a moment's dead silence — " Is it 
 only a fit ? — can nothing be done ?'* cried The- 
 resa, rushing wildly forwards. " We must try," 
 was his answer, " but I am afraid it is too 
 late !" 
 
 By this time the unusual cry and tumult 
 upon the stage had penetrated to the green-
 
 262 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 room, and awakened Mrs. Tyrell. For an in- 
 stant she remained stupified, unable to gather 
 up her scattered senses — then, the appalled 
 spectators of this awful visitation of Provi- 
 dence, were thrilled by such a shriek, as had 
 never before been heard within the walls of 
 that house — -as she staggered upon the stage 
 towards the place where her husband lay, a 
 lifeless corpse. Theresa was upon her knees 
 supporting his head, (for they had not yet 
 had time to think of removing him) and the 
 wretched widow flung herself down beside him, 
 reiterating her piercing and incoherent cries, 
 which rung through the house, after the cur- 
 tain had dropped before this tragedy of real 
 life, — and the body of him so awfully sum- 
 moned, had been carried into the green-room, 
 where the suspicion that life was extinct, was 
 confirmed into miserable certainty ! 
 
 ^ ^ ^ -TT ^ 
 
 A week elapsed —and the theatre was again 
 opened and lighted up, for the benefit of Ma- 
 demoiselle Chevre, and the first appearance of 
 the new Juliet. The awful calamity which had 
 befallen " poor little Tyrell," had suspended
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OP A DEBUTANTE. 263 
 
 the amusements for seven short days, — but 
 they were now to begin again, and actors to 
 play their parts, and audiences to applaud, 
 with as much unconcern as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. This was a hard trial to Theresa, 
 whose task it had been, during the last seven 
 days, to watch the violence of the widow's 
 grief, — as for soothing it, it was out of the 
 question ; you might as well have attempted 
 to reason a storm out of its fury, as to per- 
 suade her to be calm and submissive under her 
 affliction ! and all that her friends could hope 
 for her, was, that her distress would exhaust 
 itself by its own intensit}-. 
 
 In the meantime every dead wall was again 
 studded with colossal bills, announcing Made- 
 moiselle Chevre's three new dances, and the 
 hrst appearance of Miss Aubrey — and with 
 these were mingled placards with broad black 
 borders, headed " Judgment on play-actors," 
 in which Tyrell's untimely death was alluded 
 to, or as some said improved, in the most 
 strong and threatening language. The conse- 
 quence was, that, by all these events, the in-
 
 264 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 terest of the public with respect to the even- 
 ing's performances was carried to its highest 
 point. 
 
 " Sir Harry Maristow, six places No. 1 V 
 cried the busy box-keeper, admitting a party 
 of gentlemen. 
 
 " Upon my word, here is a house, Clifton !" 
 said one of them, taking a cool survey of the 
 pit, which was crammed to suffocation, with 
 upturned faces, all animated with the same 
 eager curiosity. 
 
 " Ay — this must be a pleasant sight to Miss 
 Randalls— '' 
 
 " Why, the deuce ! she is not here ; is 
 she ?" 
 
 " Look yonder," replied Clifton, " imme- 
 diately opposite to you, at that mass of scarlet 
 and feathers — nay, you don't need your opera 
 glass — yonder, between two men ; — and laugh- 
 ing maliciously the hyaena ! — -she is mistaken, 
 however, if she thinks of seeing the failure of 
 the new Juliet: — I am told that the girl is 
 amazingly beautiful. — ^Why ! by all that is ri- 
 diculous ! — a bill !— some one give me a bill !
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 265 
 
 — it can not be I — yes it is — only see — the part 
 of Romeo^ for this night only, by Mr. Clack- 
 worth 1" 
 
 " To replace poor little Tyrell, you know/' 
 said Maristow yawning. " After all, the old fel- 
 low makes up wonderfully well, if he were not 
 so fat, — I fear we shall haye a most melting 
 comedy of it, when they come to the loye- 
 scenes ; but Clifton, look at that de\41 Che\Te, 
 — yonder, — close beside the prompter, laughing 
 as if she had neyer laughed before ; — gad ! I'll 
 take off ray gloye, and let her see my ring — 
 'tis high time to put some bounds to the rapa- 
 city of these people !" 
 
 ^ " Jermyn don't think so," rephed Clifton, 
 ^^ look at him, close behind her, poor fellow ! 
 — waiting with her shawl 5 and looking only too 
 thankful to her for not laughing at him. He 
 followed her to Exeter, you know — and they 
 say, that he has bought up a hot-house full 
 of forced flowers to shower upon her when she 
 comes on in the last dance : and has hired six 
 gardeners to stand in the flies vnth. baskets full 
 of his purchase." A general laugh followed 
 this anecdote. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 26*6 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ^^ I wish those young gentlemen would at- 
 tend to the play/' growled a gruff cit in the 
 next box, who had no idea of losing a syllable 
 spoken upon the stage : — and sat between his 
 daughters, two large girls, " who looked so 
 eager and delighted/' so Maristow said, " as 
 if they would eat the entire scene, Clackworth 
 and all." 
 
 ^' A tough morsel he would be," responded 
 Clifton. " Attend to the play ! why, we are 
 attending to it, and furnishing a running com- 
 mentary on the entertainment worth the price 
 of our seats twice over ! — ^Ah ! here she comes 
 at last !— beautiful ! — ^beautiful ! — beau" — his 
 words were drowned in the thunder of ap- 
 plause, '' which," to borrow the phraseology 
 of the press, " greeted the trembling aspirant 
 to theatrical honours on her entrance." 
 
 Indeed a more lovely creature than The- 
 resa Grafton had never trod those well accus- 
 tomed boards. Her dress of pale blue silk did 
 full justice to her perfect figure, and the blush 
 which timidity, amounting almost to terror, 
 had called up on her cheek, showed in brilliant 
 contrast the one large white lily, placed amongst
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 267 
 
 her dark curls with such consummate art, that 
 it seemed as if blown there by some Fairy tired 
 of her cradle. She stood betwixt the Lady 
 Capulet and the nurse, breathless and almost 
 sightless with fear, nor did the reiterated plau- 
 dits restore her to self-possession. She would 
 have given worlds to have hidden herself, — she 
 felt as if she must burst into a passion of tears. 
 But she controlled herself, advanced twice, 
 and attempted to speak ; — her voice seemed to 
 have lost its tone. She constrained herself to 
 make a third attempt, when her eye, glancing 
 involuntarily dowTi wards towards the pit, en- 
 countered in the foremost row of faces, strain- 
 ed with attention, an object which totally 
 overthrew her remaining presence of mind — 
 for, with a pleading gesture of her hands, 
 which she then pressed con\'ulsively to her 
 eyes, she tottered backwards a few paces, and 
 feebly ejaculating " Merciful Heavens !" — fell 
 fainting into the arms of her stage mother. 
 
 She had met the face of her brother ! — she had 
 recognized those large wild eyes of his — those 
 expressive features, now ghastly pale and thin; 
 — she had seen him rise, and stretch out his 
 
 n2
 
 268 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 hand — and heard so much as, " Theresa ! The- 
 resa ! the Lord hath sent me !" — she was con- 
 scious of nothing more. 
 
 " A madman ! a madman ! turn him out !" 
 was the cry which rose from all parts of 
 the house. The confusion became tremen- 
 dous ; while the Randalls leaned back in 
 her box, enjoying the scene with all her evil 
 heart. 
 
 ^^ Turn him outl'^ — Reuben seemed disposed 
 to resist this summary expulsion. " What 1'^ 
 cried he, with solemn vehemence, /' when 
 I have journeyed so far to do the will of Him 
 that sent me, shaU I be refused a hearing ? 
 shall I " 
 
 " Out with him 1 — no sermons here ! — out 1 
 out 1" 
 
 But the excitement of his inward purj^ose, 
 and the novelty and bewilderment of the scene, 
 had already produced a dreadful effect upon 
 Reuben's over-heated brain, and imparted a 
 ferocity to his resistance, which made his 
 expulsion from that dense and angry mass of 
 people, a matter of much difficulty. He 
 struggled most furiously, and continued shout-
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 269 
 
 ing his wild anathemas and warnings, till he 
 was fairly thrust out by main force, and given 
 into the custody of a constable. 
 
 Fortunately for Theresa, the confusion had 
 subsided before she was sufficiently restored 
 to be led upon the stage again — ^but the 
 vision she had seen had entered her soul, and 
 it was with positive indifference to the presence 
 of the spectators, whose applause was, if 
 possible, doubled upon her re-appearance, 
 that she mechanically resumed the business of 
 her part. 
 
 It mattered not : — the tide of popular feeling 
 had set in so strongly in her favour, that in 
 spite of her coldness — in spite of the ridicu- 
 lous appearance of a sexagenarian Romeo, 
 ^' who looked," as Clifton said, " like a 
 Bologna sausage upon its knees," — in spite 
 of the incomparable flights and pirouettes of 
 Mademoiselle Chevre in a dance, introduced 
 into the Masquerade scene, — Theresa's success 
 was undisputedly triumphant. Her want of 
 animation was ascribed to an excess of sen- 
 sibihty — ^her occasional lapses of memory to 
 industry, which had bewildered itself with
 
 270 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 over-assiduity. In vain she attempted to 
 rally her spirits, — the glare of that warning and 
 almost supernatural countenance was before 
 her, as clearly, as the sun is discernible to 
 the shut eyes of those who have just looked 
 upon him. 
 
 " Upon my word, Bellasys,'' said Clifton 
 at last, weary of applauding, " I never saw 
 such a bewitching creature in the whole 
 course of my life ! — but what can be the 
 matter with her ? — she must have been dosing 
 herself with opium." 
 
 " I hope she has not begun to follow the 
 fashions of her predecessor ; — ^but never mind, 
 never mind ! — she's the true thing, depend 
 upon it — I'll bet a thousand to one upon 
 her. — Did you notice the respectful distance 
 at which she kept Clackworth ? — and ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! that is good ! Exeunt the Randalls and her 
 familiars ; being positively her last appearance 
 this season." 
 
