) 
 
 />>■ 
 
 V?'
 
 BOOKS JUST PUBLISHED. 
 
 ^^ HEROIC IDYLS." 
 
 By WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 " THE MAN OF THE HOUR" 
 
 By ALFRED GLADSTONE* 
 
 "THE MORTONS OF BARDOM." 
 
 A LANCASHIRE TALE. . 
 
 "HEATHSIDE FARM." 
 
 Edited by MRS. MARSH, 
 Author of "Two Old Men's Tales," "Emilia Wyndham.' 
 
 « MAPLE HAYES." 
 
 <<ANNE CAVE. 
 
 By KENNER DEENE.
 
 "AFTER LONG YEARS." 
 
 By MRS. MACKENZIE DANIELS. 
 
 ^^SKATING ON THIN ICE." 
 
 By the Author of " Reca Gaelaitd." 
 
 ^^THE SCHOOLMASTER OF ALTON." 
 
 By the Author of " The Dull Stone House." 
 
 ANECDOTAL MEMOIRS OF ENGLISH 
 PRINCES, 
 
 WITH SOME ACCOUJfT OF THE EOYAL HOUSES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 By W. H. davenport ADAMS, 
 Author of " Memorable Battles in English History," &c. 
 
 "IL PELLEGRTNO." 
 
 By captain J. W. CLAYTON. 
 
 "YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY." 
 
 By CYRUS REDDING. 
 
 "THE LIFE OF SIR TIMOTHY GRACELESS, 
 
 Bart." 
 "WRITTEN BY HIMSELF— EDITED BY OMEGA.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 LANGTON LOCKHAET. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHEK, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 
 1864. 
 
 [the eight of teanslation is keseeted.]
 
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LYNCOMBE, 
 
 It is now twenty years ago that I went to 
 spend a few weeks of the autumn at the little 
 sea-side town of Lyncombe, on the north 
 coast of Devonshire.- I had already been, 
 like everybody else in those days, up the 
 Ehine ; toured it through France, Italy, and 
 Switzerland, and a good part of Germany 
 and Holland; besides, I had seen Paris, 
 Brussels, and Berlin ; Florence, Venice, and 
 Vienna; Rome, Naples, and almost every 
 other town or place of either importance or 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 Z RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 interest on the continent ; as well as tlie lakes 
 of Cumberland and Westmorland ; the High- 
 lands of Scotland, and Melrose Abbey ; Dry- 
 burgh and Abbotsford. So, after a run 
 through Wales, T thought I should like to see 
 some of the romantic scenery of North Devon; 
 and, taking a steamer at Bristol, went down 
 the Channel, and after five or six hours' run, 
 I, with some half-dozen more passengers, was 
 landed at the place already mentioned. 
 Twenty years ago Lyncombe was a much 
 smaller place than it is now. It was little 
 better then than a fishing village, and was 
 just beginning to be visited for a few months 
 in the summer and autumn, by a few strangers 
 who came to enjoy the fresh, bracing air, and 
 the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood. 
 There were a few larger houses, but the place 
 chiefly consisted of a cluster of fishermen's 
 cottages round the flat muddy creek at the 
 bottom of the high, steep hills, half-way 
 across the mouth of which creek was a strons:
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 3 
 
 stone pier, which served as a breakwater, 
 and gave shelter to the numerous fishing- 
 boats, and the few small coasting vessels 
 that found their way into the harbour, to 
 deliver their cargoes of small coals, and take 
 in grain and potatoes for Bristol, Plymouth, 
 or some other of the larger ports in 
 return. 
 
 Lyncombe was placed at the back of a 
 small bay caused by a slight bend in the 
 coast-line, and was encircled on all sides, 
 except towards the sea, by high, steep hills 
 and rugged cliffs, which, in a great measure, 
 cut it off from the rest of the country ; a 
 good portion of it, too, was hidden from the 
 sea by a high tor which rose in the centre of 
 the bay, and pushed itself forward consider- 
 ably beyond the entrance to the harbour, 
 filling nearly the whole of the bend, and 
 having only a small open space at each end, 
 one of which led into the creak already 
 named, and the other forming a narrow strip
 
 4 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 of shingly beach which ran clown between 
 the rough, slanting, shelvy rocks into tlie 
 sea, and through which part of tlie town was 
 asrain visible from the Channel. This tor 
 was about four or five hundred feet in height, 
 gradually sloping down for perhaps half the 
 distance, on the side next the sea, after which 
 it was an almost perpendicular precipice of 
 sharp, ledgy rocks, down to the very edge of 
 the water, which, even at low tide, never alto- 
 gether receded from its base, and when the tide 
 was full, lashed and foamed against it with a 
 weight and force that would, even in the 
 calmest weather, have been most perilous to 
 be in, but in a stormy sea would have been 
 instant death to any one, had he been rash 
 enouo;h to have ventured his streno^th ao:ainst 
 that of the waves in such a place. Along 
 the face of this rocky cliff was a narrow zig- 
 zag footpath, which a firm foot and steady 
 eye might have traversed with comparative 
 ease and safety ; but which a giddy brain or
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 5 
 
 sliaky limb would have found anything but 
 either pleasant or secure. 
 
 The back of the tor was a steep grassy 
 slope descending down into the narrow flat 
 vale in which the chief part of the town v^as 
 situated, and into which the little creek 
 forming the small harbour for some distance 
 extended. The tor might be altogether 
 nearly a third of a mile in length, and 
 perhaps a couple of hundred yards in width, 
 at the widest part. One end extended con- 
 siderably out across the opening between the 
 rocks which served as the road into the har- 
 bour, and formed a sort of outer, natural 
 protection to it against the violence of the 
 sea. On almost the extreme point of this, 
 which was much less elevated than the other 
 end, was a small, rude building which had at 
 one time, it is said, been a Catholic chapel, 
 but was now used as a lighthouse, and had 
 given the appropriate name of Lantern Eock 
 to that part of the height on which it was
 
 b RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 situated. This was reached by a short, steep, 
 winding footpath from the inland side, com- 
 mencing at the edge of the water behind the 
 pier. The higher part of tbe tor was called 
 the Flagstaff Hill, from an old ship's mast 
 having been placed upon the top of it some 
 years before, and surmounted by the national 
 ensign, which, I suppose, by this time has 
 entirely disappeared, as, when I was there, it 
 was already almost in shreds, and no one 
 seemed to be inclined either to repair it or 
 put up a new one. The opening through 
 which the sea could be reached at this end of 
 the rocky hill was even narrower than the 
 other, little better than a good sized gully, 
 with jagged rocks on each side, and into 
 which came a small stream from the little 
 valley which extended beyond the village, 
 running for some distance almost parallel 
 with the coast, but completely hidden from 
 the sea by the high tor which reared up, 
 sloping and green, from it on the one side,
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 7 
 
 presenting its bold slaty front to the ocean 
 on the other. 
 
 The accommodation for visitors, as you 
 may suppose, at so small a place as Lyncombe 
 then was, was neither very extensive, nor 
 particularly choice. The long terraces and rows 
 of fine houses which, I believe, now adorn the 
 valley and the sides of the bare hills, were 
 not in existence then, or only just beginning, 
 here and there, to make a slow and by no 
 means promising appearance. A few of the 
 larger cottages, and one or two of the better 
 sort of houses had made arrangements for 
 visitors, by fitting up and preparing a spare 
 room or two for the convenience of strangers ; 
 but the accommodation they afforded was ge- 
 nerally of a very plain and scanty description, 
 and I should have preferred staying at the inn, 
 or hotel, had it not been that it was in the 
 very centre of the thickest cluster of the fisher- 
 men's cottages, facing the muddy creek which 
 formed the back of the harbour, and strongly
 
 « RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 impregnated with the unpleasant odours of 
 stale fish, pitch, and sewage from the rest of 
 the town ; hough in other respects, I be- 
 lieve, th^ house was very comfortable. But 
 being always exceedingly sensitive in my 
 olfactory nerves, I preferred risking the ac- 
 commodation of one of the private lodging 
 houses, to that of the Lord Nelson, as the inn, 
 I think, was then called ; and having got the 
 addresses of two or three houses where the 
 landlady told me I might find lodgings, off I 
 went, carpet-bag in hand, in the search, which 
 was not fated to be a long one. After look- 
 ing at two or three cottages, and nearly ruin- 
 ing my hat against the low roofs of their 
 small rooms, as well as narrowly escaping 
 breaking my limbs or my neck upon the 
 narrow rickety stairs, I came to one of rather 
 larger dimensions than the others, where I 
 found a small bed-room and sitting-room un- 
 occupied. It was a small two-storey house, 
 at the end of a row of about half-a-dozen
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. \) 
 
 cottages, built on the rocky ridge that joined 
 the Lantern Rock to the Flag-staff hill, which 
 latter rose high above it, a little to the left ; 
 and looked upon the valley and village, and 
 the lofty heights close behind them, with its 
 back to the sea, and within a few steps of the 
 edge of a precipitous rock, nearly a couple of 
 hundred feet in height, at the base of whicli 
 the waves were slowly rolling, and breaking 
 with a monotonous sound of lazy indifference 
 which was quite provoking to listen to. 
 
 The rooms to let were a small front parlour 
 on the ground-floor, with a bed-room over it, 
 looking to the front also. 
 
 '' I should have preferred the sitting-room 
 looking to the sea,'^ said I, addressing the 
 landlady, as she was showing me the par- 
 lour. " And I should not mind paying a few 
 shillings more for a room that does, if you 
 have one disengaged," I added, as we as- 
 cended the narrow, creaking stairs to look at 
 the bedroom, and I caught a glimpse of the 
 
 B 5
 
 10 RAISED TO THK WOOLSACK. 
 
 sea, glistening in tlie sunsliine, tlirougli a 
 neat little room opposite tlie landing, with a 
 small piece of flat green sward, not much 
 larger than the room itself, between it and 
 the edge of the cliff, and a coping of loose 
 stones, about a couple of feet high, as the 
 only protection against tumbling head-fore- 
 most over the rock. 
 
 " This room isn't to let, is it ?" I inquired, 
 casting a longing glance in at the partially 
 opened door, seeing that the landlady did not 
 respond to my wish so readily as I should 
 have liked. 
 
 " No, sir, there's a gentleman has it, and 
 the small bed-room over," replied the land- 
 lady, pausing. 
 
 " Oh, I beg pardon," I rejoined, hastily 
 drawing back, thinking the gentleman might 
 be in the room. 
 
 '' Oh, the gentleman isn't in now," she re- 
 turned, walking into the room, while I half 
 reluctantly followed her, unable to resist the
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 11 
 
 influence of the splendid prospect before me. 
 '' All ! he's so fond o' the sea," she continued, 
 in a tone of half admiring sympathy, which 
 struck and interested me at the same time ; 
 "he says he can't sleep without the sound of 
 the waves in his ears. An' he'll sit here, or 
 out upon the edge of the cliff, there, for hours 
 and hours, watching the rolling o' the waves, 
 or their breaking again' the rocks underneath, 
 till I sometimes feel afraid he'll go to sleep 
 an' fall over an' be killed." 
 
 " I suppose he is very fond of the sea, 
 then," I replied, leaving considerable margin 
 in my own mind for exaggeration on the 
 part of the good-natured landlady, who, I 
 ought to have said, was a middle-aged, kindly- 
 looking widow, that, like all widows and 
 lodging-house keepers, had seen better days, 
 and never expected to be forced to eke out 
 her living by letting lodgings when she mar- 
 ried her poor, dear husband, who was the 
 skipper of a small vessel belonging to the
 
 12 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 place, and had been drowned in the Channel 
 a few years before, leaving her little but the 
 house she lived in to support herself and her 
 daughter upon, the latter being now a tallish, 
 good-looking girl of about nineteen or twenty, 
 w^ho assisted her mother in her hoasehold 
 duties and occasionally attending upon her 
 lodgers. 
 
 " Ay, he is indeed, sir,'' she replied ; " it's 
 quite wonderful how fond he is of it. An' 
 then he'll walk about the room here, talking 
 in a low voice to himself; or sit up half the 
 night writing an' thinking ! Oh, it's quite 
 wonderful how he does it; an' he doesn' 
 look over happy sometimes, either, I fancy, 
 poor young gentleman !" ' 
 
 " Oh ! perhaps he's in love or has been 
 disappointed," I replied, with a compassionate 
 smile, thinking that my rather more than 
 middle-aged appearance justified me in so do- 
 ing. '' Although it's rather strange, his mode 
 of bearing it," I added.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 13 
 
 " Well, sir, my daughter an' me sometimes 
 call him the ' strange gentleman/ " replied the 
 landlady, in a lower voice, glancing half cau- 
 tiously around her, as if afraid lest the walls 
 or somethino' in the room mio;ht catch the 
 sound and tell it to her lodger when he came 
 ill. 
 
 ''You don't mean that you think there's 
 anything queer about him, do you?" said I, 
 putting the question as delicately as I could, 
 though with some secret uneasiness, which I 
 tried to conceal under an air of good-humoured 
 comp^sion. 
 
 " Do you mean dangerous?" inquired the 
 landlady. 
 
 *' Humph ; well, no, not exactly dangerous, 
 only a little strange at times perhaps," I re- 
 plied, half-apologetically. 
 
 '' Why, sir, he's as gentle as a lamb, an' 
 the kindest and consideratest creature that 
 ever was in a house. He seems always afraid 
 o' givin' any trouble, an' will hardly ring the
 
 14 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 bell if he wants anything ever so. I never 
 had anybody in the house that was so good, 
 an' gave so little trouble ; an' when he speaks 
 to me you would think he's asking a favour 
 when he wants anything done ; he's such a 
 perfect gentleman ; very different from some 
 other ' literary people,' as they're called, who 
 were here last year, Mrs. Mauller an' her 
 husband, and their son ; but she was the chief 
 one in the party. She was such a disagree- 
 able, overbearing woman, never spoke to one 
 as if she thought people who let lodgings were 
 entitled to any respect, or as if she thought 
 it worth her while either to recognise us as 
 human beings or think about us at all ; but 
 went out and came in with her nose as high 
 as the crown o' her head, and her eyes and 
 thoughts both in the clouds together, an' 
 never either saw or thought of us or anything 
 else but what belonged to herself; an' if she 
 spoke at all, it was always in a proud domi- 
 neering way, just as if she had been a buck-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 15 
 
 ster speaking to a donkey. But this gentle- 
 man is quite different. He never speaks to 
 one but as if he thought he was speaking to 
 a great lady ; and I daresay, if the truth was 
 known, he's quite as clever an^ as high as 
 they were." 
 
 " Well, he seems to be much more of a gen- 
 tleman than Mrs. Mauller is a lady, at all 
 events," I replied, somewhat amused at the 
 loquacious landlady's account and description 
 of the well-known character of that authoress, 
 — adding, after a moment's pause, '' Oh, this 
 gentleliian is an author, is he?" 
 
 " An author ! la, bless you, sir ! he's a 
 poet ! — a great poet !" she exclaimed, as if 
 surprised that I should not already have known 
 it. 
 
 '^ Oh, indeed, a poet !" I replied, trying to 
 look much more astonished and gratified than 
 I really felt ; thinking from what she had al- 
 ready told me that he must be one of those 
 half-mad enthusiasts one sometimes meets
 
 16 EATSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 with, especially in fine or romantic scenery ; 
 who go rapt and raving about, fancying that 
 a feverish kind of imaginative excitement, and 
 affected air of silly eccentricity, entitle them 
 to the character and title of poets ; and occa- 
 sionally even succeed in making a few weak 
 people believe in their pretensions. " I sup- 
 pose you have seen some of his effusions, 
 then," I remarked, after another short pause, 
 supposing she spoke of him from her own ap- 
 preciation of his poetic genius. " He has 
 shown some of them to you perhaps ?'^ 
 
 " Well, I can't say that he has ever shown 
 me any of his effusions, as you call them, or 
 that I have ever read any of his poetry ; only 
 my daughter, who, I am thankful to say, has 
 had as good an education as many a real lady, 
 an' can read French famously, an' has a won- 
 derful taste for poetry, has seen several poems 
 o' his lying about when he was out, an' says 
 they are quite beautiful — almost as good as 
 Byron's," said the landlady, enthusiastically.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 17 
 
 " Well, that's saying a great deal, and, I 
 suppose, they must be very good, as your 
 daughter is no doubt well qualified to judge of 
 their merits," said I, with but little secret 
 belief that she was, though I did not like to 
 hurt the feelings of the poor mother by show- 
 ing it. 
 
 "Oh, I assure you they are, sir. My 
 daughter is wonderfully clever herself, 
 though I say it, who, perhaps, as her mo- 
 ther, ought not ; but she has ever so many 
 books of poetry, prizes that she gained at 
 school, an' can say no end of it off; an' she 
 says that the pieces she has seen o' the strange 
 gentleman's are quite as good as Ruy that's in 
 her books," she returned confidently. 
 
 '' Well, I am glad to hear T am likely 
 to be under the same roof with so talented 
 a man and great a poet," said I, cour- 
 teously, at the same time turning to leave 
 the room, and beginning to show a dispo- 
 sition to return to what was to be my
 
 18 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 own sitting room, whicli she observing, im- 
 mediately followed me down stairs, where, 
 after hearing her terms, and stating to her 
 what I should require as to attendance, cook- 
 ing, etcetera; and telling her that I was 
 very particular as to meal-hours, which she 
 promised should be punctually observed, the 
 agreement was speedily made, and I engaged 
 her rooms for a month certain, or for more if 
 I liked the place, and wished to remain 
 longer.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Having taken possession of my temporary 
 abode by depositing my carpet-bag in my 
 bedroom, and leaving my umbrella in the 
 parlom-, after having performed some slight 
 ablutionary sacrifices to my personal appear- 
 ance, and brushed myself up a little, I went out 
 to reconnoitre the place, while the landlady, 
 Mrs. Poole, was making a few alterations in 
 my rooms which I had suggested to her, and 
 preparing my tea, for it was now getting well 
 on in the evening, and I had dined rather 
 sparingly on board the steamer in coming 
 down the Channel ; so I told her, as I went
 
 20 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 out, I should be back in half an hour, and 
 took my way accordingly. 
 
 My first direction on leaving the house was 
 towards the Flagstaff Hill, which I began to 
 ascend with a speed that soon carried me to 
 the top, where I stood gazing in admiration 
 upon the splendid prospect on every side 
 spread out before me. First, there was the 
 broad, blue Channel, across which the Welsh 
 coast was dimly seen in the distance, and in 
 the widening embrouchure of which lay, some 
 half-score miles off, the grey rocky Island of 
 Lundy, bright and radiant with the golden 
 beams of the descending sun. On either side 
 of me were tiers of high tors and rocky preci- 
 pices, rising beyond each other in lofty peaks 
 and sharp promontories, all along the sea-coast; 
 while, looking inland, there was the steep 
 grassy descent of the hill on which I stood, at 
 the bottom of which was a low, stone wall, 
 dividing it off from the strip of meadow-land 
 with a broad walk down the centre of it, on
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 21 
 
 which a few people, evidently strangers like 
 myself, were strolling about, enjoying the 
 fresh air of the beautiful evening. On the 
 other side of the flat ground, the little town 
 — thick and clustering towards the left about 
 the harbour — stretched, straggling and thinly, 
 along the base of the brown hills opposite me, 
 which rose high and irregular beyond it. 
 
 For some minutes I stood gazing on the 
 scene, turning first to one side then to another, 
 deeply impressed with its beauties and 
 grandeur ; the whole so varied in its features, 
 and distinct in its character, yet blended to- 
 gether into a harmony of tone and colouring, 
 and lighted and softened by the level rays of 
 a bright summer sun, and cloudless blue sky, 
 forming one of the most magnificent pano- 
 ramic pictures I had ever beheld. 
 
 So much were my mind and eyes engaged 
 in the contemplation of this magnificent pros- 
 pect, that I did not for some minutes observe 
 a gentleman, sitting Avith his back towards
 
 22 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 me, on the face of tlie hill, about a score of 
 paces off, apparently too intently gazing upon 
 the glistening waters of the green Channel, or 
 the high headlands of Wales opposite, to ob- 
 serve that any one was near him, or perhaps 
 to care, even if he did know it. 
 
 " That's my fellow lodger, the poet, I sup- 
 pose,'' said I to myself, speaking half aloud. 
 " Well, whatever his poetry may be, he has 
 subjects here, at all events, grand and beauti- 
 ful enough to give inspiration to the dullest 
 of muses." 
 
 In fact, at that moment, I felt more of that 
 kind of inspired enthusiasm which, I believe, 
 is the chief characteristic of the poetic temper- 
 ament, than I think I ever felt in my life. 
 But whether this arose out of the mere novelty 
 of the scene, or from some peculiarly happy 
 mood of mind and temper in myself, I will not 
 stop to inquire ; at all events, I felt more dis- 
 posed to respect and sympathise with my 
 poetic fellow-lodger than I had been in-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 23 
 
 clinecl to do from my landlady's account of 
 him. 
 
 " I wonder what sort of looking fellow he is,'' 
 said I to myself, somehow or other beginning 
 to feel a vague kind of interest in him, and al- 
 most allowing it to take the place of the scene 
 around me in my mind. " I've a good mind 
 to take a slanting turn across the face of the 
 hill, and have a look at him." Still, I did 
 not quite like doing this, in case of giving 
 offence, especially as, lodging in the same 
 house — for T never doubted but it was he — 
 we should be pretty sure to meet each other 
 there, when he wo'ild recognise me again, 
 and perhaps think woxse of me for my curi- 
 osity than I really deserved. 
 
 However, I was soon relieved of the temp- 
 tation, for, with a light bound, he sprang to 
 his feet, and, without looking round, pro- 
 ceeded to descend the face of the steep hill in 
 a zigzag manner, towards the sea, with a 
 speed — jet with an evident confidence and
 
 24 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 security — whicli, while it alarmed me for his 
 safety, assured me at the same time of his not 
 only being well aware of the precipice before 
 him, but of his being fully on his guard against 
 its dangers. 
 
 Having always been a great admirer of 
 bold, manly exercises of all kinds, the active 
 energy of this '* strange gentleman,'' as my 
 landlady called him, increased both my respect 
 and interest in him. I had figured to myself 
 a weak-limbed, nerveless, sentimental being, 
 wdth a Byronic collar and afiPected strut of 
 mental abstraction ; and here was a young 
 fellow, evidently fearless as a lion, active as a 
 roe-buck, and sure-footed as a goat, bounding 
 about the heights, and among the clifiPs, with 
 a perfect confidence, and familiarity — so to 
 speak — which showed him to be anything but 
 the puling thing of weakly sentimental rhymes 
 I had imagined him. 
 
 In a few seconds he was out of sight, and, 
 by a narrow, winding track, down the side of
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 25 
 
 the hill, and a sort of leclgy stair down the 
 face of the rock, soon found himself in safety 
 upon the irregular foot-path which ran round 
 the base of the precipice some distance above 
 the sea, where I was again able occasionally 
 to catch a glimpse of him as he walked swiftly 
 along, evidently in the full enjoyment of the 
 fresh sea-air and the glorious scene around 
 him. 
 
 For a few minutes I entirely lost sight of 
 him, and began to fear lest, after all, his foot 
 had slipped and he had fallen down the cliffs, 
 when at that instant I saw some one, who I 
 at once concluded to be he, swimming out 
 from a concealed part of the rocks in which 
 he had undressed, so far below me that his 
 head seemed little larger than an orange, and 
 whose gambols in the water were more like 
 those of an animal iu its native element than 
 of such a terrestrial being as man. On he went, 
 now plunging, then floating ; now diving 
 under the waves and rising again twenty or 
 
 VOL. 1. c
 
 26 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 thirty yards off, tossing his head like a water- 
 dog shaking the salt brine from its hair after a 
 deep plunge or a long swim, and then away 
 he would go for a few minutes, steadily and 
 gracefully holding his outward course, ris- 
 ing and falling with the undulating billows, 
 till he seemed scarcely larger than a speck 
 borne long upon their glistening surface, when 
 he would once more renew his gambols, and 
 on again he would go, plunging, diving, and 
 splashing as before. 
 
 He must have been fully half-a-mile from 
 the shore when he turned round and com- 
 menced to swim back to the spot from whence 
 he had started, which he did in the same 
 sportful manner he had gone out in, and with 
 an ease and buoyancy I had never witnessed in 
 my life. I was a fair swimmer myself, and have 
 once or twice found it very serviceable to both 
 myself and others, but I never had the slightest 
 pretensions to either the skill or power in the 
 water that I now saw exhibited before me.
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 27 
 
 That it was the same person who had risen 
 up close to me, and so swiftly descended the 
 steep hill and rugged cliff, I never for a mo- 
 ment doubted, any more than that that person 
 was the strange gentleman of Mrs. Poole's 
 lodgings. It never once occurred to me that 
 it might be any one else; even if it was 
 my fellow lodger, that was no reason why I 
 should, all at once, feel so much interested in 
 a perfect stranger, who might be by no 
 means inclined either to reciprocate any 
 friendly advances on my part or to thank me 
 for the interest I felt in him. 
 
 Turning, and again taking a glance at the 
 beautiful scene around me, I left the top of 
 the hill, and the side of the old mast by 
 which I had been standing, and half 
 ran and half slid down the back of the 
 height towards the town, and soon found 
 myself at the rough stone- wall which 
 separated the base of the hill from the 
 narrow meadow, where a rude kind of style 
 
 c 2
 
 28 RAISED TO THE ^YOOLSACK. 
 
 enabled me to get over the wall without much 
 difficulty or danger to my hands or shins ; 
 and, taking the footpath to the left, I returned 
 to my lodgings, where I found tea and a nice 
 chop, which I had desired the landlady to get, 
 ready for me. 
 
 " I hope you'll find everything to your 
 liking, sir,'' said the landlady, as I pulled my 
 chair towards the table and prepared to com- 
 mence operations. 
 
 " Thank you ; I've no doubt I shall, every- 
 thing seems very nice," T replied, as she re- 
 moved the top plate from the chop, and the 
 steam rose up to the ceiling, " Ah, that's 
 famous, I see you know the proper way to 
 serve up a chop here." 
 
 " I always attend to things myself, and 
 then I am sure they are done properly. 
 There's nothing else you want, is there, sir?" 
 she asked, turning to leave the room. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I think there's everything 
 here I require," I answered.
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 29 
 
 " If there is not, perhaps you will pull the 
 bell," she added, as she went oat of the room, 
 and left me to enjoy my solitary meal, as 
 I have done for so many years, though, if 
 it hadn't been for that —no, I won't let an 
 unkind word escape me; perhaps it was not 
 her fault so much as my own, after all, that 
 she did not become Mrs. Henry Habbershaw ; 
 and if I hadn't been such an over-sensitive 
 fool in those days — though God knows I have 
 not over much of it now, and so much the 
 better perhaps — but if I hadn't been so 
 foolishly sensitive then, and apt to feel 
 slights, as I fancied, when none were ever 
 either intended or thought of, I should not 
 have quarrelled. ]^o ! I won't say quarrelled, 
 for we never did that ; much better perhaps 
 if we had, for then it might have ended in a 
 clearing up of our misunderstanding; but, 
 like a hot-headed fool, I must needs fly off 
 at a tangent, and leave her to think I was not 
 only an ill-tempered ass, but cared nothing
 
 30 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 for her ; and make her marry another man 
 out of pique, who made her wretched and 
 broke her heart with his indifference and neg- 
 lect. 
 
 ^' Poor Helen Barton ! it is ^ve and twenty 
 years since — ^we and twenty long years, I 
 was only twenty-one then, — and here I am 
 thinking of the time you and I used to be so 
 happy together, and might have been so now 
 perhaps, but for my own folly — God forgive 
 me ! — and you have been dead more than 
 a dozen years, and your good-for-nothing 
 husband too ! I've heard he died soon after 
 you from excessive grief — no, love — for the 
 bottle. Merciful heavens ! to think that the 
 delicate, refined, and beautiful Helen Barton 
 should have married a sot, and all from 
 my obstinate pride and folly, when I would 
 have given my heart' s-blood to win her. 
 I've heard she left a son. I wonder if 
 he is still alive, poor boy. Her husband's 
 name was — no danger of my ever forgetting
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 31 
 
 it more than hers — was Gilmore, and lier 
 son was called, — ay, I found out tliat much 
 too — her son was called Henry ! — Henry 
 Gilmore. How strange that they should have 
 happened to give him a name the same as 
 mine ! I wish they hadn't. It seems to rise 
 up in accusation against me for my folly, and 
 tells me of what I might have been if I hadn't 
 been a simpleton ! 
 
 ^' Bah ! what nonsense to think of all this 
 now. I haven't thought so much about her 
 these half-score years. I wonder what has 
 brought it all back to me now ? and here's 
 my chop standing uncovered all this time 
 and I have scarcely tasted it yet, and 
 now it's almost cold. I wonder what people 
 would say if they saw a staid old fellow like 
 me, who has passed his forty-sixth summer, 
 sitting dreaming in this way instead of eating 
 his chop and drinking his tea like a sensible 
 man, as I generally, I believe, get the credit 
 of being, though, I'm afraid, if they knew me
 
 32 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 as well as I do myself, tliey would hardly 
 think so. Ah ! many a man besides me 
 would lose credit by too close an acquaintance, 
 I'm afraid. Well, never mind ; thank good- 
 ness I have still a good appetite in spite of it 
 all, and an excellent digestion. But I wonder 
 what should have all at once made me think 
 of poor Helen Barton ! — or Gilmore rather ; 
 but I hate that name ! It makes me think of 
 what it might have been, had I not been such 
 an idiot ! Her son, too ! — what on earth 
 could have made me think of him ? Perhaps 
 he has been dead and laid with his mother for 
 years, and even if he isn't, what then ? What 
 is the son of Helen Barton — no Gilmore — 
 to me? And why should I feel any interest 
 in a person I have never even seen, and am 
 never likely to see? and bearing that hateful 
 name too. And yet, poor boy ! it isn't his 
 fault that he's called Gilmore instead of Hab- 
 bershaw — Henry Habbershaw, junior. How 
 that would have sounded, and I a grave ^pater
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 33 
 
 familias living in a suburban villa or fash- 
 ionable square. Poor boy! I could almost 
 love him for his mother's sake, if I met him. 
 I wonder if he's like her ? if he has her eyes ? 
 — oh, what eyes they were ! I shall never look 
 upon others like them. They seemed to shine 
 into mj very heart ! — and her smile too ! What 
 a smile it was ! so calm, warm, and full of 
 tender affection ; and her finely turned cheeks, 
 noble forehead, dimpled chin, and beautiful 
 mouth — ay, what a mouth! How I have 
 looked upon it, and felt as if I would have 
 given my very existence for one kiss of its 
 rosy lips ! And now, where are they all ? 
 Alas ! the slimy worms have long, long ago 
 fed upon those beauties, which I ajmost wor- 
 shipped and almost feared to gaze upon ! — and 
 those eyes and cheeks and lips are all long 
 ere this turned into dust. I am glad she did 
 not leave a daughter behind her, who might 
 have had some of her mother's features or 
 looks, and reminded me too much of her. 
 
 c 5
 
 34 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 Sober old bachelor though I am, I could not 
 see her likeness, even in another, without a 
 flutter of the heart, and a quickening of the 
 pulse. And yet, if her son is living, I should 
 like to see him. I wonder if ever I shall. 
 It's a wide world this to look for a man in, 
 that one never saw, and wouldn't know if he 
 did see. 
 
 " What folly this is for me to sit dreaming 
 over. But just like me ; I was always far 
 more apt to dream when awake than when 
 asleep ; and instead of pushing on, and fight- 
 ing my way among my fellow-men in the 
 world, sit down, or shrink back, while they 
 were rushing and struggling past me, to wealth, 
 honours, and distinction. But let them ; they 
 have taken their course, and I have taken 
 mine; and perhaps, after all, I am just as happy 
 as they are. I might have been my Lord 
 Judge by this time, perhaps, and making my 
 ^we hundred a year as many thousands. But 
 what of that ! I don't know that I should
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 35 
 
 have been anything either the better or 
 happier for that, or half so happj, perhaps. 
 Here I am, a jolly old bachelor, with no cares 
 or troubles to annoy me, going about 
 wherever my fancy leads me, enjoying my- 
 self like a rational being and a philosopher, 
 and doing a little good when I can, like a 
 humane man, and a Christian, when I might 
 have been struggling on, an obscure barrister, 
 to the end of the chapter ; or, even if I had 
 risen, have found my honours not worth 
 wearing, after all. 
 
 " Thank God ! my father was a thrifty, 
 honest tradesman, and left me five hundred a 
 year to live upon like a gentleman, and do 
 what I pleased, which, I'm afraid, has never 
 been very much.
 
 36 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DREAMING. 
 
 " You have some charming views in the 
 neighbourhood," I remarked, as Mrs. Poole 
 was clearing my table after I had finished 
 tea. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; some of the views are allowed 
 to be very fine indeed,'^ she replied. " But 
 it's seldom I go to look at any of them. It's 
 years, I think, since I went up to the top of 
 any of the tors, though, when I was a girl, 
 I used to be very fond of it. Have you been 
 here before, sir?" 
 
 " No, I have not."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 37 
 
 " Oh, I thought perhaps you had, from 
 what you say." 
 
 " No ; but I have just been up to the top 
 of the hill, close by here, with the mast and 
 flag upon it, and very much admired the fine 
 view I had," I replied. 
 
 '' Yes, it's very fine ; but nothing to that 
 tor across the harbour there, to the left, which 
 is very much higher, and has a much more 
 extensive view from it than the other. It is 
 called Hillsbury Tor. The one you have 
 just been up is the Flagstaff Hill," said the 
 landlady, by no means averse to giving me 
 information, though, at the same time, doing 
 so very respectfully. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I saw that other height, and a 
 terrible precipice it seems towards the sea. 
 But there's one higher still, I think, some 
 distance off, in the opposite direction, which 
 I saw from this Flagstaff Hill, as you call it, 
 — it's the third peak down the Channel.'^ 
 
 " That's the Grey Tor, I suppose. Yes,
 
 38 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 that is, I believe, the highest in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; but I never went to the top of it." 
 
 " I suppose there's a footpath up to the 
 top?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, two or three ; it's a great resort 
 of the young people about the town ; my 
 daughter has been up several times ; an' my 
 other gentleman was up yesterday," said 
 she. 
 
 " He's fond of climbing about the cliffs, 
 and getting upon the tops of the tors, I sup- 
 pose?" said I, not unwilling to prolong the 
 conversation, feeling a peculiar kind of 
 curiosity to find out something about my 
 fellow-lodger. 
 
 " Yes, he's very fond of it, an' runs up and 
 down them, an' over the rocks, I believe, as 
 if he thought nothing of them. I hope 
 he won't be like a young gentleman that was 
 staying next door, last year, who fell over 
 the Hillsbury rocks, an' was picked up, dashed 
 to pieces, after the tide went back, an' not a
 
 RAISED TO TPIE WOOLSACK. 39 
 
 wliole bone in his body," said the landlady, 
 with a slight shudder. 
 
 ''I hope not," said I, horrified. "That 
 was a fearful thing. 1 suppose that was the 
 other gentleman, who is staying here, I saw 
 on the height this evening," I added, after a 
 moment's pause. '^ He certainly ran down 
 the steep hill, and over the cliffs, at a rate I 
 should not have liked venturing to do, and 
 which I was almost frightened to see." 
 
 " I dare say it was him. I hope he did not 
 hurt himself, or miss his foot, an' fall over the 
 rocks," replied the landlady, uneasily. 
 
 '' No, I don't think he did ; I saw him, or 
 some one else that I took for him, afterwards, 
 swimming out from the bottom of the rocks, 
 and plunging and playing in the water, as if 
 he felt quite as much at home there as upon 
 dry land ; he returned to the shore, just 
 as I left the top of the hill to come in," 
 said I. 
 
 " Ay, that must have been he ; he seems
 
 40 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 quite wild sometimes when he's out, Tm 
 told, an' he's so quiet in the house," she 
 answered. 
 
 " I suppose it's the effects of the sea air, 
 and the fine scenery around him, which make 
 him so excited when he gets out. Poets, you 
 know — I think you told me he was one — are 
 allowed to be a little eccentric in their ways, 
 and excitable in their feelings. '* 
 
 " A poet ! bless you, sir, he's quite a grand 
 poet, I believe. My daughter has just told 
 me she saw a whole book of poetry of his 
 this morning in his room." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ; printed, was it ?" said I, 
 " and his name to it, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, it was printed ; but I don't know 
 whether his name was to it or not. But she 
 said she knew it was his from having seen one 
 of the poems in it lying in his room, in his 
 handwriting, a few days after he came here, 
 and the book only came by the carrier the 
 day before yesterday."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 41 
 
 '' Then he has been here some time, has 
 he ?" I remarked. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; five weeks to-morrow," she 
 replied. 
 
 " Your house seems to be quite an attrac- 
 tion for literary people," said I, thinking of 
 my own little efforts in that way. 
 
 '• You are not a literary gentleman, are 
 you, sir?" she asked, half dubiously. 
 
 " Humph — well — I can scarcely claim the 
 honour of being entitled to that character, — 
 though I have done a little in that way," I 
 replied. 
 
 '' Well, I thought you wern't a regular 
 author, sir," said she in return, 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Why did you think that ?" 
 I asked, secretly rather annoyed at the esti- 
 mate she seemed already to have formed of 
 my intellectual acquirements. 
 
 " Because you don't stalk about, an' frown, 
 an' keep on talking to yourself, as I once saw 
 a man do on the stage, in the theatre at
 
 42 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 Barura, when I was tliere years ago ; an' look 
 at one with a start or a stare, as I've always 
 understood real authors do, an' as Mrs. 
 MauUer used to do when she was here last 
 year," said Mrs. Poole. 
 
 '' Then, if I want to appear as a literary 
 man, I must assume an air and look of sub- 
 lime abstraction like Mrs. Mauller, I suppose," 
 I returned with a smile, relieved to find that 
 these were her only reasons for doubting my 
 literary character. " I hope the young gen- 
 tleman above us does not stalk about the 
 room as you describe." 
 
 " No ; but he's not a regular author, I 
 believe — only what they call an amateur one 
 — which means that he doesn't write for the 
 sake of the money, but only for the sake o' 
 the writing," said she. 
 
 " Oh, something like myself, I suppose, 
 only for amusement," I replied. 
 
 "Do you make poetry too, sir?" she 
 asked.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 43 
 
 '' No, I don't write poetry — only prose/' 
 said I, wondering how the gentleman who 
 lodged up-stairs would have liked to hear her 
 talking of his divine art as that of making 
 poetry, as if it was mere carpenter's work, 
 and manufactured, like carts or household 
 furniture, out of deal boards and oak planks. 
 
 At this moment the outer door was opened, 
 and a light, firm step passed along the pas- 
 sage and ascended the stairs to the room 
 above. 
 
 '' That is the other gentleman who is stay- 
 ing in the house, I suppose," I remarked, as 
 the landlady seemed about to leave the room, 
 and I had some kind of curiosity to know his 
 name before she went out. 
 
 "Yes, sir, that's the Strange Gentleman, 
 as we call him," said she. 
 
 "Mr. Strange is his name, perhaps," I art- 
 fully suggested. 
 
 " Oh, no ; only he was here some time 
 before we knew his right name, an' my
 
 44 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 daughter and I used to call him so, to our- 
 selves, from his being so fond o' sitting on the 
 edge o' the cliflP before his room window, 
 looking at the sea. His name is Mr. Henrj 
 something, I always forget what it is. But 
 it isn't one o' the names hereabout. It sounds 
 like Scotch, or something o' that sort." 
 
 '' Oh, he's a Scotchman, you think. That's 
 why he's so fond of running about the hills, 
 and so good at climbing among the rocks. I 
 suppose he has been used to it," said I. 
 
 " No, I don't think he's a Scotchman 
 either," replied Mrs. Poole. " At least he 
 hasn't the brogue o' the Scotch. I once 
 heard a Scotch sailor that my poor husband, 
 who was drowned, had in his ship for a while, 
 speaking to another o' the sailors, an' this 
 gentleman's speech isn't like that at all. His is 
 more like what the gentlefolks talk, who go 
 to London every year to see the grand sights, 
 an' the great balls an' parties that we read o' 
 sometimes in the Burum newspapers, though
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 45 
 
 he doesn't clip his words so much as some o^ 
 them do either ; an' speaks always so quiet an' 
 gentleman-like, just as if I was a lady." 
 
 '' Oh, Henry is his name, is it? That's the 
 same name as mine — Henry Habbershaw," 
 said I, as she paused. " Not a very common 
 name is it ?" 
 
 " No, sir. The other gentleman's is not a 
 common one either, at least about here, for T 
 never heard it before ; but it's quite 'diffei'ent 
 from yours," she replied. 
 
 " Oh, I didn't expect but it was," said I, 
 with a smile, " as I am the only bearer of the 
 name, that I know of," I continued, with a 
 kind of lonely feeling ut the heart, which I 
 hypocritically tried to carry off with a laugh. 
 " But I'm afraid," I added, " I have detained 
 you. I am much obliged for the information 
 you have given me about the place, and hope 
 to go and see some of those beautiful views 
 you have lold me of to-morrow. Good 
 evening."
 
 46 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " Good evening, sir," slie replied, turning 
 to leave tlie room. " Perhaps you will please 
 to ring for candles when you want thera.'^ 
 
 " Yes, thank you, I will. It isn't quite 
 dark enough yet for them, and, as the evening 
 is so fine, perhaps I may go out again for a 
 few minutes' stroll in the dusk," said I, 
 rising as I spoke, and once more sallying out, 
 and walking slowly along the footpath, at the 
 back of the Flagstaff Hill, towards the narrow 
 slit of beach at the other end of the height ; 
 where, the tide being full, the waves were 
 rolling large and heavy upon the shore, and 
 breaking upon the dark rocks, beneath the 
 silvery radiance of a beautiful moon, just 
 making its appearance over the top of the 
 Flagstaff Hill, and supplying the place of 
 the now all but expired daylight. 
 
 The scene was very beautiful, and as I 
 stood there under the dim shadow of the hill, 
 watching the rising and breaking of the waves 
 before me, or looking upon the glistening and
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 47 
 
 swelling Avaters beyond tlie dark circle of the 
 high rocks, listening to the slight rattle of the 
 few shingles, or the frothy splash of the 
 breakers upon the shore, I could not help 
 feeling my mind carried away backward for 
 five and twenty years, and continuing the 
 train of thought which had been so unac- 
 countably excited in me an hour before. Not 
 for ten years had the memory of Helen come 
 back to me with such force as it had done that 
 evening, nor her image — her image! — when I 
 first saw her, and when I, lingering with her 
 behind the rest of the party, on the Esplanade, 
 at Brighton, as we returned from a boating ex- 
 cursion ; — and there, — with the sea murmuring 
 in our ear, and the moon shining upon it and 
 upon us, as they shone and murmured now, — 
 told her of my love, and — and — ah ! well, 
 never mind ; it^s all over now, and here I am, 
 a jolly, idle bachelor, without either the cares 
 or troubles that I should have had, had it 
 been otherwise; and, perhaps, after all, we
 
 48 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 sliouldn't liave been so happy together as I 
 imagined. Everything is for the best, as 
 Homer, or somebody else, somewhere says : — 
 
 " Let this suffice- tlie immutable decree 
 Nor force can shake — what is, that ought to be." 
 
 So let me, like a good christian, and a philo- 
 sophical bachelor, think that this really is so ; 
 and not go and get grumpy like an old goose, 
 about such folly, for surely I must be getting 
 either old or foolish, or perhaps both, Tm 
 afraid, to be standing here dreaming in this 
 way. 
 
 '' And yet, T really do wonder what can have 
 made me think so much about poor Helen 
 Barton all at once ! Ay, I was very fond of 
 her, and have never been able to love any- 
 body else ; and gave up all my aspirations — 
 as a briefless young barrister — of the wool- 
 sack, when she gave up me, and married that 
 heartless scoundrel — what was his name ? —
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 49 
 
 Gilmore ! What's the use of pretending to 
 forget it, when its ugly impression is branded 
 on my heart, as with a hot iron ? Curse him ! 
 I hate the very thought of both him and his 
 confounded name ! Well, poor wretch ! he's 
 dead too, and gone to his account. God for- 
 give me. I have no right to curse anybody 
 — unless it's my own folly — much less the 
 dead. If He has forgiven him, 1 may well 
 do so. 
 
 " I wonder what like her boy is ! — Her boy ! 
 Helen Barton's boy ! It's strange I have 
 never seen him or heard of him — not even in 
 Cumberland, when I was there, where, it was 
 said, he had been taken on the death of 
 his father, by some distant relation of his 
 mother's. I tried to find out something of 
 him too, but couldn't. His mother's fortune 
 was nearly all spent too, I believe, by his 
 father, before he died, so I suppose he isn't 
 too well off. Poor boy ! I should like to 
 know what has become of him, for he was 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 her boy, and I once loved her ! and tliougli I 
 have never said much about it, I have often 
 tried to discover where he is, only just to see 
 whether he is like his mother, — but have 
 never succeeded. 
 
 . '^ Bah ! what folly to stand drivelling in this 
 way, and the beautiful moon shining above 
 me out of that clear blue sky, and the sea 
 glistening and breaking before me, as if I — in- 
 significant, self-important I — who think so 
 much of myself and my petty concerns, were 
 no more than a single atom in the great 
 system of the universe ! 
 
 " Her boy, as I call him, is a man by this 
 time, if he is alive, and has no more know- 
 ledge of my existence than that sea, or yon 
 moon has of my standing here ! Psha ! away 
 with such fooling ! I am growing quite silly. 
 What am I to Hecuba, or Hecuba to me, 
 that I should give way about a girl who 
 jilted me, a quarter of a century ago ? 
 
 and who would have been, ere now — if she
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 51 
 
 had been Mrs. Habbershaw, and still alive — 
 an elderly matron, with, perhaps, half-a- 
 dozen big sons and daughters pulling her 
 down, and emptying my purse ! Ay, ay, 
 Helen Barton !'' I apostrophised to myself, 
 quite aloud. " Ay, ay, Helen Barton ! I 
 couldn't have stood that ! Much better as it 
 is." 
 
 " Helen Barton !'' exclaimed a voice beside 
 me ; and turning suddenly round with a kind 
 of start, I saw a man close to the point of 
 the rock in the shadow of which I was 
 standing, who had approached without my 
 seeing or hearing him, and without his ob- 
 serving me. 
 
 D 2
 
 52 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 A STEANGE EENCONTRE. 
 
 "Helen Barton!" repeated the voice, in 
 surprise, " who talks of Helen Barton? I beg 
 your pardon," he immediately added in a 
 calm, gentlemanly tone, smiling as he spoke ; 
 " but not having observed you in the shape, 
 and hearing some one pronounce that name 
 close to me, I was both startled and interested 
 by it. I am sorry for having disturbed you, 
 but, I assure you, it was quite uninten- 
 tional.' ' 
 
 "Oh, don't offer the slightest apology,'* 
 said 1, affecting an amused rather than an 
 embarrassed air, while something in the tones
 
 PvAfSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 53 
 
 of the speaker*s voice seemed to remind me of 
 some one or some thing I had known before ; 
 adding hastily — " I was only repeating to 
 myself part of the dialogue of a drama T 
 learned long ago ; and which the — the — even- 
 ing, or the scene, had revived in my memory. 
 But you seem as if you knew some person of 
 the name I almosfc unconsciously repeated 
 aloud ; — I mean in the dialogue of course — if 
 I may judge from the tone and manner with 
 which you spoke." 
 
 "Well, I did; but it's many years ago. I 
 was very young then," he replied, in a tone 
 of tender recollection, which still more re- 
 minded me of something I had known before, 
 but could not recal when or where. 
 
 " Well, it's many years ago — perhaps before 
 you were born," said I, for I already saw that 
 he was a young man, in spite of the loose 
 kind of cape or cloak that was over him, and 
 the dark wide-awake upon his head ; " that I 
 knew the — the — I mean learned, the dialogue
 
 54 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 you overhearcl me repeating. The name, 
 then, is somewhat interesting to you, I ima- 
 gine?" I inquired. 
 
 " Yes, very. It is more than interesting, — 
 it is very dear to me, though I remember but 
 little, very little of her who bore it," returned 
 the stranger, half sadly. 
 
 "Humph; some relation — a little sister, 
 perhaps,^' said I, interested, wondering if this 
 could be my fellow lodger, the poet. 
 
 '' No, I never had a sister," he replied, half 
 abstractedly, " and have scarcely a single re- 
 lative, if any, in the world that I know of,'' 
 he added, in the same tone of absent sadness. 
 
 " Indeed ! I'm sorry to hear it," I retunied, 
 sympathetically, " and can all the more un- 
 derstand and appreciate your feelings, from 
 having had none myself, that I ever knew, 
 except my father and mother, who both died 
 when I was a boy little more than a dozen 
 years old, and that is five-and-thirty years 
 ago."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 55 
 
 Somehow or other I felt drawn to the 
 strange gentleman, for I had now no doubt 
 whatever but it was the same, and spoke with 
 much less reserve than was at all usual with 
 me in addressing a stranger or casual ac- 
 quaintance. In fact, for the moment, I 
 seemed to forget that he was a stranger. 
 But I soon recovered myself, and remem- 
 bered that, although I forgot, he might 
 not, and would perhaps imagine I was either 
 attempting to pry into his affairs, or to force 
 mine upon him ; so I immediately added, with 
 rather more formality than I had before used, 
 though still a good deal curious to know in 
 what way the name of Helen Barton was fa- 
 miliar to him — 
 
 '' So you see yours is not an altogether iso- 
 lated case.'* 
 
 " No, I suppose it is not," he replied, 
 politely, like myself, evidently shrinking from 
 too great familiarity ; then added, with less 
 reserve — " But it's an unfortunate thing for
 
 56 KATSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 one to be left alone in the world, without 
 friends or relations to feel interested in him, 
 or to give him advice or assistance when he 
 requires it, and to help him on in the 
 world." 
 
 "Yes, it is indeed," I replied. "Fortu- 
 nately, ever since I came of age, when the 
 power of the guardians, appointed by my 
 father over me and the small property he left, 
 expired, I have had little occasion for either 
 advice or assistance from others ; having 
 generally had a sufficiently good opinion of 
 my own judgment to think I did not require 
 the one, and been left enough property to do 
 without the other ; and to do just as I liked 
 also, which has never been very much, having 
 resigned the honourable calling of a briefless 
 barrister, after very few years' trial of my 
 forensic talents, in hanging about in the idle 
 hope of making a great sensation in some 
 famous trial or other, by my eloquent and 
 triumphant defence of some notorious rascal,
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 57 
 
 and taken upon me sometMng of tlie restless 
 character of the Wandering Jew ; or the peri- 
 patetic habits of an old Aristotelean, with the 
 world for my Lyceum to perambulate in and 
 to philosophise upon." 
 
 " You do not consider the Bar a profession 
 in which a man is likely to succeed very 
 easily," remarked my companion, 
 
 '* No," I replied, " nor will a man succeed 
 easily in anything worth being successful in ; 
 and at the Bar, least of all." 
 
 " You wouldn't, then, recommend one who 
 has neither friends nor position to assist him, 
 to go to the Bar, I suppose," said he, half 
 carelessly, though with more earnestness than 
 he wished to show. 
 
 " No, as far as my experience enables me 
 to form an opinion, I should certainly say not. 
 A barrister without friends or position to 
 back him up, and give him a standing, is just 
 as little likely to succeed, as a prisoner is to 
 escape who has neither character to support 
 
 D 5
 
 58 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 him nor counsel to defend him. In fact the 
 latter has the better chance of the two, for the 
 stupidity of a witness, or the obstinacy of a 
 juryman, may be the means of letting off ?• 
 rascal ; while no amount of stupidity or ob- 
 stinacy in another can help you if you 
 haven't the other requirements. And then, 
 even with them, and a large amount of talent 
 into the bargain, you must possess the patient 
 perseverance of a beaver or a donkey, the 
 firm confidence of a bull or a prize-fighter, 
 and the iron nerves and constitution of a tree 
 or a horse, or you must yield disheartened, 
 and shrink back beneath your own diffidence, 
 or sink down in broken health and shattered 
 energies in the hard, incessant struggle, neces- 
 sary to lead you to either wealth or distinc- 
 tion. Though, if your aspirations lie in that 
 direction, do not let my opinion prejudice you 
 against, or dishearten you, from entering upon 
 a profession so honourable, and in many in- 
 stances so profitable, as that of the Bar ; for,
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 59 
 
 perhaps, I am liardlj qualified to form a cor- 
 rect judgment of the question, having given 
 but a short trial to it myself, and never pos- 
 sessing, I believe, either any of the requisite 
 qualifications or love for the profession neces- 
 sary to enable me to succeed in it, or even the 
 ambition to spur me on and give me a desire 
 to rise in it/' 
 
 Thinking, as I said this, of the time when, 
 for the sake of one, I would have encountered 
 any difficulty, striven like a horse at any 
 task, and fought like a lion in any cause, to 
 have gained success and honour, and then 
 laid them at her feet, and asked her to share 
 them with me. 
 
 I suppose there was some tone of emotion 
 betrayed in my voice as I concluded ; for my 
 companion paused for a moment before he 
 spoke, and then respectfully replied — 
 
 "You speak feelingly, and I am much 
 obliged for the candour you have shown, 
 and the advice you have so kindly given 
 me—"
 
 60 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " Neither of which, let me tell you, in by 
 any means either m safe or useful quality in 
 the profession of which we have been speak- 
 ing,'' said I, interrupting him, and smiling as 
 I spoke. 
 
 " No, I don't imagine they are," he re- 
 turned, laughing ; '' and, may be, the want of 
 the success you mention was rather owing to 
 the possession of them, than the lack of the 
 other necessary ones." 
 
 '' Perhaps," I continued, fancying some- 
 how, from his laugh, that I was speaking 
 to one who was a member of that profession 
 himself, " perhaps I am only telling you what 
 you have, in your own experience, already 
 discovered." 
 
 '' To some extent I have ; though I have 
 not yet had the honour of being in a posi- 
 tion to realise it fully, being as yet only a 
 student under a barrister in the Temple, 
 where I have now been for nearly a couple of 
 years, during which I have seen almost 
 enough of both the law and lawyers to con-
 
 RAISLD TO THE WOOLSACK. 61 
 
 vince me that I am little qualified ever to 
 sliine in the one, or to make much way 
 among the others. In fact, I have almost 
 resolved to give it up, and throw the law, as 
 Shakespeare says of physic, ' to the dogs.' 
 Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for 
 me, I have just sufficient means to give me a 
 small independency, and to render any active 
 pursuit not absolutely necessary for my sup- 
 port, having no one else but myself to think 
 of or provide for," said he with a sort 
 of forced gaiety, as I thought, in the last few 
 words. 
 
 " Well, but a young man at your age may 
 naturally expect, and look forward to, a time 
 when others will depend upon you ; and when 
 an honourable and remunerative profession 
 would be both beneficial and desirable," 
 said I. 
 
 '' But I'm afraid the law is not the profes- 
 sion I should ever attain honour or remuner- 
 ation in," he replied. " Nor have I much
 
 62 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 prospect at present of ever requiring it for the 
 support of others,'^ he added again, in a tone 
 of gaiety, which I fancied was not altogether 
 real. 
 
 " But you may have. Besides, it is al- 
 ways well to have some active pursuits or 
 professional duties to turn to in case of need, 
 and occupy the mind with — even if we should 
 not absolutely require them as a means of 
 support. There are few things more baneful 
 to a man than idleness. It is not only the 
 source of evil, and many vicious habits, but 
 also of weakness ; and contracts the mind and 
 intellectual faculties, which a due amount of 
 exercise or labour would have strengthened 
 and developed, both to his own satisfaction 
 and benefit, and the good of others. Though 
 an idle man myself, at least, comparatively 
 so, I am no admirer of it in others," said I. 
 
 " Nor am I, and I could never content my- 
 self with sitting down, or going about in idle- 
 ness, while all the rest of the world is so busy
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 63 
 
 either In the prosecution of business, in assist- 
 ing the march of civilization, the progress of 
 science, or the advancement of knowledge. I 
 hope I have more in me than that, small as 
 the amount of my alDilities may be ; and it is 
 only that I believe I should never succeed at 
 the bar, that I have almost made up my mind 
 to give it up, and try something else/' 
 
 " Probably there is something else you 
 think your talents better adapted for, or, at all 
 events, that you have more liking for, than 
 the law," said I, pretty sure that he had. 
 
 " Humph, well, there is,'' he replied, half- 
 hesitatingly, " there is something else that I 
 feel much more liking for, though my great 
 fear is that I am just as little likely to achieve 
 success in it, or perhaps even less, than the 
 other, and that is — " 
 
 " Literature," said I, finishing the sentence, 
 seeing that he paused, as if half reluctant to 
 do so himself. 
 
 During the foregoing conversation we had
 
 64 RAISED TO THK WOOLSACK. 
 
 turned back from the point of the cliff where 
 we had met, and were now walking to and 
 fro on the broad foot-path skirting the mea- 
 dow between the back of the Flagstaff Hill 
 and the little town. At first there was a good 
 deal of courteous reserve on both sides ; but 
 gradually it wore off, and we were now talking 
 with almost as much confidence and freedom 
 from restraint as if we had been old friends. I 
 felt the more interested in and attracted to him, 
 not only on account of the tones of his voice 
 and something in his manner that strangely 
 every now and then, as I have already men- 
 tioned, reminded me of something or some one 
 I had previously known, and which fell upon 
 my ear like the far-off echo of long since silent 
 music, but for the evident candour and gene- 
 rosity of his nature and disposition, which 
 were rendered all the more agi*eeable by his 
 gentlemanly tone of manner and conversa- 
 tion. Whatever aptitude he may have had, 
 or not had, for law, he certainly, to my mind,
 
 RAISliD TO THE WOOLSACK. 65 
 
 exlilbited no lack of either tlioiightful intelli- 
 gence or mental acuteness. These few re- 
 flections occurred to my mind during a brief 
 pause which succeeded my last observation ; 
 nor had I forgotten his knowledge of Helen 
 Barton, and was not sorry to prolong our 
 conversation in the hopes of finding out whe- 
 ther it was my Helen Barton — the Helen 
 Barton of five-and-twenty years ago ! or only 
 some other of the name, that he meant, 
 though a strange kind of presentiment had 
 already taken hold of me that — 
 
 But what am I thinking of? Dreaming 
 again, like an old mufp, as I must be ; only to 
 find, I dare say, as I generally have done, 
 that my dreams have deceived me. It cannot 
 be my Helen Barton that he knew — quite 
 impossible ! and, even if it were, what then ? 
 There must be many people in the world who 
 knew her ; — but am I for that reason to look 
 upon every one of them with almost as much 
 interest, and allow their presence to agitate
 
 66 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 my feelings, as if it was herself! Perfect 
 nonsense! But this young man — might he 
 not be her own son — the son of Helen Bar- 
 ton — who I had at length so strangely and un- 
 expectedly encountered ! There was some- 
 thing in the tones of his voice, and his 
 manner, that from the first seemed familiar to 
 my ears, and recalled her image and her voice 
 to me. I wondered if he had any of her fea- 
 tures or her eyes ! — those eyes that seemed to 
 glow and sparkle, with an expression no other 
 eyes I had ever seen possessed ! I did not 
 like to stare at him, much as I longed to dis- 
 cover this. Besides, although the moon gave 
 light enough to have enabled me to see his 
 features, the broad turned-up brim of his dark 
 wide-awake too much shaded his face, and 
 came peaked forward too far over his fore- 
 head to allow me to see his eyes with any- 
 thing like distinctness. I therefore tried to 
 check my impatience, and to content myself 
 with continuing the conversation, by which
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 67 
 
 means I might gain tlie same object, without 
 either betraying my own secret, or exciting 
 his suspicion that I had any in connection 
 with the name. 
 
 Her son — nonsense ! It is impossible that 
 this can be Helen Barton's son. A great tall 
 fellow, at least a couple of inches taller than 
 myself, and I am fully ^ve feet nine-and- 
 a-half ; a great fellow nearly six feet, the son 
 of little Helen Barton, who used to tease me 
 for being such a big, and, as I suppose, awk- 
 ward donkey, as I must have been — it couldn't 
 be. Why, it seems only the other day that 
 I carried her ashore from the boat at Brigh- 
 ton, amid her own pretty terror lest we should 
 tumble in the water, amid the jokes and 
 laughter of the rest of the party. And yet it's 
 five-and-twenty years ago — five-and-twenty 
 long, long years. Pslia ! I'll think no more 
 of it. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said I, breaking from 
 my reverie, fearing my companion might
 
 68 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tliink I liad got tired of tlie conversation, and 
 wished to get rid of liis company ; '' like a 
 great many people who have nothing to do, 
 or little to occupy their thoughts, I am very 
 apt to allow my mind to lose itself in vague 
 fancies when it should be fixed upon some- 
 thing else, or listening to others." 
 
 " I am sorry to have disturbed you with my 
 presence in what, I doubt not, was so plea- 
 sant an enjoyment,'^ he replied, looking as if 
 about to take his leave of me. 
 
 " Nay ; do not say that. I don't know that 
 it was so pleasant after all, though there 
 always is a certain amount of pleasure in 
 looking back upon the past and those we have 
 known, and who have been dear to us, even 
 though some of the associations and memories 
 awakened may be painful. I'm an old 
 grumpy kind of philosopher, but if even a 
 little eccentric, quite harmless ; so don't leave 
 me, pray," said I, with a smile. 
 
 " I am afraid I intrude upon you,*' he re-
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 69 
 
 plied, with a respectful diffidence, still hesita- 
 ting whether to stay or leave me. 
 
 "Not at all,'* I returned. '^ I have felt 
 much pleasure in your conversation, and in- 
 terested in — in what you have said. I am 
 correct then in my supposition that you think 
 of adopting literature as a profession, am I 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes,'' he replied, with a half surprised 
 smile, '• you have guessed it." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't so much a guess with me as 
 perhaps you imagine, for if T even had not 
 just heard siifficieni- from yourself to enable 
 me to draw a pretty sound inference upon the 
 subject, I have already learned enough, I 
 believe, to know something of both your 
 tastes and habits," I replied. 
 
 " Indeed ! I didn't know I was either such 
 a noted personage as to have attracted notice 
 to myself here, or that the circle of my fame 
 was so extensive as to have reached this 
 remote corner of the country," he returned, 
 with a good-humoured laugh.
 
 70 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " Probably I am indebted to accident more 
 than to any other, or more general cause, for 
 the knowledge I allude to,'' said I. " I be- 
 lieve I have the pleasure of speaking to the 
 gentleman with whom I have the honour of 
 being a fellow lodger at Mrs. Poole's cot- 
 tage on the edge of the cliff down here." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! You are the gentleman she 
 told me of as I was coming out, who has 
 taken her other rooms. I am delighted to 
 hear it, and I hope you'll allow me the 
 honour and pleasure of your society occasion- 
 ally while we remain in the house together,'* 
 he exclaimed, in a tone of hearty confidence 
 and respect. 
 
 " I shall be very happy, indeed, to have 
 your acquaintance and society," I replied, 
 fully reciprocating his friendly advances; 
 " and am greatly pleased with the prospect of 
 so intelligent and agreeable a companion 
 while I remain here." 
 