 " Maristow told me," said Chfton, " that 
 she sent fifty men into the pit and gallery to 
 hiss ; — ^but what has become of Maristow ?" 
 
 " Gone behind the scenes : — I never missed
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 271 
 
 him before. They seem disposed to make us 
 wait for the next act — come, Clifton, let us go 
 too." 
 
 " Thank goodness," said the cit in the next 
 box, '^ those noisy sparks are gone at last ! 
 Make a little more room, Lizzy, I am so 
 cramped with sitting, and let us enjoy our- 
 selves." 
 
 " Pa," said Lizzy, " do you think her 
 apron's real lace ? — Gracious, Kate ! how 
 you trod on my toe." 
 
 " Pa," enquired Kate, " do you think there 
 will be any more rows ?" 
 
 Meanwhile the plot behind the scenes was 
 thickening fast — the green-room was crowded 
 with men, all eager to pay their court to the 
 new Juliet — too happy to run for an ice, or a 
 fan, to be permitted to open and shut windows 
 — too ready to bring a perfect flood of aU the 
 eauXy from all the perfumers' shops round about, 
 in the twinkling of an eye, for the refreshment 
 of the queen of the night. Theresa was cer- 
 tainly very ill, and feared she should never be 
 able to go through with her part. 
 
 ^^ Really, madam," said the Romeo — " con-
 
 2^2 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 sider my interest — the young man is in kind 
 hands at this present moment^ I can assure 
 you. Pray, Miss Aubrey, try to be a little 
 better ! — this is quite sad.^' 
 
 " Sad ! you old raven !" cried one of the 
 most assiduous of the flatterers : — " after such 
 a debut /" 
 
 "Do you mean to insult me, behind my own 
 scenes ?" cried Clackworth, raising his cane, — 
 " get out, Sir !" 
 
 '' Perfectly right ! very spirited !" exclaimed 
 another, stepping into the post, which the 
 insolent fop was compelled to vacate : — '' Ah, 
 Page, you blockhead, did you mean to be all 
 night in bringing those ices ? — Now, Miss 
 Aubrey, allow me to assist you '* 
 
 " None, thank you," replied Theresa, " I am 
 better now, I think." 
 
 '^ Cheer up, madam !" said Clackworth, 
 '^ there are only two acts more. Hark ! I 
 doubt we shall be mobbed, if we don't go on." 
 
 " Only !" sighed the agitated girl — ^' well, — 
 they will be over some time or other." 
 
 " What a delightful creature !" cried Clifton, 
 " and she lodges with little Tyrell, somebody
 
 THE EXPERIEXCES OF A DEBUTANTE. 273 
 
 said. Ha ! Maristow ! — and in this corner 
 too ! you, the squire of dames ! — Has Miss 
 Aubrey been playing the Medusa upon you, 
 that you can neither speak nor stir ?'* 
 
 " Leave me alone !" was his friend's laconic 
 answer. 
 
 " With all my heart : I love the light, and 
 will stay in it ! — How — she is gone ! By Jove, 
 what a cannonade of applause ! — it's quite sub- 
 lime ! I'll go back to my place. I supposcj 
 Maristow, I shall find you here when all is 
 over." 
 
 " Maristow's bit I" observed Bellasys, seizing 
 Clifton's arm, " come away ! or we shall be 
 too late for the scream when she drinks the 
 poison." 
 
 The play went on with increasing eclat : — 
 the crowd in the green-room received fresh 
 additions every moment, from those who were 
 anxious to hail the new star which had arisen 
 so splendidly. Rumour, in the meantime, 
 told how Mademoiselle Chevre was in such a 
 fury, and had cuffed her dresser till she was 
 black and blue ! and how the Randalls had 
 been seen to vanish into a hackney-coach, in a 
 
 N 3
 
 274 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 paroxysm of wrath. The last act seemed like 
 an eternity to Maristow, who still kept close 
 in his comer— but it went over. Theresa was 
 supported from the stage, more dead than 
 alive, and as she must pass through the green- 
 room to her dressing-room, the crowd pressed 
 eagerly round her, each ready to offer some 
 compliment or congratulation. But one forced 
 his way to her side, as quick as lightning — a 
 well known voice said " Lean on me ! dear 
 Miss Grafton, dear Theresa ! — I will keep these 
 people off \" — and the queen of the night fell 
 senseless into the arms of Talbois !
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 275 
 
 PART III. 
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 " And was she not vara weel off. 
 That was woo'd and married and a' ?*' 
 Scofs Song, 
 
 Autumn was now fast waning : — but, in the 
 richest district of the south-west of England, 
 where that glorious season always seems in- 
 cUned to dispute the supremacy of winter, the 
 country had not began to wear that aspect of 
 bare cheerlessness, which even makes the 
 magic of bright days of none avail. The trees 
 were yet garnished with a moderate clothing 
 of foliage— the fields had not yet lost aU their 
 green — and the air, though freshened by a
 
 276 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS, 
 
 tinge of frost, was not so sharp as to compel 
 a couple of travellers, with whom my tale has 
 to do, to journey with the windows of their 
 carriage closed. 
 
 " We are very near Maris Priors now/' said 
 the gentleman, ^^ you may see its woods from 
 the top of the next ascent, and if the leaves 
 are thin enough, the chimnies of the old house. 
 It is romantic enough to suit even you, Theresa. 
 How surprised my mother will be !" 
 
 " She will have received your letter, I 
 hope," replied Theresa. 
 
 " Just, and only just !— last night at the 
 earliest, — and as she is one of those deliberate 
 person whose motions, compared with those 
 of the modern world, are as one is to twenty- 
 four, — we shall find her in the very bloom 
 of her first astonishment.^' 
 
 Theresa sighed — there was something about 
 this picture which made her thoughtful. 
 
 ^^ Nay, now, you are not to go and terrify 
 yourself with the idea of encountering a 
 perfect petrifaction in your mother-in-law. 
 She has strong, warm feelings, I assure you ; 
 and if you find in her too much of the clock^ 
 
 I
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 277 
 
 you must even set it against the superabun 
 dance of quicksilver you have discovered in 
 me. — One thing, however, Theresa, — we sink 
 the fact of Miss Aubrey's first and only appear- 
 ance in the part of JuHet — you understand 
 me }" 
 
 Theresa did understand him, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Are not those noble trees ?" (they were 
 now on the point of entering the gates), " Sir 
 Talbois Maristow was a good fellow, after all, 
 for he would not allow a stick of them to be 
 touched ; and that silver line, yonder, is a 
 branch of the river, famous for its wild fowl. — 
 You need not tremble so, my love. Remem 
 ber, you are going home." 
 
 The carriage rolled on, and stopped, — before 
 the door of such a majestic old house as 
 Theresa thought could have existed only in a 
 romance. Maris Priors was a very ancient 
 mansion, but in a perfect state of preservation ; 
 a sort of irregular composition of beU-towers, 
 oriels, and gables ; half Moorish, half Ehza- 
 bethan. A long flight of steps^ encroached 
 upon by bay trees and myrtles, such as are
 
 278 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 never seen in the north, led to the front door, 
 in the shade of which stood that very vene- 
 rable and somewhat awful person, Theresa's 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 The Honourable Mrs. Talbois would have 
 been a striking-looking woman at any time, or 
 in any place, but appeared most particularly so, 
 at the head of the establishment of Maris 
 Priors. She was very tall and thin, — her 
 hair, though grey, carefully dressed, and her 
 cheek, although wrinkled, as soft and blooming 
 as it had been at thirty. Her hazel eyes were 
 large, and peculiarly quiet, — their expression, 
 however, was the placidity of firmness, and 
 not of gentleness. She was one of those in- 
 flexible persons, who never break their word, 
 never yield a point, never lose their tempers — 
 one who ruled, without appearing to rule ; 
 and being tolerably exempt from weakness 
 herself, had no toleration in her mind, for the 
 short-comings of her neighbours. She was 
 charitable in the matter of alms, and devout 
 after the formal fashion of the Lady Bountifuls 
 of old times : — ^but her mind had been early 
 narrowed by the prejudices of her station.
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 279 
 
 which she had found so perfectly consonant 
 with her nature, that she had never made any 
 attempt to enlarge the sphere of her per- 
 ceptions or pleasures. She mixed readily in 
 society, with those of her own order : — had 
 built a church and endowed a school, but was 
 a total stranger to the idea of extending her 
 sympathies beyond her husband's estate, and 
 the circle of her own family connexions — to 
 each of whom, according to his nearness of 
 kindred, she extended a proper measure of 
 regard and consideration. 
 
 Such was Mrs. Talbois. — She descended two 
 or three steps, advanced, and took Theresa's 
 hands between her own, but did not kiss her. 
 " You are welcome to Maris Priors,' ' said she, 
 in a tone of the utmost suavity : — " though 
 my son has given me so short a notice of your 
 coming, that I have not been able to prepare 
 for your reception, as I could have mshed." 
 
 She then embraced her son with great 
 affection, and whispered a word or two in his 
 ear ; *' Would you not like. Lady Harry, to go 
 at once to your own apartments ? Jones, 
 attend your mistress." — So Theresa was led off
 
 280 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 alone to take possession of her new domain : 
 whilst her mother-in-law detained her husband 
 to hear ^^ all about it." 
 
 The house within was as comfortable as it 
 was picturesque, and stately without. Every 
 corridor and chamber showed a goodly phalanx 
 of family pictures — some panelled into the 
 walls, grim and antique, and bearing such an 
 inscription, as 
 
 Syr Dale Maristo, Ob. March 1st, A. D. 1444. 
 Preye for his soule. 
 
 some from the more recent pencils of Kneller 
 and Reynolds. The splendour and extent of 
 the mansion through which she was led, and 
 the numerous tokens of family pride and 
 aristocracy which met her at every step, at 
 once excited and depressed Theresa. She could 
 not help feeling as a nameless interloper into 
 so noble and haughty a family, as one, whose 
 presence might be thought to degrade that 
 venerable place : she began to think of the 
 suddenness of her marriage, after Talbois' long 
 desertion, of which he had offered no account : 
 of the distance of his mother's greeting — of 
 the caution she had lately received to conceal
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 281 
 
 her late adventures : — then too, she felt wearied 
 and exhausted : — in short, let no bride lift up 
 her voice against her, as fancifid and unthank- 
 ful, when it is told that she absolutely threw 
 herself into a magnificent easy chair, with a 
 tear or two upon her cheek. 
 
 A knock at the door made her rise, and dry 
 •them hastily. It was her husband. 
 
 " Well, my loA^e," said he, " how do you 
 like your new quarters ?" 
 
 " What a question to ask !" repUed his wife, 
 attempting to resume her old lively manner ; — 
 "sumptuous ! magnificent ! a place to dream 
 of, or to read of in a romance." 
 
 " O, my love, we are done with romance 
 now : — you know it is all ended when the 
 lovers are married. We have nothing else to 
 do, but to sit down, and be respectable country 
 gentleman and country lady for the remainder 
 of our days." 
 
 " I shall make a poor lady," said the happy 
 woman, cheered by his gaiety, — and forgetting 
 her late fancy that he was changed since she 
 first knew him — and how strange it was, that 
 after aU, she should be his wife 1
 
 282 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 "" We must do our best, — my mother is the 
 least in the world of a disciplinarian, and will 
 be sorely disappointed if we are not dignified 
 and aristocratic — she is already teazing herself 
 to think how your circle of acquaintances is to 
 be made select enough." 
 
 " Ah ! if she only knew" 
 
 " Theresa, she must not know" — replied her 
 husband decidedly — ^' she is already aware that 
 you have no relations. As to any questions 
 about family, I will answer them, and she is 
 such a perfect Lady Pedigree that she is cer- 
 tain to catechize you. Had I married to please 
 her, the wooing must have been carried on 
 in a coach and six at least, and, after two 
 years of parleying, the ceremony performed 
 by special licence, in the presence of the repre- 
 sentatives of at least six noble houses — I 
 want her to love you ; and to make her do 
 so, you must humour her prejudices." 
 
 " But, Sir Harry, no relations ! — poor 
 Reuben" — 
 
 " He is in kind hands — Dr. Barnes under- 
 took to send us a weekly account of his health 
 —^nd"—
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 283 
 
 " Is Sir Harry here ?" said a servant at the 
 door. 
 
 " Wanted again ? — O the dehghts of being 
 a country gentleman !" and so saying, he 
 made his exit hastily 3 while his wife returned to 
 her easy chair to ponder on what he had said. 
 
 " He is certainly changed/' thus ran her 
 thoughts, " since we met last : — I do not 
 feel as if I knew him as well as I used to 
 do — but, no wonder ! — It is very painful, 
 though, to have to begin by conceahng my 
 origin, and all out of respect to the idle pre- 
 judices of his mother. Will she receive me 
 as a daughter after all? — and how all this 
 makes me feel my want of practice in the 
 ways of the world ! — And what am I to do ? 
 —to confess my ignorance, is to make myself 
 her slave — to show it, is to make her my 
 enemy — and Sir Harry, through her. Sir 
 Harry ! — that I cannot think of my husband 
 without his title ! it is very strange ! — So 
 then, I must learn in self defence to be 
 worldly, and common place, and stupid, if 
 I would retain my husband's affections : — 
 yet who used to declaim so loudly against
 
 284 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 castes as lie did ! His affections ! am I sure 
 that I possess them now? that I have not 
 been married out of the fancy of the 
 moment ?'* and then the old theatre gossip 
 about Mademoiselle Chevre and her ring oct 
 curred to her. — ^^ How foolish this is ! to sit 
 tormenting myself with such fancies — things 
 may after all turn out better than I ex- 
 pect." 
 
 The current of her thoughts was changed, 
 by the entrance of the neatest of all abigails, 
 who came to inquire " if her Ladyship would 
 not dress for dinner," and the bride applied 
 herself to the business of the toilette, in some 
 little confusion. The respectful service of her 
 attendant fluttered her ; — she became ner- 
 vously alive to the scantiness of her ward- 
 robe, but her marriage had been so sudden ! " I 
 shall make a poor lady !" repeated Theresa 
 to herself. 
 
 She descended to dinner with a throbbing 
 heart, and here her anxieties were redoubled ; 
 there was so much state to which she had not 
 been accustomed, — and her awful mother-in- 
 law, she was sure, was taking circumstantial
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 285 
 
 notice of all those little uncertainties in her 
 manner which were the inevitable consequence 
 of the sudden change in her condition. Many 
 a time before the table was cleared^ did she 
 sigh to herself, as she thought how comfort- 
 ably the Tyrells lived, and of the pigeon for 
 her benefit. But her husband was an exceed- 
 ing assistance. He talked on, and filled up all 
 gaps and dry places ; and when the ladies rose 
 from the table, insisted upon taking Theresa 
 upon the terrace to see the house by the Ught 
 of the rising moon, though his mother re- 
 marked upon it as " a very rash step ; — Lady 
 Harry could see every thing deliberately in the 
 morning." 
 
 Yet, in spite of all his livehness, in spite of 
 the adroitness with which he seemed to keep 
 his wife and mother from coming to close 
 quarters, Theresa began to feel sure that he 
 was changed, and grown more worldly, though 
 she was angry at herself again and again for 
 allowing the least suspicion to darken 50 fair 
 a prospect as was set before her. Alas ! she 
 did not then know that she owed her present 
 exaltation, in part, to an immense wager laid
 
 286 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 between Clifton and Maristow ; — the former 
 in ignorance of their acquaintance when Tal- 
 bois had been the Worralls' guest, having con- 
 cluded that the splendid offers of the Duke 
 
 of would outweigh the minor graces of 
 
 the Baronet. The latter took the bet eagerly ; 
 — it was the last trifle which decided his wa- 
 vering resolution. The lady returned the 
 Duke's proposals unopened : which proceeding, 
 scandal said, had produced such a stimulating 
 effect upon his simple Grace's passion, that 
 he doubled his first terms, and went in 
 person to urge his suit. Before he arrived at 
 her door, however, the wager was won, and 
 the bride upon her way to Maris Priors. 
 
 A month had scarcely reconciled Theresa to 
 the magnificence of her new abode, — the 
 strangeness of being, after all. Lady Maristow, 
 to the awfulness of Mrs. Talbois as a mother- 
 in-law. The scheme of hfe to which she was 
 now introduced was so different from any 
 previous experience — the part she had to play 
 so prominent a one, that between her wonder 
 and her perplexities, she was constantly in a 
 state of low fever. Her natural independance
 
 AFTER MARIAGE. 28? 
 
 of mind was the first thing which returned to 
 her assistance. She began to venture to main- 
 tain her own opinions^ and^ encouraged by the 
 attention she received, to look a Uttle more 
 originally on men and manners than the Ho- 
 nourable Lady thought becoming. O that 
 word becoming ! it vras pressed into service 
 upon all occasions. Ere long, wearied out by 
 the monotony of her mother-in-law's discourse, 
 Theresa could not help occasionally trying, 
 whether her old nature had, by disuse, become 
 entirely rusted. Little arguments were the 
 consequence, maintained on both sides with the 
 utmost gentleness, but which tended inevita- 
 l)ly to an alienation of the proud woman of 
 rank, from her free-spoken, and not very sub- 
 missive, daughter-in-law. 
 
 Amongst the many who came from far and 
 near to pay their courtesies to the new Lady 
 of Maris Priors, was a certain Mrs. Chester 
 Younge, — in Theresa's opinion, the pleasant- 
 est \dsitor she had yet received, because she 
 was the most original, and least ceremonious. 
 She had been an officer's daughter and his com- 
 panion in foreign parts :— she used to boast
 
 288 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 that she had gone through as many adven- 
 tures by field and flood, as would fill a novel, 
 — and had retained, even to middle age, a spirit 
 of adventure which the most highly polished 
 refused to recognize as correct. She paid a 
 very long call, and was so graciously received, 
 that, in spite of the freezing looks of Mrs. 
 Talbois, she repeated her visit before the 
 bride had returned her first. The second in- 
 terview was yet pleasanter than the former one 
 had been. Their talk was of spectacles and 
 public places, a dangerous, yet delightful sub- 
 ject to Theresa. Maris, Priors was not far 
 from Exeter, where Mademoiselle Chevre had 
 been repeating her performances with increased 
 effect. 
 
 " You have seen the Chevre, Lady Mari- 
 stow ?" enquired Mrs. Younge. 
 
 " I have," replied Theresa, with a slight 
 smile, as she remembered where and Jiow. 
 
 '^ And is she not amazing ? I have seen 
 many good dancers in my time, but nothing to 
 compare with her Pas de papillon ; — nay, I 
 was so entirely fascinated by her, that, rather 
 than miss her last appearance, I positively
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 289 
 
 went to Exeter in our market cart; — now 
 don't, dear Mrs. Talbois, clont look so shock- 
 ed !" 
 
 " Where was Colonel Chester Younge ? " 
 enquired Mrs. Talbois, gravely. 
 
 " Where ? before me, driving ; — the carriage 
 horses were iU ; and what else could I do ? I 
 believe that the Boniface of the White Lion 
 diought we were both of us crazy when we 
 rattled into the yard. 
 
 '' O how dehghtful !" exclaimed Theresa, 
 naturally. 
 
 " Yes, she is delightful ! but I am told tliat 
 all her sense lies in the points of her toes. 
 Colonel Bellasys tells me that she is a vain, 
 stupid, and malicious woman." 
 
 " Like all the rest of her class," interposed 
 Mrs. Talbois. 
 
 "Pardon me,". repHed Mrs. Younge, who 
 loved a discussion, and did not love the Dow- 
 ager ; " not like all the rest of her class — as I 
 myself have exjjerienced ; — I met Madame 
 Rombot often when we. were last in Paris." 
 