 " Do you remain long ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Well, that depends upon how I like the
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 71 
 
 place/' I replied. " I have taken mj rooms 
 for a month certam, or longer if I should re- 
 quire them. Do you stay so long?" 
 
 " Yes, most likely I shall ; and perhaps 
 longer. I like the place very much, and am 
 immensely fond of the sea ; although, for most 
 people, the shore would be too rocky for 
 bathing/' added he. 
 
 " However, you seem to pay little respect 
 to either the rocks on the shore or the cliffs 
 on the land," said I. '' I saw you this even- 
 ing bound down the face of this hill here, and 
 over the crags into the sea, as if you had 
 the sinews of an elk and the feet of a goat 5 
 and then plunge, dive, swim, and splash about 
 in the water, as if you had been a fish or a 
 porpoise amusing itself with all manner of 
 tumbling antics in its own native element.'' 
 
 " Well, I can swim pretty fairly, and some- 
 times feel a sort of agreeable excitement in 
 the water that makes me perform all sorts 
 of ridiculous tricks. Having been brought
 
 72 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 up chiefly among liills, and used to climbing 
 about rocks and precipices, I am quite at 
 home when I get among them, and feel 
 all the more interested and excited, that 
 they in some measure remind me of those 
 where I was brought up, which I have not 
 seen for several years, having, since the death 
 of the relation I was then under the care of, 
 lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of London. 
 You must have thought me very foolish 
 when you saw me, did you not ?" he asked, 
 half abruptly. 
 
 " No, I didn't,^^ I replied ; " I rather envied 
 and admired your activity and skill, though I 
 confess I somewhat censured you in my own 
 mind, for taking such a dangerous road down 
 the cliffs, and increasing the danger by the 
 rapidity with which you descended." 
 
 " Oh, that was nothing; besides a naught's 
 never in danger, you know," he rejoined, 
 gaily. 
 
 " Which does not prove by any means that
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 73 
 
 you are exempt from it," I returned. " You 
 were born near the sea then, I suppose," I re- 
 marked, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " No, I was born near London ; but my 
 father and mother dying while I was young, 
 I was taken charge of by a distant relative in 
 the north of England, who shortly afterwards 
 removed to the west coast of Scotland, where 
 I spent several years of my boyhood, and 
 only left to prepare myself for the study of 
 the law ; since which, my relation having 
 died and left me a little property, which, 
 joined with a small income derived from 
 a portion of my mother's fortune, settled 
 at her marriage upon her children, and I 
 being the only one, is just enough to be a 
 tolerable allowance for myself, and to make me 
 feel half averse to enter upon any pursuit or 
 profession that does not altogether agree with 
 my own tastes or predilections. I have not 
 therefore, perhaps, been quite so attentive or 
 
 VOL. I, E
 
 74 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 diligent in mj legal studies as I ought to 
 have been." 
 
 " And, for this reason, you think of exerci- 
 sing the independence of your choice by elect- 
 ing literature as the profession of your life," 
 I rejoined, greatly agitated, internally,by what 
 I had jast heard, feeling there was now no 
 longer any doubt as to his being the son of 
 Helen Barton. 
 
 " Yes, I have already, in some measure, 
 made the election," said he, rather uneasily, 
 as I thought. 
 
 " You have already made your debut as an 
 author, I believe," I rejoined, half absently, 
 my thoughts, as usual, flying off from the 
 subject of conversation ; adding, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, seeing that he looked somewhat 
 disconcerted at my apparent want of interest, 
 " Mrs. Poole told me that my fellow-lodger 
 was a poet, and had published a book of 
 poems, which she and her daughter, she said, 
 admired so much, and thought so beautiful."
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 75 
 
 " Mrs. Poole is a very respectable, kind 
 person, and Fm glad you have found out such 
 good and comfortable lodgings, for your own 
 satisfaction as well as for the pleasure I hope 
 to derive from your society, but I doubt much 
 if she is altogether qualified to judge correctly 
 or critically of my effusions, even though her 
 opinion may be a favourable one," he replied, 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 "At all events she seems to regard you 
 with no small degree of both respect and ad- 
 miration,'^ I returned, having no wish to argue 
 the point as to her qualifications, though, I 
 dare say, they were just about as good as 
 those of many who think themselves and 
 their opinions the only true test and criterion 
 of literary merit. 
 
 " Very kind of her," said he, with his usual 
 good-humoured smile, " but that little volume 
 of fugitive pieces, which I have collected to- 
 gether and had printed lately, is not the only 
 work of mine which is before the public. I 
 
 E 2
 
 76 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 am the author also of a small serio-comico sa- 
 tmcal poem, entitled ' Curius-non-Curtius/ 
 which was published about six or eight 
 months ago, though I am afraid that same 
 public is not so appreciative of my efforts to 
 amuse as I was in hopes it would be, and 
 my vanity would wish. You have not heard 
 of the book, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Hamph, well, I cannot positively say that 
 I have," said I, with some degree of hesita- 
 tion, unwilling to hurt his self-love by too 
 ready a confession of my ignorance of his ce- 
 lebrity as a poet, '^ but I have been rambling 
 about so much of late," I added, in an expla- 
 natory tone, " that I hardly know what is 
 going on in the literary world, otherwise, no 
 doubt, I should have heard of your work be- 
 fore this." 
 
 " Perhaps even then you might not," he 
 returned, laughingly, though I thought with 
 something like a tinge of disappointment in 
 his look and tone.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 77 
 
 " I generally do hear or see something of 
 most works of merit that appear, and, I have 
 no doubt but yours are such," said I, in a 
 complimentary tone; 
 
 '' I am glad you have conceived so favour- 
 able an opinion of me as to say so," he re- 
 plied, diffidently, " though, I fear, you would 
 change that materially if you saw the poems 
 themselves.'' 
 
 " Well, I don't know that, but if you will 
 allow me the pleasure of reading one of the 
 volumes you mention, if you have a copy 
 with you, I shall be very glad to let you know 
 how 1 like it, if you wish ; or if I may ven- 
 ture upon giving an opinion upon a literary 
 subject." 
 
 ^' I am afraid you would hardly find it 
 worth your notice, but if you really feel in- 
 clined to look at it, I shall be very happy to 
 present you with a copy of the poem, as I 
 have several with me ; and one of the other 
 volumes also if you will accept of it," he re- 
 plied, modestly.
 
 78 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " No, I cannot think of robbing you of 
 your books, and I shall not fail in ordering 
 them for myself, when I get a little more sta- 
 tionary than I am just nOw ; but, if you will 
 allow me to have a copy of each for a few 
 days, I shall have much pleasure in reading 
 them, and be much obliged to you into the 
 bargain for your courtesy, in affording me an 
 opportunity of perusing the poems, as well as 
 for giving me something to amuse myself 
 with in such a quiet place as this,'' I 
 returned. 
 
 " Pray do not talk of robbing me of them. 
 I have plenty of them left in my publisher's 
 hands, much more than there seems any ap- 
 pearance of his being able to dispose of, at 
 present, so I must help him," said he, laughing. 
 '' I'm afraid they are hardly worth your ac- 
 ceptance, and that you will Jfind the produc- 
 tions are so mediocre, — if even up to that, — 
 that they will afford you but little either 
 amusement or pleasure in the perusal," he 
 added, with evident sincerity.
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 79 
 
 " Nay, do not try to make me form an mi- 
 favourable opinion before I have read them, 
 which critics are sometimes accused of doing:, 
 and rendering me blind to the talent which 
 I doubt not they will exhibit,'* I returned; 
 " and, though I shall certainly order a copy 
 of both works by-and-bye, if you prefer 
 giving or lending them to me now, I shall be 
 proud to accept them." 
 
 " I do indeed," he replied; "and shall 
 feel highly honoured by your acceptance. 
 If you wish to throw away your money 
 afterwards by purchasing them, you are, of 
 course, quite at liberty to do so ; though, 
 I fear, you will find their merits so few and 
 so small, and their faults so numerous 
 and so great, that you will hardly feel in- 
 clined to buy the books after you have read 
 them.'' 
 
 "Well, we shall see," I returned, as we 
 approached the door of our lodgings, where, 
 saying that I must now go in, as I was a
 
 80 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 little tired from my journey, I parted from 
 him and entered tlie house, while he con- 
 tinued his walk by himself for some time 
 longer in the moonlight. ^ wished to be 
 alone, and to think over the past, and the 
 singular circumstances which had so unex- 
 pectedly brought back to me the memory of 
 her I had loved so tenderly in my youth, and 
 thrown me into contact with the son of Helen 
 Barton.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 81 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GREY TOR, 
 
 Next morning, just as I had finislied break- 
 fast, a couple of small, neatly-bound books 
 were handed to me hj the landlady, on the 
 blank leaf at the beginning of each of which 
 was written : ''To Henry Habbershaw, Esq., 
 with the respectful compliments of the au- 
 thor. '^ There was no name on the title-page : 
 so I was still — except for the confidence I 
 felt that he was the son of Helen Barton — as 
 much in the dark as ever, as to whether his 
 name was Gilmore or not ; and, silly as it 
 may appear to you, my sagacious reader, and 
 weak as it no\7 appears to myself, a pecu- 
 
 E 5
 
 82 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 liar kind of nervous uneasiness prevented me 
 from again recurring to the subject with Mrs. 
 Poole, who, no doubt, could have at once, or 
 very soon, put my conjectures to rest. And 
 I felt, too, a strange kind of pleasure in the 
 sliglit uncertainty which still hung over his 
 identity, and added interest to my thoughts 
 and speculations respecting him. Besides my 
 curiosity was now, to some extent, transferred 
 from him to his books, and I was anxious 
 to try to form some estimate of his mind 
 and character from them before entirely 
 removing the doubt which still existed as to 
 himself. 
 
 The first volume I opened chanced to be 
 his poem of " Curius non Curtius," which I 
 read a good portion of before I looked at the 
 other. It was evidently the work of an edu- 
 cated mind and cultivated taste, and exhibited 
 a good deal of poetic power, as well as much 
 genial humour, delicate satire, and lively 
 fancy ; but nothing which struck me as being
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 83 
 
 indicative of any extraordinary amount of 
 talent. 
 
 The other was a collection of shorter poems, 
 upon various and numerous subjects, neatly 
 and carefully written, and many of them 
 showing a considerably higher degree of poetic 
 faculty than the longer and more ambitious 
 production. Most of them were very pretty, 
 and some of them even beautiful. As I 
 turned over the leaves, reading a few verses 
 here and there, 1 found several pieces were 
 addressed to some one under the initials of 
 "J. D." These were of a very touching and 
 tender kind. " J. D." was evidently a young 
 lady, who had inspired the author with a deep, 
 pure affection ; but had apparently given him 
 but slight grounds for hope, or there was some 
 other cause in existence which operated 
 against him, and gave a despondent tone to 
 his glowing effusions. 
 
 " Ay, ay !" I muttered to myself, " the old 
 story. The course of true love never did run
 
 84 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 smootli, and never will, I suppose, while men 
 are such fools as to throw away their afifec- 
 tions on women who care nothing for them. 
 However, that is a kind of love that doesn't 
 generally do much harm. The fire that is not 
 fed soon expires." And yet there was a tender 
 pathos and delicate devotion in some of the 
 sentiments which both touched and interested 
 me. 
 
 " J. D.," I continued, " I wonder whose 
 name these initials represent. Let me see. 
 The J. may be for Jane — Jane Dixon per- 
 haps. What a name to write verses to ! Or 
 Jemima, — ay, that's a little better — Jemima 
 Dobbs ! Worse still. Dobbs, what a name ! 
 though, doubtless, there are many people 
 bearing it who would give credit to any name, 
 even the most aristocratic or poetical ; still 1 
 don't think it would sound well in verse. Or 
 Dubbins, perhaps it may be ; or Dod, or Dunn, 
 or Day, or Davis, or any other of the hun- 
 dreds of names, plebeian or aristocratic, that
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 85 
 
 begin with that letter. But, whatever her 
 name is, I fear that either the young lady 
 does not appreciate his devotion as she ought 
 to do, or the extreme sensitiveness of his 
 nature makes him feel the varying shades of 
 a woman's humour more acutely than there is 
 any occasion for. Heaven preserve him from 
 allowing this to make him run into the same 
 folly and unhappiness that I ran into !" 
 
 It was fully an hour after I had finished 
 breakfast before I rose from the perusal of 
 the poems, and put on my hat and went out 
 for a walk. I had heard my fellow lodger 
 go out a considerable time before, so I had 
 little expectation qf seeing anything of him 
 for that morning at all events. Nor was I 
 altogether sorry for this, as no doubt he ex- 
 pected something like a critical opinion from 
 me of his productions, and I did not wish to 
 appear too hasty in giving it, either in praise or 
 censure ; and I also still felt a sort of shrink- 
 ing from any effort at dispelling the little
 
 36 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 doubt tliat remained in my mind as to his 
 being the son of Helen Barton — I mean Gil- 
 more. 
 
 Leaving my lodgings, I directed my course 
 toward the Grey Tor, as Mrs. Poole had told 
 me the high peak, about a couple or three 
 miles off, was called, where I hoped to have 
 a fine view of both the Channel and the sur- 
 rounding country. 
 
 For some distance after leaving the town 
 my road lay along a narrow valley, with the 
 high range of steep, sloping heights, whose 
 irregular peaks and jagged sides faced the sea 
 on the one hand, and the inland hills rising 
 high and green on the other. Gradually the 
 road began to ascend the back of the heights 
 on the right, slanting along higher and higher, 
 and becoming steeper and steeper, till every 
 now and then I was able to catch a glimpse 
 of the sea between the peaks, with the Welsh 
 coast distinctly seen in the distance. 
 
 After rather better than an hour's walk I
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 87 
 
 found mjself upon tlie top of tlie Tor I was 
 in search of; where, feeling a little heated from 
 my long climb up the hill, and wishing to 
 enjoy the beautiful prospect at my ease as 
 well as at my leisure, I sat down upon the 
 soft grassy round peak of the height, with my 
 face toward the mouth of the Channel, and my 
 heels almost touching the sharp edge of the 
 great brown, rocky, perpendicular precipice, 
 which sunk down hundreds and hundreds of 
 feet below me, with the big green billows of 
 the ocean swelling and breaking slowly and 
 steadily among the dark jagged boulders which 
 lay along and reared themselves above the 
 waves of the beachless shore, while numbers 
 of grey sea gulls swept, floated, and wheeled 
 past and around me, as if utterly regardless 
 of my presence, beyond an occasional feeling 
 of half contemptuous curiosity to take a glance 
 at me, and then with a loud mocking cry, as 
 of derisive laughter, softly and gracefully 
 spread their broad wings, and shot far away
 
 88 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 across tlie Channel, tantalisingly defying me 
 to follow ; or, with a wide, circling sweep, 
 dash in and disappear in the ledgy cliffs far, 
 far underneath me ; or a beautiful large falcon 
 would come swiftly flying over my head from 
 the inland, with a mouse or a bird in her 
 talons, and with the velocity of an arrow, 
 after making one short sweep round to see 
 that all was right, shoot down the face of the 
 precipice to divide her prey among the callow 
 young that clamoured in her nest in the clefts 
 of the rocks between me and the ocean. 
 
 Looking straight across the mouth of the 
 Channel, the high promontories of the Welsh 
 coast were plainly discernible ; and, a little 
 to the left, the dark, brown rock of the Isle oi 
 Lundy, like an enormous fortress, reared it- 
 self high up out of the water, about half way 
 between the two points of the land at the op- 
 posite sides of the Channel. Several ships 
 and vessels of various kinds were sailing and 
 steaming up and down the estuary, and a
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. , 89 
 
 few smaller boats were skirting the coasts on 
 both sides, their white sails, shining in the 
 sun, giving life and interest to the scene. 
 
 As I sat there, half dreamily enjoying the 
 beautiful prospect before me and half 
 mechanically kicking off small portions of 
 the earth with my heels, or an occasional 
 loose stone or two, which went rattling down 
 the cliffs, disturbing the birds below me, and 
 making them rush out, startled, from their 
 nests, with shrill screeching cries, and fly 
 round and round before me, I could hear the 
 cool splash of the waves, as they rolled in 
 and broke against the base of the precipice, 
 with every now and then a loud, harsh, 
 crashing sound from beneath me, as if of 
 loose pieces of the rocks, near the water, 
 giving way and falling into the sea, though 
 the breast of the cliff prevented me from see- 
 ing so close in to the foot of the precipice* 
 
 During my walk, though I had taken but 
 little notice of it, I had observed a small
 
 90 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 boat, with two persons in it, rowing along 
 close to the shore, in almost a line with my- 
 self, till a projection of rocks caused it to 
 make a slight circuit outward, and threw it 
 some distance behind me. I had not, how- 
 ever, sat many minutes when it again made 
 its appearance round the point, and came 
 steering in close underneath me, where it was 
 soon again out of my sight. At once guess- 
 ing it was some one in search of young sea- 
 fowl, I ceased spurning off the pieces of earth 
 and small stones, in case of interfering with 
 their operations or injuring them. But the 
 boat had not been out of my sight more than 
 a couple of minutes when I saw it shoot out 
 from the shore, almost as swiftly as the sea- 
 birds themselves, each of its occupants pulling 
 a pair of oars with an energy and force, 
 which, in a few seconds, carried it a consider- 
 able distance away from the shore ; where 
 it again stopped, and the rowers sat with 
 suspended oars, as if earnestly watching
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 91 
 
 something on the rocks before them, while, 
 almost at the same moment, a loud, rumbling 
 sound, and then a heavy crash, was heard 
 below me, which even slightly shook the 
 ground on which I was seated, as of another 
 and larger piece of the rock near the sea hav- 
 ing given way and fallen into the water.
 
 92 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE CLIFF AND MY NARROW 
 ESCAPE. 
 
 Feeling no anxiety as to my own safety, 
 and glad tlie occupiers of the boat had 
 escaped all danger, I hadn't even the 
 curiosity to go a little closer to the edge of the 
 cliff to try to discover the cause of their alarm, 
 but sat half indifferently speculating upon the 
 chances of their again returning to the rocks, 
 or going back without the young birds I 
 doubted not they were in search of. In a few 
 minutes they seemed to make up their minds 
 to the former course, and began slowly and 
 somewhat cautiously, as I thought, to row 
 back to the cliffs ; but they had not gone
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 93 
 
 far when a second crash and fall of the rocks, 
 louder even than before, and quite shaking 
 the ground beneath me, sent them again fly- 
 ing out beyond the reach of danger, where 
 they once more paused on their oars, and 
 looked up attentively at the face of the pre- 
 cipice, and, almost at the same instant, I saw 
 one of them spring from his seat, and com- 
 mence waving his round wide-awake, appa- 
 rently to me, as if he had observed me on my 
 lofty seat, and recognised me as an acquain- 
 tance, or, at least, as some one he took for 
 such. I had just been wondering whether 
 one of them might not be my fellow-lodger, 
 the poet, and, believing this to be he, I took 
 off my hat and waved it in return. Still, 
 however, he continued his demonstrations 
 even more energetically than before ; and I 
 could almost fancy I heard one or tAvo of the 
 shouts with which he accompanied the wav- 
 ing of his wide-awake. After a few moments, 
 seeing that I discontinued my waving, he did
 
 94 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 the same, and the boat once more commenced 
 coming swiftlj, but with evident caution, 
 towards the shore. Just as it approached as 
 near to the base of the cliff as it could with- 
 out my losing sight of it altogether, it again 
 stopped, and I saw the same person who had 
 saluted me before jump up, and recommence 
 his energetic demonstrations of recognition, 
 which I, this time, rose to my feet and re- 
 turned. "He evidently wants me to join him 
 in the boat," I thought; " but I see no way 
 of getting down to it, if I even wished, except 
 taking a leap of over five hundred feet down 
 the cliffs, and diving like a blue-headed sea- 
 gull into the water ; for it would puzzle even 
 him to get down here any way else.'' 
 
 At length, between the break of the waves, 
 I could distingush his voice, as it hailed me 
 with a loud '' Hallo," which I as loudly ack- 
 nowledged. Putting his hands to his mouth, 
 as an impromptu speaking-trumpet, he again 
 called to me, and I now discovered the object
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 95 
 
 of his gesticulations. This time I heard him 
 pretty distinctly. 
 
 " Don't stay there," he shouted, " it isn't 
 safe ; the rock has given way underneatl^, and 
 the whole cliff is falling.'' 
 
 " All right," I cried, feeling little uneasi- 
 ness, but turning to leave the spot as I spoke ; 
 but what was my astonishment and horror, 
 to find that for several yards behind me the 
 ground had already sunk several feet, and a 
 wide chasm completely cut off my retreat 
 from my terrible position ! For a moment I 
 felt utterly appalled and rushed to and fro 
 upon the sunken and sinking portion of the 
 cliff, in the desperate hope of discovering 
 some means of escape from the awful fate 
 that awaited me where I was. But all in 
 vain ! For more than fifty yards in length, 
 and nearly as many feet in breadth, the ground 
 on which I stood was entirely detached from 
 the rest of the height, and every moment be- 
 coming slowly, but perceptibly, more so. The
 
 96 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 opening itself between me and the firm ground 
 — though ah'eady seven or eight feet — was 
 not more than I could have managed to clear 
 withqut much difficulty, had there been any 
 place to light upon, or cling to, on the other 
 side. But this there was not; the opposite 
 side of the rent was a perfectly perpendicular 
 wall of crumbling earth, considerably higaer 
 than my own head, without the slightest pro- 
 jection or crack to get upon or hold on by, so 
 that any attempt at extricating myself from 
 my perilous position in that way was out of 
 the question, and would only have insured 
 instant death by falling down the deep, jagged 
 chasm that surrounded me, and being dashed 
 to pieces against the rocks which I could 
 dimly see far, far below me ! 
 
 " God of mercy !" I exclaimed, in my 
 agony of spirit, a cold perspiration covering 
 me all over at the awful prospect of the ap- 
 palling death that was before me, and terror 
 at being so suddenly called to the Great
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 97 
 
 Judgment. " Save me, or I perisli ! Let 
 me not die thus ! Lord, help me !'' 
 
 All this that I saw, felt, and thought, and 
 a thousand times more than I can either tell 
 or describe, did not occupy more than a very 
 few seconds. One hasty glance round me, 
 and a few quick steps on each side, sufficed 
 to show me my position, and whole ages of 
 thought and feeling seemed to pass through 
 my mind and heart in those brief moments, 
 during which I had utterly forgotten the 
 presence of the boat below, and those who 
 were in it. I was, however, again reminded 
 of this by another " hallo " which, for the 
 moment, fell upon my ear like the voice 
 of a preserving Providence, and inspired me 
 with a sudden thrill of hope and safety. But 
 it was only for a moment ; for the accom- 
 panying knowledge of my position quickly 
 dispelled its bright bul; transitory influence, 
 and left me even more hopeless than before, 
 from the contrast suddenly excited in my 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 mind between my present impending fate, and 
 what, only a few minutes before, it liad been ! 
 Still the sound of tlie voice, to some extent, 
 recalled me to myself, and braced up my 
 manhood to meet and submit to the fate which 
 Providence had decreed me, and from which 
 there was no way of escape, with the firm- 
 ness of a man and a Christian, however ap- 
 palling it was to contemplate, or awful it 
 might be to encoanter. 
 
 With as much composure in my voice as I 
 could command, I replied to the hail with 
 a shout which fell like a death-knell upon my 
 own ears and heart. 
 
 " Don't stay an instant longer there, but 
 get off the cliffs as quickly as you can, or you 
 will be buried with it," cried the voice from 
 the boat, in a tone of entreaty and alarm. 
 
 "I cannot do so," I replied, my tongue 
 almost cleaving to the hot dry roof of my 
 mouth, and with great difficulty making my 
 voice to be heard. " The cliff has already
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK, 99 
 
 sunk so far, and I am surrounded with a 
 chasm so deep, that escape is now impos- 
 sible!" 
 
 " What ! has the ground sunk so much 
 already ?'' he called in reply, in a tone of still 
 greater alarm. 
 
 "Yes; and I believe nothing can now 
 save me," I returned. " You had better keep 
 your boat back. There's enough of the cliff 
 giving way to reach twice as far as where 
 you are, and to bury a whole fleet beneath it." 
 
 " I know it. The whole front of the Tor 
 is tottering. But perhaps it may hang a little 
 longer. Keep as still as you can, and I shall 
 try if I cannot reach you with a rope before it 
 falls away. We ' have one in the boat here, 
 and I know a place just round the point 
 where I think I can manage to get up the 
 rock. Don't despair till the last. It shall go 
 hard with me, but I shall save you," was the 
 answer, as both men seized their oars, and, 
 away like an arrow shot from a bow, leaped 
 
 F 2
 
 100 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 the boat over tlie surface of the water, 
 beneath the straining arms of its occupants. 
 Never did I see men strain as they strained ; 
 and never did I see a boat fly as that boat 
 flew over the swelling crests of the big green 
 billows. I would have called to say that it was 
 utterly useless to make any efibrt, or run any 
 risk to save me ; but, before I could do so, 
 the increasing distance and the sound of the 
 boat would have completely prevented my 
 voice from being heard. 
 
 In a few moments they had turned the 
 point of the promontory, and I was now face 
 to face with the most appalling fate that ever 
 man met, without one human eye to see me, 
 or a human voice to reach me ; and at that 
 moment, too, another quivering motion 
 beneath my feet told me that the ground was 
 still sinking, and in a moment more I might 
 be crushed to atoms, and for ever buried be- 
 neath millions of tons of the falling precipice. 
 
 " God have mercy upon me ! Christ have
 
 EATSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 101 
 
 mercy upon me !" I cried, falling upon my 
 knees, clasping my hands wildly and fervently 
 together, and trjdng to offer up a last 
 prayer for my departing soul, as the terrible 
 certainty of my awful fate fell heavier and 
 chillier upon me. Still, however, the fatal 
 crash was delayed, and the desire of life was 
 strong within me, and hope revived with the 
 delay. Again I sprang to my feet and rushed 
 like a caged lion round the isolated ground on 
 which I was placed, in search of a way of escape 
 from impending destruction ; but to no pur- 
 pose. The earth above me was still higher, 
 and the crevice between it was still wider 
 than before, and I again felt that all hope was 
 utterly fallacious. 'Again I fell upon my 
 knees, and sought help and succour for my 
 soul from Him who alone could now help me 
 and save me, amid the terrible convulsions 
 which must soon destroy my body. How 
 long I remained I cannot tell, for I felt as if 
 my spirit and senses had already become
 
 102 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 detached from earthly things. Tt might have 
 been hours, or it might have been only a few 
 minutes. Time and the world seemed alike 
 lost to me ; although, by a strange kind of 
 influence, I was still perfectly conscious of 
 my position and fate, and my presence of 
 mind had never for a moment entirely for- 
 saken me. Still, when a voice close to me 
 called my mind back to the world, and I 
 looked up and saw the gentleman of the boat, 
 — who was no other than my fellow lodger, 
 and who evidently only then discovered who I 
 was — standing upon the edge of the cliff above 
 me, with a quantity of stout rope coiled in his 
 hand, I felt as if ages had passed over me 
 since I came there. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, ''is that 
 
 you?" 
 
 '' Vm sorry to say it is," I replied, with a 
 sinking at the heart which almost took away 
 my powers of utterance, and feeling that I 
 looked like a man on the brink of eternity.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 103 
 
 " Stop a moment, till I can find some- 
 thing to attach the rope to, in case I cannot 
 hold it myself till the boatman arrives to help 
 me to pull you up. Keep as still as you can, 
 as the slightest movement will only increase 
 the danger of your position, and may send the 
 whole cliff down like an avalanche into the 
 sea,'* said he, rushing off and disappearing for 
 a few seconds, and then returning with a 
 stout wooden stake or post in his hand, which 
 he had torn up from a paling fence close by, 
 and commencing to drive it into the earth 
 with a large stone which he had brought at 
 the same time for the purpose, applying it 
 with both hands with a force that soon sent 
 the stake sufficiently far into the ground to 
 have held far more than my weight, but which 
 at the same time still increased my danger, 
 by causing the portion of the cliff on which I 
 was to vibrate and sink still faster with every 
 blow he gave. Once or twice I thought it 
 was actually gone, and involuntarily half
 
 104 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 closed my eyes and held my breath in the 
 awful sensations that momentarily came over 
 me ; and it might be that a sudden exclama- 
 tion escaped me at the same time, causing 
 him to pause, and look down for an instant, 
 as if to assure himself that his efforts were 
 not too late. " The whole of this did not oc- 
 cupy him more than a couple of minutes, but 
 by the time he had secured the post and 
 fastened the rope to it, the ground on which 
 I stood had sunk more than a foot since he 
 arrived. It was now fully ten or twelve feet 
 lower than that above it, though, fortunately, 
 the crevice between had not increased in pro- 
 portion. It was still not wider than I could 
 have sprung across had there been anything 
 on the other side for me to jump upon. But 
 there was not. Still, now that help was so 
 near me, I felt new energy, and resolved 
 rather to lose my life in endeavouring to es- 
 cape than to remain where I was and inevi- 
 tably perish.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 105 
 
 " Now," said he, tlirowmg tlie loose end of 
 the rope to me, "' fasten that tightly round you 
 as short as you can, and as quickly as possi- 
 ble, so that if the cliff does sink under you, 
 you will not go with it. Be sure you make 
 it secure in case of a sudden strain causing 
 the knot to slip. Now," he added, after I had 
 wound the rope round my waist three or four 
 times, and tied it into as many knots, " keep 
 a steady hand and a clear eye, and you will 
 be all right. Hallo ! look out ! there it goes!" 
 he exclaimed, seizing the rope and pulling it 
 swiftly towards him round the post at the 
 same time, as, at that moment, with a long 
 rumbling crack, louder than any thunder that 
 ever pealed from the heavens, the cliff heaved 
 and rocked and rose in the air, where it 
 paused for a moment, as if in suspense whether 
 to go off or not, or to gather its strength for 
 a final leap, and then with a crash and a roar 
 which were heard, and filled the country with 
 consternation and astonishment, for miles and 
 
 F 5
 
 106 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 miles distant, plunged and dashed forward 
 down, into the agitated sea, hundreds of feet 
 below it, making the waves lash and foam and 
 rise in the wildest commotion all along the 
 shore, and sending up a cloud of smoke and 
 dust which rendered it difficult to breathe, 
 and impossible to see anything for several 
 minutes. 
 
 Fortunately for me, and providentially, 
 just as I heard the exclamation of my fellow- 
 lodger, and felt the awful groan of the 
 ground beneath my feet, and its rise in the 
 air, the widening of the chasm exposed a 
 piece of projecting rock close to me, on the 
 opposite side of the crack, which I had just 
 time and presence of mind enough to spring 
 desperately upon, and cling to the rope round 
 my waist with both hands, when the clifP 
 made its final leap and left me, nearly blinded 
 and choked, half suspended in the air, with 
 fully five hundred feet of perpendicular rock 
 below me, and fifteen to twenty above me.
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 107 
 
 The awful fate I had so narrowly escaped, 
 and the appalling horror of the catastrophe 
 around me, made me feel so sick at heart 
 and giddy for a few moments, that, but for 
 the rope which was round me, I should have 
 fallen down and been dashed to pieces, or 
 ground to powder beneath the rocky avalanche. 
 The voice of my preserver partially re- 
 covered me. 
 