 " Met her — a common dancer — in private 
 society ! " 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 Even so^ — in the very first circles ! and I 
 found her one of the most charming and cul- 
 tivated women I ever met. Now you terrify 
 me^ Mrs. Talbois^ you look so displeased ; — 
 and I see my carriage coming round — a la bonne 
 heure. Good mornings dear Madam, and forgive 
 me, if you can. Good morning. Lady Harry; we 
 shall meet often, and be great friends, I hope. I 
 do not put myself out of my way to call upon 
 all my new neighbours, I assure you." 
 
 " That is a most absurd woman," said Mrs. 
 Talbois, when the door had closed upon her 
 vivacious guest. 
 
 " Dear Madam, how ? " 
 
 " How ? Lady Harry ! I am surprised at 
 the question. She is decidedly the most ab- 
 surd woman, — ?iot of my acquaintance though, 
 — ^for she never put herself out of the way to 
 call upon me." 
 
 " I am sorry that you do not like her," re- 
 plied Theresa ; " for I thought I had secured 
 one agreeable neighbour at last. Chester 
 Grange is not far : that white house among the 
 trees, some one said, is it not ? 
 
 "It is; — but I was never there; — Mrs. 
 Younge's proceedings are quite remarkable.
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 291 
 
 and such as I hope no relation of mine in- 
 tends to countenance. But she is one of your 
 reading women, and sets up for a character ; 
 and, hke the rest of them, is extremely de- 
 ficient in the becoming proprieties of man- 
 ner." 
 
 " Becoming again !" said Theresa to her- 
 self, and bent down over her netting, to con- 
 ceal her dissentient countenance. 
 
 " It is well," continued Mrs. Talbois, ^^ that 
 the class to which she belongs is a small one. 
 Heaven forbid that it should increase ! The 
 admission of such persons into good society 
 is one of the most alarming signs of the 
 ' times." 
 
 " But Mrs. Younge is very amusing, and 
 seems clever; — really almost the only visitor 
 I have received whom I have wished to see 
 ever again. Now only compare her with that 
 proper, pohte^j empty Lady Henbury, Yes, 
 I hope we shall be great friends.'* 
 
 This was throwing down the glove with 
 a vengeance -, and Mrs. Talbois took it up with 
 all due solemnity. 
 
 " I am sorry. Lady Harry," said she, more 
 
 o 2
 
 292 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRES8. 
 
 slowly than usual, " to discover in you such 
 lightness of thought on a subject of such im- 
 portance as the choice of your society. The 
 grave, the polished, the high-born must, in 
 these days, I know, give way to the free- 
 thinking and the parvenus.'' 
 Theresa blushed deeply ; — not with fear. 
 " But I hoped that you would not renounce 
 the credit and dignity of associating with 
 such; — that you would not break down 
 old barriers, for the mere sake of amusing 
 yourself.'^ 
 
 " I hope not, either," replied Theresa, ear- 
 nestly, stirred by the emphasis on a word 
 which she felt was pointed at her ; " but, I 
 must say, that as far as society goes, I should 
 prefer originality to dullness, and would rather 
 meet with genius, — ay, even accompanied with 
 rudeness of manner,— than the most courtly 
 common-place personage that ever stepped out 
 of a coach-and-four. I am warm, because I 
 plead for myself. I shall never attain to 
 that polish and experience in etiquette which 
 is the appendage of birth ; but I can 
 appreciate the other, and I trust I shall meet
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 293 
 
 with it. I warned your son that I should make 
 a poor lady !" 
 
 Mrs. Talbois made no reply, and continued 
 displeasedly silent, till the entrance of a ser- 
 vant, with some parcels from a neighbouring 
 town, called down the one lady from her pe- 
 destal, and called back the other from the 
 wanderings of her fancy. 
 
 " Bless me ! " cried the Dowager, examin- 
 ing an envelope on vrhich something caught 
 her eye, " my son's marriage ! On Monday, 
 the 30th of September — ay, here it is I — how 
 odd that I should have never seen it before ! — 
 to Miss Theresa Grafton, — they have omitted 
 ' of Maris Priors,' I see, — and it is not among 
 the marriages, eithe'r ', — what is this next para- 
 graph ? — upon my word ! — " 
 
 Just at this mom^ent. Sir Harry made his 
 appearance with a brace of birds in his hand. 
 The newspaper was laid down, and the game 
 admired. 
 
 " They are for Mrs. Chester Younge," said 
 he ; " she complains that her husband is the 
 worst shot in the county, and never killed or 
 wounded anything that she knows of, save the
 
 294 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 tip of liis game-keeper's nose^ which he shot 
 off by mistake." 
 
 " A most improbable invention, and very 
 Hke Mrs. Chester Younge/' said his mother, 
 sitting down again, and mechanically taking 
 up the paper. " O — here, — ' New Juliet^ — this 
 was what I was beginning to read, when your 
 coming in interrupted us. Lady Harry, I am 
 sorry to see you stoop so over your netting." 
 
 Sir Harry approached the table slily ; but 
 his mother held the paper fast in both hands, 
 and began to read aloud : — ^ New Juliet, — On 
 Tuesday last -, — ^what is the date ? — Oh, I see, 
 — Monday, October second, — * On Tuesday 
 last, the inhabitants of our city, famed for its 
 accomplishments, were edified by one of those 
 exhibitions called debuts, which the uninstructed 
 hazard through impudence, and the gullible 
 public endure. The young person, ivho ivas 
 selected as the 2^'i^obable rival to Mrs. Siddons, 
 and who, we are informed on the most unques- 
 tionable authority, has studied the art of de- 
 clamation in some Ranter's tabernacle, having 
 been claimed as a run-aioay daughter by a mad 
 Methodist, (lohose performance in the pit was.
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 295 
 
 in our opinion, infinitely better than the young 
 lady's upon the stage) — this young person, we 
 say, showed a degree of audacity in attempting 
 to appear before a discriminating and critical 
 audience, which it is high time that the press — 
 that guardian of public taste — should expose ; 
 and we are resolved, though ours should be 
 the only voice lifted up, to condemn as flagrant 
 a piece of imposture as ever disgraced the 
 annals of the stage, to follow the course which 
 we have hitherto pursued through evil report 
 and good report, and to speak the stern and 
 unvarnished truth.'' 
 
 " That is very stupid stuff, mother," said 
 Sir Harry, interrupting her. 
 
 " Well, there is not much more of it — and 
 there is something about Maristow at the 
 bottom, — you shall have it directly." 
 
 ^' Theresa, those balsams of yours are dying 
 for want of water." 
 
 " I am busy just now," replied she, " I 
 cannot attend to them ;" — and, as she spoke, 
 looked up full in his face. He bit his lip, till 
 it grew as white as clay, and stood with the
 
 2.9(J THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 parlour door in his hand^ uncertain whether to 
 go or stay. 
 
 " Where was I ?" resumed the methodical 
 Mrs. Talbois^— " O, I have found the place — - 
 the plain unvarnished truth. We beg to assure 
 this young person (for we will not misuse lan^ 
 guage so far as to call her lady^ that we shall 
 be happy to recommend her to a situation in the 
 wardrobe^ — she was tastefully dressed, we 
 frankly allow. As to attempting the characters 
 of tragedy — and 0, could no less daring a 
 flight have served her, than at Shakspeare ? — ' 
 or comedy^ — or any part beyond that of cham- 
 ber-maid in a farce, — it is as ridiculous as it is 
 an impudent piece of presumption, which will 
 and shall meet with the contempt and condemna- 
 tion it deserves." 
 
 " This is too bad !" exclaimed Sir Harry, 
 with an oath, banging the door behind him as 
 he went. 
 
 " Upon my word ! — My son is in a passion 
 at something or other, — his new boots, jierhaps. 
 — Where did I leave off ? — condemnation it de- 
 serves. We are of no party — we are devoid of
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 297 
 
 paltry prejudices, and have no interest in tellm§ 
 the truth, beyond the reward of our own con- 
 sciences : but we may be permitted to express 
 some wonder, in which ive hope our readers 
 will join us, at a rumour which has been noised 
 abroad, that our old friend and favourite. Miss 
 Randalls, — who has drawn tears from eyes 
 unused to weep, as the injured Desdemona — 
 who has made many a stout heart thrill by her 
 terrific impersonation of Lady Macbeth, and 
 whose Rosalind is before us as we write, as 
 perfect a vision of female loveliness and intel- 
 ligence as ever alighted on this earth of ours — 
 has been discharged in the most hasty and un- 
 gentlemanly manner to make way for this baby- 
 faced heroine. If this be true, we are sure 
 that the public will sympathize in our honest 
 indignation. While we are yet writing, another 
 report has this instant reached us, — that the 
 heroine has descended from the stage, having 
 already played her cards so well as to take in a 
 certain young Baronet ; we should guess by 
 his choice, not overburdened with brains. We 
 give him our hearty thanks, whoever he may bi. 
 
 Perhaps Sir H y M-r-st-iv, who was seen 
 
 o 3
 
 298 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 in the green-room^ entranced by the manifold 
 l^erfections of the neio Juliet^ will he kind 
 enough to charge himself with the trouble of 
 conveijing them to the happy bridegroom'' 
 
 Mrs. Talbois laid down the paper without 
 any note or comment^ and then sternly and 
 deliberately fixed her large eyes upon her 
 daughter-in-law's face 3 with an expression of 
 such quiet and intense scorn^ such as Theresa 
 had never been exposed to before. But the 
 bride was as proud in her way as the haughty 
 woman of family : — and did not quail in the 
 least, beneath her steady gaze. 
 
 "Is there any more ?" she asked. 
 
 " More — Madam — more ! good heavens !" 
 said Mrs. Talbois, rising : — " is there not 
 enough ? — I knew that my son had matched 
 himself beneath his rank, — but I did not 
 expect this, I must confess ! You are de- 
 tected, Madam ! — your early history is re- 
 vealed ! — and you are not ashamed !" 
 
 " Yes, Madam !" replied Theresa, a sudden 
 and most indignant expression lighting up every 
 feature, " I am ashamed, when I see that birth 
 and rank do not restrain their possessors from
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 299 
 
 employing the language of insult. I should 
 he ashamed of having been raised to the 
 station I occupy, if such narrow and ungene- 
 rous feehngs were to take possession of me in 
 turn. But I trust that I have learned better 
 things—" 
 
 She checked herself suddenly, and rising, 
 confronted her incensed mother-in-law face to 
 face. 
 
 " 1 have suffered much," said that proud 
 woman, " but. Heaven knows, that this is the 
 hardest of any trial that I have been called 
 upon to endure ! But such is the st}de of the 
 day — and your language. Madam, is only what 
 I should have expected from your education. 
 I leave you to study your tirades in peace, — 
 for I shall not sleep under a roof so degraded, 
 another night." 
 
 Our heroine's indignation was now softened 
 by such a feeUng of concern as makes us pity 
 the weakness of an inferior mind. She was 
 by much too high-minded to retain any thing 
 beyond a momentary resentment against pre- 
 judices and unkind language, which were not 
 so much pointed against herself as against the
 
 300 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 class to which she had belonged ; and en- 
 deavoured, if possible, to moUify the sternness 
 of her mother-in-law, and induce her to change 
 her resolution. She represented to her, that 
 she was ready to pay her all reasonable duty ; 
 that if she had spoken warmly, it was but 
 from the excitement of the moment — that 
 such a separation, on her outset in married 
 life, would give her the utmost pain — that on 
 Sir Harrj^'s account — 
 
 '^ Reasonable duty !" repeated Mrs. Talbois 
 in a tone of the most quiet and cutting irony — 
 " so then, you do want my countenance ? — No, 
 Madam 1 I leave you, and for ever." 
 
 And "with a step as stately as Queen Eliza- 
 beth's OTNTi, she swept out of the room, and 
 assembling her own servants, gave them orders 
 to prepare for her instant departure. Her 
 household, accustomed to nothing but the 
 most measured and foreseen movements on the 
 part of their mistress, were amazed beyond 
 measure at her sudden resolution. Her maid 
 ventured to remonstrate ; — her son, though 
 very angry, besought her. The old lady was 
 firm, — and hardly vouchsafed a reply to
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 301 
 
 his representations and entreaties. She 
 possessed a jointure house at the distance of 
 half a day's journey from Maris Priors, and 
 thither she retired in sullen grandeur ; declaring, 
 in the most calm and resolute manner, that its 
 doors should never be opened to her son, nor 
 to the person, by marrying whom, he had in- 
 flicted such indehble disgrace ^pon an old, and 
 ' till then stainless name.' 
 
 This sudden and pubhc breach with Mrs. 
 Talbois was a serious cause of unhappiness 
 to Theresa ; who could not help fearing for the 
 future peace and confidence of a married life 
 thus inauspiciously begun. But, for the pre- 
 sent, her presentiment seemed uncalled for. 
 The dowager's departure was the signal for all 
 the gayer part of the neighbours round about, 
 to come and pay their court to the lovely lady 
 of Claris Priors, now a queen without a rival : 
 and Sir Harry, who delighted in change, was 
 entirely satisfied with the livehness of his 
 house, and the success in society which his 
 wife obtained. She was so new, (her visitors 
 declared,) so charming, so unspoilt, — and yet 
 so cultivated ; and then her taste was amazing.
 
 302 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 her opinion in every art oracular ; — no wonder 
 that Mrs. Talbois was envious of her beauty 
 and intellect ! How narrow-minded of her to 
 quarrel with Lady Harry on such a trifling 
 ground ! — how blind to leave so splendid an 
 establishment for the dullness of Brandfield ! 
 The tide of popular sympathy, then, ran along 
 with her who had most to give : her words 
 were repeated, her dress imitated ; — and those 
 who were competent judges, prophecied, that 
 let her be once seen in London, and she would 
 be, without doubt, installed among the leaders 
 and lights of the fashionable world. 
 
 But the bride was rather sickened than cor- 
 rupted by this excess of admiration. She felt 
 the falseness of the homage administered 
 through her, to her house, and her gardens, 
 and her parties : an old puritanical love of 
 truth continued to cleave to her, in spite of 
 the intoxications of her prosperous lot. Nor 
 could she be diverted from lamenting the 
 difference between her husband and his mother; 
 — and with the same sweetness of temper, 
 which had made her so long and so patiently 
 endure Reuben's harsh treatment, made one
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 803 
 
 or two unsuccessful attempts to be reconciled 
 to the lonely woman, who had withdrawn 
 herself to a private and monotonous life, and 
 whose health, rumour said, was sensibly yield- 
 ing to the influence of chagrin. The old lady, 
 strong in the belief of her own consequence, 
 imagined that her overtures were prompted 
 by a natural want of counsel and support, and 
 haughtily refused to receive them. At last, 
 Theresa bethought her that a temporary ab- 
 sence from that part of the country might be 
 of use, — and proposed to Sir Harry to pass 
 the months of January and February in Paris, 
 prcAnous to commencing their London cam- 
 paign. He assented readily, for he too, was 
 by this time, satiated with the neighbourhood. 
 
 One person only Theresa felt sorry to leave, 
 and T\ished to see again— the much reviled Mrs. 
 Chester Younge, — the only person who had 
 paid her no extravagant compHments, — and 
 expected to receive as much attention as she 
 gave. It was with mutual regret that the two 
 ladies parted, and with mutual pleasure that 
 they anticipated meeting again in London.
 
 304 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 Before they left England, Theresa persuaded 
 Sir Harry to permit her to call at the establish- 
 ment in which Reuben had been placed for the 
 restoration of his sanity. This was a retired 
 and very pleasant spot in the quietest part of 
 Hampshire, and at a distance from any high 
 road. The superintendant, a mild, middle- 
 aged man of few words, spoke most encourag- 
 ingly of his patient. The extreme violence of 
 Reuben's distemper had subsided, under the 
 influence of quietness and medical treatment : 
 and he was already so much recovered as to be 
 allowed the free range of the garden and fields 
 \vith which the house was surrounded. He 
 seemed to find a child's pleasure in the open 
 air, and the presence of natural objects, and as 
 far as could be judged, was happy and un- 
 disturbed by any remembrances of the past. 
 He would wander up and down from morning 
 till night, singing fanciful hymns, and noticing 
 any children, that happened to come in his way, 
 with great interest. Dr. Barnes held out great 
 hopes that he might ultimately be restored to a 
 sound state of mind, as he had already showed
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 305 
 
 symptoms of steady pursuit, in wishing to 
 make a garden in a small hollow, not far from 
 the house, where he spent the greatest part of 
 every fair day. Theresa expressed a most 
 earnest wish to see him; and the doctor, thougli 
 doubtful of the result of such an interview, 
 consented. 
 
 It was one of those beautifully still sun- 
 shiny days which so often occur before Christ- 
 mas : — such a day as disposes the mind to 
 peaceful thought. Tlieresa, much soothed by 
 so satisfactory an account, followed the doctor 
 through the garden, and across a crisp meadow- 
 field, from which the hoar-frost of the morning 
 had not altogether disappeared. At the end of 
 the path was a style, half-hidden among pollard 
 oaks loaded with ivy. '^^. 
 
 " Close behind those is his haunt," said her 
 conductor. " I dare say that we shall find him 
 very busy. — Hark ! you may hear him singing. 
 My people will have it that he makes his 
 hymns himself — and I never heard them from 
 any one else." 
 
 They paused to listen, and heard a tuneful
 
 306 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 though broken voice from beneath the farther 
 side of the hedge : — 
 
 Our God who speaks, — and wild winds blow. 
 
 Who measures out the showers. 
 And sendeth angels to and fro 
 
 To deck the earth with flowers ; 
 That God shall hear ray prayer ! 
 
 Our God beholds the winged seed 
 
 Hid in its earthy cell. 
 He doth all living creatures heed 
 
 In earth or air that dwell ; 
 And he shall hear my prayer ! 
 
 " You hear how gentle he is ; but we will 
 not startle him by coming suddenly upon him." 
 The doctor advanced quietly^ and called to 
 him : " Reuben, just come over the style, I 
 want to speak to you ; I have brought a friend 
 to see you." 
 
 ^' Is it the gardener with the roots?" replied 
 the voice of her brother, as, rising from his 
 spade, he looked over the hedge. Theresa 
 could hardly beUeve that the peaceful face, 
 which gazed upon her gay attire with a pleased
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 307 
 
 and mstfal look, was the same which she had 
 last beheld so fearfully agitated. He wore his 
 shirt collar open, and a cap of dark cloth upon 
 his head which had been shaved, which gave 
 even a boyish, and certainly not an unpleasing 
 air to his figure. 
 
 " What have you brought this gay lady 
 here for ? — my garden is only a making. You 
 might have at least waited till my tulips 
 came up." 
 
 Theresa hfted up her veil slowly : " Do you 
 know me now, Reuben?" said she as compos- 
 edly as she could. 
 
 " Know you !" cried he joyfully ; " wait till 
 I come over the st}de and you shall see ! — why, 
 Theresa, — have you really come to look at my 
 garden ?" — and he vaulted over the style nim- 
 bly and embraced her again and again. "How 
 good you are to come and see me ! — where 
 have you been this long, long time? — nay, 
 look at my dirty hands on your cloak 3 I am 
 very sorrv — I will go in and wash them." 
 
 And seizing her by the hand, he dragged 
 her hastily towards the house, showing such 
 joy at her presence, as a child would have
 
 305 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 done, " You are looking very well, my Reu- 
 ben/' said she fondly, " I hope you are happy 
 here?" 
 
 "O very happy," was his answer, with aeon- 
 tented smile, " if it please the Lord to prosper 
 my garden; and without his blessing all my 
 labour will be vain. And did you say you 
 were going to Paris? — by the time you come 
 back you shall see such a change! — I will 
 make an arbour on purpose for you to sit in, 
 and call it " Theresa's bower ;" and my linnets 
 shall build there, if the Lord pleases. — And so 
 you are married too! — But here 1 am losing 
 all the best of the day ; can't you come back 
 with me to my valley, Theresa ?" 
 
 " No, my dear Reuben — I cannot — I must 
 go now : but I will return again very soon." 
 