 ''Are you safe?" he inquired, in a voice 
 tremulous with emotion, awe, and anxiety. 
 "Yes, thank God! I am," I faintly and 
 fearfully replied, though far from being 
 satisfied with my precarious situation, or con- 
 fident of escape from the doom that still 
 threatened me ; for I felt that should the rope 
 happen to break — and it was not a very thick 
 one — or to slip, it would be not only utterly 
 impossible for me to get up to the top, but to 
 retain my present insecure footing on the 
 small projection on which I, with difficulty, 
 stood ; for, without it to steady me, I could
 
 108 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 not have remained one moment where I was, 
 and, in case of its giving way, a fearful death 
 must inevitably and instantly be my lot. 
 Still, I struggled hard to keep the perturba- 
 tions that were swelling within me, from 
 gaining the ascendency over my self-posses- 
 sion, convinced that if they once did so, 
 nothing on earth could save me ; for even 
 with strength enough at the top of the cliff 
 to hold my weight, and the rope strong 
 enough to bear me, my own exertions, and 
 the use of my own hands and feet, were ab- 
 solutely necessary to effect my escape without 
 injury to myself while being pulled up the 
 cliff. 
 
 *' Do you feel tolerably secure where you 
 are?" he asked, in the same anxious, earnest 
 tone. 
 
 " Yes ; just as the cliff was falling away 
 I saw a small piece of rock projecting from 
 the side of the firm ground, and I sprang upon 
 it, where I now am. But don't attempt to
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 109 
 
 look over till the dust and smoke clear off a 
 little, in case of losing your balance and 
 slipping over the precipice/' said I, as I saw 
 his head dimly peering over above me, fearful 
 on his account as well as my own, lest such a 
 catastrophe should take place. 
 
 " Oh, Fm all right and safe here ; but don't 
 be alarmed ; I won't destroy the only chance 
 there is of saving your life by needlessly en- 
 dangering my own," he returned, as he drew 
 back from the edge of the cliff, still speaking 
 cheerfully to me. '' Do you think you can 
 retain your position a little longer, or would 
 you prefer making the attempt to get up at 
 once ? I have this end of the rope perfectly 
 secure, and I think it is strong enough to 
 carry you, if you think you could, with 
 my assistance, pull yourself up. But if you 
 feel tolerably firm where you are, and can 
 keep your footing a few minutes longer, till 
 the boatman arrives, who will be here im- 
 mediately—he only remained behind to secure
 
 110 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 his boat, and find a safer and easier way up 
 the cliff than I took — the two of us will be 
 better able to assist you than only myself." 
 
 I told him that, much as I desired to es- 
 cape from my perilous position, I would 
 rather wait till the boatman came, that I might 
 have the combined strength of the two to as- 
 sist me, instead of only himself. Nor had I 
 to wait long, for just as I had spoken I heard 
 a loud halloa a short distance off, which was 
 immediately answered by my friend above me. 
 
 " Where are you, sir ?" cried the voice in 
 the distance, for it was still impossible to see 
 more than a few yards off. 
 
 ^' Here I am ; come straight on, there's no 
 danger," replied my preserver. 
 
 " Are you all safe, sir ?" asked the boatman, 
 anxiously, as he approached. " Good God ! 
 what a crash ! I thought the Last Day had 
 come, and was terrified lest you had been des- 
 troyed as well as the poor gentleman. Thank 
 God it's no worse !"
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. Ill 
 
 But for the awfulness of my situation, I 
 could have felt indignant at the man for the 
 small estimation he seemed to have of my 
 life and existence in the world, as if I might 
 not have been one of the greatest benefac- 
 tors to my race, or the most useful of 
 mankind for aught he knew. But the re- 
 newed hope that his honest voice inspired 
 fell upon my ears and went through my 
 heart with a cheering and soothing influ- 
 ence which would have made any words, 
 however disparaging to my personal char- 
 acter, welcome to me. 
 
 " The gentleman is still safe, too,'' re- 
 plied the other quickly. " Just as the cliff 
 shot off he sprang upon a ledge of the firm 
 rock, with the rope round his waist, which 
 he had not a moment before fastened, and 
 he still remains there, I believe unhurt." 
 
 " What ! was he not carried away and 
 crushed to atoms, with the falling cliff?" 
 exclaimed the man, in astonishment. " I
 
 112 RAISED TO THP] WOOLSACK. 
 
 made sure that botli of you were killed and 
 burled beneath it, when I heard the report, 
 which shook the ground so awfully, as I was 
 climbing up the bank half a mile off, tbat 
 I was almost thrown over the rocks, and 
 dashed to pieces myself." 
 
 " Do you think this rope is strong enough, 
 to bear his weight, if we try to pull him up 
 by it?" I beard my fellow-lodger inquire, 
 in a low tone, not intended for me to hear, 
 which caused a fresh chill to fall upon my 
 heart, and made me listen with intense 
 anxiety for tbe reply of the boatman. 
 
 " It's rather an old one, and has been a 
 good deal in salt water," be replied, in a 
 slightly besitating tone, which almost took 
 away my breath ; " but if we can keep it 
 clear of any sharp corners of the rocks, and 
 the gentleman keeps himself pretty cool, with 
 care we may get him up with it." 
 
 " But do you think there's any doubt about 
 it?" whispered the other, anxiously.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 113 
 
 " I would ratlier we had another rope, be- 
 fore we tried, sir, if it was possible to get 
 one," said the man, quietly. 
 
 " I doubt if it is possible without sending to 
 the town for it : and to leave him so long 
 where he is would perhaps be more dangerous 
 than the other," returned my fellow-lodger, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " How long do you think you can retain 
 your position ?" he inquired, addressing me. 
 " We are not over sure about the rope, and 
 think it might be as well to have another 
 before we make the attempt to get you up. I 
 don't think there's much danger of this break- 
 ing if you would like to try it now ; but, for 
 the greater safety to yourself, if you feel 
 sure you can remain where you are till we can 
 get one, we should prefer another before we 
 tried." 
 
 I told them I thought my footing was pretty 
 secure, and was quite willing to do which ever 
 they thought best; though the sounds of
 
 114 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 pieces of rock, falling every now and tlien 
 from the cliff's below, and tlie repeated 
 crashes which rose up from the shore, 
 minpled with the loud dash of the troubled 
 waves, bj no means tended to give me much 
 confidence in my present position. Still, if 
 they thought it better to wait till another 
 rope could be procured, I was willing rather 
 to do that, and trust in the mercy of God 
 in the meantime, than run any risk of the 
 present one giving way, when I must at once 
 be dashed to pieces down the dread precipice 
 over which I was suspended. But fortu- 
 nately other help was now at hand. A man, 
 who had been working in a field with 
 a waggon and horses close by, had heard the 
 terrible crash and roar of the falling cliff, 
 and hastened to the spot, guided by the dense 
 cloud of dust and smoke which ascended into 
 the air at the same time. My position was 
 instantly explained to him, and also the need 
 of an extra rope to pull me up with.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 115 
 
 " There's a strong rope, a'most new, in my 
 waggon," said he, " if you like I'll go and 
 fetch it." 
 
 "Is there?" exclaimed my friend above, 
 thankfully, " then you stay here and I'll go 
 for it. I shall go quicker than you," and 
 after addressing a few words of a cheering 
 kind to me, away he went in the direction 
 that the countryman indicated, for the rope 
 he had been told of. 
 
 During his absence not a word was 
 spoken by either of the men left above me. 
 They evidently felt the aw fulness of my 
 situation to be too great to be able to say any- 
 thing to each other, much less to me. In a 
 few minutes he returned, and the first sound I 
 heard was an exclamation of surprise from the 
 countryman at the rapidity with which my 
 fellow-lodger was bounding toward them, and 
 the shortness of the time he had been away. 
 
 Quickly the second rope was attached to 
 the stake and the end of it thrown co me,
 
 116 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 whicli I with some difficulty contrived to 
 fasten securely round my waist above the 
 other. Giving, as directed, the word, when 
 I was ready, and guiding myself as well 
 as I could with my feet and hands to prevent 
 myself from being bruised or knocked against 
 the rocks in my ascent, I was in a few 
 moments slowly and steadily drawn up the 
 precipice, and placed in safety on the top of 
 the cliff.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 117 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MY PRESERVERS. 
 
 My first feeling on reacliing the top of the 
 cliff was an overwhelming sense of deep, 
 humble, earnest gratitude to Him who had 
 so marvellously preserved me amid such ter- 
 rific dangers, and delivered me from the awful 
 death that had so impiinentlj threatened me 5 
 my next that of not less thankfulness to those 
 who had been instrumental in saving me. 
 
 " Lord, thou hast redeemed my soul from 
 death, and my life from destruction," I in- 
 articulately muttered, as I felt my self dragged 
 back fi'om the brink of the precipice, and with 
 half unconscious powerlessness laid upon the
 
 118 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 soft grassy brow of the height ; for the mo- 
 ment my feet touched the ground, and I felt 
 myself once more in safety, the long terrible 
 tension of my nervous system, which the ap- 
 palling danger of my position had alone kept 
 from giving way before, at once relaxed, 
 yielded, and broke down, and I sank down 
 exhausted and weak as a new-born babe, in 
 a kind of mental and bodily collapse, without 
 the slightest power of either physical effort 
 or muscular exertion ; and my mind in a pain- 
 ful state of perfect consciousness, as to what 
 was going on around, but quite incapable of 
 giving utterance to a single word or expres- 
 sion, beyond the few syllables already men- 
 tioned, and which died upon my tongue 
 before my lips could give articulation to their 
 sound. 
 
 It was only then, as I lay in that state 
 of partially suspended animation and semi- 
 consciousness that the appalling horrors of the 
 position I had been in had their full effect
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 119 
 
 upon me. "While the danger existed, its very 
 terrors had served to sustain me, and the de- 
 sire to save my life had kept me from alto- 
 gether losing my presence of mind, well 
 knowing that if I once did so I was lost ; but 
 now that a consciousness of safety had super- 
 ceded a sense of peril, and I no longer felt 
 the awful necessity of nerving my heart and 
 struggling with my internal emotions to keep 
 them from sinking, the exhausted ener- 
 gies of my nerves gave way, and the frightful 
 perils 1 had been in, and the hair's-breadth 
 escape I had just had, fell upon me with a 
 force and influence that utterly deprived me 
 of all physical power, and filled me with a 
 crushing sense of inexpressible horror, in- 
 finitely more painful than I had felt while the 
 dangers themselves existed. 
 
 For some minutes I was utterly unable to 
 move, and lay in the state I have endeavoured 
 to describe, as if in a horrid kind of trance, 
 feebly but desperately clinging to the hand of
 
 120 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 him who, under Providence, had been the 
 means of saving my life, as he tried to pour a 
 few drops of brandy into my mouth, out of a 
 small flask which fortunately the boatman 
 happened to have with him ; and the two men, 
 who had so materially assisted him in his 
 efforts to save me, after they had removed the 
 ropes from my waist, and relieved me of their 
 pressure upon my ribs and chest, stood 
 silently by, anxiously watching for some 
 symptom or sign of returning animation and 
 vigour. 
 
 Gradually the death-like lethargy that op- 
 pressed me, and the feeling of intense horror 
 that overpowered me, began to grow less and 
 less painful and distinct, as the sense of secu- 
 rity, and the knowledge of where I was, be- 
 came more and more strongly impressed on 
 my mind and reviving consciousness, and in 
 a few minutes, to the evident joy of my pre- 
 servers, I was able, with very little assistance, 
 to rise up and move back from the brow of
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 121 
 
 tlie precipice; and as I looked half friglitenedly 
 forward and saw the enormous mass of rock 
 which lay piled and tottering down below, 
 strewn and scattered far along the shore, and 
 the sea, which was still troubled and heaving, 
 lashing its big billows, and white, frothy 
 waves, over, against, and among the mighty 
 blocks and broken cliffs which had been 
 hurled down, upon, and into it ; and glanced 
 down the perpendicular precipice before me, 
 and at the immense space along the face of 
 the tor, from which the cliff had given way, 
 I felt as if nothing short of a special and 
 direct power of a merciful Providence could 
 have preserved and saved me from the awful 
 death which must have been my fate had the 
 cliff given way a moment earlier than it did, 
 or the human agents of my salvation come 
 five minutes later to my assistance. 
 
 An involuntary shudder ran through me 
 as I gazed for an instant on the fearful scene, 
 and, slightly leaning on the arm of my fellow- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 lodger, I turned away, followed by the two 
 men who had been of such essential service 
 in aiding him to save me. 
 
 " You don't feel hurt in any way, do you?" 
 inquired my young friend, in a tone of affec- 
 tionate interest and solicitude, which again 
 reminded me of Helen Barton, and brought 
 her image vividly before me. 
 
 " No, thank you," I replied, still somewhat 
 languidly, " only a little shaken;" strangely 
 thinking of that afternoon when I had carried 
 her ashore on Brighton beach. 
 
 '' A dreadful narrow escape yonVe had, 
 sir," remarked the boatman, in a tone of re- 
 spectful earnestness. '^I really thought as 
 how the world was come to an end, when I 
 heard the awful crash, and never expected for 
 a moment but you were crushed to atoms 
 and buried aneath the cliff." 
 
 "Fortunately my friend here arrived in 
 time to save me from so terrible a fate, with- 
 out being called upon to share it with me ;
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 123 
 
 and you and this other good man came just 
 in time also to assist him/' I returned grate- 
 fully, though I still found my mind so con- 
 fused, and my thoughts so disconnected, that 
 I felt as if it would have been impossible for 
 me, at that moment, to express myself with 
 either facility or clearness. " I cannot now 
 tell you how deeply thankful I am for the 
 great and inestimable services you have ren- 
 dered me," I added, earnestly, after a 
 moment's pause, glancing at my young friend, 
 as I spoke, " but — " 
 
 "Don't think of that," said he, almost ten- 
 derly, seeing me again pause, and, doubtless, 
 not fully comprehending my feelings ; for 
 when I met his large, dark eyes, so full of 
 deep, earnest expression, and looked upon his 
 well-defined, slightly aquiline nose, fine fore- 
 head, and well shaped mouth, the whole so 
 like those of her who — 
 
 " seen became a part of sight, 
 
 And shone where'er I tiirn'd mine eye, 
 The morning-star of memory." 
 
 G 2
 
 124 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 — and yet so different in their manly character 
 and stronger nature, I felt a throbbing 
 agitation at the heart, which for the moment 
 almost took away my breath, and might 
 doubtless be in some degree accounted for by 
 the terrible shock my nervous system had just 
 received. 
 
 " Don't think of that, now,'' he repeated. 
 " My own feelings of thankfulness that I have, 
 with the aid of these good men — without 
 which, I fear, my efforts, after all, would only 
 have prolonged the terrible fate I tried to save 
 you from — but my own feelings of thankful- 
 ness that I have been instrumental in 
 extricating you from your perilous position, 
 and preserving you from the fearful death 
 with which you were threatened, are scarcely 
 less deep, and will be hardly less lasting 
 than your own; and I have no doubt but in 
 saying this of myself, 1 express the senti- 
 ments of those who assisted me, at the same 
 time."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 125 
 
 '* You do indeed, sir,'' replied botli the 
 men, earnestly, at the same moment; " and 
 we hope the gentleman won't think anything 
 o' that at present." 
 
 '' I should be very little worthy of the im- 
 mense services you have just rendered me if 
 I did not think of it," I replied, warmly, 
 ''and think of it, too, as something I can 
 never either be grateful enough for, or reward 
 you sufticiently for performing." 
 
 " We didn't think of or expect any reward, 
 sir. We are only glad, as this gentleman has 
 said, that we were in time to help him to 
 save you," returned the men, sincerely. 
 
 " But you shall not be without that 
 either," said I, warmly. 
 
 " You feel more yourself, now, don't you ?" 
 said my young friend, on whose arm I was 
 still partially leaning, as we slowly began to 
 descend the grassy side of the hill on a wind- 
 ing kind of truck or foot-path which led from 
 the top of the tor toward a rough, narrow, 
 hilly, cart-road, a little way down before us.
 
 126 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 *' Yes, thank you, I begin to feel stronger 
 now, and shall be all right presently, I hope," 
 I replied. 
 
 " Will you let me go and fetch some kind 
 of conveyance, sir, to take ye back to the 
 town ?'' inquired the countryman. " My 
 master's place isn't far off, and I know he 
 won't refuse to let ye have his little shay, 
 if you don't mind ridin^ in it." 
 
 " Oh, I shouldn't mind riding in anything, 
 and would be glad of it, if I required it," I 
 returned, for, even had I been more fastidious 
 about appearances than I was, the terrible 
 realities I had just been brought face to face 
 with — to say nothing of the effect necessity 
 would have had upon me — made me feel 
 more than usually indifferent to considera- 
 tions of this kind *, " but I shall be quite 
 able to get back to the town without the aid 
 of any conveyance, and I shall feel the walk 
 less than I should riding on these rough, un- 
 even roads." 
 
 " Won't it be too much for you, don't you
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 127 
 
 tliink ?'' inquired my fellow lodger, solici- 
 tously. 
 
 " No, I don't think it will. The distance 
 isn't great, and I feel pretty well now," I 
 replied. 
 
 " Well, then,^^ said he, stopping beside a 
 small mound, '' suppose you sit down again 
 for a few minutes, just to gather your strength 
 a little before we go any further. There's a 
 nice breeze, and the sun isn't too hot here ; 
 and perhaps a short rest, now that you are 
 recovered a little, will do you more good than 
 if you go on at once.'' 
 
 " Thank you ; perhaps it will,'' I replied, 
 seating myself as I spoke, while he sat down 
 beside me, the two men standing respectfully 
 a few paces off. 
 
 As we sat down I could see in several 
 directions, and on the tops of the hills near 
 the little town, numbers of people coming 
 hurrying along towards us, and standing in 
 clusters gazing in the direction of the great
 
 128 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 land-slip. As we afterwards learned the 
 crasli had been both heard and felt several 
 miles off, as if an earthquake had shaken the 
 earth, and a tremendous peal of thunder or a 
 battery of a hundred cannon had vollied 
 forth at the same time, filling the whole 
 country and neighbourhood round with 
 astonishment, consternation, and dismay ; 
 and making people gaze and flock in all direc- 
 tions toward the scene of the terrible catas- 
 trophe, the exact spot of which had been 
 shown by the dense volume of smoke and 
 dust which rushed up into the air at the 
 moment the cliff fell, and continued hovering 
 over it for some time afterward. 
 
 Unwilling to subject myself to the curiosity 
 and gaze of the people I saw coming toward 
 the height, and oi becoming the hero of their 
 sympathies for the hour — not that I would 
 have despised them, but rather that I instinc- 
 tively shrank from being made an object of 
 public remark or popular notice — after a
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 129 
 
 short rest, during which I had written down 
 on the back of a letter the names and addresses 
 of the two men who had assisted to save 
 me, that I might know where to find them 
 again, and reward them for their great ser- 
 vices, I rose up and proposed resuming my 
 walk toward the little town by myself. But 
 my fellow-lodger would not hear of it, and in- 
 sisted on returning with me, sending the boat- 
 man to take the boat back to the harbour by 
 himself, which he accordingly did ; and, with 
 more gratitude in my heart than I could 
 then, or can even now, express for the 
 services they had rendered me ; after slip- 
 ping a sovereign into the hand of each, 
 which they seemed highly pleased and satis- 
 fied with, I parted with the two men, re- 
 solved to let them feel before many days went 
 over my head that this was but a very small 
 foretaste of the reward they should receive, 
 and continued my walk down the side of the 
 
 G 5
 
 130 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 hill, accompanied by him who had been the 
 principal agent in my preservation, pondering 
 in what way I could reward him for his ser- 
 vices also.
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 131 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LITERARY TALK. 
 
 By tHs time several of the people wlio were 
 hurrying along toward the top of the tor had 
 approached to within a short distance of where 
 we were, and I was more anxious to appear 
 as if we had been mere casual spectators to 
 the fall of the cliff than to let them know of 
 the jeopardy I had. been in, and the narrow 
 escape I had had from destruction. I there- 
 fore endeavoured to assume an air and look of 
 as much indifference and ease as possible, 
 while, with the intuitive instincts and true 
 delicacy of regard, my companion seemed at 
 once to understand my feelings and appreciate 
 my wishes, and walked on by my side with as
 
 132 EATSI'D TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 mucli apparent composure as if nothing par- 
 ticular had occurred ; though at the same time 
 trying to avoid as far as was practicable the 
 people coming up the hill, and the scrutiny 
 and questionings of those we met. The two 
 men, however, we had just parted from were 
 less reserved ; for, happening shortly after- 
 wards to look back, we saw a crowd of people 
 gathered round the spot we had just left, 
 which had already become the centre toward 
 which the whole were tendinof, and at once 
 concluded that the boatman and his companion 
 were relating the particulars of my recent 
 dangers and escape, and describmg the catas- 
 trophe to their wondering and excited 
 audience, who, the moment they saw us look 
 back, commenced shouting and waving their 
 hats, as if in congratulation at my escape, and 
 admiration at the gallantry of my companion. 
 Taking off our hats and returning their re- 
 cognition with a polite bow, which only in- 
 creased their enthusiasm, and made them
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 133 
 
 sliout, and cheer, and wave all tlie more, and 
 caused some other people who were hurrying 
 up the height past us at the time to stop for a 
 moment, stare wonderingly at us, and then 
 run faster than before, while we leisurely re- 
 sumed our course, just as we saw the whole 
 throng rush off in a body toward the top of the 
 height, led by the boatman and peasant, who 
 now found themselves objects of general in- 
 terest and attention, and sources of informa- 
 tion and reference on the part of the people — 
 respecting the incidents and dangers of the 
 terrible occurrence. 
 
 We were soon sufficiently far from the spot 
 to escape anything .like particular notice or 
 observation, and we walked quietly along 
 toward the village, as if but little conscious 
 of the cause of so much excitement and alarm 
 on the part of the people we met, still hasten- 
 ing on in crowds toward the scene of the ac- 
 cident, and occasionally asking us if we could 
 tell them anything about it ; which we gene- 
 rally did in a way that, while sufficiently dis-
 
 134 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tinct to let tliera know what and where it was, 
 gave them no reason to suppose we had either 
 witnessed the occurrence or been exposed to 
 any danger by it 5 and I even felt a difficulty 
 myself, sometimes, as I walked along by the 
 side of my young friend in such safety and 
 comparatively restored vigour, in either 
 realising the awful peril I had been in, or the 
 appalling death I had escaped, and that, but 
 for the mercy of God, and the timely aid of 
 my companion, I should at that moment have 
 been lying, crushed to atoms, buried beneath 
 the fallen cliff, where no human power could 
 ever have reached me, and where no human 
 eye could ever have seen me, and my disem- 
 bodied soul standing before the bar of eternal 
 justice, or wandering through impenetrable 
 regions of unbounded space, or unknown 
 worlds of immortal spirits. The contrast was 
 indeed both striking and difficult to realize, 
 and filled me with wonder and gratitude 
 that I was still alive to tell the tale. 
 Anxious to divert my own thoughts as well
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 135 
 
 as those of my companion from tlie subject of 
 my recent dangers, I thanked him for the 
 two volumes of his poems he had given me, 
 and expressed the pleasure and interest I 
 had already experienced in the perusal of 
 them. 
 
 " I am glad you like them," said he, with a 
 pleased look, though by no means evincing 
 any of that elation which authors are thought 
 to feel on hearing their productions praised. 
 " At all events," he added, after a moment's 
 pause, '' I am much obliged to you for saying 
 so, even though it should proceed quite as 
 much from your good nature as from your 
 real opinion." 
 
 " Oh, I assure you," I replied, "I 
 shouldn't say so unless it were the case, how- 
 ever anxious I might be to gratify your 
 feelings, and however unwilling I should be 
 to wound them. I read a good portion of 
 both your longer poem and the collection of 
 smaller pieces before I came out this morning,
 
 136 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 and derived very great pleasure from both — 
 especially from the latter." 
 
 " You don't think the other so good then, 
 I suppose?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't say that," I returned, "I have 
 not read sufficient of it to be able to judge of 
 it as a whole, or to appreciate it to its full 
 extent. It would be unwise to give a decided 
 opinion upon it till I have carefully read it 
 all, as well as unfair ; and it has far too much 
 merit, and shows far too much acquaintance 
 with both ancient and modern literature, 
 thoughtful observation, knowledge of charac- 
 ter, and vivid powers of description, as well 
 as keen, good-humoured satire, and playful 
 fancy, to allow me to express anything but a 
 favourable opinion of it, even from what I 
 have already read. But the other pieces being 
 shorter, I am better able to appreciate the 
 beauties of those of them that I have read ; 
 and some of them appear to me to be pos- 
 sessed of a very high degree of poetic talent."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 137 
 
 " You think so ?'* said he, half abstractedly. 
 
 " I do indeed ; and the gentle, high-toned 
 feeling and touching pathos, which pervade 
 some of them are exceedingly fine and ef- 
 fective. Those addressed to ' J. D.' are espe- 
 cially so — though if ' J. D.' is such a hard- 
 hearted young lady as to be insensible to such 
 appeals, I fear she is very unworthy of so 
 much graceful and tender devotion as you 
 bestow upon her. But perhaps the young 
 lady is only a beautiful creation of your own 
 imagination," I added, smiling, seeing that he 
 looked slightly confused. 
 
 '' Oh, you know poets are allowed a good 
 deal of licence in that way,'* he replied, try- 
 ing to laugh off his embarrassment. 
 
 " Yes ; but sometimes there is more reality 
 in their effusions than the world knows of, 
 and I believe there can be no true, deep, pure 
 passion, or noble sentiment of any kind, ex- 
 pressed by a poet without it having an exis- 
 tence and living power in his own heart and
 
 13S RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 mind. Unless a poet feels and appreciates 
 the sentiments he utters, they can never be 
 either felt or appreciated by others." 
 
 ''Do yoa think then that the imagination 
 cannot supply the place of real feeling in the 
 compositions of the poet ?" he asked. 
 
 " To some extent it may, and very often 
 almost entirely does ; but whenever this latter 
 is the case the compositions always have not 
 only an unreal and unnatural appearance, 
 but entirely fail in effectively impressing the 
 reader with the sentiments the author aims 
 at." 
 
 " But may not what is called the poetic 
 faculty be a sufficient substitute in the poet 
 for personal feeling, and thereby enable him 
 to give an appearance of truth to the efforts 
 of his imagination which have all the effects 
 of reality upon the minds of others ?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 '' No, I do not think so, simply because I 
 do not believe the poetic faculty to be a sub-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 139 
 
 stitute for the natural feelings and emotions, 
 but rather a higher power, and deeper, acuter 
 sense, of appreciating and enjoying them. It 
 is because the sensitiveness of his nature 
 makes him feel more keenly than others, that 
 he gives utterance to those lofty thoughts or 
 touching sentiments which elicit the admira- 
 tion or go to the hearts of all who hear or 
 read them ; not that the feelings of humanity 
 which actuate the rest of mankind are super- 
 seded in him by a mere cold artistic idiosyn- 
 crasy of intellectual constitution. Who are 
 the poets that have the greatest influence 
 over mankind — whose writings make the 
 deepest, and leave the. most lasting, impression 
 on our minds? Not those who have spent 
 most time in polishing, and taken most care 
 to render artistically correct, the productions 
 they have labouriously brought forth; but 
 those whose hearts rather than their intellect 
 have been the source from whence their songs 
 have issued, — whose feelings rather than
 
 140 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 imagination have given inspiration to their 
 thoughts and sentiments. You may admire 
 the cokl artistic beauties of the one, as you 
 would those of a marble statue or a fine paint- 
 ing, which, with all its correctness of propor- 
 tion, form, or colouring, yet lacks the reality of 
 life, — but those who have poured forth the 
 overflowing passions and emotions, the loves 
 and fears, the hopes and disappointments, the 
 griefs and happiness of their own hearts and 
 lives, these are they who speak home to us 
 and find a sympathy in our own breasts, even 
 though they should be deficient in the studied 
 polish of the others." 
 
 " Then you think a poet need not be so 
 careful about his style as his seatiments," re- 
 marked my companion. 
 
 " Well, provided tbe latter are striking, 
 they will very often atone for other defects. 
 Still, I do not mean it as my opinion that a 
 poet should not bestow the greatest possible 
 care upon his compositions to render them
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 141 
 
 attractive in style and perfect in execution, 
 as well as true and beautiful in thought and 
 conception. I rather mean that, unless they 
 have the vital principles of real feelings and 
 real sentiments, having their home in and 
 springing spontaneously from the heart, no 
 amount of mere art will ever make them go 
 to the heart of others. There are thousands 
 of men who, if perfect acquaintance with the 
 rules of poetical composition, thorough know- 
 ledge of what poetry should be, and refined 
 taste, would make them poets, would be so. 
 But even with these, it wants the vital prin- 
 ciples of deep, warm, earnest feelings, and 
 emotions of the heart also, to constitute true 
 poetry." 
 
 " But don't you think that too much polish 
 is apt to give an air of stiffness and constraint, 
 and sometimes lessen the effects of poetry by 
 weakening its force?" 
 
 " Too much polish certainly would, but you 
 must first show me what too much polish is,
 
 142 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 before I agree to this. All tlie polisli in the 
 world will 'never make bad poetry, which is 
 simply no poetry at all, for you can no more 
 have bad poetry than you can have false 
 truth, or cold heat. There may be various 
 kinds and degrees of it, as there are of every- 
 thing else, but when it is bad it has no claim 
 to the title of poetry at all, and all the polish 
 in the world will never make it so ; but even 
 good — I mean real — poetry can hardly be too 
 much polished or too carefully composed. An 
 author should be almost as careful about his 
 style and language as his thoughts and feel- 
 ings. In fact, the former, rather than the 
 latter, require his care ; for, as I have said, 
 these must spring up in and come spontane- 
 ously from the heart, but tliose are merely 
 the vehicles by which they are conveyed to 
 others, and should be chosen and selected 
 with as much judiciousness and judgment as 
 possible. Many a common-place has been 
 admired from its polish, and many a fine 
 
 \
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 143 
 
 poetic thought or conception has been 
 marred, if not destroyed, by a disregard to 
 the style and language in which it was 
 expressed.'^ 
 
 " And yet, how much harshness we often 
 find in some of the finest and most popular 
 poetry that was ever written both in ancient 
 and modern times," returned my young friend, 
 evidently interested in my remarks. 
 
 '' Yes," I replied, " and that is very often 
 merely assumed ; — simply the art of the poet 
 to give an appearance of harshness, when he 
 feels that his subject requires it, and will be 
 rendered more natural and striking thereby ; 
 seldom from either ignorance or carelessness, 
 and if from these always to be regretted. 
 Homer and the Greek dramatists are often 
 harsh, but it is only when their harshness is 
 more effective than smoothness would be ; and 
 so are Shakespeare and others of our great 
 English dramatists and poets ; and the same 
 might be said of many of our great prose
 
 144 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 writers also, but it is always only wlien their 
 apparent harshness tends to give force to 
 their language, vividness to their descriptions 
 and is most suitable to their subjects. But 
 no one is more polished and beautifully soft 
 in his style, or dignifiedly elegant in his lan- 
 guage, than Homer and Shakespeare, when 
 they choose to be so, and their subjects and 
 characters require it. Next to reality of feel- 
 ing, refinement of taste is the great constituent 
 qualification of a poet and element in poetry, 
 where anything is aimed at beyond mere 
 common-place versification for one's own 
 gratification and amusement." 
 
 " Well, my own amusement has certainly 
 been quite as much my object in the composi- 
 tion of the pieces I have published, as any 
 hopes of poetic fame likely to arise from 
 them," returned my friend, looking as if he 
 thought my opinion of his effusions less fa- 
 vourable than it really was. 
 
 " To some extent that may be true, and.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 145 
 
 doubtless, is more or less so with all poets/' I 
 replied ; ''but I do not think it is entirely so. 
 I can see and feel the deep, earnest workings 
 and emotions of the poet's heart too well to 
 doubt either the reality of those emotions or 
 the inspiration of that heart." 
 