 " Not too soon — for I should like to surprise 
 you: — give me another kiss,— -do you say your 
 prayers morning and evening ? — ah, I am be- 
 ginning to recollect .«.,." 
 
 As he spoke, a strange frown began to dark- 
 en his brow 3 and doctor Barnes, seeing that 
 some chord had been struck which recalled 
 unpleasant associations, made a sign to Theresa
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 309 
 
 that the interview had been long enough. The 
 brother and sister again embraced and part- 
 ed : — she, for the gaiety and stir of Paris, and 
 he, with his heart and mind ftdly bent upon 
 the little garden in the vale. But all that day, 
 he would stop suddenly in the midst of his 
 labour, and resting on his spade, remain for 
 a few moments in some painfid reverie. His 
 attendant watched him with anxiety, for it 
 was feared that this meeting might be pro- 
 ductive of a slight relapse: however, he re- 
 turned as often to his work with " Ah, well! 
 I can't remember — as the Lord pleases," — and 
 the visit of his sister, by the next morning, 
 ■was only alluded to with delight and hope 
 for its repetition " when he had finished his 
 garden." 
 
 We shall pass rapidly over the time spent 
 l)y Sir Harry Maristow and his wife in Paris, 
 and only mention generally, that from the time 
 Theresa was thrown entirely upon her hus- 
 band's society, their paths might be said to 
 begin to diverge. And was she happy ? The 
 negative may be fully and fairly answered. Not 
 certain of the continuance of her husband's
 
 310 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 afifection; not satisfied with her own state of 
 mind; so many old land marks having been 
 destroyed, so few new ones supplied : — she 
 could not surely be happy. 
 
 One adventure^ however, must be recorded 
 which befell Theresa during the last week of 
 their stay in that city of gaiety. She was 
 driving alone down one of the Boulevards, 
 when her attention was arrested by a carriage 
 moving in the same direction, which contained 
 an English face familiar to her. This belonged 
 to an elderly young gentleman dressed in a 
 lively cinnamon coloured coat, with a powdered 
 head and a large nosegay of choice flowers in 
 his button-hole; a lace frill to his shirt, and a 
 celestial blue satin waistcoat. She was sure 
 that the owner of all these elegancies could be 
 no other than her former friend and admirer, 
 Mr. Clackworth; but who then was his com- 
 panion? It was some seconds before even her 
 quick eye could pick out a face from the mass 
 of rich furs which surrounded her throat, and 
 under the panoply of her enormous veil ; and 
 when she did discover it, Theresa gave such 
 an involuntary cry of amazement, as awakened
 
 AFTER MARRIAGE. 311 
 
 the attention of her neighbours — the carriages 
 being now ahnost close together^ — and the beau, 
 caUing upon his charioteer to stop, exclaimed : 
 "^ Angels and ministers of grace ! Anna Maria, 
 love, do you not see your old friend Miss 
 Aubrey, Lady Maristow ?" 
 
 The ci-devant Mrs. TyreU also thought pro- 
 per to express her astonishment and pleasure 
 in a scream. The carriages stopped, and their 
 occupants shook hands with great cordiaUty; 
 Theresa secretly hoping that no evil chance 
 would direct lier husband that way. 
 
 '' Well, really ! this is a pleasure worth 
 speaking of! I congratulate you, Lady Maris- 
 tow, on the improvement of your looks, — if 
 that could be." 
 
 " And I, rephed Theresa, " may return the 
 compliment, I suppose, by. ..." 
 
 " Now, my love," said Mr. Clackworth to 
 his wife, who looked silly and hung her head, 
 "■ now, my dear love, there is no need to blush! 
 she is so amiably sensitive, Lady Maristow, 
 but we have just come over to enjoy ourselves 
 a little upon this happy occasion. May I beg 
 your address ?"
 
 312 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 ^^ We leave Paris to-morrow for London. 
 When did you come ?" 
 
 " The day before yesterday," replied the 
 manager's lady, taking heart to speak : " you 
 see. Lady Maristow, after my poor Bob Tyrell 
 was taken from me, I was quite like a lost 
 w^oman, and did not know what to do ; and so 
 you know. ..." 
 
 " I understand," replied Lady Maristow bow- 
 ing good-humouredly, and thinking that the 
 scene might now be ended. " I am afraid that 
 in Paris we shall hardly meet again. Good 
 morning —Victor, to the Duchess Castellani's." 
 
 The carriages separated ; but Theresa could 
 hear an importunate enquiry, wafted on the 
 wind, which followed her, ending with " ad- 
 dress in London." 
 
 " No, no," said she to herself half-smiling : 
 " I fear that cannot be ; what would Mrs. Tal- 
 bois say'^"
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 313 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 ^' We never care — secure agarin to meet^" 
 
 Crahhe. 
 
 ^- How I wish that Mrs. Chester Younge 
 was in town !" said Theresa, with a sigh, one 
 morning of her second London season, when 
 she was sitting alone in her drawing-room. 
 She had, by this time, run through the routine 
 of a gay life ; — she had tried Paris, London, 
 Naples, and exhausted the peculiar pleasures 
 of each ; she had passed through the intoxi- 
 cating atmosphere of imiversal flattery, and 
 become accustomed to the state and ghtter 
 of the fashionable world. Her private purse 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 314 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 was always liberally filled ; her equipage:^ 
 among the handsomest in the Park } her house 
 the favourite assembling place of the noble and 
 the dissipated : — she was, in short, as re- 
 nowned as the most fastidious or apathetic 
 man would wish his wife to be; and yet 
 was never so little contented with herself — 
 so far from being happy as at that period. 
 
 She had long feared, but now she felt that 
 she was becoming an object of indifference 
 to her husband. Something of surprise and 
 disappointment had early dawned upon her 
 mind, during the first few months of her mar- 
 ried life. So clever and so well-informed as^ 
 she had thought him ! and how his understand- 
 ing juust certainly have retrograded ! She was 
 in a mistake — her mind, like one of the flow- 
 ers which open late, and come into full bloom 
 at once, had gone forward with a speed far 
 beyond the usual rate of developement. She 
 had been forming original opinions, and ob- 
 serving and concluding, whilst he remained 
 where he had been, willing to repose idly 
 upon the fruits of other people's labour. He 
 had, it must be confessed, with an increase of
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 315 
 
 fortune, contracted an indolence of mind, which 
 might trench upon sensuaUty. But, as long as 
 they were in motion, and he was amused by 
 perpetual change of place, all went well. It was 
 only upon her second return to London, that 
 the splendour of Theresa's situation began to be 
 dimmed by trials. Then it was that Sir Harry 
 began to fall back into his old bachelor habits. 
 His former set of acquaintances, remembering 
 the snug cabinet dinners of old times, the 
 moderate play which succeeded them — (they 
 had by no means a turn for gambhng — not 
 they !) — the gay petits soupers at the house of 
 some favourite actress or singer ; — aU which 
 delights had flagged when their gayest and 
 richest supporter had married, — quizzed him 
 most unmercifully upon his re-appearance 
 among them. Had it been a match by which 
 he was to have added a few thousands a year 
 to his income, or to give a nobler title than 
 his own to his eldest son, it might have gone 
 less hard with him ; but to have taken an act- 
 ress off the stage, — on her own terms, too, was 
 by them ridiculed as the greenest of aU green 
 tricks 5 and the idea of his proving a good hus- 
 
 p 2
 
 316 THE MISSIOl^ARY AND THE ACTRESS^ 
 
 band shouted down with choruses of laughter^ 
 — as^ though such an animal had never beera 
 seen upon Earth since the days of the Mam- 
 moth. It may have been gathered how com- 
 pletely Sir Harry had been married by chance } 
 it may be, therefore, guessed hov/ much power 
 was exercised over him by the raillery of his 
 old associates 5 — all such good fellows as they 
 were ! It was a very proper thing, said they, 
 for a man who could afford it to have a wife at 
 the head of his table; — they were all too 
 poor to think of such a luxury I and it was 
 very correct that the husband should give her 
 her uncontrolled way — ^by taking his own. So 
 they reasoned, and so he acted. Lady Marl- 
 stow had her own apartments,, carriages, ser- 
 vants, everything, in short, but his counsel, 
 his society, — above all, his love % while Sir 
 Harry insensibly slid back into his ancient 
 ways ; — ^the exquisite dinner of six — the ha- 
 zard after the dessert — and, of late, an occa- 
 sional supper, (such is the inconstancy of man !) 
 at the house of his fair foe. Mademoiselle 
 Chevre ( who maintained her reign by the 
 strength of assurance ) for all which good
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 317 
 
 deeds he was rewarded by hearing his friends 
 say, some six times in the week, " that they 
 had never seen a man so httle spoiled by mar- 
 riage as Maristow." 
 
 But it was not in Theresa's nature to take 
 life so easily, or to be able to cast herself 
 loose of a tie with such indifference as her 
 lord had set her the example of. She was alone in 
 the world, save for him ; and, with the dismay 
 of such as have only one earthly hope, perceived 
 that its support feU away from her day by day- 
 She loved her husband with such an affection as 
 a woman always cherishes in secret towards her 
 first hero of romance ; — she loved him as the 
 friend who had cared for her unfortunate bro- 
 ther ; as the benefactor who had raised her 
 from the chances of an exposing life to the 
 certainties of a brilliant lot ; and though she 
 bore with his neglect uncomplainingly, was not 
 prepared to relinquish her claims upon him 
 mthout many a pang of acute distress. She 
 knew, as some modern author pertinently says : 
 — ^' that lost affection was never scolded 
 back;" but she felt her sorrow to her very 
 heart of hearts. It was the shadow that stood
 
 318 THE MISSIOXARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 between her and the sun — the sword suspend- 
 ed, over her head, by a single hair; —she 
 knew that there was a point beyond which 
 she ought not to endure } and dreaded, worse 
 than death, the approach of the moment when 
 some glaring infidehty would compel her to 
 seek for protection elsewhere. And whose 
 protection was she to seek ? She had dis- 
 covered that a Ufe of fetes and operas is not 
 the hfe in which friends are made : her own 
 tastes with respect to society" were as far from 
 being gratified as in the days when she had 
 lived under Mr. Lambwood's roof. She had 
 confined herself strictly to the circle of her 
 husband's friends — a circle in which anything 
 beyond drawing-room wit and genius sufiicient 
 to produce bouts rim^s, was rarely found, and 
 where lion-hunting was denounced as vulgar — 
 that no independent action of her own might 
 widen the space betr^^een their own interests ; 
 " We may perhaps yet be very happy together," 
 she would say to herself ; " and I \^t11 not lose 
 one chance by fiUing the house with people 
 whom Sir Harry would dislike." 
 