 '^ You think, then, that no poet can write or 
 describe what he does not, to some extent, 
 feel?" he remarked, with something like a 
 blush of inward confusion on his face. 
 
 " I do ; and it is only in proportion as he 
 feels that he can describe human emotions 
 or human sentiments with either force or 
 fidelity," I rejoined. 
 
 " Then, if this is the case, how is it that 
 there are so few true poets in the world as 
 there are?" he inquired. " Huuian feelings 
 and emotions are generally thought to 
 be pretty much the same in all men, the 
 difference that does exist being rather at- 
 tributable to external circumstances, such 
 as position in life, education, and habits, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tlian to moral constitution. If poetry so 
 entirely depends upon the feelings, and if all 
 men are endowed witli the same or similar 
 feelings, all men ought to be poets then." 
 
 " By no means,'' I replied. " That all men 
 are endowed with the same kind of feelings, 
 I grant ; but not with the same degree. You 
 may apply the same reasoning with respect to 
 any other faculty or mental qualification. 
 We know very well that there is the greatest 
 possible difference, in degree, between the 
 mental capacities of different men — so with 
 regard to their feelings : and the poet 
 must not only have these in a more than 
 ordinary measure, and of a peculiarly con- 
 stituted and acutely sensitive kind, but also 
 possess a peculiar power or faculty of express- 
 ing them to others. This is what I consider 
 to constitute the true poetic genius or endow- 
 ment, and this is what awakens the sympa- 
 thetic emotions of others, who, though they 
 may not have that peculiar constitution of
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 147 
 
 mind and heart tliat makes a man a poet, are 
 yet sufficiently endowed with feelings and 
 sentiments of our common humanity to ap- 
 preciate and sympathise with the deeper and 
 finer sensibilities of the poet, when they read 
 them/' 
 
 " I should almost have suspected you were a 
 poet yourself," replied my companion, glanc- 
 ing at me, with a slight smile, '' you seem to 
 have so perfect a knowledge of what con- 
 stitutes poetry, that I should think you must 
 have written it." 
 
 " I may have tried, but never did so with 
 any degree of success. I can feel and appre- 
 ciate poetry, and sympathise with every feel- 
 ing and emotion of the poet, but I never 
 had that power of expression, and facility of 
 language, which are required, as well as the 
 other qualities that go to constitute a poet," 
 said I, having now learned to look back upon 
 my early efforts and failures in verse with less 
 disappointment than at one time I did, which 
 
 H 2
 
 148 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 miglit possibly be as much attributable to my 
 having turned my heroics and pastorals into 
 prose, and sought to give utterance to my 
 mental cogitations in that way, as either to 
 real philosophy or to any other cause. 
 
 " I should have thought from your conver- 
 sation that you had every endowment and 
 qualification for a poet," said my companion, 
 in reply to what I had just said. 
 
 " Well, when I was your age, I thought I 
 had at least a few of them myself; but more 
 than twenty years' experience since then has 
 pretty nearly dispelled that illusion," said I, 
 with something like a shade of disappoint- 
 ment in my feelings rather than in my look 
 or tone of voice. 
 
 " And you have relinquished your efforts to 
 woo the fickle muse, then ?" he inquired. 
 
 " I have, at least, in verse," I replied. 
 
 But just at this moment our conversation 
 was put a stop to by the sudden appearance 
 of two young ladies, who turned out of a nar-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 149 
 
 row lane between two high hedges within a 
 few yards of us, and, apparently, without 
 having observed us, went on before us, in the 
 same direction we were going.
 
 150 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DAWSONS. 
 
 A SUDDEN fiusli of confusion, and a shade of 
 something like mortification, in the look and 
 manner of my companion, at once told me he 
 not only knew the ladies, but that their pre- 
 sence had more effect upon his feelings than 
 he wished me to observe, and that that effect 
 was not altogether of a painless nature. 
 
 For a few moments there was a silence be- 
 tween us. He seemed as if uncertain whether 
 to fall back and allow them to pass on, or to 
 walk forward and address them, while not 
 wishing to let him see that I noticed his em- 
 barrassment I lingered behind a step or two, 
 as if to look at and gather a few primroses,
 
 RxVISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 151 
 
 which were growing very plentifully on the 
 low bank beneath the hedge beside us. 
 
 However, his hesitation was quickly put a 
 stop to by the taller and apparently younger 
 of the ladies turning round and recognising 
 him, while the elder, who was two or three 
 steps in advance, on hearing the other's voice, 
 turned back also. 
 
 The former had a few specimens of ferns 
 in her hand, and the latter some wild violets, 
 primroses, and speedwell in one hand, and a 
 small light coloured fringed parasol, which she 
 carried, partly open before her, in the other. 
 Both were plainly but neatly dressed, with 
 large straw bonnets on their heads, and their 
 skirts slightly tucked up to keep them out of 
 the brambles where they had been, displaying 
 the remarkably neat foot and ankle of the 
 younger, and the tolerably substantial ones of 
 the elder. The latter had tight-fitting light- 
 coloured kid gloves upon her plump hands ; 
 but those of the former were uncovered.
 
 152 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 They were sisters, but equally dissimilar in 
 appearance and temperament, in mind and 
 body. The elder, who was apparently about 
 four or five-and-twenty, was rather under the 
 usual height, stoutish, with round plump 
 cheeks, brown hair, light blue eyes, and the 
 most beautiful, delicate, red-and-white com- 
 plexion I ever saw, which was rather 
 heightened by her walk just then. The 
 younger was a tall, stately, remarkably lady- 
 like girl, with dark eyes and hair, clear but 
 darker complexion than her sister, and a staid, 
 dignified air and manner, which contrasted 
 strongly with the lively vivacity of the other, 
 over whom, in spite of three or four years' 
 difference in their age, she seemed to exercise 
 all the authority of a senior, and, as I soon 
 saw, something of the influence of a superior 
 mind too. 
 
 " Why, Henry Gilmore ! How do you do ?" 
 said the younger lady, as she turned round, in 
 a cordial but somewhat formal tone of voice,
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 153 
 
 shaking liands with him ; while I, in spite of 
 the almost certainty I had already felt as to 
 who he was, almost started at the sound, and 
 turned round to conceal my emotions at the 
 now assured knowledge that my companion, 
 to whom under Providence I was indebted for 
 my life, was in reality the son of my once- 
 loved never-forgotten Helen Barton ! 
 
 " How do you do ?'' he replied, with polite 
 friendliness, as he shook her by the hand. 
 
 ''Ah, Henry Gilmore ! how are you ?" ex- 
 claimed the elder sister, coming back and 
 shaking him heartily by the hand. " WeVe 
 been for such a long walk this morning, 
 botanizing, and my sister has got some such 
 lovely specimens of ferns for her collection ; 
 and see what lovely little violets, and speed- 
 wells, and primulas I have.'' 
 
 " I see you have some pretty ones there," 
 he returned, with a pleased but somewhat 
 embarrassed look, glancing first at her then 
 at the flowers. 
 
 H 5
 
 154: RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 '' Pretty! wliy they're lovely," exclaimed 
 tlie enthusiastic girl. " Margaret's quite de- 
 lighted with them, especially the ferns ; and 
 we've had such a famous walk too. We've 
 been wandering about in the lanes, among 
 the hedges, across the fields, and on the tors 
 for hours. AVe haven't had such a lovely 
 ramble since we came here before — " 
 
 " Why, Jane, how you do talk," said the 
 other in a calm, measured, though rich tone 
 of voice, checking the volubility of her sister. 
 
 '' Well, Margaret dear, you know we have," 
 replied the elder, with a slightly rebuked look. 
 
 '' I'm glad you have enjoyed your ramble 
 so much," said my friend, taking advantage 
 of the slight pause that followed the elder 
 sister's last remarks. " I hope Mrs. Dawson 
 is quite well." 
 
 " Oh," thought I, " and this is the J. D. of 
 his devotions. She is very pretty, certainly ; 
 but a little bit too substantial, I should have 
 thought, for a poet's ideal of beauty ; rather
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 155 
 
 too mucli of the material, and too little of the 
 spiritual, in her quite to please me/' 
 
 Though she seemed full of good nature, 
 overflowing with spirits — animal ones, I, in 
 the fastidiousness of my notions, thought — 
 and had a most wonderful facility of language 
 — rather more, I fancied, than I should have 
 altogether regarded as an agreeable endow- 
 ment — still there was a good-humoured viva- 
 city and a peculiar kind of half free-and-easy 
 half tantalising coquetry in her looks and 
 manner, which, combined with the beauty of 
 her complexion, and merry twinkle of her 
 light blue eyes — too light for me — that must 
 have made her very attractive in the eyes of 
 a younger man. '* 
 
 Her sister was much more the sort of girl 
 I should have imagined a poet, or any 
 thoughtful man, to have fancied ; for while 
 she had none of that restless vivaciousness of 
 the other, there was a quiet dignity, almost 
 amounting to coldness at first, in her air and
 
 156 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 manner, a thoughtful intelligence in her 
 finely-chiselled features, and large, beaming 
 dark eyes, that betokened a tone of mind and 
 cast of character far superior to her sister's. 
 Her nose, without being large, was full, and 
 finely formed ; her forehead was high, her 
 eyebrows beautifully arched, and her eye- 
 lashes long and dark, like her hair, which 
 was neatly parted in front, and turned plainly 
 down each cheek, and fastened back, under 
 her bonnet, behind her ears. Her mouth was 
 perhaps a little larger than one could have 
 wished, but that was fully compensated for 
 by the beauty and regularity of her teeth ; 
 and there was a sweetness of expression in 
 the lines round it, which not even the deci- 
 sion in her firm lips could destroy, and which 
 without that, would have almost given an 
 appearance of hardness to this part of the face, 
 but with it only seemed to give greater force 
 and tone to the whole features, which alto- 
 gether reminded me more of some of the
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 157 
 
 finest productions in Grecian or Eoraan sculp- 
 ture than any face I liad ever seen. Add to 
 these a tall, graceful figure, and a rich, mu- 
 sical voice, and you have, as near as I can 
 give you, the portrait of Margaret Dawson, 
 as she then stood before my companion and 
 myself, with a small bunch of various kinds 
 of fern leaves in her hand, and the skirts of 
 her dress slightly fastened up, showing her 
 beautiful foot and ankle, beside her sister, 
 who, with her round, rosy cheeks, and plump 
 figure, lively manner, and high spirits, seemed 
 a perfect antithesis to the other ; and that she, 
 instead of her younger sister, should have 
 been the object of my young friend's adora- 
 tion, was more than I could understand ; for 
 though, as I have said, she was not without 
 considerable personal attractions, yet they 
 were almost wholly of a physical kind, with 
 very little of the ethereal in their composition, 
 whereas those of her sister, superior even in 
 the former sense, were heightened and spiri-
 
 158 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tualised almost, by a lofty tone of thoughtful 
 intelligence and feeling which hers had no 
 claim to. 
 
 '"Tis strange," thought I, "but there's no 
 accounting for tastes even in a poet." 
 
 '' Yes, thank you, she is quite well," re- 
 plied Margaret, to the inquiry of my friend. 
 
 " And she likes the place so much, and 
 so do my sister and myself, that we're 
 going to stay here a month longer," said 
 Jane. 
 
 '' I am very glad to hear it," replied my 
 friend, in a pleased tone. 
 
 '• Why, I didn't think you cared much 
 whether we stayed or went," returned Jane, 
 coquettishly. 
 
 '' Why so ?" asked he, half reproachfully, 
 as I fancied. 
 
 " Because — " 
 
 " Hush, Jane," said Margaret, in a half 
 authoritative tone, ''how can you talk so? 
 But we are detaining you, Henry, I see you
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 159 
 
 liave a friend Avith you/' she added, as if 
 about to move on. 
 
 " We are going towards tlie town, and — " 
 lie replied, hesitating a little, and glancing 
 at Jane Dawson, half doubtfully, at the same 
 time, who gave one of those half-encouraging, 
 half-saucy tosses of the head, and coquettish 
 smiles which are generally so difficult to 
 understand by young men, and so easily com- 
 prehended by others. 
 
 " Oh, we shall be glad to have your com- 
 pany then,'' said Margaret, with a formal 
 yet friendly smile^ as he paused, which led 
 me at once to suspect that they were old 
 friends, but that some slight coolness had 
 lately risen between them and him. 
 
 '' Aren't you tired of this dull, stupid place, 
 yet, Henry ? for it must be so to you, all by 
 yourself, as you are," said Jane, as they all 
 went on together, I a yard or two off walking 
 on the side of the road next him, for, no intro- 
 duction of any kind having taken place, I
 
 160 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 had not offered any remark, nor gone beyond 
 slightly moving my hat to each of the ladies 
 as I came forward and walked on beside my 
 companion, which the younger had acknow- 
 ledged with a stately bend of the head, and 
 the elder with a slight smile. 
 
 ''Why, I thought you said just now you 
 thought it such a nice place, and you liked it 
 so much,'' he replied. 
 
 " So we do ; but then it's different with 
 you, having nobody to speak to, or that you 
 care for in the place," she returned. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not quite so badly off as that, 
 either," rejoined Henry, with a rather forced 
 smile; and with some degree of dignity in 
 his tone as he immediately added. " However 
 little interest I may excite in some of my old 
 friends I have been fortunate enough to meet 
 here, or however little they may care for me, 
 I cannot quite plead guilty to the same con- 
 venient indifference." 
 
 " Cannot you ? I'm sorry for that, es-
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 161 
 
 pecialljasyoucallit convenient, Mr. Gllmore," 
 retorted Jane, with a half piqued, half merry 
 smile. 
 
 " This gentleman is a stranger here, as 
 well as yom'self, I suppose ?" said Margaret, 
 in her usual tone of measured composure, 
 slightly glancing at me. 
 
 " Yes. I ought to have introduced him — • 
 Mr. Habbershaw — the Miss Dawsons ; he* 
 only arrived yesterday, and is staying in the 
 same lodgings with me, at Mrs. Poole's." 
 
 "Ihopeyou like the place, Mr. Habbershaw," 
 said Miss Dawson, as she acknowledged my 
 bow, and, as I fancied, slightly emphasising 
 the name, glancing at her sister, as much as 
 to say what a horrid one it is. But the latter 
 was too dignifiedly circumspect to show that 
 she noticed it. 
 
 '^ Yes," I replied, courteously, '^ I do very 
 much, as far as I have seen it yet, at all 
 events.'' 
 
 "You have not been here before, I suppose?" 
 remarked Margaret.
 
 162 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 "No, I have not," said I. 
 
 " I dare say, then, you will be much 
 pleased with it ; the views from some of the 
 tors are magnificent," she replied. " Perhaps 
 you have already been upon some of 
 them?" 
 
 " Yes, I went up that one in front of the 
 town last evening, and have been upon the 
 top of this high one — the Grey Tor, I think 
 it is called — this morning," I returned. 
 
 " Oh, then you have had a treat," she re- 
 joined, with an animation which showed her 
 appreciation of the beautiful. 
 
 " Yes, I have," said I, quietly. 
 
 " I thought some one had promised to get 
 me a young sea-gull from that cliflP," said 
 Jane, with a half petted look at my young 
 friend. 
 
 " So he did, and he went there this morn- 
 ing for that purpose, but was disappointed," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry he took so much trouble 
 about it ; but I dare say some of the fishing
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 163 
 
 people will be able to get me one," she 
 returned. 
 
 " I have tried to procure you one through 
 them ; but none of the nshermen like to 
 venture up the cliff, as it is thought to be in, 
 or, at all events, was thought to be in a dan- 
 gerous state," rejoined Henry Gilmore, 
 calmly. '' I went round with a boat to try 
 it myself this morning, but — " 
 
 " You didn't mean to climb up the rocks 
 yourself, did you?" asked Margaret, earnestly. 
 
 " Oh, I should have thought nothing of it 
 if the cliff had been secure," said he, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " But how is it you have come back this 
 way if you had a boat ?" inquired Jane. 
 
 " Oh, I left the boatman to take it back by 
 himself," he replied, exchanging a glance 
 with me which did not escape the observation 
 of the young ladies. 
 
 " There hasn't been any accident, I hope," 
 said Jane, with an alarmed look, changing 
 colour as she spoke.
 
 164 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " No ; there's no one been hurt, at all 
 events/' he answered, with constrained com- 
 posure. 
 
 "Then, there has been something! Oh, 
 how could you be so foolish, as risk yourself 
 in any way for such a thing as that?" ex- 
 claimed Jane, earnestly. 
 
 " I should risk a great deal to gratify you, 
 Jane, and think little of it," said he, with 
 fervour, " but the risk was not mine this 
 morning," he added, again looking at me. 
 
 " Oh, then the boatman has met with an 
 accident, or perhaps been killed," again ex- 
 claimed Jane, with evident concern, while her 
 sister stared as if she could not quite compre- 
 hend him either. 
 
 " No, I assure you, the boatman was quite 
 safe when we left him," he replied. 
 
 " Then, what is it ? I know there's some- 
 thing wrong — something has happened. 
 Perhaps this gentleman has met with some 
 accident," said Jane, looking anxiously first 
 at Henry, then at me.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 165 
 
 "No, I'm quite safe and uninjured/' I 
 replied, evasively. 
 
 " By-the-bye, when we were up this valley 
 to the left, a mile-and-a-half inland, I 
 should say, from here," Margaret said, 
 inquiringly, "there was a tremendous loud 
 cracking, crashing, rumbling sound, like a 
 peal of thunder or a volley of artillery, 
 only much louder, and a strange kind of 
 quivering in the ground, as if of an earth- 
 quake ! Jane and I were quite startled by 
 it. We thought it must have come from 
 some great quarry close to us, on the other 
 side of the hill, that we didn't see, where 
 the men were blasting the rocks. But we 
 couldn't see anything of the kind when we 
 looked. Jane was quite frightened and ap- 
 peared as if she really thought it an earth- 
 qaake going to swallow her up." 
 
 " It was enough to frighten any one, I 
 think," exclaimed the elder sister, warmly. 
 
 " Did you hear anything of it, Henry ?"
 
 166 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 continued the other, without pausing to notice 
 the interruption. " It must have been quite 
 an hour ago ; if not more." 
 
 " Yes, we did, and saw it too," he replied, 
 hesitatingly, glancing at me as he spoke. 
 
 " You did ! Where was it, then ?" cried 
 Jane, with a startled look. 
 
 " At the Grey Tor," he answered. 
 
 " The Grrey Tor ! Why, it seemed close 
 to us," said she, in astonishment. 
 
 " Surely it wasn't the cliff giving way, was 
 it?" inquired Margaret, in scarcely less sur- 
 prise than her more excitable sister. 
 
 " It was indeed, though," he replied, again 
 glancing at me, as if uncertain what effect it 
 might have upon m)^ feelings, to hear the sub- 
 ject alluded to, so soon after its occurrence. 
 
 " And you were there at the time, and 
 might have been buried beneath it, all for the 
 sake of those birds you promised to get for 
 Jane," said Margaret, with an almost severe 
 look at her sister.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 167 
 
 "Why, Margaret, Henry knows I didn't 
 wish him to incur any danger in getting the 
 birds," said she, regretfully. " I should never 
 have forgiven myself if you had met with any 
 accident, or anything had happened to you 
 on my account,^' she added, addressing him 
 in an earnest tone. 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't in any particular danger, 
 myself," he replied. " The moment we ap- 
 proached the cliff in the boat, I saw it wasn't 
 safe, and immediately rowed back from be- 
 neath it. It was Mr. Habbershaw here, who 
 was sitting upon the top of the precipice, that 
 ran the fearful risk of being carried away 
 with it, and crushed to atoms under the tot- 
 tering rocks ; which he was only saved from, 
 by little short of a miracle, his own ex- 
 traordinary coolness in the face of the most 
 appalling dangers, and the assistance which 
 I, and the boatman who was with me, and a 
 countryman who had been attracted to the 
 spot by the noise and dust of the fall of the 
 cliff, were fortunately able to give him."
 
 168 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " What a merciful preservation !'' ex- 
 claimed both young ladies in a breath, gazing 
 at me with mingled surprise, interest,and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " It was indeed," said I, fervently ; " and, 
 next to that merciful Providence who so won- 
 derfully held the cliff still, after it had given 
 way, till that aid reached me by which I 
 was enabled to effect my escape from my pe- 
 rilous position, I am grateful to those who 
 brought that aid, especially to him who, so 
 regardless of danger himself, rushed up the 
 cliffs and gained the top of the precipice in 
 time to throw me a rope, to fasten round 
 my waist, and spring, with its support, upon 
 a small ledge of the firm rock, just at the 
 very moment the whole enormous mass gave 
 way beneath my feet, and fell forward with 
 a crash and a weight that must have been 
 heard and felt miles off; — making the sea lash 
 and foam, and filling the air with dust and 
 smoke, which almost blinded and choked me, 
 at the same time ; — where, being able to steady
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 169 
 
 myself upon my giddy perch with the rope 
 that was round me, though afraid to 
 trust my whole weight to it, I remained 
 till further help and a stronger rope was 
 brought, by which I was at length pulled 
 up, and placed in safety upon the top of 
 the cliff." 
 
 " What a fearful escape, to be sure !" ex- 
 claimed Miss Dawson. '' I should have died 
 with terror to have seen it, let alone to have 
 been in such a dreadful predicament. 
 Wouldn't you, Margaret ? 
 
 '' I really don't know, Jane," said the 
 other, with a calm but earnest look. '^ I hope 
 neither you nor I will ever experience such 
 danger, or if we do we may be as providen- 
 tially supported, preserved, and extricated, as 
 Mr. Habbershaw has been." 
 
 '' And how fortunate that assistance was 
 so near too," added Jane. 
 
 " Yes, it was indeed," said I. 
 
 " Was it the boatman who climbed up the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 cliffs SO quickly and threw you the rope?'' 
 she asked. 
 
 " No, the boatman came soon after, but he 
 was not the one who was the chief, in fact, 
 the real saviour of my life. It was my young 
 friend here — Mr. Gilmore," said I, for the 
 first time pronouncing that name *, which I 
 did with an effort and a kind of gulp, which, 
 though they noticed, I doubted not but they 
 mistook the cause of. " Yes,'' I continued, 
 after a moment's pause, " but for the oppor- 
 tune arrival of Mr. Gilmore, no human power 
 could have saved me ; and, I assure you, 
 nothing that he has said, or that I have told 
 you, can give you any idea of his services or 
 the danger he must have encountered in 
 climbing up the cliffs to reach me before the 
 precipice upon which I was, and which had 
 already sunk so far that it was impossible to 
 get off it, gave way beneath me." 
 
 Both ladies looked approvingly at him as I 
 said this, and though there was an impulsive
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 171 
 
 fervour in tlie look of tlie elder sister, which 
 betokened the sincerest pleasure, I thought 
 there was more real appreciation in the 
 calmer, though less demonstrative, manner of 
 the younger. 
 
 " I assure you, Mr. Habbershaw very much 
 over-rates both my difficulties in getting up 
 the cliffs, and my services in assisting him to 
 escape from his dangerous position, — the 
 former I thought nothing of, and the latter, 
 without the aid of others, and what was quite 
 as essential, his own cool composure, would 
 have been utterly fruitless," said Henry Gil- 
 more, who appeared perfectly sincere in his 
 refusal to acknowledge that my preservation 
 was mainly owing to his exertions. 
 
 '' Why, Margaret, here's mamma !" ex- 
 claimed Miss Dawson, as, at that moment, an 
 elderly lady approached us from the village, 
 which we were just entering, and then ran off 
 to meet her. 
 
 '' Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Dawson, as 
 
 I 2
 
 172 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 soon as slie was near enough to speak ; "I 
 have been so frightened. Something very 
 dreadful must have occurred. There was such 
 a strange kind of terrible report in the air, — 
 just like very loud thunder, some distance off, 
 and a vibration in the earth, which made the 
 whole house shake, as I was silting at work, 
 by the window, about an hour ago, or rather 
 better, that made me think at first it was an 
 earthquake, and, on looking out, I saw a dark 
 cloud, just like smoke, rising behind the great 
 tor over there ; and the people rushing about 
 in a state of the greatest surprise and alarm, 
 as if they expected the whole place was to be 
 instantly swallowed up, or thrown down upon 
 them ! Did you hear or see anything of it ? 
 I was so frightened lest anything had hap- 
 pened where you were to alarm or hurt you." 
 '' Yes, mamma dear, we heard the noise, 
 too," replied Margaret, with calm but affec- 
 tionate composure. " Jane was a little 
 frightened, and I was startled a little, too ;
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 173 
 
 but we were too far from it to feel the effects 
 very much. But Henry and this gentleman 
 can tell you more about it than we can,'' she 
 added, referring to my friend and myself. 
 
 '^ How do you do, Henry ?" said Mrs. 
 Dawson, shaking him warmly by the hand. 
 " I beg your pardon, but I was so alarmed 
 about my girls that I forgot to say I am very 
 glad to see you. You haven't been to see us 
 for more than a week now, I think. What 
 has become of you ? You don't mean to give 
 us the go-by, I hope, especially in a place 
 where our friends are so few?" 
 
 There was a genuine sincerity in the 
 friendly yet thorough well-bred tone in which 
 this was said that it was impossible to mis- 
 take, and impressed me very favourably to- 
 ward Mrs. Dawson. 
 
 '' I hope you don't think me so unapprecia- 
 tive of the society of such kind friends as that, 
 Mrs. Dawson," said he, with courteous 
 warmth. " But—"
 
 174 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 ''Pray don't attempt any apology/' inter- 
 posed she, as lie paused, with a slightly em- 
 barrassed look, — and glanced, though she did 
 not observe it, — somewhat disappointedly at 
 her elder daughter, which at once led me to 
 the belief that she had been the cause of the 
 absence complained of by her mother. 
 
 '' Pray don't attempt any apology," said 
 she. " You know I never like excuses ; and the 
 best reparation you can now make, I think, 
 is to come this evening, and give me an ac- 
 count of yourself. You know I have too 
 much regard for you to be very hard upon 
 you, even though you should forget us at 
 times," she added, with an almost motherly- 
 tenderness in her tone. 
 
 '' I am too conscious of that, Mrs. Daw- 
 son," he replied, with feeling ; " ever to — " 
 
 " Well, never mind," said she cheerfully, 
 again interrupting him. " I don't think so 
 badly of you, after all, as to imagine you do 
 forget us when you don't come to see us.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 175 
 
 You will come this evening and have tea 
 with us, then?'' 
 
 " Yes, with pleasure," he replied, though 
 I almost fancied there was some reluctance 
 in his look as he did so. 
 
 During this conversation between my 
 young friend and Mrs. Dawson, I had been 
 exchanging a few words with her daughters. 
 The mother, who had scarcely appeared to 
 observe me before now, looked towards me, 
 as she said : 
 
 " But what about this occurrence that 
 frightened us all so ? You saw it, it 
 seems." 
 
 " Yes, I did. But allow me to present this 
 gentleman, Mr. Habbershaw, to you, who 
 was unfortunately upon the cliff at the time 
 it began to give way, and only escaped by 
 almost a miracle," said he, introducing me 
 as he spoke, while she returned my bow with 
 a polite but rather formal courtesy at the 
 same time.
 
 176 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " Indeed !'^ said she, " I hope he is not in- 
 jured in any way/' 
 
 " No, thank you,*' I replied, " I am thank- 
 ful to say I have not received the slightest 
 hurt." 
 
 " What a dreadfully narrow escape he had 
 though, mamma," said Miss Dawson, fervidly. 
 " It makes me quite giddy to think of it." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad he did escape, my dear," 
 replied Mrs. Dawson, and then turning to 
 me, added, " I sincerely hupe no one else was 
 injured either." 
 
 " No, fortunately there was no one but my- 
 self on the cliff when it began to smk, and 
 those who came to my assistance succeeded in 
 rescuing me from my perils without any acci- 
 dent to themselves ; though they, and espe- 
 cially one of them, to whom, under a merci- 
 ful Providence, I am indebted for my being 
 alive at this moment, and not lying buried 
 beneath millions of tons of rock — must have 
 encountered no small danger in reaching me
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 177 
 
 as thej did, and in extricating me from my 
 rather undesirable position," said I, glancing 
 at Henry Gil more as I spoke. 
 
 " Where were you at the time, then, 
 Henry?" she inquired, addressing him, as I 
 paused. 
 
 " I was down below in a boat at first ; but, 
 after that, on the top of the tor ; and assisted 
 to get Mr. Habbershaw off the cliff," said he. 
 
 " Mr. Gilmore," said I, " is neither doing 
 justice to himself, nor the services he rendered 
 me, in what he says. I assure you, but for 
 him — his speedy, and what must have been 
 dangerous ascent of the rocks from the shore 
 up to the top of the cliff, his opportune ar- 
 rival and well-directed efforts, I must inevi- 
 tably have been carried away with the falling 
 precipice, and crushed to atoms, and buried 
 beneath it." 
 
 In as few words as I was able, I gave Mrs. 
 Dawson a brief account of the occurrence, the 
 imminent danger I had been in, and the im- 
 
 I 5
 
 178 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 portant services of Mr. Gilmore and the two 
 other men who assisted him ; which she 
 listened to with the most lively attention and 
 interest, her daughters doing the same, though 
 they had only just had it related to them 
 before. 
 
 " What a merciful and providential escape," 
 said Mrs. Dawson, fervently, as I finished. 
 '^ I never heard of anything so fearful, or a 
 preservation so wonderful." 
 
 '' Certainly, I have much to be humbly and 
 deeply grateful for," I replied, earnestly. 
 
 '' You have indeed," she returned, " and I 
 doubt not but you are, and will always be 
 so." 
 
 " I assure you," said I, with difficulty re- 
 pressing my emotion, " no language can ex- 
 press what I feel, and, to the last moment of 
 my life, I shall never forget either the provi- 
 dential preservation I have had, or the ser- 
 vices of those who rescued me from the ap- 
 palling death with which I was threatened."
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 179 
 
 " Henry," said Mrs. Dawson, turning to 
 my preserver with a look of almost motherly 
 tenderness, " I am thankful to Providence for 
 permitting you to be the means of saving the 
 life of a fellow creature from destruction. I 
 have often been frightened at the way I have 
 heard of your climbing about the rocks and 
 precipices, but for once, and only once ! mind 
 you,'' she repeated with a half grave, good- 
 humoured smile, " I won't scold you for it. 
 God bless you, my boy ! I am thankful you 
 escaped all danger also," she said, addressing 
 me. " So we shall see you this evening?" 
 she asked, looking at Henry, stopping as if 
 to leave us. 
 
 '' Yes, thank you ; I hope so," he replied. 
 
 " Will you do us the pleasure of coming 
 also?" she inquired, turning to me. 
 
 Albeit the perfect lady-like frankness with 
 which the invitation was given, I Avas about 
 to offer some excuse and decline, as they were 
 all such strangers to me, but before I could
 
 180 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 do SO Henry Gilmore said witli a look of real 
 earnestness, half aside — 
 
 "Do, Mr. Habbershaw, if you are not 
 otherwise engaged. I shall be so happy, and 
 I know my triends will be glad to see you.'^ 
 
 Perhaps the society of two good-looking, 
 agreeable young ladies, as well as that of 
 their very agreeable mother, also, — for agreea- 
 ble ladies' society was always attractive to 
 me, — may not have been without its influence 
 in making me accept the invitation, though I 
 believe my chief object in doing so was to 
 give pleasure to my new friend, who, I saw, 
 would have been disappointed if I had not 
 gone. So I promised to accompany him, and 
 having now arrived at the door of the house 
 where Mrs. Dawson and her daughters were 
 staying, we wished them good morning and 
 took our way toward our own lodgings.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 181 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson was the widow of a naval 
 officer of high standing, who had died young, 
 leaving her, while barely thirty years of age, 
 the sole charge and responsibility of bringing 
 up and educating a young family of four 
 children — three daughters and one boy — the 
 last, then, only about a year old ; but who died 
 before he was ^ve^ and his youngest sister a 
 year or two afterwards, leaving only the two 
 daughters now alive. Had the son lived, he 
 would have inherited property to the amount 
 of several thousands a year ; but, being en- 
 tailed upon male heirs, at his death it went to 
 a very distant relation of his father's, with
 
 182 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 whom neither Mrs. Dawson nor her husband 
 had ever been upon intimate or even visiting 
 terms. 
 
 While her son lived, Mrs. Dawson had re- 
 mained in the house belonging to the estate, 
 which she had occupied during the life of her 
 husband; but when the former died she was 
 at once forced to leave it, and seek a residence 
 elsewhere, to make room for the new heir, 
 who she would not have been under an obli- 
 gation to by remaining one day longer than 
 the law allowed her, on any consideration 
 whatsoever, even had he been willing to let 
 her, which was the farthest from either his 
 thoughts or intentions. 
 
 Within twelve months, therefore, after the 
 death of her son, Mrs. Dawson had disposed 
 of the greater portion of her household furni- 
 ture — retaining only enough to furnish a small 
 house in a neighbouring town, sold her car- 
 riage and horses, the ponies which used to be 
 ridden by her daughters and their little
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 183 
 
 brotlier, and everything else that her altered 
 circumstances rendered necessary, and that 
 was not absolutely required, and taken up 
 her abode in a small but genteel house in the 
 town of Kirkdale, situated upon the edge of 
 one of the beautiful Cumberland lakes, and 
 almost under the shadow of one of its highest 
 mountains. 
 
 It was here that Henry Gil more was 
 brought on the death of his parents, by the 
 lady who now took charge of him, and where 
 he first formed the acquaintance of Mrs. 
 Dawson, who, with her daughters, were inti- 
 mate friends and frequent visitors at the house 
 of his relative. Naturally of a warm, gene- 
 rous nature, her own trials made Mrs. Daw- 
 son all the more ready to feel for the orphan 
 boy, the sad tale of whose mother's sufferings 
 she had already learned from her friend, his 
 guardian. Besides, his own free, bright, ge- 
 nerous nature, and gentle disposition, en- 
 deared him to every one ; while, as he grew
 
 184 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 up, the noble daring and energy of his cha- 
 racter excited the admiration and interest of 
 all who knew him. 
 
 No wonder then that he became a great 
 favourite, not only with Mrs. Dawson herself, 
 but with her fcwo high-spirited daughters, who 
 were his chief companions and playmates for 
 several years of his boyhood, and used fre- 
 quently to accompany him in his rambles by 
 the side of the lake, among the hills, and even 
 in his ascents of the mountain, and up the 
 dangerous cliffs of its precipices ; on which 
 occasions the coolness, nerve, and activity of 
 the younger not only almost equalled his 
 own, but excited both his anxiety and ad- 
 miration. Still, strange as it may seem, his 
 thoughts were oftener with the lively though 
 less resolute elder sister, than with the 
 calmer, thoughtful, though less fearless, Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 But the whole of their youthful companion- 
 ship was not spent at Kirkdale ; for, after a
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 185 
 
 few years' residence there, Mrs. Dawson and 
 her daughters removed to a house in a small 
 but pretty town on the sea coast, in Dumfries- 
 shire, and unwilling to be separated from so 
 attached and esteemed a friend, Henry's rela- 
 tion and guardian removed there also. And 
 it was there that that passionate love of the 
 sea, that fearless activity in climbing about 
 the cliffs, and the general vigour of his frame 
 and character, were so strongly fostered, 
 strengthened, and developed. 
 
 Nor was the vigour and activity of his 
 mental and intellectual qualities behind his 
 physical ones. Both at school and college, 
 while ever ready to* join, and generally take 
 the lead, in all kinds of vigorous sports and 
 active amusements, or to enter upon the most 
 hazardous adventures, he was at all limes 
 equally ready with whatever tasks or exer- 
 cises were expected of him, and prepared for 
 every intellectual trial and examination he 
 had to encounter and go through.
 
 186 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 It was there, too, he was chiefly educated, 
 until the time arrived for him to go to college 
 to prepare himself for the study of the law, 
 to which he was destined, and the lady under 
 whose kind care he had so long been was re- 
 moved from him, and he was left with scarce 
 a relation or friend in the world to seek 
 counsel or guidance from, save Mrs. Dawson 
 and her daughters. 
 
 As the former advanced in years, and feel- 
 ing more lonely in a strange place after 
 the death of her friend than she had 
 hitherto done, she was anxious for the 
 sake of her daughters to remove towards Lon- 
 don, where she had in her youth chiefly 
 resided, and where most of her relatives still 
 lived, that they might not only have a little 
 more society than they could have where 
 they then were, but be able to enjoy the 
 benefits and advantages to be derived from 
 living in that centre of intelligence and re- 
 finement, which she well knew were not to be
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 187 
 
 attained in tlie countr}'. Just about the time, 
 therefore, that Henry Gilmore entered upon 
 his legal studies at the Temple, much to his 
 gratification, Mrs. Dawson and her daughters 
 went to reside in one of the suburbs of Lon- 
 don, where the personal intercourse, which 
 for the last two or three years had been much 
 less frequent between them than formerly, 
 had been resumed to the mutual satisfac- 
 tion of both him and them. Mrs. Dawson, 
 having known him so intimately from his 
 very childhood, regarded him with almost as 
 much affection, care, and sympathy as if he 
 had been her own son, while the intercourse 
 and confidence which had always existed 
 between her daughters and him had been 
 more like that of brother and sisters than of 
 mere friendly good feeling. And it was chiefly 
 through their having gone to spend a few 
 months of the summer and autumn at Lyn- 
 combe that he had gone there soon after 
 them.
 
 188 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 Thrown, as tliev were, so much into each 
 other's society, it is scarcely to be won- 
 dered at that feelings of more than common 
 regard should have been engendered and 
 cherished between Henry Gilmore and the 
 beautiful, well-bred, and amiable daughters of 
 Mrs. Dawson. And that these feelings 
 between him and one or other of those young 
 ladies should ripen into somewhat more 
 than mere friendship was only what might 
 have been expected. But whether Mrs. 
 Dawson did so, or whether she even thought 
 of it, I cannot say. Perhaps not. She had 
 been so used to see him about her house and 
 in the society of her daughters, that she, in 
 all probability, never once thought of him in 
 any other light than that of the almost bro- 
 therly friend and companion he had always 
 been to them. Or, if she ever did, in all 
 likelihood her own warm regard for him, and 
 the high opinion she entertained of both his 
 talents and character, would have made her
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 189 
 
 look upon any sucli a result with neither op- 
 position nor disfavour. 
 
 She knew his fortune was not bj any 
 means a large one — even with the addition of 
 rather more than a hundred and fifty pounds 
 a year left him by the relation who had 
 brought him up and educated him, besides 
 paying his college fees and expenses. But 
 she knew also that he had sufficient income 
 to give him a fair start in his profession, and 
 believed he had sufficient talent likewise to 
 enable him to rise in it, if fairly and perse- 
 veringly applied towards that object. Still, up 
 to this time, I cannot say that Mrs. Dawson 
 had ever once taken these things into con- 
 sideration, in connection with either one or 
 the other of her daughters. I only say that, 
 if she did, in all likelihood she woidd have 
 seen no objection whatever to any attachment 
 that might have risen between him and either 
 of them; though her eldest daughter being 
 three years his senior, she would most pro-
 
 190 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 bably have expected that Margaret would 
 have been his choice, she being between a 
 year and a half and two years younger than 
 he was, — although she knew that, in their 
 youth, the lively though at times capricious, 
 the merry, though occasionally self-willed, 
 plump, rosy- cheeked Jane had generally been 
 his favourite, rather than her less demonstra- 
 tive, but not less warm-hearted, or less affec- 
 tionate sister. Young men, especially before 
 their minds get matured, generally admire 
 most, and prefer, girls older than themselves, 
 and whose graces and attractions are such as 
 those which were possessed by Jane Dawson, 
 in preference to those younger than them- 
 selves and of the calmer and less showy kind 
 which belonged to her sister. And thus, this 
 youthful preference of Henry Gilmore for the 
 eldest sister had been a sort of habit with 
 him till, on his part at least, it had grown 
 into a deep and tender attachment of a kind, 
 which, until recently, he had hardly been
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 191 
 
 himself aware of the nature of, and which he 
 might still have been in happy ignorance of, 
 but for a trifling incident which occurred 
 a few months before they left London. 
 
 About twelve months before the time now 
 alluded to, a young man had come to study 
 under the same eminent barrister Henry was 
 with, with whom the latter had become ac- 
 quainted, and, by degrees, to some extent, in- 
 timate. I say to some extent, for from the 
 first Henry had never felt by any means 
 drawn to this gentleman, and had even for a 
 time been somewhat cold in his manner to- 
 wards him. 
 
 This was a youth not quite one-and-twenty, 
 more than six feet high, broad shouldered, 
 heavy and coarse in his appearance, intelll-L 
 gent in his tone and manner, with thick black 
 hair, bushy whiskers, dull looking light grey 
 eyes, ruddy complexion, low heavy forehead 
 and thick eyebrows ; small nose, high cheek 
 bones, thick lips, large mouth, and heavy-
 
 192 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 looking chin and lower jaw, though, albeit 
 his want of natural refinement and delicacy, 
 he was, or appeared to be at all events, toler- 
 ably good natured. 
 
 Being of necessity a good deal in the society 
 of this gentleman, Henry Gilmore's own 
 warmth and generosity of nature would not 
 allow him to entertain an aversion toward 
 one he had no reason for being prejudiced 
 against, or to treat with disrespect a person 
 who in his own way never failed to act to- 
 ward him with all courtesy. He therefore 
 endeavoured to overcome his first feeling of 
 secret dislike, and, though still contrary to his 
 own instincts, after a time so far met his ad- 
 vances as to establish a certain degree of 
 friendly intercourse between them. Perhaps, 
 too, what contributed as much to this as any- 
 thing else was that this gentleman came from 
 the same neighbourhood where some years of 
 his own early life, when he first went to reside 
 in the north of England, were spent ; and
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 193 
 
 also was well acquainted with the part of 
 Diimfries-shire he had afterwards been re- 
 moved to. 
 
 This formed a sort of tie, and was a subject 
 of conversation between them of never-fail- 
 ing interest to my young friend, whose heart 
 bounded again,and whose imagination glowed, 
 as he recalled his own rambles and adven- 
 tures by the lakes, valleys, and mountains, or 
 on the rugged cliffs and swelling waves of the 
 ocean, which were still so dear to him from 
 happy recollections of his own as well as as- 
 sociations; though his companion scarcely 
 seemed either to understand his enthusiasm or 
 to appreciate his love for those scenes, which 
 to him were only large sheets of cold water 
 where he had soinetitnes fished for jack or 
 perch ; big hollows between high bleak hills 
 which he had sometimes ridden through after 
 a fox, or upon souie other occasion; and rough, 
 steep heights which he had seldom gone any 
 distance up, could never see much beauty in 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194: RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 and cared very little about. Still, seeing that 
 his fellow-student liked to talk about them, 
 he was always ready, for the sake of cultivat- 
 ing his acquaintance and obtaining his friend- 
 ship, to make them subjects of conversation. 
 Not that I am aware he had any particu- 
 lar motive or distinct object in view in doing 
 so, beyond that of keeping up a friendly social 
 intercourse with one whose tastes, culture, and 
 intellip:ence were so much more elevated, re- 
 fined and superior to his own, and who, he felt 
 reflected, by his society, a certain degree of 
 those qualities to himself. Not that he had 
 much appreciation of them either. But he 
 saw that they obtained respect and considera- 
 tion from others, and had influence anion o; 
 those who came in contact with their pos- 
 sessor ; therefore whatever effect his intimacy 
 with Henry Gilmore might have in the es- 
 timation of others, it was likelv to have a 
 favourable one with respect to him also. 
 Besides, he had so few friends or acquaint-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 195 
 
 ances in London, he was glad, — even tliougli 
 it compelled him to check or conceal much of 
 his own natural tastes and propensities, and 
 though he had little real sympathy with much 
 of the others, — to have the society of an oc- 
 casional companion in his evenings, or in his 
 strolls through the streets of the great city. 
 And, seeing his loneliness, too, Henry Gilmore 
 was the more inclined to feel for and sympa- 
 thise with one who, in this respect at least, so 
 much resembled himself ; for, except the Daw- 
 sons, he had few acquaintances or friends with 
 whom he had any degree of intimacy or in- 
 tercourse. Thus, thrown together by circum- 
 stances, although utterly dissimilar in tastes 
 and aspirations, Henry Gilmore and his 
 fellow student at length became much more 
 intimate than two such opposite characters 
 otherwise would have become, though the 
 former never could altogether divest himself 
 of the unaccountable and disagreeable im- 
 pressions which he had first conceived of the 
 
 K 2
 
 196 EATSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 latter. But this, instead of allowinof it to 
 clieck Ms cordiality, only made liim all the 
 more anxious to make amends for what he 
 considered an involuntary injustice he had 
 done him in his own mind, by more than 
 ordinary efforts to return what he deemed the 
 good feeling of the other toward him. 
 
 The name of Henry Gilmore's fellow- 
 student was William Morris. He was the 
 only son of a gentleman who owned an 
 estate of about a thousand acres of land, 
 and lived within a few miles of Kirkdale, 
 and was also a magistrate of the county. 
 Mrs. Dawson had been upon visiting terms 
 with his father, who was a widower, during 
 the life of her husband ; but, after that event, 
 her own troubles and anxieties, as well as 
 the not-over-good-repute of that gentleman, 
 had caused her in a great measure to drop 
 his acquaintance, as well as that of several 
 other families in the neighbourhood she had 
 been in the habit of visiting with.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 197 
 
 Shortly after the acquamtance between 
 Henry Gilmore and William Morris assumed 
 the kind of friendly footing I have mentioned, 
 the former happened to remark, one evening, 
 to Mrs. Dawson and her daughters that a 
 gentleman had lately come to read under the 
 same barrister he was with, who came from 
 the neighbourhood of Kirkdale, and was 
 familiar with that part of the country, which 
 caused Mrs. Dawson to inquire who he was; 
 and, on learning that he was the son of an 
 old neighbour, although not one she had ever 
 had a very high estimation of, the recollec- 
 tions of a place still dear to her, now that she 
 was so far from it, gave an interest to every 
 thing and every one belonging to it, and 
 warmed her naturally warm heart toward the 
 young man, who she remembered as a rather 
 rude, ill-mannered, untaught, ill-tended, 
 heavy-looking, motherless child of six or 
 seven years old, about the time the death of 
 her own son caused her to leave the house
 
 198 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 she had occupied up to that time. Her 
 motherly heart, too, had often grieved to see 
 the utter neglect in which he was allowed to 
 grow up among servants and grooms, without 
 a single companion of his own age, or a per- 
 son to teach or restrain him in good or evil ; 
 his father indulging and spoiling him in every 
 way possible, and caring for little but his own. 
 indulgences, fox-hunting, horse-racing, drink- 
 ing, and feasting, which, since the death of 
 his wife, several years before this, had been 
 his chief amusement and enjoyment. During 
 her life she had been a slight check to his 
 naturally low tastes and propensities, but 
 soon after her death he yielded himself al- 
 most entirely up to their indulgence, among 
 which his passion for the manly sport of fox- 
 hunting and its kindred one of horse racing 
 were the least blameable or deserving of 
 censure. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson therefore asked Henry 
 Gilmore to brino; his fellow-student with
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 199 
 
 him the next time he came, which he accord- 
 iuglj did ; and, from that time forward, 
 William ]\Torris became a frequent visitor at 
 her house, although Henry Gilmore, in pro- 
 portion as he became intimate with him, dis- 
 covered traits of character, low inclinations 
 and habits, which made him secretly regret 
 he had been the means of his introduction to 
 the Dawsons. 
 
 I have already said that Jane Dawson had 
 always been Henry's chief favourite, and that, 
 from a boyish preference, his regard had 
 grown into, at least on his part, a strong, 
 tender attachment, which she sometimes 
 seemed to comprehend and encourage, and at 
 other times to be totally unconscious of or 
 indifferent to. 
 
 But from the time that William Morris 
 began to assume a friendly footing in the 
 house, her conduct toward her youthful com- 
 panion and admirer began to change, so much 
 so that both her mother and sister observed
 
 200 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 it, tliougli not sufficiently to deem it worthy 
 of any special notice or remark. But Henry 
 both saw it and felt it, and that, too, much 
 more keenly and deeply than any one sus- 
 pected. Instead of the unconstrained freedom 
 and confidence which had hitherto existed 
 between them, Henry Gilmore frequently 
 found himself treated with a coldness and al- 
 most indifference that he was not more puz- 
 zled to account for, than pained to perceive. 
 At other times again she w^ould resume her 
 old friendly tone and manner of sisterly con- 
 fidence, though always with a certain kind 
 of vague undefinable something in it which 
 never altogether satisfied the secret instincts 
 of his inner nature. At first he was inclined 
 to impute her conduct to mere caprice or 
 pique, occasioned by some inadvertent omis- 
 sion or fault on his part that he was uncon- 
 scious of; but ere long he began to dis- 
 cover a different cause for it. In propor- 
 tion as her conduct to him became unsatis-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 201 
 
 factory and capricious, toward William 
 Morris — though she carefully tried to hide it 
 from her mother and sister, and partly suc- 
 ceeded, too — it became almost fondly affec- 
 tionate and confidential. For a time he tried 
 to think and hoped he was mistaken ; but the 
 painful conviction at length became so strong 
 that he could no longer doubt its certainty. 
 
 Several times did he try to find an oppor- 
 tunity of getting an explanation from Jane 
 Dawson of her strange behaviour, but she 
 invariably avoided it, generally either affect- 
 ing to laugh at what she called his jealousy, 
 making some excuse to leave him abruptly, or 
 even pretending not to understand him. 
 
 About a week before the time now alluded 
 to, he had been out for a walk one fine even- 
 ing with Mrs. Dawson and her daughters, 
 upon the heights, when Jane, who was a great 
 coward, but foolishly fond of trying to make 
 people believe the contrary, went too near the 
 edge, and slipped down about a couple of feet 
 
 K 5
 
 202 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 where slie was stopped by some stout buslies 
 and brambles, growing on the face of the 
 steep tor, receiving no other injurv- than a 
 great fright and a few slight scratches. Before 
 her mother and sister, who were a few yards 
 in advance, and were g)'eatly startled and 
 alarmed by the wild shriek she gave, could 
 turn round and rush back, Henry Gilmore 
 had pulled her up, and placed her in safety 
 on the narrow, beaten track, which served as 
 a foot-path beside him. 
 
 "Jane, dear, you've frightened me so,'' 
 said her mother, changing colour, from fear 
 and agitation. " How did you slip over ? 
 What a mercy those bushes were there !" 
 
 " Well, they've scratched my hands and 
 feet at all events. Just see, there's the blood 
 coming through my stockings," replied Jane, 
 half pettishly, looking down, and showing a 
 s 11 all red spot upon the front of her foot. 
 
 " Well, dear, I am thankful it is no worse. 
 You might have fallen over the clifif and
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 203 
 
 been dashed to pieces," returned her mother 
 with a shudder, glancing at the precipice 
 below. " But why do you go so near the 
 edge, dear, when you know how dangerous it 
 is? 
 
 " Jane, you're very foolish and very 
 thouo'htless to 2:0 and frl2:hten mamma so " 
 said Mai'garet, half angrily — now that she 
 saw there was no danger. '' You know what 
 a timid creature you are ; and why will you 
 always try to make people think otherwise, 
 by doing some silly thing or other when 
 there's no occasion for it ?" 
 
 '' I didn't intend going quite so near the 
 edge of the cliff a* I did," she replied, in a 
 half apologetic and half vexed tone. " But 
 mamma doesn't need to be alarmed. I'm 
 nothing the worse. I was only startled," she 
 added, trying to look brave. 
 
 "But you might have been, dear, so do be 
 more cautious," said her mother, entreatingly. 
 "And, Henry, don't let her go so near the
 
 204 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 cliffs, there's a good, dear boy. I am so glad 
 you were ready to pull her up again so 
 quickly.'' 
 
 '' Oh, I saw there wasn't much danger ; 
 but fortunately was near enough to have 
 caught hold of her, I think, before she had 
 got over, if there had been," said he, doubtless 
 with a tender glance at the young lady. 
 
 " You might have tried to prevent me from 
 getting so much scratched by those horrid 
 brambles, then," said Jane, with an angry 
 look, pulling off her gloves, and showing a 
 slight scratch or two on her hands and 
 arms. 
 
 '* I am very sorry T didn't get hold of you 
 sooner ; but I thought you saw the edge of 
 the cliff before you, and didn't think you 
 were going so near it?" said he, gently, 
 adding, almost tenderly as he took hold of 
 her hand and looked at the scarcely perceptible 
 scratches, " I hope they don't pain you 
 very much ;" feeling strongly tempted to
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 205 
 
 press his lips to them, and kiss off the small 
 red drops of blood that were there. 
 
 " I dare say nobody cares very much if 
 they did," said she, snatching her hand 
 quickly from him, and beginning to walk 
 awaj. 
 
 Her mother saw it with something like sur- 
 prise, but said nothing. 
 
 " Jane, how rude you are !" said Margaret, 
 in a calm low tone of rebuke, as they all 
 walked on together. 
 
 '' Well, I don't want people to make a fuss 
 about me," she replied, with a petted toss of 
 the head, going on with her mother and leav- 
 ing her sister to walk with Henry during the 
 rest of the stroll, who went on, silent and 
 sad, more and more convinced that the affec- 
 tion he entertained for Jane Dawson was not 
 returned, as he had once hoped it was, and 
 that another had an interest in her thoughts 
 and feelings he no longer possessed. 
 
 The next day he called and found her alone
 
 206 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 in the sitting room when he entered. This 
 he thought a good opportunity of seeking an 
 explanation of her conduct. With an artful 
 playfulness she at first avoided every question 
 upon the subject, but, at length, finding him 
 persist in his efforts, she began to lose pa- 
 tience and affect to be offended at his suspi- 
 cions, and ended by telling him that she did 
 not consider herself bound to give any expla- 
 nation of her conduct to anyone but her 
 mamma, who had not asiied for any, seeing 
 that none was necessary ; and, as for others, 
 they had no right to interfere with anything 
 she did, when it wasn't anything that was 
 wrong. 
 
 Shortly afterwards her mother and sister 
 entered the room, and, though Henry had too 
 much pride to show the mortification and dis- 
 appointment he felt, and Jane had too much 
 art and tact to show that anything unpleasant 
 had passed between them during their brief 
 interview, neither of them could altogether
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 207 
 
 conceal that sometliing unsatisfactory had 
 risen. There was a constraint and forced 
 cheerfulness in both which it was impossible 
 either to keep up long, or to conceal from the 
 others effectually, and would only have been 
 doubly embarrassing and painful to prolong. 
 Therefore, hoping that Mrs. Dawson had not 
 noticed it, though he felt confident Margaret 
 had, even if she did not altogether understand 
 its nature, he took an early opportunity of 
 taking his leave, and had not been to see them 
 since ; though he had once or twice met them 
 in their walks, but each time with less and 
 less apparent cordiality on the part of Jane, 
 and increasing embarrassment on the part of 
 himself; and this accounted for his hesitation 
 and confusion when he so suddenly came 
 upon the young ladies with me. 
 
 Such is a narration of what I was partly 
 told by Henry Gilmore, what I partly sus- 
 pected, and what I afterwards learned in my 
 intimacy with not only him but Mrs. Dawson
 
 208 RAISED TO THK WOOLSACK. 
 
 and her daughters themselves, of the circura- 
 stances that had thus far affected and coloured 
 his life and character, and were still likely to 
 do so for many years to come.
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 209 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 POPULARITY. 
 
 As Henry Gilmore and I, after leaving Mrs. 
 Dawson and her daughters, walked on 
 through the little town towards our lodgings 
 at Rock Cottage, as Mrs. Poole's house was 
 called, we saw that a great deal of uneasy 
 agitation was still felt by the inhabitants. 
 Groups of people were clustered together at 
 various parts, about the doors of its little inns 
 and small shops, and at the corners of its few 
 little streets ; heads were put out at windows, 
 and doorways, and passages, all more or less 
 alarmed, and anxious to know what had oc- 
 curred. Uneasy and inquiring glances were 
 cast at us as we walked past, as if some of
 
 210 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tliem would fain have asked us if we could tell 
 them what it was, but were withheld, either 
 because they thought we did not look as if we 
 could give them the desired information, or 
 did not like to speak to us, seeing that we 
 were strangers ; though once or twice I fancied 
 by some of their looks that something like a 
 correct account of the accident had already 
 reached the village ; which was not improba- 
 ble, as sufficient time had now elapsed for 
 some of those we had seen ascending the tor 
 as we came away, to have returned, anc that 
 we were either recognised or thought to be 
 the persons who, no doubt, the boatman and 
 his companion had told them of, and one of 
 whom had so narrowly escaped destruction, 
 from which he had only been saved by the 
 instrumentality of the other. When we came 
 in sight of the cottage where we lodged, this 
 was no longer doubtful. A considerable 
 crowd of people were gathered abcut the door, 
 at which, upon the top step, stood Mrs. Poole
 
 RAlSilD TO THE WOOLSACK. 211 
 
 and lier daughter, in evident earnest and un- 
 easy conversation with a man and two or 
 three women close to them. The man ap- 
 peared to be giving them an account of the 
 accident. 
 
 The moment we were perceived there was 
 a slight stir, and, as we approached, an open- 
 ing was made, the people falling silently and 
 respectfully back on each side to allow us to 
 pass. 
 
 '•Yes, them's the gentlemen, '^ I heard the 
 man, who was talking to Mrs. Poole, say in a 
 sort of loud whisper, as we drew near the 
 door. '' The oldest one.'' 
 
 Oldest ! thinks 1, half angrily, confound 
 the fellow for talking in that way, as if I were 
 sixty ! 
 
 " The oldest is the one that was on the 
 cliff when it fell, an' the other was the one 
 that got him off." 
 
 " Glad to see you safe, sir," said several 
 of the people, as we walked up toward the
 
 212 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 door, and ascended the couple of stone steps, 
 the old women dropping curtseys, the young 
 ones smiling modestly, the few men taking off 
 their hats, and the children apparently very 
 much inclined to shout. " Hope you're not 
 hurt, sir," " An' God bless you, brave young 
 gentleman, for helping him," were a few of 
 the greetings and exclamations that were 
 made. 
 
 " Thank you, my good, kind friends," said 
 I, much affected by the kindly sympathy and 
 interest of the simple, honest people, with 
 great difficulty restraining myself sufficiently 
 to speak ; " I am happy and thankful to say 
 I have received no injury whatever. And I 
 most heartily say Amen to your benediction 
 on my noble-hearted young friend, but for 
 whom, under Providence, I should have been 
 at this moment lying crushed to atoms beneath 
 the fallen cliff." 
 
 '' Oh, sirs ! I have been so frightened since 
 I heard of it," said Mrs. Poole, as she opened
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 213 
 
 the door of my little parlour, and I, inviting- 
 my yomig friend to enter, followed him in 
 and sat down. '' I thought you had gone that 
 way,^' she said, addressing me ; " and I saw 
 you going past behind the house in a boat," 
 she continued, looking at Henry, " as if you 
 were going in that direction too, and was so 
 afraid lest the great cliff had fallen upon 
 either of you; and I'm so thankful you are 
 neither of you hurt. I had just been told by 
 the man I was talking to when you came to 
 the door, that you were both safe, and he had 
 just come from the Grey Tor, and had seen 
 you coming away from it, when he got there ; 
 and the boatman and another man who had 
 been there and helped you to get up to the 
 top, had told him all about the fall of the cliff, 
 and how near you were being killed." 
 
 I thanked her for her kind interest, again 
 assuring her of my being perfectly uninjured, 
 and she left the room. 
 
 '' Now," said I, when the landlady had left
 
 214 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 US to ourselves, " you'll dine with me to-daj. 
 I generally dine early at these kind of 
 places, because it's not only more convenient 
 for the people of the house, but generally so 
 for myself, also ; as one wants a rest about 
 the middle of the day, when the sun is hot, 
 especially ; and it leaves more of the nice 
 cool evening to stroll about in." 
 
 " Well, I always do the same for some- 
 what similar reasons," replied Henry, ''but I 
 hope you'll excuse me to-day — " 
 
 " No, indeed, I don't mean to do any such 
 thing," said I, interrupting him, seeing that 
 he felt some delicacy in accepting my invita- 
 tion, after so short an acquaintance, as I con- 
 cluded — " I won't take any excuse whatever. 
 So you had better tell the landlady not to 
 prepare anything for you in your own room." 
 
 " Oh, I was only going to have a cold 
 dinner to-day, at any rate," he returned, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Oh, well, I can give you something better
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 215 
 
 than that, I think," I replied. " I told the 
 landlady to get a little fish, if she could, and 
 a small le^ of lamb, and to make me a pud- 
 ding of some kind ; and I have ordered a little 
 wine to be sent in from the hotel ; so, as far 
 as eatables and drinkables are concerned, I 
 hope you'll find the advantage on my side," I 
 added, smiling. 
 
 " Most assuredly I should, but — " 
 " Niiy, nay," said I, again interrupting him, 
 " do not attempt to make any excuse, or offer 
 any refusal, for I won't listen to the one, or 
 accept the other ; though I can well enough 
 understand your delicacy in accepting an in- 
 vitation to dine with one whose very exist- 
 ence even, in all probability, you were uncon- 
 scious of twenty-four hours ago. But short 
 though our acquaintance has been, I feel that 
 the terrible realities and dangers we have 
 this day encountered together, and the mag- 
 nitude of the services you have rendered me, 
 have not only placed me under an obligation
 
 216 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 which I can never fully repay, but completely 
 broken down that hard, cold barrier of cere- 
 monial formality, which, under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, so much checks and chills the 
 warmer feelings and more generous sympa- 
 thies of our hearts and natures, during the 
 earlier stao:es of our intercourse with those 
 we feel drawn to, and loncf to exchano^e 
 
 7 O O 
 
 mutual regard and friendship with. I hope, 
 therefore, you will at once dispense with all 
 ceremony, and try to regard me as a very old 
 friend, if you will allow me to consider myself 
 as such." 
 
 " I assure you, sir,*' said he, with respect- 
 ful earnestness, " few things could give me 
 so much pride and pleasure as that of obtain- 
 ing your esteem and friendship ; and even had 
 the services 1 have to-day rendered you been 
 much more dangerous and important than 
 they were, I should think them well paid 
 by so great a reward as that ; only I fear that 
 you will have so poor an opinion of me, after
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 217 
 
 youVe known me awhile, that you will lose 
 much of the interest you now feel in me." 
 
 " Nay, do not think anything of the kind," 
 said I, quickly, " for, without taking into 
 account my own predilections in your favour, 
 which are even stronger and deeper than you 
 are aware of," said I, almost committing my- 
 self, while he glanced at me, as I fancied, 
 with something like a puzzled look, as if he 
 did not quite comprehend my meaning ; " I 
 have already seen enough of your character 
 to call forth my very highest esteem, and of 
 your merits, both personal and intellectual, 
 to excite my warmest regard and admiration." 
 
 " 1 am glad you have so kind and favour- 
 able an opinion of me," he replied, with a 
 quiet smile, '' and only hope you will be able 
 to keep it, after I have enjoyed the pleasure 
 of your friendship and society a little longer." 
 