 Poor Theresa! her mind was withering
 
 P-\BTI>-G AX1> VKKTIX6. 319 
 
 the bsmeliil inflnenoeof die atmo^bae 
 of the gaody and heartless life she wasoom- 
 peDed to kad. She gieir restless and hys- 
 terical when akme, and die spint andpoetij 
 of her natire rhaiarter seemed departed, 
 to retom no mate. She had been tan^^ tact 
 by her afledtion, and would conceal this 
 change of her farely natiire, whenercr 
 threw her into Sir Hany's company ^ 
 opportunities became xery few and fer between : 
 and she was not aDowed the bkamg of dnl- 
 dren on whom she mig|it hare poured Ibidi 
 her affection, so carelessly ne g lptted by her 
 husband. 
 
 "■ How long isdiisachii^ dream to fast?" 
 said she to bersdf one morning, ^ and what 
 is to be die waking? — If poor Reuben had 
 
 been but there is no use to lepine; — Sr 
 
 Harry must not find me in a soDen hmnonr 
 if be should come home to hmcfaean. How 
 I wish that Mrs. Toonge was in town V* 
 
 ^ No sooner said than dcme T cried a feesh 
 Toice from under a Teil ; '^ your good Fairy 
 has sent me at your need ! Why, Theresa, 
 a start you gave \ — though I entered i
 
 320 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS, 
 
 nounced, I did not descend from a chariot of 
 clouds, nor even from a balloon ; so you must 
 condescend to accept of me fresh from such 
 a matter-of-fact conveyance as a chaise and 
 pair." 
 
 Lady Maristow's surprise was equal to her 
 pleasure ; and her greeting was- warm, almost 
 affectionate. 
 
 " Why, Theresa, how country bred you are 
 still ! do you mean to shake my arm off ? or 
 are you doing some penance to which my ap- 
 pearance is to put an end, that you look as if 
 you would eat me ? You might have known 
 how I have tormented the colonel for these 
 six weeks past ; — ^ My dear I can't afford,' said 
 he. ^ My love, I shall die if I don't get up to 
 town this year,' said I, ' and you will have to 
 pay for my tombstone.' ' My love, we can't go 
 in style,' said he. ^ My dear,' replied I — you 
 know, Theresa, it is always well to be moderate 
 at first — ^ I shall only want my opera box, 
 when I get there.' ' My dear, I have no mo- 
 ney,' said he ; ^ you are so extravagant.' ^ My 
 love,' I rephed, ^ I will be economy itself, if 
 you will indulge me this once, — and save, till
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 321 
 
 the very rats and mice run about the house 
 with tears in their eyes V So I made him 
 laugh ; and when a man laughs, you know, a 
 a woman is sure to win. I sent him off the 
 first thing this morning to engage a box. 
 What's your number ? " 
 
 " Mine ?" replied Theresa, " I have no box 
 this year," 
 
 " Unworthy woman ! — and why ?" 
 
 ^^Sir Harry is not particularly fond of music, 
 and I do not like going alone." 
 
 " Unfashionable woman ! — but he would en- 
 joy the ballet, would'nt he ?" 
 
 Theresa became deadly pale, — but said no- 
 thing. 
 
 " But now that I am come, you must go 
 with me — O yes — to see Grassini in ^ II Ratto 
 del Proserpina,' to-night — you shall ! and tell 
 me every body in the house ; don't say 
 that you are engaged." 
 
 "Sir Harry said something about Lady Dor- 
 chester's ball." 
 
 ^' Well, but you can go to the opera first ;— 
 do, dear Theresa; I have looked forward to 
 this for the last six months , — if you will con- 
 
 p 3
 
 322 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 descend to patronise two people so far behind 
 the rest of the world as Chester and my- 
 self." 
 
 '^ Nay, that argument is irresistible — well 
 then, I will—" 
 
 '^ You are a dear, kind creature, even in 
 London. And now, to prove my economy, I 
 must get you to introduce me to your modiste. 
 I don't wish to bring you to open shame by 
 my Exeter millinery. Come, the carriage is 
 below, and the drive will do you good, — for, 
 not to flatter, you are looking rather thin and 
 nervous. Did I not hear you say : — ^ How I 
 wish that Mrs. Younge was in town !' and 
 now that she is come, you must go out with 
 her." 
 
 There was no resisting Mrs. Younge's lively 
 importunity. She loved and appreciated Lady 
 Maristow, and had guessed her history from 
 what she observed during a long autumn so- 
 journ at Maris Priors, and from some rumours 
 which had since reached her. Theresa spent 
 the happiest morning in her company which 
 she had passed that year. 
 
 The opera of ^ II Ratto ' was, at that time.
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 323 
 
 a great favourite ; — the house was filled by a 
 gay good-humoured audience, and the music 
 went, as music sometimes seems to go, spon- 
 taneously well. Theresa's knowledge of per- 
 sons was incessantly called upon by her friend -, 
 and, though, as often as she looked round her 
 to answer — " Who is that fine looking old 
 gentleman with white hair ? '' or, " do tell me 
 the name of that handsome dark man," she 
 was tempted to sigh and wonder what had be- 
 come of her truant husband, on the whole, she 
 cast off her cares with tolerable success. The 
 box was crowded with loungers who never 
 failed to gather round Lady Maristow when- 
 ever she appeared in pubHc ; but she preserv- 
 ed a manner so high and indifferent towards all 
 of them — O ! how unhke the Theresa of 
 former times ! — that even the most insinuating 
 or confident of the troop was constrained to 
 depart for lack of encouragement, Mrs. Younge 
 being plain, somewhat sarcastic looking, and, 
 though perfectly presentable in her appearance, 
 a person whom nobody knew. 
 
 " Really, Lady Maristow — for I dare not 
 call you Theresa here," — said she, " you queen
 
 324 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 it beautifully. If you are not quite tired, pray 
 teU me who was that last sublime looking per- 
 son who made his exit so suddenly, and with 
 a great sigh }" 
 
 " That was the Honourable Mr. Downe, not 
 at all a favourite of mine, I assure you." 
 
 " Down-hearted he looked 3 and I should not 
 wonder if we read of his hanging himself 
 among the dreadful accidents to-morrow morn- 
 ing — I hardly know how you will answer it to 
 your conscience.'^ 
 
 " Why did not you, then, try your hand at 
 consolation ?" 
 
 " Who — I ? — a nobody — your Ladyship's 
 humble friend from the country ! O dear ! 
 don't you see how aU the men pass me over 
 with a stare and a shrug ? What time or op- 
 portunity have I ? No, no — your London 
 lovers know better than, when invited by the 
 rose, to stoop to pick the daisy, as Hayley 
 says. What ? — another ? — old enough too," 
 added she aside. 
 
 The new intruder was greeted with some 
 cordiality by Lady Maris tow. He was a Mr. 
 Lumley, a middle aged man, and very plain ; 
 
 I
 
 PARTING AND MKETING. 325 
 
 but so sensible, so gentlemanly, and so sound 
 in his politeness, that Theresa felt she could 
 trust him, and preferred his society to that of 
 any other among her male acquaintance. 
 
 " What is this new ballet, Mr. Lumley ? " 
 
 " The old thing over again, I am told — 
 ^ Phillis et Amynte,' — I suppose Arcadian, with 
 temples of no possible architecture, and young 
 men and maidens that would be hooted out of 
 the first farm-yard they entered to ask for a 
 job. Excuse me, Lady Maristow, but you 
 know that I am some years past the poetical 
 age." 
 
 " And are therefore resolved to disenchant 
 as many people as you can ; — now I defy you ; 
 I have half a mind to stay the ballet, and en- 
 joy it, and believe in it, in spite of your satirical 
 description." 
 
 " I thought you were going to Lady Dor- 
 chester's baU." 
 
 " Thank you for reminding me ; — yes — no 
 I hardly know till I get home." 
 
 " Can you find it in your heart to abandon 
 me to my husband ?" cried Mrs. Younge in a 
 tone of mock reproach.
 
 326* THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 " I must go/' replied her friend, " and be- 
 sides, from the time which they are keeping 
 you in waiting, it seems doubtful whether they 
 mean to give you a ballet at all." 
 
 " O it is only one of Chevre's tricks, I 
 dare say, — this being her last night, she is 
 more than usually tiresome. Only see, The- 
 resa, how impatient the pittites appear. Pray 
 Heaven, that la bella capricciosa have not 
 sprained her ancle, — ^for the Colonel was only 
 lured out to-night by an express promise, on 
 my part, of her dancing a great deal. — Can you 
 hear what he says ?" 
 
 He was the manager, who had advanced be- 
 fore the curtain and addressed the audience 
 thus : — 
 
 " I am sorry. Ladies and Gentlemen," said 
 he, " to be compelled to announce to you that 
 Mademoiselle Chevre has quitted London a 
 few hours ago, and is now no where to be 
 found. I have taken every pains to trace 
 her, in the hope of being able to induce her 
 to appear before you, but without success. 
 Madame Dorival has kindly consented to 
 take her part, at an hour's notice. I cannot
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 327 
 
 express my feelings at being thus unworthily 
 treated, but I hope you will receive with in- 
 dulgence such a substitute as I am able to 
 offer, and if you will point out any further 
 way in which I can gratify you, I shall be 
 most happy to comply with your commands." 
 