 ''I'm not afraid of that," said I; "you're 
 much more likely to grow tired of the society 
 of a grumpy old bachelor like myself, than I 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 am of you. But we won't say anything more 
 on this subject/' I added, seeing him about to 
 put in a disclaimer ; " we shall now consider 
 the case settled. You dine with me, then, at 
 two o'clock." 
 
 '' Yes ; I shall have very much pleasure in 
 doing so ; and will tell the landlady not to 
 send mine up to my own room," he replied, 
 rising, 
 
 '' Oh, that's of no consequence," said I ; 
 " I shall tell her you are going to dine with 
 me, so she will understand not to do that ; so 
 good-bye till then — I see you want to go up 
 stairs," I added, giving him a warm shake of 
 the hand as he approached the door of the 
 room. 
 
 " Good bye, for the present," he replied, 
 returning my clasp. '' I hope I shall still 
 find you free from any bad effects of this 
 morning's dangers when I see you again." 
 
 '^ Oh, there's no fear of that," I returned, 
 as he went out, and proceeded up-stairs to his
 
 RAISED TO TPIE WOOLSACK. 219 
 
 own rooms, leaving me to think over, by my- 
 self, the terrible dangers I had that morning 
 encountered, and the wonderful escape I had 
 had from destruction, and to offer up my deep, 
 earnest gratitude to Him who had preserved 
 me amid them all, and to ask a blessing upon 
 those who had been instrumental in saving 
 my life. One of my first thoughts was to 
 bestow some fitting reward upon the latter. 
 Henry Gilmore's position and services 
 were of that kind which rendered it very 
 difficult for me to know in what manner to 
 recompense him, and will be best shown in 
 the seq^uel of this narrative ; but the others — 
 the boatman, and the countryman, who helped 
 him — I had less difficulty in deciding upon 
 how to reward them. I accordingly at once 
 resolved to give them five hundred pounds a 
 piece, or to settle it upon them in any way 
 they liked, which I could do without at all 
 interfering with my original property, having 
 always lived very considerably under my in- 
 
 L 2
 
 220 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 come, and added several thousands to it 
 by that means, which had itself, also, veiy 
 much increased in value during the last few 
 years.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MORE LITERARY TALK. 
 
 As I seldom drank any wine during dinner, 
 generally preferring to sip it quietly after- 
 wards, and my young friend did the same, 
 soon after the cloth was removed, he proposed 
 that we should go up to his sitting-room to 
 have it there, as the prospect from it was so 
 much better than from mine. This I readily 
 agreed to, and accordingly had our wine, and 
 our glasses, and a little fruit I had desired the 
 landlady to get for me, conveyed thither, where, 
 throwing open the window, we sat down 
 to enjoy our dessert, with the calm green sea 
 shining out before us, and murmuring and 
 lashing against the sharp, steep, ledgy rock,
 
 222 EAISKD TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 close below ttie foundation of the house, 
 and the soft, refreshing breeze creeping into 
 the room, over the small, daisy-speckled piece 
 of green sward that clothed the little three- 
 cornered terrace outside the window, as if to 
 seek shelter from the heat of the sun, and de- 
 licately fanning our cheeks with its gentle 
 breath, in tender, loving gratitude, for admit- 
 ting it into our presence. 
 
 The scene was verv soothino^ and verv 
 beautiful, and several times, as we sat there, 
 I could not help thinking of and contrasting 
 in my own mind the calm, peaceful security 
 I now enjoyed, with the fearful dangers and 
 the appalling scene I had so lately been ex- 
 posed to, and we two had together looked 
 upon ; and the difference between my position 
 sitting there, and that where I must have 
 been — crushed and buried under the fallen 
 cliffs — but for the merciful goodness of a 
 kind Providence, and the generous aid of 
 him, who was now sitting beside me. Still I
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 223 
 
 was anxious not to allow my mind to dwell 
 too much on that terrible scene, and endea- 
 voured to lead both our minds to other sub- 
 jects, and was not sorry when Henry 
 Gilmore returned to that which we had been 
 talking upon, when interrupted by the sudden 
 appearance of the two young ladies in our 
 walk back from the tor. 
 
 '' I have been thinking a good deal since 
 of the conversation we had this morning upon 
 the subject of poetry," said he, somewhat 
 despondently ; " and I almost despair of ever 
 beina: able to produce anything possessing 
 even the slightest claims to poetic excellence, 
 according to the high, and, I feel within me, 
 the true standard which you have laid down 
 to me, and by which, when I begin to 
 measure my own feeble efforts, I feel how 
 poor and wretched they are, and must ap- 
 pear to others." 
 
 " Nay, you have no occasion to think that," 
 said I, " and I should be sorry indeed if my
 
 224 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 opinion, — which I dare say is, as my opinions 
 and notions generally are, very fine in theory- 
 hut utterly impracticable in practice, — has dis- 
 couraged you, which I certainly had no inten- 
 tion of doing; not only that I should be deeply 
 grieved to do so for your own sake, but that 
 your poems themselves are well deserving of 
 much higher consideration. In fact, I am not 
 quite sure that much of what I did say was not 
 the result of what I read of your compositions 
 this morning ; for I felt and saw in them too 
 much true, genuine poetry, to doubt the 
 possession of the ' divine faculty ' in their 
 author, and not to feel the difference between 
 what poetry is and what it is not." 
 
 '' Do you really think, then," he asked, 
 almost eagerly, '' that there is sufficient 
 evidence of poetic genius? I suppose I may- 
 use the word, for if there isn't that, there's 
 nothing at all, in what you have read of my 
 compositions, to justify me in ever hoping to 
 attain anything like eminence as a poet, for
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 225 
 
 I confess frankly tliat a mere clever rhymester 
 or dilettanti poetaster would never satisfy my 
 ambition upon that score.'* 
 
 " No ; the very fact of your having the 
 true poetic genius would not admit of your 
 beinga mere rhymester or poetaster," Ireplied, 
 " and that you do possess it, I cannot for a 
 moment doubt ; your productions amply 
 prove it ; but your attaining eminence as 
 a poet may be another question, and very 
 much depends upon other circumstances en- 
 tirely distinct from those of your merits and 
 claims. In the first place, if you mean by emi- 
 nence great facility of poetic language and 
 imagery, warmth of feeling, vivid power of 
 description, pure and lofty thoughts and 
 general high poetic endowments, I believe 
 you have every qualification for the attain- 
 ment of it ; though even with the most 
 gifted, the achievement of a high degree of 
 excellence of any kind is a most arduous and, 
 generally, most difficult task; and in none 
 
 L 5
 
 226 KATSFD TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 more so than in literature, and most of all in 
 poetic literature. But if you, by eminence, 
 mean great popularity and public recogni- 
 tion and appreciation, that is a question much 
 more difficult to give a satisfactory answer to 
 than the other, because I believe the result 
 desired is far more difficult, — except under 
 peculiarly favourable circumstances, and then 
 it is very much less so ; but, in general, this 
 is, I believe, vastly more difficult to attain 
 than even the other, and very frequently 
 depends upon perfectly different circum- 
 stances.'* 
 
 " You don't think, then, that talent of 
 itself, and, of course I don't allude to myself, 
 when I say that, — but you don't think that 
 talent of itself will insure success in a poet?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Sometimes it may, but that is only 
 when some extraordinarily fortuitous circum- 
 stance brings it prominently forward, and 
 attracts popular notice ; — for I suppose it is
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 227 
 
 popular success jou allude to. In general it 
 does not. 
 
 ' 'Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathomd caves of ocean bear; 
 
 And many a iiowor is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness in the desert air." 
 
 And so is there many a bright genius and 
 grand intellect, full of glorious thoughts and 
 noble sentiments, left to unknown obscurity, 
 and lost to the world for want of the en- 
 couragement and appreciation necessary to its 
 full development and comprehension. Un- 
 less an author has considerable influence in 
 literary circles and among literary men, 
 so that his productions are brought before 
 the world in a manner that at once gives 
 them a fair chance of being known and 
 appreciated, and which almost insures their 
 success, they are, I fear, but little likely to 
 attain it otherwise, at all events, it may be 
 years and years before they do : perhaps not 
 even till after he has gone to where the
 
 228 RAISED TO THE AYOOLSACK. 
 
 breath of human applause can no longer 
 reach or gratify him. Though with the faci- 
 lities I have mentioned, an author, with only 
 a very moderate share of either genius or 
 attainments, will very often — yea, does very 
 often, — we see numbers of instances of it at all 
 times, and nothing but this could ever have 
 raised several men at the present day to the 
 positions they now occupy in the literature of 
 the country. With these facilities, I say, an 
 author of only very moderate powers will very 
 often attain a popularity which the much 
 more gifted fail in attain ing.'^ 
 
 " Although I do not think that any author 
 should,— and I do not believe any really great 
 author ever did, — write simply for the sake of 
 popularity, but rather from the overflowing, as 
 it were, of his own heart and mind; still, at the 
 same time, the want of popular appreciation 
 and encouragement is not only disheartening, 
 but apt to make one doubt the existence of 
 any merit in his compositions/' he replied.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 229 
 
 " And yet/^ I said, " such has been so often 
 the case even with those of the highest en- 
 dowments that no author, of even moderate 
 talents, need be disheartened by it. The 
 history of literature is full of it. And many 
 of the grandest productions of human genius, 
 and the noblest efforts of the human mind, 
 which are now looked upon with reverent 
 wonder and admiration, and which the world 
 could not lose or part with without an utter 
 disorganization of its whole intellectual 
 system, and a darkening of its brightest lumi- 
 naries, were scarcely recognised in their own 
 days, or appreciated till long after the death 
 of their authors. And what a grandeur there is 
 about such men, quietly, perhaps sufferingly, 
 labouring on, toiling in obscurity, and too 
 often in want, also ! evolving the glorious 
 truths, and sublime inspirations which were in 
 them, and which were one day destined to 
 become the guiding-stars and delight of man- 
 kind ; and which, too, but for those, that ap-
 
 230 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 pear to us^ adverse circumstances, might 
 neither have been so bright nor so full of 
 those deep, earnest, tender emotions and lofty- 
 thoughts which we so much love and sympa- 
 thise with — perseveringly, hopefully, working 
 on, sustained and cheered by their own inspi- 
 ration and genius, these themselves the best 
 solace and reward of their labours — assured 
 and confident of that appreciation from future 
 ages which their own denied them. 
 
 " But I am afraid I cannot lay claim to in- 
 spiration or genius such as that," said Henrj 
 Gilmore, smiling. 
 
 " And yet they may have thought j ust the 
 same," I returned, half abstractedly. 
 
 After a short pause, my companion said : 
 
 " I have often wondered and felt quite at a 
 loss to account for the success and popularity 
 of several writers, especially two or three 
 poets of the present day, and have sometimes 
 thought that it must be my own inability to 
 understand and appreciate them that was the
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 231 
 
 cause of this. There are several I could name 
 in whose works I never could see any great 
 or striking merit, and certainly after those we 
 have had, and one or two that we still have, 
 who I can appreciate, and whose fame can 
 never be attributed to any cause but their 
 own genius, are not to be put in compari- 
 son." 
 
 " Money, position, press influence, and 
 patronage," said I, still abstractedly, and in a 
 less good-humoured tone of voice than was 
 usual with me or I was aware of. '' If you 
 haven't the first, or don't want to spend it in 
 purchasing the other two, or are not inclined 
 to seek the last, then success as a poet is not 
 only difficult but very doubtful of attainment. 
 I may be wrong in my notions, and I should 
 be deeply grieved to discourage you, but these 
 opinions, which you must not suppose are 
 founded so much on my own personal expe- 
 rience as upon my observation of others, are 
 intended rather to remind you of what you
 
 232 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 must be prepared to encounter, and will have 
 to overcome, or at least endure, in your career 
 as a poet, than to discourage you. Poets are 
 born and not made we are told, but their suc- 
 cess, I think, very often depends quite as much 
 upon making as upon genius ; and, I believe, 
 half the amount of care, application, and study, 
 bestowed upon, or exercised in, any profes- 
 sion, would, as far as mere success is con- 
 cerned, lead to far greater and more satisfac- 
 tory results.' ' 
 
 " You would not recommend literature 
 then as a profession, would you ?" inquired 
 Henry. 
 
 '' No ; unless a man has a good position to 
 start from — I mean a position of influence 
 among literary men — I should not recom- 
 mend it. Mere professional authorship, which 
 appears to me only a sort of hack-work, may 
 be very well, and I suppose is satisfactory 
 enough for men with a certain amount of 
 ability and capacity for writing ; but few men
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 233 
 
 of real genius have ever set out upon it as a 
 career they intended wholly devoting them- 
 selves to, and when they have become so, it 
 has been rather the result of circumstances 
 than their own absolute inclinations or de- 
 signs. Nearly the whole of the great authors 
 have been men engaged in other pursuits, and 
 their literary operations the result of well em- 
 ployed spare time pinched out of their other 
 avocations, before they actually adopted 
 literature as a profession. Scott, you know, 
 told some one that it was a good staff but a 
 bad crutch : — that is to say, a very pleasant 
 thing to take in one's hand as we go along 
 the road of life, but ■ not a thing that it was 
 wise or safe to rely entirely upon for carry- 
 ing us over that road." 
 
 ''And yet, few men ever devoted themselves 
 more completely to it, or relied so entirely 
 upon it, as he did, or found it so good a sup- 
 port either," replied my companion. 
 
 '' No — perhaps not, — eventually. But that
 
 234 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 was only the result of circumstances in a 
 great measure, and after lie had used it so well 
 as a staff that he found he could with safety 
 rely upon it as a crutch ; and, of course, such 
 a man is an exception to all rules, although 
 even he, as you know, did not really start in 
 life as a professional author, and had also 
 many facilities of obtaining a good start 
 when he did begin it." 
 
 " Yes, for me to attempt to take him as a 
 model, in this respect, would be preposterous. 
 I might just as well try to rival him in his 
 works,'* said Henry Gilmore. 
 
 " And, perhaps, the greatest prose writer, — • 
 prose poet I had almost said, for there is 
 every element of true poetry in his fictions,— 
 of the present day, who has so recently risen 
 in this country, I mean the destined-to-be- 
 immortal Boz, whoever he may be, who, 
 under that nom- de-plume^ sends forth those 
 wonderful productions of noble genius and 
 tender thoughts, I believe he is a man who
 
 RAISED, TO THE WOOLSACK. 235 
 
 onlj uses liis great gifts as a staff aad not as 
 a crutch — as Scott recommended. And several 
 others almost equally eminent in the litera- 
 ture of the present day do the same/' 
 
 " But do you not think that a man is more 
 likely to arrive at success and eminence in 
 literature when he has no other pursuits to 
 interfere with his efforts, than when he has 
 other avocations ?" 
 
 " That depends very much I should say 
 upon the nature and extent of his other pur- 
 suits. If they are not of a kind to exhaust 
 the mental and physical system too much, 
 they rather give a greater zest to intellectual 
 studies than either lessen the desire for them 
 or weaken the powers of the mind for higher 
 aspirations. At all events, this seems to be 
 not unfrequently the case ; though how far the 
 finer susceptibilities and peculiar tempera- 
 ment of the poetic mind is fitted for the 
 harder matter-of-fact realities of commoner 
 pursuits, or how far other pursuits might be
 
 236 RAISED TO TPIE WOOLSACK. 
 
 detrimental to tlie fall exercise of his genius, 
 and prevent him from attaining that eminence 
 which his powers, otherwise, would have 
 enabled him to do, is a question I won't ven- 
 ture to decide upon. We know what many a 
 man has done under such circumstances, and 
 in spite of such difficulties, but we don't know 
 how much greater things he would have done 
 - — or less perhaps ! — but for these." 
 
 ^' You have not much faith then in litera- 
 ture, as a profession, as a general rule ?" 
 
 " No," said T, "if one has the means of 
 following any other ; not that I lightly esteem 
 literature or the literary profession, which I 
 look upon as not only one of the very highest 
 honour, but also one of the most important 
 and responsible that a man can follow — but 
 in worldly advancement and profit, 1 do 
 not think it is one so likely to lead to the 
 same satisfactory results that almost any other 
 profession would do." 
 
 " Well, upon these points I should be rather
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 237 
 
 indifferent, as though my fortune is not large 
 — not quite three hundred a year — it is 
 enough for me, at present at all events, and 
 likely to be," he returned, in a half-sad tone. 
 
 " Nay, but you won't always think that. 
 Besides, you may spend more than that in 
 publishing and pushing off your works, for 
 years, before you have got yourself into 
 sufficient notice to command a sale for your 
 books, even if their merits are ever so great ; 
 unless you happen to get some of the great 
 publishers to bring you forward, which they 
 will hardly do except you have some person 
 of great literary influence to back you up, 
 and recommend you to them.'* 
 
 '' Fm afraid that is not likely to be the 
 case, as I do not personally know a single 
 person of any influence either with the great 
 publishers or in the literary world." 
 
 " Then," said I, " and I know you won't 
 think me over officious in venturing to advise 
 
 you-"
 
 238 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " I assure jou I deem it quite the contrary, 
 and will greatly esteem your advice,' ' said 
 he, warmly, interrupting me as I slightly 
 paused. 
 
 '^ Thank you ; I feel sure of it. Perhaps 
 you value it more than it merits. But, at all 
 events, it will be both sincere and to the best 
 of my experience and ability," I returned, 
 again half reluctantly pausing. 
 
 " Then,'' said he, with a half uneasy glance, 
 in which I could see a good deal of ill-con- 
 cealed disappointment, not unmixed with 
 something like secret mortification, " then, 
 you would not advise me to adopt literature 
 as a profession." 
 
 "No ; under these circumstances, I do 
 not think I should be acting the part of a real 
 friend if I did," I replied. "Not that I am 
 blind to the great abilities you possess, or 
 that I do not believe you would one day, in 
 spite of every thing, rise to both eminence and 
 popularity, but that I think you are more
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 239 
 
 likely to attain both higher prosperity and 
 greater happiness to yourself, and therefore be 
 the more capable of bestowing it upon others, 
 by making some other profession your main 
 object and study in life." 
 
 " But the law is just as difficult to rise in. 
 I know several men who have been for years 
 and years — long before I knew anything of 
 them — vegetating about the Temple in almost 
 poverty, who, after all the money that has 
 been spent in their education and fees, are 
 still only briefless barristers, and likely to 
 remain so till the end of the chapter, accord- 
 ing to all appearances," he replied. 
 
 " Still the chances are not more, nor so much, 
 against their one day rising into eminent 
 lawyers, as there would have been against 
 their becoming great authors, had they be- 
 longed to the literary profession. And, then, 
 there's nothing incompatible in an unem- 
 ployed barrister devoting a portion of his un- 
 occupied time to literary piy'suits. In fact, a
 
 240 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 large portion of what are called literary men 
 are unemployed members of the bar, or be- 
 long to other professions. And many of our 
 great leading barristers are in the habit of 
 seeking mental recreation and change from 
 the dry tasks and laborious duties of their 
 profession in the refreshing air and agreeable 
 fields of literature." 
 
 There was a short pause. 
 
 Some time before this I had observed a 
 steamer come ploughing down the Channel, 
 and, after passing our window, take a sweep 
 round and turn back as if for the harbour. I 
 had not made any remark about it at the 
 time, but now, to change the conversation, 
 which I fear my reader is sadly out of 
 patience with, even if my auditor was not, [ 
 said : 
 
 '•'' I suppose that steam-boat we saw a short 
 while ago has come in to the harbour to land 
 some passengers ?" 
 
 " I expect so," said he, looking, like my-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 241 
 
 self, by no means unwilling to change the 
 subject of our talk. " You wouldn't like to 
 go down to the quay as a change, would you ? 
 AVe've time enough yet before we need to 
 start for Mrs. Dawson's,' ' 
 
 " I've no objection," said I. '' In fact I 
 should like a little walk for a few minutes. 
 What time do we go to Mrs. Dawson's ?" 
 
 ^' About six o'clock." 
 
 We had already returned to the room, for 
 during the latter part of the conversation we 
 had been sitting upon the grassy terrace out- 
 side the window, and were preparing to go 
 out, when we were stopped by the announce- 
 ment of a visitor to Mr. Henry Gilmore. 
 
 VOL. I,
 
 242 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE VISITOR. 
 
 " How d' ye do, Gilmore ?'^ said the visitor, 
 holding out his hand as he entered, speaking 
 in a loud, boisterous tone of voice, though I 
 fancied not quite so easy and confident as he 
 appeared to be. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Morris ! when did you come 
 here?" exclaimed Henry, as he took hold of 
 his hand, his looks betokening at least quite 
 as much surptise as pleasure at seeing him. 
 ''How do you do?" he added, with some- 
 thing like constrained cordiality, as if he con- 
 sidered that courtesy demanded his doing so, 
 rather than that he felt particularly interested 
 in the subject.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 243 
 
 " Oh ! Tm first-rate — stunning !'* cried tlie 
 other, familiarly, glancing at the same time 
 at me with something like disappointment in 
 his look, at seeing a third person and a 
 stranger present. " How've je been ? All 
 right, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you," replied Henry, rather 
 formally. " But let me introduce you to my 
 friend, Mr. Habbershaw," he added, after a 
 moment's pause — " Mr. Habbershaw, Mr. 
 William Morris." 
 
 " Mr. Habbershaw, I hope you're quite 
 well, sir," said Mr. Morris, in the same loud 
 boisterous voice and free-and-easy manner, as 
 we exchanged bows, which I did with rather 
 more formal courtesy than was usual with me, 
 for I felt by no means agreeably impressed 
 with my new acquaintance, whose great size 
 and ponderous bulk were still increased by his 
 dress, which consisted of a rough, heavy 
 kind of dark-grey round coat, rather brief in 
 its longitude, but wide and open in front, 
 
 M 2
 
 244 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 with pockets at each side, one also across the 
 breast for his handkerchief, and a couple of 
 smaller ones in front amongst the double row 
 of large bone buttons, and a small sort of slit 
 behind, with waistcoat and trousers to match. 
 Although evidently not more than one and 
 twenty, he had the appearance of being 
 several years older. He was a great, broad- 
 shouldered, heavy-looking fellow, as I have 
 already said — over six feet high, with a 
 coarse, loud voice, inelegant gait and manner, 
 dark bushy hair and whiskers, irregular 
 features, small nose, low forehead, unpleasant 
 kind of grey eyes, with a great deal of animal 
 expression in the thick lips of his large 
 mouth, heavy lower jaw, and thick neck — 
 altogether giving me a very disagreeable 
 feeling, of almost secret aversion, as I looked 
 upon him ; which I strongly suspected he was 
 not altogether unconscious of, as I several 
 times found his eyes fixed upon mo with a 
 half curious, half vexed expression, not un-
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 245 
 
 mixed with dislike, as I thonglit, as lie sat 
 there, and, without waiting to be asked, 
 helped himself to a ghass of wine, which was 
 still on the table. 
 
 Henry Gilmore cast a half annoyed, half 
 apologetic glance at me, and was about to ex- 
 plain to Mr. Morris that the wine was not his, 
 when, with a shake of the head, unobserved 
 by his visitor, I stopped him. 
 
 " Let me ring for a clean glass, Mr. Morris," 
 said Henry, as the other was about to help 
 himself. " These have both been used." 
 
 " Oh, never mind, old chap ; this will do. 
 If the wine's good, the glass don't matter. 
 That's the principal thing. Your good health, 
 old fellow. Glad to see ye ; and you too, 
 sir," said he, pouring the contents of the glass 
 into his mouth, as he spoke, and smacking his 
 lips as he placed the empty glass on the table 
 before him, saying at the same time, '' I say, 
 old boy, that isn't bad wine you've got. 
 Better than we get at the Temple, eh !"
 
 246 RAISED TO THE VrOOLSACK. 
 
 " Yes, it's very fair, I think," replied Henry, 
 rather coklly. 
 
 " Why, old fellow ! don't look so deuced 
 glura," cried Morris, in a half reproachful, 
 half rallying tone. '' You're glad to see me, 
 aren't ye ?'' 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm very glad to see you," said 
 Henry, making an effort to conceal his inward 
 vexation, and to look pleased, though it was 
 plain enough, to me, at all events, he felt 
 quite the contrary. 
 
 " Then help yourself to a glass of wine just 
 to keep me company," returned Mr. Morris, 
 filling his glass again and pushing the bottle 
 towards the other. " It'll do ye good." 
 
 " Thank you, I've had one or two already, 
 and if you'll excuse me from joining you 
 would rather not take any more at present," 
 said Henry. 
 
 " Well, never mind, I know you will never 
 take more than you like yourself. Will you 
 join me, sir?" he asked, addressing me.
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 247 
 
 '' Thank you,'' said I, politely, " but I'm 
 afraid I must plead the same excuse as Mr. 
 Gilmore has done. Besides, I don't think 
 there is much of it left, and as you seem to 
 enjoy it, it would be a pity to deprive you of 
 any more of it." 
 
 " Oh, I assure you you^re quite welcome to 
 it," said he. " I dare say my friend Gilmore 
 has more of the same after this is gone, and I 
 know, though he's so precious careful not to 
 take too much himself, he never minds how 
 much his friends take." 
 
 *' Well, in the former respect at least I am 
 a good deal like him, and rarely drink more 
 than two or three glasses of wine at one time, 
 which I have already had. Therefore, I 
 must beg you to excuse my joining you," 
 said I. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," said he, "I always take 
 what I like myself, but never press any man 
 to keep me company unless he likes." So 
 saying he helped himself to a third glass,
 
 248 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 which lie emptied as before, and then com- 
 menced skinning a peach which was lying on 
 a plate, remaining from our dessert, as he 
 went on. :— 
 
 '' This really is nice wine of yours, Gilmore, 
 you old fox ; ye always knew where to 
 get good things ; and this peach, too, it's 
 famous/' 
 
 " Well, in the present instance, I cannot 
 claim the credit of having procured this wine, 
 nor even the peach that you seem to relish 
 so much," replied Henry, with a smile, " both 
 the wine and the fruit were Mr. Habbershaw's.'' 
 
 " Why, I thought these were your rooms," 
 said he, with a look of half-indiflPerent sur- 
 prise. 
 
 '' So they are ; but I had been dining with 
 Mr. Habbershaw, who occupies the sitting- 
 room down stairs, and as my room is rather 
 pleasanter, and has a better look-out, than 
 his, we came up here to have our wine after- 
 w^ards," returned Henry. " Both it and the
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 249 
 
 fruit, tlie remnant of which you have just had, 
 were his, and not mine.'' 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, for making so 
 free with your good things," said, the other, 
 with an easy indifference, which I could not 
 help feeling amused at, in spite of my secret 
 contempt for his assurance, which I was 
 anxious to conceal for the sake of Henry 
 Gilmore, much more than for his own. " I 
 beg your pardon, but T really thought they 
 were my friend Gilmore's, or I shouldn't have 
 made so free with them, perhaps ; but ye 
 don't mind, do ye? as I'm an old friend of 
 his; and that wine o' yours is precious 
 tempting, I assure ye." 
 
 " I'm glad you like it so much ; and I 
 don't mind your drinking it in the least," I 
 replied rather coldly ; but, unwilling to hurt 
 the feelings of my young friend, who I saw 
 was deeply annoyed at him, I added with 
 more apparent cordiality, ''you are very 
 welcome to it." 
 
 M 5
 
 250 RAISED TO THE AVOOLSACK. 
 
 " Thank ye ; I thought so, or I shouldn't 
 have made so free with it, though upon my 
 word I had no idea but it was Gilmore's." 
 
 " Oh, pray, don't say anything more about 
 it. There was no apology whatever required, 
 I assure you," said I. * 
 
 " Well, 1^11 glad I came in, then, before 
 you finished the bottle, and, I suppose, I must 
 do it for you, as ye both say ye won't have 
 any more," he replied, again filling his glass, 
 and draining the bottle ; and, after allowing 
 it to stand for a moment, drinking it off at a 
 gulp. " Now," he continued, with a satisfied 
 look, " I feel jolly as a sand-boy." 
 
 He had evidently been drinking before he 
 came in — though only enough to excite bis 
 spirits a little — and now he certainly did look 
 a little jolly, as he called it, though still by 
 no means tipsy. Young as he was, he was 
 evidently too much accustomed to drink of 
 all kinds to be so easily made tipsy as that. 
 
 " And now, how are the Dawsons, old
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 251 
 
 boy ?'' he asked, addressing Henry. " I sup- 
 pose you see them pretty often?'' 
 
 '' Yes ; I saw them this morning, when 
 they seemed pretty well ; and Mr. Habbershaw 
 and I are going to have tea with them this 
 evening," he replied without hesitation, but 
 somewhat quietly. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Habbershaw's a friend of theirs 
 too, is he?" exclaimed Mr. Morris, not over 
 well pleased, I fancied, at this intelligence. 
 
 " He met them with me, and knowing that 
 — that he is a very particular friend of mine, 
 they invited him to accompany me." 
 
 '' Oh, that's all, is it ?" said Mr. Morris, 
 •with a slightly relieved look. " Well, as I'm 
 going to call on them, I'll go with you, if 
 you like, as you know where they're staying." 
 
 " They are at Belle vue Villa, a house stan- 
 ding by itself, at the other end of the town, 
 not far from the church," returned Henry, 
 apparently by no means anxious to have the 
 honour the other proposed. " Do they know
 
 252 KALSED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 you're here ?" lie asked, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 "Who? the Dawsons? Why, of course 
 not ; how could they ? —I only landed from 
 the steamer that came down the Channel not 
 much more than half-an-hour ago ; and 
 haven't seen a soul that I know in the place 
 but yourself." 
 
 '' Well, you won't find many people you 
 know here; it's a very small place," said 
 Henry. " But how did you find me out so 
 readily ?" 
 
 " Oh, I asked at the inn, or hotel, or 
 whatever they call that place close by here, 
 where I have left my traps, and intend stop- 
 ping, as I can't stand solitary confinement in 
 lodgings, when I'm in the country, at all ; I've 
 had enough of that in London. Well, I 
 asked them if they knew ye, or could tell me 
 where ye were staying, and they said there 
 was a strange gentleman lodging here, that I 
 thought might be you, which accordingly
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 253 
 
 was tlie case. If it hadn't, I intended going 
 to the Post-office, and asking there for your 
 and the Dawsons' address, as they were safe 
 to know there. But my good luck, you see, 
 has saved me the trouble of this." 
 
 Henry Gilmore looked pretty much as if 
 he wished the good luck of the other had 
 led him somewhere else, but did not say so. 
 After a moment's pause, he remarked : 
 
 '' I thought you had been going to spend 
 the vacation in the north." 
 
 " So I intended ; but you know I came of 
 age the other day, and my old governor stood 
 a jollification in honour of that happy event; — 
 and a regular good one it was, too, I can tell 
 ye!" 
 
 '' Oh, I've no doubt of it," said Henry, 
 quietly, as the other looked at him, as if for 
 some remark. 
 
 '' Well, we were all pretty jolly. There 
 were fourteen of us ; and we emptied a dozen 
 of port, and half-a-dozen sherry, besides hock
 
 254: RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 and cliampagne, and whisky-toddj after- 
 wards. '^ 
 
 '' Eather a more liberal allowance, I should 
 say, than was likely to make one feel very 
 jolly the next day, at all events,'' I remarked. 
 