 This speech availed nothing; — the confusion 
 in the pit increased in spite of the submissive 
 bowings of the manager. Mrs. Younge's at- 
 tention, however, was withdrawn from the 
 wrath of the world beneath, by a strong 
 pressure on her arm, and the words — ^^ Come 
 home with me, and say nothing," uttered in 
 a voice whose meaning could not be mis- 
 understood. She turned involuntarily round 
 to look if the expression of her friend's coun- 
 tenance corresponded with that tone of misery, 
 and was more startled by its proud and tran- 
 quil beaut}^ than she would have been by the 
 palest cheek or most agonized brow. At that 
 moment her eyes and Mr. Lumley's met; — 
 he, too, was observing Theresa with the most 
 painful interest. " Well, Lady Maristow,'' 
 said she, forcing a gay voice, " as Lady 
 Dorchester is in the question, we had better
 
 328 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRICSS. 
 
 relinquish Madame Dorival ; — Chester, we 
 are going home." 
 
 " Going home — and you miss the ballet, 
 Sophia ? What freak is this ?" 
 
 ^^ Ask no questions/' whispered she, sud- 
 denly — but ere she could complete her sen- 
 tence, a name was buzzed about in the pit, 
 which rendered further explanation unneces- 
 sary. 
 
 " Are you ready ?" said Theresa, " come 
 then,'' — and she took Colonel Younge's arm 
 with a quiet deliberation which his wife trem- 
 bled to see. She must have heard ! — 
 
 A group of young men arrested their pro- 
 gress through the lobby, who looked signifi- 
 cantly upon each other as they passed. 
 
 " Going away so early. Lady Maristow ?" 
 said the sentimental Mr. Downe. 
 
 " Yes, as the Chevre has gone, there is 
 nothing worth waiting for," replied she coldly : 
 — " Good night 1" 
 
 They were followed down stairs by a mur- 
 mur, half of pity, half of sarcasm. 
 
 " I shall ride round with Lady Maristow, 
 and you may walk home, Chester. — Nay,
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 329 
 
 indeed I could not trouble your ladyship to 
 set him down ; let us not make any further 
 delay. You are already late for the ball." 
 
 The two ladies drove homeward in silence: 
 and in silence, Mrs. Younge followed her 
 friend to her dressing-room. Her maid had 
 arranged the toilette table, and Hghted the 
 candles, and was now waiting impatiently for 
 the appearance of her mistress. 
 
 " So late as your ladyship is ! — We shall 
 hardly have time to do any thing. Will your 
 ladyship please to wear your pink satin, or — " 
 
 " I shall wear nothing — I shall not want to 
 dress to-night : you may go. Hay ! — you may 
 go, I say— go— go 1" 
 
 " Now," cried Theresa, bursting into a 
 passion of tears, as soon as the amazed and 
 inquisitive abigail had left the room : — " now 
 I may give way." 
 
 " Yes — yes ! — give way to your feelings ! — 
 I wondered how you could control yourself so 
 long I — We are quite alone ! —lean upon me, 
 my dear friend : — this may not be true, after 
 all !" 
 
 *' It is true !" replied Theresa, in a tone of
 
 330 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 the bitterest anguish, — I know it must be 
 true ! — ■! have feared something of this kind 
 long — ^but this is even worse — and I may 
 have been doing wrong all this time ! I should 
 have spoken to Sir Harry : — I should have 
 entreated — but it is all too late now. God 
 help me ! for I cannot bear this ! Promise me 
 that you will not leave me all night, Sophia : — 
 you must stay with me ; I have no one to look 
 to but you." 
 
 " I will not leave you, so long as you wish 
 me to remain with you. But can I do nothing ? 
 Is there no enquiry ?" 
 
 " None ! none ! — I will hear no more about 
 it ! — I have nothing left but to suffer — to go 
 without a w^arning — without a word — even so 
 little as a message— I have not deserved this ! 
 — What am I to do ? —What is to become of 
 me?" 
 
 Mrs. Younge endeavoured to comfort her, 
 but in vain. 
 
 " Do not ! — do not ! — ^let me cry awhile ! — 
 you can do me no good ! — no one can : — 
 nobody can tell what wretchedness of mind I 
 have already endured ! How I loved him — and
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 331 
 
 it is over ! — I think I could even have borne it 
 better with any one else I" 
 
 She rose from her friend's arms, and began 
 to walk up and down the room hastily, venting 
 her anguish in broken sentences. — 
 
 " Had I given him any provocation, such 
 as I see daily given by almost every woman of 
 my acquaintance ! — Had I showed him that I 
 felt his neglect, and been fretful when he was 
 at home — there might, might have been some 
 shadow of an excuse ! — and his mother too, — 
 she will say that I am low born, and that he 
 did well to abandon me !" 
 
 As she spoke these words, she took the 
 jewelled comb from her hair, and threw it down 
 scornfully. Her long hair set free, fell down 
 to her knees. Mrs. Younge gazed upon the 
 striking figure before her, now instinct with 
 eager grief, — ^with tears in her eyes, and in- 
 dignation at her heart. That Sir Harry could 
 desert such a woman for that heartless and 
 half-worn out coquette, was not a thing to be 
 thought of without strong and generous re- 
 sentment. 
 
 She left the room for an instant, that she
 
 332 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 might dispatch a note to her husband, ac- 
 quainting him with her intention of remaining 
 with Lady Maristow all that night. The 
 household was in a perfect uproar of surprise 
 at the news of their master's flight with Made- 
 moiselle Chevre, which had, by this time, 
 reached them. They were assembled in the 
 hall, all talking at once. 
 
 " It is a shame," cried the housekeeper, 
 '^ such a wife as my lady has made ! — Not one 
 of your good-for-nothing duchesses who keep 
 an open house for all the rakes about town !" 
 
 " But, dear me," said another ; " she must 
 have known that he only left the French- 
 woman just to marry her." 
 
 " And that," added a third, " was because of 
 his wager with Mr. Clifton. " I told you how 
 it would be, Thomas, long ago." 
 
 " What will the old lady say ?" 
 
 " They say," replied the second speaker, 
 '' that she is past caring for any thing, and 
 turning Methodist as hard as she can. I met 
 Willis in Bond Street on Friday, and he looked 
 as gay as a lark to have left his place. When 
 she asked him why he would not stay, he told
 
 PARTING AXD MEETING. 333 
 
 her that he -wasn't engaged to say prayers three 
 times a day, and wouldn't stand it for no 
 wages." 
 
 " She'll be dying suddenly some of these 
 days, — she was always apoplectic, — and leaving 
 those canters all her money." 
 
 Sick at heart, Mrs. Younge returned to her 
 friend ; and was much touched by perceiving that 
 Lady Maristow had already made some efforts 
 to control her grief. She had washed the tears 
 from her eyes, and arranged her disordered hair ; 
 and had even drawn out her writing-table. 
 
 " Nay, Theresa, if any letters are to be 
 written to-night, cannot you employ me ?" 
 
 " I must write myself. I wiU write to Mrs. 
 Talbois, and teU her what has happened, and 
 throw myself upon her mercy. I wiU not stay 
 here an unnecessary hour. I can go no where 
 so properly as to her house, if she will receive 
 me. Surely she will not have the heart to 
 refuse 1" 
 
 Mrs. Younge thought it best to leave her to 
 foUow her own plans, though she sighed to 
 herself as she feared how ineffectual would be 
 any appeal to that cold-hearted woman.
 
 334 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 " Will it not be the best thing I can do ?— 
 and I will foUow the letter by the next post, 
 lest I receive a prohibition. What other step 
 could I take ? I have no one else to go to, 
 and to remain here, exposed to scandal and 
 worse — I cannot think of it." 
 
 " Come home with us, — or there is Maris 
 Priors." 
 
 " No, Sophia, no," replied her friend mourn- 
 fully ; " thank you, with all my heart, for your 
 kindness, but it would not do. I could not 
 bear Maris Priors now — or indeed any part of 
 the country. We have been over it together 
 so often, it is scarcely more than a year and a 
 half since he took me there ! — It would kill 
 me. — No, — I must go to Brandiield : it is a 
 miserable alternative, I know, but I have no 
 other, unless," and she laughed hysterically :• — 
 '^ I take to the stage again !" 
 
 " Dear Lady Maristow, do not speak so — it 
 frightens me !" 
 
 " I am very wrong," said Theresa, ''■ but 
 forgive me — ^because I am so very wretched !— 
 I scarcely know what I say or feel. I think 
 my reason is leaving me. Would to God it
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 335 
 
 would, if I might forget ! But do not look so 
 shocked : let me go and pray, — it will do me 
 good — I must go and pray !" — and she broke 
 away from her friend with such a hurried 
 wildness of manner, that Mrs. Younge could 
 not but remember that Reuben was Theresa's 
 brother. 
 
 She was absent for about half an hour, and 
 returned much calmer. " I am better now,'^ 
 said she, " I will bear this grievous trial as weU 
 as I can. Rest ? — no ! — I shall never rest 
 again ! — at least, let me WTite first ; and then, 
 perhaps, I will obey you and lie down." 
 
 She then sat down to her desk, and exer- 
 cising a strong self-control, though her hand, 
 when least unsteady, danced over the paper 
 like a feather, and hot tears stood in her eyes, 
 ready to fall, ^^Tote a few brief hues to her 
 mother-in-law, saying that she was about to 
 seek her for countenance and shelter. 
 
 " Simple enough," said Mrs. Younge, " to 
 have touched a heart of stone." 
 
 She then, with a yet more faultering hand 
 traced the following words on a sheet of paper, 
 to be given to her husband, in case but
 
 336 THE MISSIONARY AND THE ACTRESS. 
 
 what hope could she have that he would ever 
 return ? 
 
 " Dear Harry, 
 " I have thought it better to leave London, 
 than to remain there alone. In case you 
 should return, I hope you will find me under 
 the protection of your mother. I am going 
 to her, for I know not where else I should go. 
 Should you wish it, I will join you immediately, 
 or in any otherway prove myself 
 
 ^^ Your devoted 
 
 " Theresa." 
 ****** 
 
 END OF VOL. 1, 
 
 LONDON : 
 SCHULZE AND CO., 13, POLAND STREET.
 
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