 " Oh, we never think of that when we're 
 enjoying ourselves," he returned, carelessly. 
 " At all events, I didn't. Well, after we had 
 left off the wine, and had just brewed our 
 second tumbler of toddy, the old governor, 
 who's a magistrate you know, got on talking 
 with another old muff, who's a magistrate 
 also, about some stupid case or other that 
 they'd had to do with a few days before, until 
 they fairly quarrelled ! So I was obliged 
 to get up and carry the other old fellow out 
 of the room, and pitch him down on a bed to 
 sleep himself sober, for peace's sake. But I 
 hadn't been back more than two minutes 
 when my governor began blowing me up, 
 before the whole room, because I had told 
 liim in the morning I wasn't going to pay
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 255 
 
 Lim back for those paltry debts of mine he 
 had to pay last term, as he wanted me to 
 do now that I had come of age and had 
 eight hundred a year of my own. I think I 
 see myself doing a thing like that! My 
 next debts, I suppose, I shall have to pay 
 myself; and that's quite enough, without 
 having to pay him for old ones. And I told 
 him so. On which he swore at me, and told 
 me I was a disgrace. So I swore at him, 
 too, and returned the compliment. I know 
 you think I shouldn't have done that," he 
 said, seeing the great disapprobation which 
 was expressed in both Henry's face and my 
 own. In fact, I felt both horrified and 
 disgusted at the recital, all the more that it 
 seemed to give so little concern to the reciter. 
 *' But you know it isn't very pleasant to be 
 pitched into so precious hard before so many 
 people," he continued, in extenuation of his 
 conduct, "and I couldn't stand it; and 
 wouldn't either, and told him so, and
 
 256 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 said if he didn't hold his jaw I shouldn't 
 stay in the room. On which lie bio wed me 
 up ten times fiercer tlian before, and told me 
 I could leave, not only the room, but the 
 house if I liked, and go to the devil, for any- 
 thing he cared." 
 
 "And you took him at his word?" said 
 Henry, with a quiet smile of mingled disgust 
 and scorn. 
 
 " Yes, left the room there and then ; and, 
 in half an hour after, I was on my road." 
 
 " Not to the devil, I hope, as your father 
 so charitably wished you," said I, fearing 
 very much that he had been upon that road 
 much longer than a few days. 
 
 " No, by Jingo ! not so bad as that either 
 I hope," he exclaimed, in a deprecatory tone. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad to hear that, at all 
 events," replied Henry. 
 
 '^ Well, as I have said," he continued, '^ in 
 half an hour I was off, leaving the old fellow 
 to find out his mistake in the morning, when
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 257 
 
 he became sober, — and on the road for Bir- 
 mingham, where I stopped a day, then came 
 on to Bristol, where I stopped last night, and 
 came down here by the steamer, as IVe told 
 ye. And here I am, ye see ; as gay as a 
 young fellow ought to be who has just come 
 into eight hundred a year, quarrelled with 
 his father, and has been enjoying himself like 
 a prince ever since.'' 
 
 " I should hardly have thought quarrelling 
 with one's father was likely to conduce to a 
 man's gaiety, even with eight hundred a 
 year," I remarked, in a tone of rebuke, for I 
 felt I could not allow such sentiments to be 
 uttered in my presence without expressing 
 my disapprobation of them. Nor did Henry 
 Gilmore seem less shocked at the utter indif- 
 ference with which Morris regarded both his 
 own conduct and that of his not less repre- 
 hensible parent. 
 
 " Well, no, not exactly, for it isn't over 
 pleasant, you know, for a young fellow to be
 
 258 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 blowed up, and talked to in that way — on the 
 very day of his coming-of-age too ! — before 
 so many people," said Mr. Morris, who did 
 not appear quite to comprehend my meaning, 
 and seemed to imagine I rather sympathised 
 with than condemned him, "especially,'' 
 he added, after a short pause, " especially 
 when he knows he has eight hundred a year, 
 quite independent of the old fellow.'' 
 
 ' O, what a father ! and 0, what a son !' 
 thought I, with a deep, painful sigh, exchang- 
 ing a glance of sorrowful pity with Henry 
 Gilmore, as the other paused. 
 
 " Now, old chap ! why don't ye congratu- 
 late me on my good fortune, instead of look- 
 ing so precious sober !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Morris, slapping him on the shoulder with 
 his big, heavy hand. 
 
 " Upon quarrelling with your father, do 
 you mean?" inquired Henry, with a grave 
 smile, which was much more expressive of 
 inward disgust and pity than merriment.
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 259 
 
 "Oh, not so much upon that score. The 
 old fellow and I have had so many rows that 
 they aren't worth congratulating me upon. 
 But upon my eight hundred a year, and on 
 being able to do what I like, with no one to 
 interfere with me/' returned Mr. Morris, 
 gaily. 
 
 " Well, I sincerely hope so handsome an 
 income, and the independence with which 
 you are now possessed, as to your own con- 
 duct, will be both well employed and conducive 
 to your happiness," said Henry, in a tone 
 which, though earnest, betrayed that his 
 hopes of such a result were very small 
 indeed. 
 
 " Why ! of course they will. I mean to 
 live like a gentleman now, and enjoy myself 
 like one too," he cried, with boisterous good 
 humour. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it," said Henry Gilmore, 
 quietly. 
 
 '' Don't you think I'm quite right, now ?" 
 inquired Mr. Morris, appealing to me.
 
 260 RAISED TO THK WOOLSACK. 
 
 " Oh, yes, most decidedly T do — if you 
 can," I replied, with more meaning than he 
 seemed to comprehend. 
 
 " I thought you would say so. And first 
 and foremost I mean to pitch Coke and 
 Lyttleton and Blackstone, and the whole host 
 of those old musty foggies, to — to — the — the, 
 never mind where ! the Thames perhaps ! and 
 take it comfortably, and leave poor beggars 
 to fag at law that like it, or are forced ; — as I 
 hate the one, and now there's no one has any 
 power to make me do the other.'' 
 
 " What ! do you mean to leave the Temple, 
 then?" inquired Henry. 
 
 "Well, I don't know that I shall leave the 
 Temple altogether," he replied. " I think I 
 shall keep Chambers there still. But I shall 
 cut the law, at all events." 
 
 " But, don't you think it's a pity to do 
 that, especially now that you have such 
 ample means of prosecuting your studies with 
 advantage, and of supporting yourself in the 
 profession ?" urged Henry, who, in spite of no
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 261 
 
 small amount of secret dislike I could see he 
 had for the other, evidently felt sorry for the 
 folly of his conduct at the same time. 
 
 " No ! not a bit of it/' cried Morris, uncon- 
 cernedly. "Why should I? It's all very 
 well for a sober, plodding old fellow like you 
 to stick to it ; but ye know I never liked it, 
 and couldn't settle to such dry work, as ye 
 used to do ; so what's the use of it ? What 
 d'ye say, Mr. Habbershaw ?" 
 
 " I believe that a man may settle himself 
 to anything, whether he likes it or not, if he 
 really wishes and tries to do so, and sets his 
 mind to it," I replied, hoping that my words 
 might be an encouragement to Henry Gil- 
 more to reconsider his contemplated resigna- 
 tion of his legal studies, as well as an answer 
 to the other, glad at the same time to hear 
 the latter call the former a sober plodding 
 fellow, which showed that, with all his poetic 
 temperament and literary longings, he had 
 not been a careless or negligent student in
 
 262 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 those harder and drier subjects belonging to 
 bis profession. 
 
 " Ah, but I never cared much about it, or 
 could really settle my mind upon it," said 
 Mr. Morris, in reply. " But, Gilmore, here, 
 could always stick to it like a brick. Why, 
 he looks almost fit to be a judge already — if 
 he only had the horse-hair wig on that noddle 
 of his!" 
 
 " Well, I hope we shall see him have one, 
 some day or other,'' I replied. 
 
 '' But what time are you going to the Daw- 
 son's, old fellow?" asked Mr. Morris, 
 addressing Henry. 
 
 "About six, to have tea with them," he 
 replied. 
 
 " Why, I've ordered dinner at the hotel at 
 ^ve ; as I like to be fashionable now." 
 
 '' Oh, quite right," said Henry, with a 
 smile, " fashionable people must conform to 
 the rules and usages of society." 
 
 " Of course," said he. " Well, I ordered
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 263 
 
 dinner to be ready at five, so Fm afraid I 
 shan*t be able to call on tlie Dawsons till late 
 in the evening. But won't you two go and 
 dine with me, and then we can all go together 
 afterwards. They won't mind your not going 
 to tea, I dare say." 
 
 " Oh, no, we couldn't think of it," replied 
 Henry. " We have dined already, as you 
 know ; and I couldn't think of disappointing 
 such old friends as the Dawsons.'* 
 
 " It would be very rude of us if we did," 
 said I, not that I thought there was any 
 chance of Henry's consenting to Morris's pro- 
 posal, for I saw that he was by no means 
 sorry at the prospect of his not going with 
 us. 
 
 '' Do they expect you, or know of your 
 coming?" inquired Henry, fixing a keen 
 glance on the face of the other. 
 
 " Humph, well, I don't know that they do ; 
 how should they ?" he asked, in reply, slightly 
 hesitating.
 
 264 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; — I thought perhaps they 
 had asked you to come and see them, or that 
 you had told them you should," said Henry, 
 still watching his countenance, and evidently 
 suspicious of something more than the other 
 wished to express. 
 
 "Well, I half promised to Jane before they 
 left London that I should come across and 
 see them, but I don't know that she — that 
 they, I mean — " he said, trying to hide some 
 embarrassment, "know I am likely to see 
 them so soon." At these words a dark shade 
 fell upon the heart of Henry Gilmore, who 
 pressed his lips together, and turned as if to 
 look out at the window, to conceal the ex- 
 pression of bitter feeling and disappointment 
 which overspread his countenance. 
 
 " But I see it's time for me to be off to the 
 hotel to dinner," exclaimed Morris, springing 
 to his feet. " So good bye, old fellow, for the 
 present. I shall be sure to see ye again, this 
 evening; and you too," said he, addressing
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 265 
 
 me. " xlnd perhaps it'll be as well not to 
 say anything of my being here to Mrs. Daw- 
 son, as I like to take people by surprise.'' 
 
 " Very well, unless she asks me about you, 
 I shan't say anything of having seen you," 
 replied Henry, with constrained composure, 
 as the other left the room, which seemed to 
 give a sort of relief to both of us. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HIS CHARACTER. 
 
 For several minutes after William Morris left 
 the room Henry Gil more was silent. He 
 seemed both vexed and embarrassed, though 
 I pretended not to see it bj rising and looking 
 out at the window. At length he said — 
 
 " I'm quite grieved and ashamed, Mr. Hab- 
 bershaw, that you should have been exposed 
 to the ignorant rudeness of that fellow." 
 
 '^ Oh, don't feel- the least uneasiness on that 
 account. I see you are annoyed about it, but 
 as far as I am concerned there's not the slio;ht- 
 est occasion for it, I assure you," I replied. 
 " He seems neither a very desirable nor yet a 
 very agreeable acquaintance."
 
 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 207 
 
 " No, not by anj means, and less so now 
 than ever. I never before saw him behave as 
 he has done just now. He was always a 
 roughish not over well-bred fellow ; but gen- 
 erally contrived to conceal a good deal of it, 
 by behaving with some degree of decorum. 
 But a complete change appears to have come 
 over him since he came into his property. 
 He seems quite excited and reckless of both 
 what he does and says now." 
 
 " I suppose he has been drinking rather 
 freely for the last few days, and has not 
 quite got over the excitement of his coming 
 into such a handsome fortune," said I. " His 
 quarrel with his father doesn't seem to affect 
 him very much." 
 
 " No, I don't think it does. I fear he's too 
 much used to that to feel it seriously." 
 
 '^I shouldn't think it's the first quarrel 
 they've had," I returned. 
 
 " No, not at all. I've often heard him talk 
 of the 'jolly rows,' as he called them, he and 
 
 N 2
 
 268 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 his father were in the habit of having. But 
 it's an awful state of things to contemplate 
 between a son and his father." 
 
 " Ay, it is indeed, and is apt to make an 
 old fellow like me almost thank God in my 
 heart that IVe remained a bachelor, and 
 haven't a worthless son like him to break my 
 heart," I rejoined, with sorrowful bitterness, 
 adding, after a moment's pause, and thinking 
 of the difference between him and he who I 
 was then speaking to, ^' But it's to be hoped 
 that there aren't many sons like him." 
 
 " It is to be hoped so, and also that there 
 are not many fathers like his, who I believe 
 is more in fault than even his son is, in not 
 trying to bring him up properly, but allowing 
 him to grow up as rude, uncultivated, self- 
 willed, and obstinate as himself; one time 
 spoiling and indulging him in every whim, 
 and encouraging him, as he grew up, in all 
 manner of bad habits and evil propensities ; 
 and at another treatino^ him with the most
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 269 
 
 extreme severity and cruelty ; at all times with 
 the most utter neglect as to the formation of 
 his character, and tlie instilling of proper 
 principles of either religion or common 
 morality; often punishing him with the ut- 
 most violence for even comparatively trifling 
 faults, or for doing what he had only a short 
 time before laughed at and encouraged ; and 
 then, perhaps, allowing him openly to do the 
 same, or ten times worse, without the slightest 
 check or reproof,'' said Henry, in a half-com- 
 passionating, half-censuring tone. 
 
 " Well, such a parent was scarcely likely 
 to have a good son," I replied. '' A boy 
 with even the most amiable temper and 
 disposition must have been ruined by such 
 treatment, much more one possessing the evil 
 nature and propensities that he doubtless de- 
 rived from such a father.'' 
 
 " And the stories that he has sometimes told 
 me, too, of the way his father used to make 
 him sit and drink whisky-toddy, or brandy-
 
 270 KAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 and-water, or neat spirits occasionally, with 
 him, when he was little more than twelve 
 years of age, till he became so tipsy that he 
 had to be carried out of the room, or fell 
 tinder the table, while bis father sat laughing 
 at it, have often made me shudder to listen 
 to, and to think of afterward — not the less so 
 that he seemed to think so little of them him- 
 self, and generally related them with perfect 
 good humour, as if the scenes he described 
 had been of the most innocent and amusing 
 kind in the world," said Henry, in the same 
 tone he had before spoken in. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! One cannot help pitying 
 him, little as we may like his character ; and 
 I fear the sins of the father are not only likely 
 to be visited upon the son, but reflected back 
 again from the son upon the father." 
 
 '' I'm afraid so ; and knowing from Mrs. 
 Dawson as well as himself, what kind of father 
 he has, and has always had, I have always 
 felt sorry for him, even when I have censured
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 271 
 
 him for his conduct, which he generally took 
 very good-naturedly, and this was why I in- 
 troduced him to the Dawsons. I was anxious 
 to do him good, and thought that their 
 society might not only improve both his man- 
 ners and character, but draw him away from 
 other haunts and associates that were likely 
 to be injurious to him, which I found he had 
 a natural tendency and inclination for. But 
 I fear it has done but little good either to him 
 or them, and still less to myself.'' 
 
 The last few words were uttered half to 
 himself, in a tone of bitter regret, which I 
 more than suspected the cause of I did not 
 reply for a few moments, deeming it better, 
 in delicacy, not to appear to understand the 
 full meaning as regarded himself. At length 
 I remarked — 
 
 " Yes, I should fear that any efforts to im- 
 prove or refine such a nature as his, after the 
 way he has been brought up, would be a very 
 hopeless task indeed. He is not the sort of
 
 272 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 character, I should say, to be easily moulded 
 or changed from its original and formed shape 
 and habits." 
 
 *' And yet he is not without traits of good- 
 ness, either ; and with all his rough reck- 
 lessness he can be both cautious and generous 
 when the former is necessary, and the latter 
 does not particularly interfere with any pro- 
 jects or wishes of his own." 
 
 " Such characters are often not entirely 
 void of sooaething that has almost the appear- 
 ance of goodness. In fact, no one, I believe, 
 is altogether so ; and there is little merit in 
 a generosity that is only exercised when it 
 agrees with a man's own plans and wishes," 
 said I ; *' but it is a very doubtful kind of 
 generosity that, in my opinion, and not much 
 to be relied upon. And as for his caution, 
 in spite of his usual rough recklessness, 
 and habitual, I should say, disregard of the 
 opinions and feelings of others, I have no 
 doubt but, in carrying out his own designs,
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 273 
 
 he can be not only as cautious but as cunning 
 as if possessed of mucli higher faculties and 
 powers of mind and intellect. In fact, much 
 more so, as cunning is rather the quality of a 
 naturally rude and uncultured mind than a 
 cultivated and educated one, and very often 
 assumes a character and depth which the 
 latter is quite unprepared to counteract or 
 cope with. The cunning of the savage is 
 far beyond all the ingenuity of the civilised 
 man to fathom (n- appreciate, and in most 
 cases, when it can be fully employed and 
 exercised, is far more likely to be successful 
 in the prosecution* and issue of its designs — 
 cunning taking the place of and being a most 
 efficient substitute for, the higher and nobler 
 faculties and endowments, of educated intelli- 
 gence and civilisation. And in exact propor- 
 tion as men approach to or recede from the 
 savage or civilised state, so do they retain or 
 acquire the qualities and characteristics of 
 that nearest to them. And those half-shrink- 
 
 N 5
 
 274 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 ing, artful-looking eyes of this Mr. Morrises 
 give unmistakeable evidence of no small share 
 of the inherent cunning belonging to the 
 former, or savage, state. Of course I don't 
 use the word savage with reference to him in 
 the same sense that I would in speaking of a 
 Caffre or Red Indian,'' I explained, smiling, 
 though I certainly had an object and design 
 in putting it in so strong a light, which was 
 to put him on bis guard, and not to trust too 
 much to the kind of goodness or generosity 
 possessed by persons of Mr. Morris's tone of 
 character, '' but merely as a phrase subject to 
 the restrictions and modifications necessary to 
 a more civilised condition of society, and a 
 certain degree of education and intellectual 
 intelligence." 
 
 *' You haven't much faith, then, in the ge- 
 nerosity of persons of Mr. Morris's character 
 and disposition ?" said Henry, with a thought- 
 ful smile. 
 
 '' No, none whatever," I replied. '' I have
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 275 
 
 no faith in any sentiment tliat does not spring 
 from, and is the expression and result of, 
 settled principles and recognised moral 
 duties. Even the best of men may have, 
 aye, and do have many faults and blemishes 
 in their character, but the general tone and 
 influence of their lives and actions being in- 
 spired, guided, and controlled by high, pure 
 principles of truth, rectitude, and religious 
 faith, the good so far preponderates over the 
 bad in them, that the latter is rendered com- 
 paratively powerless in its influence upon 
 their conduct, and the good is so much more 
 conspicuous, that we almost lose sight of the 
 other altogether. But where the contrary is 
 the case, where the general texture and com- 
 plexion of the character is bad, or does not 
 proceed from active principles of right, and 
 recognised moral responsibilities and convic- 
 tions, and the few traits of goodness are only 
 the stray, transient spots of a feeble light in a 
 whole world of gloom and darkness, they are
 
 276 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 neither likely to have much influence on the 
 actions themselves, nor yet to be relied upon 
 by others. Still I have no wish to be too 
 hard upon poor Morris, who, in spite of the 
 unfavourable impression I have conceived 
 of him, may not be quite so bad as this first 
 meeting with him has led me to imagine ; and 
 I cannot help pitying him also for the unfor- 
 tunate bringing up he has had from his un- 
 worthy father; and I fully appreciate and 
 admire your sympathy and leniency in 
 judging of him, and also your motives in en- 
 deavouring to do him good, however hope- 
 less the task may be of either producing any 
 permanent benefit to him or satisfaction to 
 yourself." 
 
 " I almost doubt it," said Henry, with a grave 
 look. " But I see," he added, glancing at his 
 watch, ''it's time to prepare for going to Mrs. 
 Dawson's. I must tittivate myself a little," 
 he continued, with a genial smile, "but I 
 won't be ten minutes before I'm ready to go."
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 277 
 
 *' Oh, SO must I, old bachelor though I am, 
 as I'm going to see ladies,'' I replied ; '^ and if 
 you like I'll join you here as I come down 
 from my bedroom." Which was agreed to.
 
 278 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOCIAL AND PHILOSOPHrCAL. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson received us with great courtesy 
 and kindness. Her daughters were not in the 
 room when we entered. 
 
 '' How do you do again, Mr. Habbershaw ?'^ 
 she said, " I hope you still feel no bad effects 
 from your late dangers.'' 
 
 '' No, none whatever, thank you," I replied, 
 returning the friendly shake of her hand. 
 
 ''I'm extremely glad to hear it ; and very 
 happy to see you. And, Henry, my boy, how 
 do you do since I last saw you here ?" she 
 said, turning to him, and shaking him warmly 
 by the hand. 
 
 " Thank you, very well indeed," he replied,
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 279 
 
 glancing round the room with a slight shade 
 of disappointment, as I thought, and speaking 
 — though with a slight effort — in his usual 
 free, heaitj tone of voice. 
 
 " Mj daughters will be down directly," re- 
 marked Mrs. Dawson, probably guessing his 
 thoughts. " But, you naughty boy, that you 
 are ! I've a great mind to scold you very 
 much for neglecting us so of late. Pray what 
 have you got to say for yourself, you run- 
 away ?" she asked, in a tone of mock-severity, 
 and then, turning to me, added, with great 
 kindness of manner, " Mr. Gilmore, though a 
 young man, Mr. Habbershavv, is a very old 
 friend. I have known him for a great many 
 years, and he has grown up so much in the 
 society of myself and my daughters, that I 
 feel almost as much interested in him as if 
 he were my own son, and yet — you've just 
 heard how he neglects me," she said, stop- 
 ping abruptly, with feigned displeasure. 
 
 " I know you do, Mrs. Dawson, and I as-
 
 2S0 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 sure jou I am most grateful to you for all 
 your affectionate kindness and interest, "replied 
 Henry, witli warm fervour, "and nothing 
 will ever make me forget any of your good- 
 ness to me,'' he added, earnestly, his voice 
 slightly sinking with either sadness or emo- 
 tion, perhaps a little of both, as he paused. 
 
 " Well, don't say anything more about it, 
 my dear boy," returned Mrs. Dawson, affec- 
 tionately, laying her hand gently upon his 
 arm, and looking into his face as a mother 
 might do into that of a loved and trusted son, 
 and with something like a glance of pride, 
 too, at the fine, manly, open-hearted youth 
 before her. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and the two 
 young ladies made their appearance ; the elder 
 in a neat, light-coloured muslin dress, with 
 short sleeves and lowish body, showing her 
 fine round arms and a portion of her beauti- 
 ful well-developed bust, soft as satin and 
 white as snow, and spotless neck, round which
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 281 
 
 was a small coral necklace with a little jet 
 cross in front, in which were three small but 
 very fine brilliants, the blackness of the jet 
 only showing the whiteness of the skin on 
 which it rested the more clearly, and also 
 forming an appropriate back-ground for the 
 beautiful diamonds set in it. Her brown 
 hair was plainly but very neatly done up and 
 fastened in a small knot behind. Her dress, 
 plain and simple though it was, set off her 
 charms to great advantage, and with her rich, 
 soft, pink complexion, clear eyes, and bright 
 smile, she certainly was very beautiful, and I 
 almost ceased to wonder at Henry Gilmore's 
 devotion, as I gazed for a moment, feeling my 
 own withered old bachelor heart warmed 
 before the sanny rays of so much beauty. 
 
 Her sister was dressed with equal neatness 
 and good taste, though even more plainly 
 than the other. Her dress was of a darker 
 colour and material, higher in the body, and 
 longer in the sleeves, though sufficiently low
 
 282 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 in the one and sliort in tlie other to show 
 her finely-formed shoulders, and small, 
 elegant neck, and well-shaped arms, al- 
 though, her complexion being darker, her 
 skin had not the remarkable whiteness 
 and delicate softness that her sister's had. 
 But this was amply compensated for by her 
 taller, and more elegant figure, fine dark eyes, 
 and beautiful features, and the bright but 
 calmly intelligent expression which pervaded, 
 or rather seemed to shine from her whole coun- 
 tenance. And, looking upon her again, I 
 wondered that she, rather than her sister, had 
 not kindled the love of Henry Gilmore. But 
 it is a singular thing, and has often been re- 
 marked, that men or women of the highest en- 
 dowments are often least attracted toward 
 those of the opposite sex by similar high 
 qualities ; very frequently becoming attached 
 to those who appear to have very few — some- 
 times not one sentiment that has the slightest 
 affinity with their own. How this is, has
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 283 
 
 always been a difficult task to explain. 
 Perhaps it may be that we admire those 
 qualities most that we have not in ourselves ; 
 that nature seeks and finds most relief and re- 
 pose in opposites ; that the heart of the strong 
 loves to take shelter with the weak, and the 
 heart of the weak to look up, admire, and 
 cling to the strong. Still, there is no ac- 
 counting for any tendency of the human 
 mind, or any feeling of the human heart ; and 
 the man who would, by any law of moral 
 philosophy, attempt to define or explain so 
 great a mystery, or lay down any rules for 
 such things, would only show himself equally 
 ignorant of that heart he professed to under- 
 stand, and void of all experience in human 
 life and human action, so I won't try it. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Habbershaw ?'' said 
 Jane, as she shook me wiirmly by the hand 
 in her free-and-easy manner, yet with a cer- 
 tain degree of coquetry in it, wliile I could not 
 help thinking within myself, as I returned her
 
 284 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 greeting, and she turned to welcome my com- 
 panion, whether she knew of IMr. William 
 Morris's arrival, and had thus decked herself 
 off with such simple yet effective grace for 
 his admiration, instead of Henry Gilmore's." 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Henry," I heard 
 her say to him, with a kind of demonstrative 
 ardour in her voice which sounded to my 
 suspicious mind and callous old heart to be 
 just a little too much so to be altogether real. 
 And I fancied that he thought the same, as 
 there seemed to my ears a sort of half-doubt- 
 ing sadness in his tone as he quietly re- 
 plied — 
 
 " Are you so glad to see me, then ? It 
 would make me very happy if I could flatter 
 myself that my company was a source of 
 pleasure to you." 
 
 " Of course it is. What makes you think 
 it isn't ?" she asked, with feigned surprise, 
 glancing up in his face with playful coquetry. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that I think so either,"
 
 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 285 
 
 lie returned, with ratlier forced gaiety. " I 
 only fear, sometimes, that it is not/' 
 
 " Ah, that's because you are too jealous — no 
 I don't exactly mean jealous, because you 
 know there is no one here at all events for you 
 to be jealous of," said she, with something 
 like confusion, and hastily correcting herself. 
 " But you've grown so suspicious of late, as 
 it you didn't believe in one's friendship and 
 regard, after all these years of intimacy. In- 
 deed, it's very unkind of you," she replied, 
 with half-offended, half-sorrowful reproach. 
 
 ** 0, no ! I assure you, I don't," he replied, 
 hastily, as if sorry for what he had said, 
 speaking in a low, tender tone, " but — " 
 
 " Well, never mind, I didn't mean that 
 exactly either," interposed Jane, as he paused 
 in confusion, as if he hardly knew what to say. 
 " Isn't this a lovely evening ?" she exclaimed, 
 abruptly turning and addressing me, as I was 
 standing near the window talking to her 
 mother and her sister.
 
 286 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 " It is, indeed," I replied. 
 
 " And how beautiful the sea is, and those 
 lovely little waves glittering through the 
 opening of the heights there," she rejoined, 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 " Yes, they are very fine," said I. 
 " Don't you think they are, mamma, dear ?" 
 she asked, as if anxious to divert either her 
 own thoughts or the thoughts of others from 
 some other subject. 
 
 " Yes, dear, I think the view is very beau- 
 tiful, indeed," returned her mother. 
 
 " Of course we all admire it, Jane," remarked 
 Margaret, in a quiet, half-chiding tone. 
 " Only there's no need for making so much 
 enthusiastic fuss about it." 
 
 "Ah, you're always so quiet in your ad- 
 miration, Margaret, and take every thing so 
 coolly," replied the other, ha o 
 yet half-apologetically. 
 
 ''You know, Jane, I admire everything 
 that's grand or beautiful, quite as much, as if
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 287 
 
 not far more than, you do, only I don't expend 
 all my admiration in enthusiastic exclama- 
 tions," rejoined Margaret, with calm but not 
 ungentle composure. " I always feel, when 
 looking upon any very beautiful object, as if 
 I couldn't say much about it, or express myself 
 in words," she added, looking at me as she 
 spoke, as if to ask my opinion upon the 
 subject. 
 
 " Some natures are more enthusiastic than 
 others, or rather display their enthusiasm 
 more readily,*' said I, '' though I believe 
 the deepest and most lasting feelings are 
 generally those that seem to shrink from 
 outward exhibition of their nature rather than 
 to expose themselves to observation. What 
 do you say, Mr. Gilmore ?" I asked, address- 
 ing my young friend, who did not look quite 
 so much at his ease as usual, while Margaret 
 glanced half-confusedly at me, and slightly 
 coloured as I asked the question. 
 
 " I believe that the deeper and truer emo-
 
 288 EAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 tions of our nature are always those that 
 shrink most from making outward display of 
 themselves ; the verj^ intensity of our feelings 
 often rendering us incapable of giving utter- 
 ence to them," he replied, " though I do not 
 say that because some minds may be so con- 
 stituted that they cannot contain, as it were, 
 their emotions, or prevent their feelings from 
 showing themselves, that these are less real 
 in them than they are in the others, or that 
 such persons may not have deeper feelings 
 too than meet our observation ; their out- 
 ward enthusiasm sometimes being only a kind 
 of superficial covering for secret thoughts and 
 emotions they wish to conceal/' 
 
 Whether Ilenry Gilmore had any particu- 
 lar object or design in saying this, I cannot 
 pretend to decide. His tone and manner 
 certainly did not justify such a suspicion. 
 But I saw that it was not without consider- 
 able effect upon both of the young ladies, 
 though in different ways. Margaret gave
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 289 
 
 a slight flush of embarrassment, but checked 
 it in an instant ; while Jane changed colour 
 at his last words, looked confused and half- 
 angry for a moment, and appeared to shrink 
 from the quiet glance of the speaker, as well 
 as the steady eye of her sister, who having 
 effectually mastered her own slight confusion, 
 seemed to look reprehensively at the other, as 
 if she, too, suspected that his words had as 
 much a special application as a general 
 meaning. Fortunately, however, they were 
 both relieved from further embarrassment by 
 the entrance of the servant into the room 
 with tea, and Margaret took her place at the 
 table to act the part of hostess, while Jane, as 
 if to convince Henry .that if he had any sus- 
 picion of her having any regard for any one 
 else, he was mistaken, sat down beside him, 
 at one side of the table, and during tea 
 seemed to receive his little, half-unacknow- 
 ledged attentions, with an unusual degree of 
 pleasure and reciprocal satisfaction; — while 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson and I seated ourselves at the 
 other side opposite them. I was greatly 
 pleased with Mrs. Dawson's well-bred 
 courtesy, lively intelligence, and lady-like 
 manner. She had evidently been remarkably 
 beautiful in her younger days, and with her 
 still gay spirits, cheerful vivacity, graceful 
 air, and elegant figure, must have been ex- 
 ceedingly attractive and interesting. Her 
 delicate, slightly-coloured complexion, was 
 almost as clear, and her fine, merry blue 
 eyes, as bright, her step as light, and her 
 gait and air as graceful as if she had only 
 been five-and-thirty, instead of being about 
 five or six-and-fifty, as she really was. She 
 was rather under than over the usual lieight, 
 still erect and easy in her well-formed figure 
 as her own daughters, though there was no 
 attempt whatever on her part either to look 
 younger than she was, or to ape manners 
 and airs unbecoming her age. Every thing 
 about her, and every action were alike those
 
 RAISED TO THE WOOLSACK. 21)1 
 
 of propriety, good taste, and good breeding. 
 One very remarkable feature was lier hair, 
 which had evidently been brown at one time, 
 but was now almost white ; — and yet, instead 
 of this making her look older than she really 
 was, it, on the contrary, made her look 
 younger, by the strong and striking contrast 
 it formed to the rest of her comparatively 
 youthful appearance and lively manner. 
 
 END OF VOL. I, 
 
 T. C. Newby, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, London.
 
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 UNIVERSITY OP ILUN0I8-URIANA 
 
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